Chapter Seventeen
From the journal of Nathaniel Carslake, Earl of Blackhurst.
Lisbeth closed the journal and placed it on the table next to her.
Tears threatened to stream down her cheeks in rivers of misery.
She would not let them flow, would not give Nathaniel the satisfaction, even if he was dead.
The fire was roaring in front of her but inside she was colder than a winter blizzard.
If nothing else, the journal proved that Nathaniel had planned to fleece his friends and run off to the Americas to build a new life there—without her.
His last entry was two days before his murder and did not mention any suspicions regarding his wellbeing.
It also proved that she had not been part of the speculation.
This much, at least, was good news, but how could she show this to Oliver—to anyone?
He would read it and think her a woman who had let her husband turn her into a wraith, who gave up on herself.
The truth was she had. She had been that weak woman.
A sad excuse, but at the same time it was the only way she knew how to survive him.
What surprised her about his scribbled, spiteful words was the anger she’d felt at herself.
How could she have let it become so bad?
Thankfully, she was not that same woman now.
Lisbeth had lived through a trial, incarceration, and the torment of the last two years as the Black Raven and was stronger for it.
Stronger than she’d ever been. If nothing else came of all of this she knew one thing—she would never let a man rule her as Nathaniel had.
However, a decision had to be made about the dreaded diary.
Could she let his diary and all the vile truth it contained be read by others?
She felt ill at the thought. It did not paint a pretty picture of either her or Blackhurst. Letting the diary go public just to prove she wasn’t involved in Blackhurst’s plans would only cause humiliation and more scandal for her family.
She had just reunited with her sister and grandmother; she couldn’t bear to lose them again.
After all, it didn’t help her prove she hadn’t killed him.
If anything it would strengthen the possibility.
For who had more motive than she? It would end up doing more harm than good.
Lisbeth decided she would keep the diary to herself, for now.
*
“Eh?” Aunt Petunia looked up from the lap blanket Mrs. Grey had just put around her legs.
“Virginia Marsdon, Lady Fortesque? I remember her well. She was second cousin to my first husband… or was it first cousin to my second husband? Younger than I, of course, but I could out dance her any day of the week. I was quite the dancer in my day, you know.”
Oliver took his seat opposite her in the carriage. “I bet you were.”
“I used to host luncheons and picnics. Oh, how people would fall over themselves to be invited to one of my picnics.”
“I believe Lady Fortesque holds excellent luncheons,” Mrs. Grey said.
“I thought it was a picnic,” she replied, looking a little confused.
“No. It is a luncheon,” Oliver assured her.
“Will they have sandwiches?” she asked.
He chuckled. “I have no idea.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “If they don’t have sandwiches, I’m not going.”
“I’m sure they will have sandwiches, of some sort, Aunt Petunia.”
“Fine, but if there are no sandwiches I’m holding you responsible, my dear boy.” She turned to her companion. “Mrs. Grey, it appears we are going on a picnic.”
“Luncheon,” Oliver and Mrs. Grey said at the same time.
Aunt Petunia raised a gray brow. “No need to get disagreeable about it.”
This could be a very interesting day, Oliver thought.
“Is your Lady Blackbird going to be there?” Aunt Petunia asked when they had finally got underway. “I have read that she made a lovely study at the park yesterday. Not sure what it was that she was studying, especially at a park. Black birds I assume.”
Oliver sat forward. “It is Lady Blackhurst, and where did you read that?”
She looked at Oliver. “Blackhurst? Henry did not like her husband. Said he was despicable and someone should put him straight.”
Oliver felt the hairs on his neck stand up. His conversation with Dalmere at the Wainwright ball coming back to him. “Put him straight?” he asked his aunt. “Did he say anything else?”
“Well, let me see. It was some time ago, but I do remember he came in all agitated like he had on a badly starched shirt and it was bothering him. He was pacing up and down fit to wear out my rug. I told him to sit down or buy me a new rug.”
“And?”
“And?” His aunt raised her brow in some confusion.
“What else did he say about Blackhurst?” He was dreading the answer.
“Oh, yes, Henry. He said the man deserved some lead shot. I didn’t quite understand why he wanted to give him such a thing when Blackhurst was obviously rich enough to purchase his own.”
