The Princess and the Pauper Page 11

  She shuddered. “I know.”

  Grey could hear the despair in her voice. He could feel her guilt. “Emily, no.”

  “He’s right, Rees. I—I killed him.”

  “And in such a vile, unholy manner,” the doctor fulminated. “I wanted to summon the authorities then, but he begged me not to reveal your transgression and cause a scandal. I was wrong to promise him my silence. He deserves justice.”

  Grey stalked across the room and gathered a weakened Emily into his arms. “Go then,” he bit out. “But you’ll not convince the police she’s a murderer.”

  “I have her and her father’s deathbed confession,” the doctor returned. “It’s more than enough for a trial, and her false tears will not save her from a guilty verdict.”

  She sobbed on his chest. Her every tear placed a load on Grey’s shoulders until the oppressive weight almost crushed him. “Wait!”

  The doctor paused at the door. “What is it?”

  Grey gathered his desperate thoughts, begged, “There must be some other way to resolve this matter.”

  “Bribery? I’ll not hear a word about it.”

  “You’re a man of science, damn it. Do you really believe a father can go mad if he finds his daughter in a compromising situation?”

  “Balderdash! Do you think to fool a jury with such rot? I’m talking murder. Poison!”

  Grey bristled. “Poison?”

  “P—poison?” she stammered and gasped for air “W—what poison?”

  “I suspect it lead,” said the doctor, his hands in the air, “but I can’t be sure. A few other toxins can cause muscle pain, memory loss, even delusions. I’ll have the body exhumed. A coroner in the legal medicine department will be able to identify the poison. If lead, there are telltale signs in the bones.”

  “No!” she cried. “I—Papa believed I poisoned him?”

  “He disclosed everything just days before he perished,” said Snow. “How he found you in a lover’s embrace. How you hated him for tossing out the chimney sweep. How you wanted him dead in revenge.”

  “No! I would never hurt him!” Her face paled. “Rees, he thought I . . . I . . .”

  She blacked out.

  ~ * ~

  The room was spinning.

  Emily heard voices, hushed voices. She closed her eyes again and breathed deep, grasping for clarity.

  “What’s happened?” she whispered.

  A figure approached. Its shadow covered hers. “Emily?”

  His voice sounded far away, and she squinted to make out the shape. The body kneeled and an attentive face appeared.

  “Rees?”

  “It’s all right,” he murmured and stroked her temple, her cheek. “You fainted. Here. Drink this.”

  He cupped her head and lifted it, pressing a glass to her lips. She swallowed the tonic without question, then grimaced as fire spread through her belly. Brandy.

  But it had roused her from her listless sleep. She was upright in seconds. Lightheaded, she swooned for a moment, then regained her bearing.

  She gripped the edge of the divan and looked around the room. She was still in the doctor’s office. Her eyes next lighted on the physician, who watched her from his desk, clearly troubled.

  As soon as she met his gaze, she cried, “I did not poison Papa!”

  “I’m beginning to doubt that, too,” he returned with some reservation.

  Rees settled beside her and wrapped an arm around her waist. His touch soothed her thrumming nerves, and she sighed, leaning against him.

  “I’ve had a word with Dr. Snow,” he said gently. “He will listen. Tell him.”

  “I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t hurt Papa. I would never hurt him.” Her memory flashed to the night he had found her in Rees’ arms, in the arms of the ‘chimney sweep,’ and while Rees had never cleaned the flues, only tended to the stoves and firesides as part of his many duties, it was clear Papa had been heartbroken by her choice of suitor. She amended, “I would never hurt him like that. And I certainly didn’t hate him. I never hated him.”

  If anything, she had hated herself.

  “Passion is a powerful motive,” said Snow, his searching eyes fixed on her. “You might have killed him with the intent of obtaining his money and living with your lover.”

  “No! If I wanted his money, I would’ve declared him insane. His solicitor, my then fiancé, all begged me to have him committed and save what was left of his empire. But I refused to publically humiliate him.”

