Chapter 20
Dominic stood outside in the gardens, watching as Tristan ran through the grass with his kite trailing high above.
The boy’s laughter echoed across the lawn, easing the tension in Dominic’s shoulders for the first time in days.
There was something profoundly grounding in this moment—the innocence of a child, the steadiness of the wind, and the rare sense of peace that wrapped around him like a balm.
This, he realized, is what I want.
He needed to be the kind of man Tristan could look up to—one who could be trusted, who could protect, who could lead. And for the first time in a long while, he felt confident that he could become that man.
But only if Dorothea was beside him.
Because in the silence of the night, and in the noise of the day, she filled his thoughts. Every breath, every step—his world was beginning to revolve around her. He had been so close to telling her how he felt, but they had been interrupted.
The back door creaked open.
“My lord,” came Wright’s voice. The butler stepped out, composed but purposeful. “Pardon the intrusion, but Constable Prentice has arrived. He requests a moment of your time.”
“Very well,” Dominic said. “I’ll meet with him in my study.”
Wright inclined his head and turned back inside.
Dominic reached out to ruffle Tristan’s hair as the boy beamed up at him. “Carry on, Lad.”
“Do you want to go riding later?” Tristan asked, his eyes full of hope.
Dominic pretended to consider his reply. “I believe that can be arranged.”
Tristan’s grin widened. “Do you think Lady Warwicke will come with us?”
“I’ll ask her,” Dominic said, returning his smile. “Just as soon as her guests have departed.”
He gave Tristan a final pat on the shoulder before striding into the house and down the corridor towards his study. When he entered, Constable Prentice was already waiting—a solid man with dark hair, a clean-shaven jaw, and a solemn look on his face.
“Constable,” Dominic greeted, “what brings you by today?”
Prentice straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “I came to inform you that Whitmore has been sentenced. He’s to be transported.”
“And Blackthorn?”
“He avoided being transported, but he’ll remain in Newgate for a long while,” Prentice replied. “Whitmore confessed to tampering with the damper and placing the burr, but he was firm in denying he had anything to do with poisoning Lady Warwicke.”
Dominic frowned. “He is clearly lying.”
“I thought so, too,” Prentice admitted, “but he seemed… sincere. And with sentencing already passed, he had no reason to lie.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you have any definitive proof your wife was poisoned?”
Dominic leaned against his desk, arms crossed. “I suspect he used a diluted form of Aqua Tofana. It mimics a cold at first, then progresses into influenza-like symptoms. My wife first became ill after taking tea with her sister-in-law. Then again after another visit.”
He stopped.
Tea.
Each time, Dorothea had tea with Arabella and Lady Sarah—and each time she’d fallen ill shortly after.
His chest tightened. “She’s with them now,” he breathed.
Without another word, he spun on his heel and sprinted from the study. He tore down the corridor, rounded the corner, and burst into the drawing room just as Dorothea was reaching for her teacup.
“Stop!” he shouted.
Dorothea’s hand froze midair. “What is it?” she asked, startled.
He crossed the room in three strides and crouched beside her. “Have you taken a sip yet?”
She shook her head. “No… I haven’t. Dominic, what’s going on?”
He looked at her, then turned his gaze towards Mrs. Haverleigh, who sat poised, seemingly unconcerned, with her hands neatly folded in her lap.
“I believe your sister-in-law has been poisoning you,” he said.
Gasps echoed across the room. Mrs. Haverleigh’s eyes widened in mock offense. “I beg your pardon?”
“It makes perfect sense,” Dominic said, rising to his full height. “You knew about the second will. You knew what Dorothea stood to gain and what you and your husband stood to lose.”
Mrs. Haverleigh scoffed. “I only learned about the second will this morning. Matthew told me himself. I had no knowledge of it before.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Dominic asked.
“You are,” Mrs. Haverleigh snapped, rising to her feet. “Because it’s the truth. And I refuse to stand here and listen to these outrageous accusations.”
She made to leave, but Dominic stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Lady Sarah finally spoke, her voice tight with restraint. “Lord Warwicke, unless you have proof, this is slanderous. Accusing someone of poisoning is hardly civilized conduct.”
Dominic pointed to the teacup. “Dorothea fell ill after your daughter’s first visit. And then again after the second. If I’m right, today would mark the third dose—enough to make the effects unmistakable.”
Mrs. Haverleigh raised her brows. “And what kind of poison is administered in three carefully spaced doses?”
