Henry’s Family
Chapter eighteen
Henry’s Family
Violet
The third taste went out of the afternoon tea.
She had noticed it the morning after she had set the stillroom to rights.
Was the murderer panicking because he or she discovered that she knew about herbs?
Or was the poison being added to something less obvious?
There was always the possibility that they might employ a more brutal method.
She waited to see if the taste would return for two more mornings. She turned it on her tongue twice to be certain. There was nothing there. There was also the possibility that a different substance was being used. Something colourless and tasteless.
She sought out Mrs Greer and asked whether the blend had been changed.
“No, the same as always, the same Mr Vexley sends.” The housekeeper’s eyes sharpened. “Have you found it off? I’ll have the caddy looked to. I shall ask Alice if she had done anything different.”
“Who is Alice?”
“She is Mrs Garrick’s kitchen maid, Your Grace. She’s been making your tea since she started working here.”
“I see. Is that the girl with dark curls? She brings up my tea tray sometimes.”
“That is right, Your Grace. If she displeases you—”
“No, not at all. I was only curious. The tea is lovely as always, Mrs Greer.”
Violet hesitated. “Who else makes my tea? I know Alice and Sarah are the only two who have brought me the tea tray.”
Mrs Greer tapped the pencil on her temple. “Before Alice, Mrs Garrick or Jo had made the tea, Your Grace.”
“How long have Mrs Garrick and Jo been working here, Mrs Greer?”
“Oh, since before the late duchess passed, Your Grace. Mrs Garrick had brought Jo with her.”
“Mrs Garrick runs a fine kitchen, Mrs Greer. Has she been here long?”
“Two and twenty years, Your Grace. She came with Jo, who was her girl from the country. Jo married the year past and left us, and Alice came in her place.”
Violet nodded. The poisoner, if it indeed was poison, could not be Alice.
She left the housekeeper looking perplexed at her desk.
Violet could not sleep, and for once it was not dread that was keeping her from it.
He had been gentle with her the night before. Gentler than he had ever been, gentler than she thought men capable. It made what she meant to do worse, not better. She knew that, and went to do it anyway, because three women were in the ground and one kind night did not raise them.
His study was the one room in the house that was wholly his. He had gone down to Westminster and would not be looked for before dark, and she went in with her heart going like a thief’s, shamed, and searched it all the same.
The room held a desk, walls of leather-bound books with gilt lettering, hump-back sofas in deep blue, a library table, and one wall of various globes and maps.
Her attention paused at the far wall. A small portrait hung between the bookcase and the window, placed where a man sitting at the desk would see it each time he looked up.
Two young men, painted side by side. They could have been twins.
Both had dark hair, strong jaws, the same authoritative brow that she recognised from her husband’s face when he was displeased.
The taller one stood half a step behind the other with his hand on his shoulder.
Henry. She knew him by the set of his mouth—smiling, carefree.
The other must be Harold. Softer in the eyes, laughing eyes, easier in his stance, the kind of face that invited friendship.
She took her eyes off the portrait and examined the desk with duke’s ledgers, leases, a seal, a stick of wax, every drawer squared and dull.
Then in a pigeonhole at the back, a thin bundle of letters in a round hand she did not know, tied with thread.
She drew one out. The salutation was in the same round hand: My dearest Henry.
Her eye dropped to the signature: Yours always, Elizabeth.
She heard the footsteps. Dread pooled in her stomach. There was no time to be anywhere but exactly where she stood, his letters in her hand, when he came in.
He stopped inside the door.
What crossed his face first was not anger. It was worse: hurt or betrayal. His gaze lowered to Elizabeth’s letters.
“Put those down.” His voice rumbled low.
She put them down.
“How many times,” he said, “have you been in here?”
“This is the first.”
He closed the door behind him and turned the latch.
“And my bedchamber?”
He took one step toward her. She took one step back.
“I… Once.” Her voice shook. She hated that her voice shook.
“Why?”
“I wanted to understand…”
He moved toward her. She maintained the distance. When he reached the desk, he picked up the stack of letters and examined the one she had been reading.
“Jealousy? Or fear?”
“No. Neither. Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“What were you looking for?” He tossed the letters back onto the desk then leaned against it.
Violet rubbed her palms on her dressing gown. “I am not sure what I was looking for. I wanted to understand the women who came before me.”
The duke’s face hardened to marble. “You mean you were looking for evidence against me. You believe me to have murdered my wives as the ton believes.”
“That is not what I said.”
He stared at the candle, or at nothing, she was uncertain.
“It is the name. There has been a curse on this blood. My father. My brother. Then our mother.” He shook his head. “I have turned it over and over and I have nothing to show for it.”
Violet moved to go to him, then stopped. “I find it hard to believe the deaths were a coincidence or results of a curse.”
She pulled the dressing gown tighter across the front. Her husband’s gaze briefly hovered there before catching her eye.
“I have thought about who could have caused their demise and why.” He swallowed, his voice strained.
“I cannot think of one person capable of committing all those murders and certainly not one with a concrete motive. No one would benefit from their deaths except for Edmund, but even then, why kill three women? Why not kill me instead?”
She spoke carefully. “Perhaps because you are family. Or because that would make him the chief suspect. And if he is willing to wait, a dead duke without an heir would only be a matter of time.”
Henry righted himself. “I cannot believe it. Edmund has always been the pleasant sort. He has no malicious bone in him.”
“A pleasant face is the cheapest thing a man can wear.” Her voice was thin. “He could have it on.”
The duke pinned her with his gaze. Tension spread through her body.
“Edmund is the only family I have left.” His voice was quiet. “Best to have evidence before laying such a serious claim.”
She ignored the knot that was forming in her chest. “What am I then, Your Grace?”
Henry stiffened.
Violet took three steps before turning to face him. “He is the one who buys my tea, the tea that is tainted.”
“It could have occurred during the making of it,” he said.
“It seems odd that your cousin would concern himself with my… childbearing.”
“It was Elizabeth’s favourite. That is all.”
“I am not—”
“I will discuss Edmund no longer. Not without evidence.” He opened the door and stepped aside. “Do not touch my personal belongings again.”
She went, her nose stinging and eyes burning. She had gone a few paces when his voice reached her.
“Violet.”
She stopped but did not turn.
“If you find any evidence, bring it to me. I will listen.”
She walked on without answering, but the knot in her chest loosened by one thread.