  “Well, Miss Wright, the fact remains. Someone poisoned him.”

  She gasped. “I—I don’t know who poisoned him. Papa was an honorable businessman.”

  “How do you know he was poisoned,” questioned Rees, “if no autopsy was performed?”

  “The sudden onset of symptoms, of course. Mr. Wright’s own suspicions, as well.”

  Her heart spasmed again at the thought Papa believed she’d poisoned him. “How could he think I’d poison him? I loved him more than I loved myself.”

  “He wasn’t well,” consoled Rees. “He suffered from delirium, remember?”

  “Did you have an affair with Mr. Rees?” asked Snow.

  She nodded.

  “And Mr. Rees was thrown from the house for it?”

  She nodded again.

  “Then your father’s charge had merit. He believed it, at least.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. She didn’t brush them away, but let them fall freely.

  “Enough,” said Rees.

  “Forgive me, Miss Wright. I didn’t mean to cause you unnecessary grief.” The doctor shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I have my own burden to bear. I sincerely regret my promise to your father. Just before his death, it was revealed he’d lost his fortune. I thought it providence, divine justice his murderer should not inherit his wealth and profit from the crime. But now, well, if you did not commit the crime, then there was no justice, and I cannot let the matter rest this time.”

  “Nor can I,” she said softly.

  Someone had killed her father. Someone had killed her father. And for four years, she had lived with the guilt of it.

  Her head throbbed. She felt lightheaded again. “What will we do now?”

  “I will send for the authorities,” said Snow.

  “No,” from Rees.

  “It must be reported,” the doctor insisted.

  “If we report the murder now, the sensational headlines will only frighten the criminal into hiding.”

  “Then what do you suggest, Mr. Rees?”

  “A more subtle tactic. First, how was he poisoned?”

  “In all likelihood, his food was laced with lead, but . . .”

  “What is it, doctor?”

  Snow cleared his throat. “Well, I found no evidence of food tampering. I did speak with the staff, inquired whether Miss Wright had ever prepared her father’s meals, but they were aghast at the suggestion and insisted she never ventured into the kitchen.”

  Rees growled, “And yet you still thought her guilty?”

  “I believed her father. And while I had no evidence, I . . . In hindsight, I should have been more discriminating.”

  “Precisely,” said Rees. “Give me some time to look into the matter now, to see what I can find before we approach Scotland Yard.”

  The older man mulled over the suggestion. “Very well. But if no arrest is made soon, I will report the murder.”

  Murder.

  Even the word pressed on Emily’s breast, making her grimace. Who would destroy her father? Who hated him with such passion, he’d murder the man?

  “Miss Wright.” The doctor intruded on her disturbing thoughts. “Whatever the state of your father’s mind, his heart remained true. He would hear no word of police or prison for you. He loved and protected you until the end of his life.”

  She dropped her gaze at his affective words. Her mind flooded with memories of sonorous laughter and bear-crushing hugs, fuzzy whiskers pressed agai
nst her cheek and proud, light-filled eyes.

  A coldness came over her. Like frost, it spread through her veins and heart and soul until she was numb. Someone had ruined her father, broken apart his mind and body.

  Someone would pay dearly for that sin.

  ~ * ~

  Grey reclined on the bed, an arm tucked under his head, his legs crossed at the ankles. He watched Emily from his vantage, curled in the winged armchair beside the window. She was dressed in his robe, her arms circled around her bent knees. And she gazed through the glass, silent.

  The day had passed. Supper had come. The food, cold and untouched, remained on the table. She had suffered a great shock. And she needed time to reflect. Or so he had told himself. He now doubted the wisdom of such thinking. As each minute passed, she grew more reticent, slipping deeper into a nether world. And he had pushed her into that shadowed world.

  Grey rolled off the bed and headed for the chair. His heart missed a beat when he scooped her into his arms and she remained as listless as a broken doll.