Mrs. Grey looked at Oliver and then at his aunt before saying, “I don’t think he meant it quite like that, my lady.”
She waved her hand as if dismissing Mrs. Grey’s announcement.
“He wanted to run away with her and all. I told him not to be so ridiculous. One does not run off with another man’s wife even if the husband was a disgusting excuse for a human being, which is what Henry said he was.
He was quite adamant he was going to save the… lady.”
“That would be Lady Blackhurst. I remember you telling me about Henry’s affections for her,” Oliver said, but he was feeling deflated and more than a little confused.
Every indication suggested that Henry wanted to kill Blackhurst, had maybe even planned to do it.
The question was, would his usually mild-mannered brother have actually pulled the trigger?
“If her name is Blackhurst why on earth is she called the Black Bird?”
“They call her the Black Raven, Aunt. It is just a pet name the ton has given her,” he explained, still his mind coming to terms with his aunt’s words. He knew she was not always with him in the present but her long-term memory seemed to be very much intact.
“Eh? She has a pet raven. Well, I don’t think that is an appropriate pet for a young lady. She should get a dog.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, Aunt.”
And so the questions went on until his aunt fell asleep about five minutes later.
He was thankful for the silence. He loved his aunt dearly, but he was beginning to think bringing her to the luncheon was a bad idea.
What if she brought up Henry and his feelings for Lisbeth while talking to her?
What if she brought up Blackhurst? How would Lisbeth react?
He would make sure that Mrs. Grey paid close attention when he was not there and made sure to distract his aunt if she brought up Blackhurst or Henry.
They made their way slowly to a light airy room at the back of Lady Fortesque’s house.
Again he was awestruck by the amazing fresco on the ceiling of the main hall, but again, time and duty prevented him from being able to truly appreciate it.
French doors opened wide, inviting one to wander in the extensive garden beyond.
A few couples were taking advantage of the opportunity to explore while a little sun poked through the ever-present clouds.
Oliver helped Mrs. Grey settle his aunt before looking around for Lisbeth.
His eyes went straight to her. She stood with her sister, looking at a miniature. She was smiling down at the palm-sized painting in her hand. Marie was laughing. He could only assume it was Marie’s son they were looking at.
Lisbeth was the most striking woman he had ever seen, and it amazed him how he always felt this way on seeing her.
When she sensed him looking at her, she met his eyes across the room.
His heart stopped at the sight of her. Her hair curled around her face in delightful ringlets.
Oh, how his fingers burned to feel the silky texture of those ebony strands.
Had it only been a few hours since he had been with her last?
He felt drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
He knew his heart was in danger but still needed the heat of the blaze.
When she smiled his way, he knew he was doomed but didn’t care.
All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss her, Lady Fortesque and her luncheon be damned.
Her gaze never left his. He watched as she said something to Marie, who looked up, smiled, and then whispered something in her sister’s ear before leaving her.
Lisbeth moved gracefully across the room, oblivious it seemed to the myriad of obstacles in her way, most at knee height.
She navigated around the furniture with ease and Oliver was left to watch her in awe.
“Ah, now I see why you are so smitten, Bellamy,” Aunt Petunia remarked.
“She is beautiful,” Mrs. Grey agreed.
She is mine! He wanted to shout it out for the whole room to hear, hell, for all London to hear. Instead he said, “She is exquisite.”
He took two paces forward and met her on the rug. She took his offered arm with a raised brow. “You look like you’re up to something.”
He grinned as he took her for a small turn around the room. “So suspicious. I just wanted a moment alone with you before I introduce my aunt.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, raising a brow.
He gave her one of his half smiles, then looked at his aunt who was waving them over. “She is adorable but… she can also be a little confused. Not all the time but sometimes she… forgets things, says things without thinking.”
“Bellamy.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
With that he nodded and escorted her over to where his aunt and Mrs. Grey were sitting.
“Aunt, this is Lady Blackhurst. Lady Blackhurst, may I introduce my aunt, Lady Mortimer, and her companion, Mrs. Grey.”
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Lady Mortimer. Mrs. Grey.” Lisbeth made her curtsey.