“The kind designed to mimic illness,” Dominic replied. “Slow. Subtle. But deadly. If I’m mistaken, you won’t mind sipping the tea meant for my wife.”
Mrs. Haverleigh’s eyes narrowed. “This is ridiculous.”
“I don’t think so,” Dominic said. “You stand to gain the most if Dorothea were to die.”
Just then, Constable Prentice entered the room. “I must side with Lord Warwicke on this,” he said firmly. “If you’re so confident the tea is harmless, then taking a sip shouldn’t trouble you.”
Mrs. Haverleigh turned to him, brow arched. “And who exactly are you?”
“Merely a constable,” Prentice said. “But a persuasive one.”
Dorothea stood now, beside Dominic, her voice quiet but trembling. “Do you really believe Arabella would do this?”
Dominic didn’t look away from Mrs. Haverleigh. “I do.”
Mrs. Haverleigh rolled her eyes. “Fine. If it will end this absurdity, I’ll drink the tea.” She lifted the teacup and raised it to her lips.
“Wait!” Lady Sarah’s voice cracked through the room, sharp with panic.
Mrs. Haverleigh froze. “What? Why?”
Lady Sarah’s face had gone pale, her hands trembling. Her voice was barely audible as she said, “Because… it’s poisoned.”
A stunned silence fell over the room.
Mrs. Haverleigh stared at her mother, mouth agape. “You? You did this?”
With a slow, almost resigned nod, Lady Sarah turned her gaze to her daughter. “It was all for you,” she said, her voice composed, but stripped of warmth. “I’ve known about the second will for some time, and I refused to let you lose everything, Arabella. I couldn’t stand by and let you become… me.”
Mrs. Haverleigh blinked. “But I wouldn’t have, Mother,” she said. “Matthew would have seen me taken care of. He promised me—”
Lady Sarah’s expression twisted into something bitter. “And my husband promised me the very same. Promises mean little when men lose everything on a roll of dice and a bottle of port. He gambled away our future, our security—everything. I was left with debts, shame, and no place in Society.”
She paused, her voice trembling as she continued. “I know what it is to be discarded. I would not let that be your fate.”
Dorothea spoke up. “But… you were always kind to me,” she whispered. “How could you try to kill me?”
Lady Sarah turned towards her, and for the first time, the civility that had always colored her expression was stripped away. “Because love is not always gentle. Sometimes love is desperate. Sometimes, a mother will do anything—even the unforgivable—if she believes it will save her child.”
Dorothea took an unsteady step back, and Dominic placed a reassuring hand on the small of her back.
Constable Prentice moved forward then, his boots thudding softly against the carpet. “That’s quite enough,” he said, his tone clipped. “You can explain the rest at Newgate.”
Mrs. Haverleigh shot forward, placing herself between her mother and the constable, her voice rising in a near panic. “No, you can’t. She’s old and frail. She didn’t know what she was doing.”
Constable Prentice’s eyes remained steady. “Your mother just admitted to poisoning Lady Warwicke. I’ve little choice in the matter.”
Lady Sarah slowly pushed herself to her feet, gripping her cane with a white-knuckled hand. The room seemed to tilt around her as she leveled her gaze at Dominic. “Before I go, I want to know something,” she said. “How did you figure it out?”
“Because I’ve seen Aqua Tofana before,” he revealed. “I was acquainted with its symptoms during my time as a Bow Street Runner. Illness that progresses slowly over time but harmless enough to dismiss.”
Lady Sarah’s lips curved faintly—not in cruelty, but in something that almost resembled relief. “Then I suppose it’s for the best that you stopped her from drinking it. I placed two drops in her cup.”
Dominic’s spine went rigid, the blood draining from his face. “That… would have killed her.”
“I know,” Lady Sarah said, a trace of grim satisfaction settling in her eyes. “That was the point.”
Constable Prentice stepped forward with renewed purpose, his expression hardening. “Come along, Lady Sarah,” he ordered, taking her arm. “I haven’t got all day.”
Without protest, Lady Sarah allowed herself to be led away, her cane tapping rhythmically against the floor as she walked. Mrs. Haverleigh followed behind, her features pale with shock.
When the door finally shut behind them, the silence that remained felt deafening.
And Dominic, glancing at the teacup, realized just how close Dorothea had come to dying at the hands of a woman she had admired.
Dorothea stood frozen, still reeling from the truth that had only just come to light—that someone she had once admired, even trusted, had very nearly succeeded in ending her life. Her hands trembled at her sides. The betrayal ran deeper than any blade ever could.