  He carried her back to the bed, settled with her on the mattress. “Emily.”

  His lips brushed her pale brow. He raked his fingers through her thick hair and cradled her head. He kissed her again. And again. He’d kiss her a thousand times to wake her from her melancholy sleep.

  At last she stirred, snuggled closer to him, and he sighed with unmatched relief.

  “He thought I’d poisoned him,” she murmured in disbelief. “Papa thought I had poisoned him.”

  “He knows the truth now.”

  “Do you really believe so?”

  “I do.”

  She was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Who killed him, Rees?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but we’ll find out together.”

  His voice, unbroken, belied the fury in his soul—fury toward himself. In his fanatic search for the truth, he’d uncovered an ugly, rotting mess. And now Emily was trapped in the mire, sinking. Fast. He had to pull her out of it. But how? How to reverse what he’d done?

  “How?” she asked weakly as if she’d heard his thoughts. “How will we find Papa’s . . . ?”

  She choked on the word “murderer,” and he tightened his arms around her. “First, we’ll contact the former servants. Do you know what happened to them?”

  “I—I’m not sure. I wrote them all sterling reference letters after Papa’s death.”

  “We’ll check with employment agencies, then. I will send someone with a list of their names.”

  “Your hound?”

  “Do you object?”

  “No, of course not, but I can’t imagine it was one of the servants. They were all distressed to be displaced. And they protected Papa, keeping his madness a secret, even to this day. They were loyal, Rees.”

  “Still, they can tell us who came in contact with your father’s meals, who delivered the food from market or who should not have been present in the kitchen. Can you think of anyone who might benefit from your father’s death?”

  “No one . . . except for me. I was his heir. And I, apparently, wanted revenge—”

  “Stop.” He heard the rueful, even sardonic tone in her voice and curtailed her dangerous thoughts. “You are not guilty, Emily. No one believes it, not even Dr. Snow. Think,” he encouraged. “Was anyone in disagreement with your father? A business rival? Even a neighbor?”

  She sighed. “Papa was disliked by the neighbors, but not hated, I’m sure. I don’t know about a business rival, though. Papa never introduced me to his clients or partners or tenants, well, except you.”

  Her muscles stiffened. Grey felt the air in the room change, too. “Emily?”

  Slowly she separated from him. “You hated him.”

  “Emily, what are you thinking?”

  But he knew precisely what she was thinking—the unthinkable.

  Her voice carried an unmistakable edge. “You hated him for destroying your grandfather’s violin.”

  “I did not kill you father,” he returned in an even manner, though his heart rumbled with the force of an earth tremor.

  She scrambled off the bed. “You wanted revenge.”

  “Emily, stop.”

  Her hand shot out, her forefinger pointed toward him as she backpedaled. “You knew every passage in the house. You lived with us for five years. You burgled the house and poisoned him, to get even with him, to get back at me.”

  “Stop!”

  Grey deserved everything she was throwing at him, for he’d unearthed the truth behind her father’s death and re-opened her wounds. But he wouldn’t let her think a moment more he’d ever hurt her in such a monstrous way.

  For the first time, he realized what it had cost her to come to him that night five years ago, to risk so much just to be with him. Her love and reverence for her father had been the center of her world for her entire life—until Grey had entered her world. The balance had shifted, then. And she had braved the consequences of her feelings for him. She had come to him that night, knowing she would lose her father’s esteem if caught in his arms. She had come anyway. For him.

  As she pulled further away, her eyes wide with suspicion, he had an impression of the raw pain she had suffered when her father had viewed her with suspicion.

  Grey left the bed and approached her in slow strides. “Listen to reason, Emily.”

  Again she backed away.

  He persisted, “If I had killed him, why would I investigate his death? Wouldn’t I keep it a secret? Wouldn’t I let the past rest?”

  “You want me to suffer.”

  He reached her, grabbed her arms. “No!”

  “And you don’t want to report his murder to the police.”

  “I didn’t kill your father. I wouldn’t shine a light on the murder if I was the murderer.”

  “Then why did you shine a light?” she cried. “Why couldn’t you leave the past alone?”

  “I didn’t want you to carry any more guilt.”

  “More guilt?” She struggled with him until he released his hold. “Papa died thinking I had poisoned him. I couldn’t possibly carry more guilt if I had truly killed him.”

  “Emily, I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes turned red, filled with tears. “No, you did this!”

  “I wasn’t in the country at the time of his demise. I was abroad, playing concerts. You read the broadsheets. You know I was on the Continent. I didn’t hurt him.”

  “You did this,” she sobbed.

  And he realized she wasn’t speaking of her father’s death, but the part he’d played in bringing back so many wretched memories. And now new torments.

  Of that, Grey was guilty, indeed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cigar smoke lingered in the thick, damp air. Grey stood in the garden, leaning against a tree. It was almost midnight. He watched the illuminated, glass balcony doors. A restless shadow roamed inside the room.

  He had not seen Emily in three days. She’d locked herself in her newly furnished chamber, allowing only the kitchen maid to deliver her meals. It was how he knew she was still alive, that and her midnight pacing.

  Slowly he drew on the cigar, then exhaled. He couldn’t sleep in his own bed anymore, not since she’d accused him of murder in it. She might still think him the murderer, he wasn’t sure. If only she’d confront him. He could brave her tears. Tears were better than cold, unnerving silence.

  He stopped mid breath, smoke trapped in his lungs. She approached the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony.

  At the pressure on his chest, he released his breath and the smoke swirled. Attired in a white nightdress, her long hair loose in the breeze, he could see her silhouetted figure beneath the fine cotton fabric. He could see her.

  He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed her until now. She might be hiding in her room, but at least she was still in the house. If she truly thought him the killer, she would not have stayed in the house. She would have slit his throat or poisoned his coffe
e before fleeing, and knowing that lessened some of the dread in his heart. Not all of it, though. She still condemned him for disturbing the past.

  Her fingers gripped the iron rail. She stared out toward Green Park and perhaps her former house on Arlington Street. Her lips twisted. He could feel her grief. But he could not rebury the past. It had come up like a corpse in a shallow grave.

  She noticed him, then. Perhaps she saw the burning cigar end in the night. However she’d sensed him, she whirled around and hurried back inside the bedroom, slamming the balcony doors closed and pulling the curtains.

  Grey lost his patience.

  He pitched the cheroot into the grass and started for the house. An iron lattice, secured to the brownstone walls, served as a ladder, and he scaled the ironworks. When he reached the balcony, he climbed over the rail and went straight for the doors. Already unlocked, he pulled them apart and entered the chamber.

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded, her eyes flashing. “Get out!”

  He headed toward her, his pulse pounding. “It’s my house.”

  “It’s my room.” She backed away from him, bumping into the vanity. “And I did not invite you.”

  His fingers twitched to hold her, shuddered with the need, and he fisted his hands to keep them at his sides. “How long are you going to avoid me?”

  “Until judgment day, I suppose.”

  “I am not your enemy.”

  “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  “Are you really torn between friend or foe? I did not kill your father.”

  “I know,” she shot back before her gaze dropped. Her voice dropped, as well. “I still don’t trust you.”

  Some of the tension in his muscles eased. At least she didn’t believe him the murderer. There was hope, then.

  Unclenching his fingers, he gently nudged her chin upward with his knuckle. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  But she turned her face away, refusing to look at him. “You promised not to investigate Papa’s death.”

  He expected as much. “I’m not sorry for that, princess.”

  “You broke your word. How can I ever trust you?”

  His blood simmered at the crack in her voice, and he seized her cheeks, bringing her guarded gaze back to him. “How could I let the matter rest?” he countered. “I knew your father had not died from madness, and I knew you had not caused his madness. How could I let you feel the guilt of it, the pain of it?”