Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

When she again awoke, it was night. She had no idea how late it was. She turned her head carefully and saw the marquess standing in front of the fireplace, staring down into the crackling embers, a thoughtful expression on his face.

She queried her body, received no painful reply, at least for the moment, and slowly began to pull herself back up in a sitting position.

Her movement caught his eye, and he smiled as he strode over to her.

She held herself in stiff silence as he put his arms about her and eased her up. He straightened over her. “If you promise not to yell at me, I’ll feed you.”

“You changed my nightshirt.”

“Well, yes. The soup you spilled was very sticky.”

She felt beyond embarrassment. She felt strangely out of time, as if this man wasn’t the same man she’d hated and sought to kill for the past nearly five months. Everything had gone awry and she felt herself floundering. She didn’t know what to do, so she said, “I’m very hungry.”

It was near to midnight before Hetty had finished another ration of soup, more bread, and Millie had left after her fifteen-minute allotment.

The marquess closed the door, locked it, and walked to the bedside. He eyed her intently. “The fact of the matter, Hetty, is that you didn’t kill me when you had the opportunity. You either doubted my imagined guilt over your brother’s death or you hadn’t the stomach for murder. Which is it?”

She cocked her head to the side, staring at him, perhaps even through him, trying to understand why she’d done as she had. She saw so clearly the tip of her foil against his heart. One thrust, that’s all it would have taken, just one thrust, yet she hadn’t done it. She said aloud, “I’ve never doubted your guilt for a single instant. But when you just stood there and stared at me, no fear on your face, just waiting, looking at me, I knew I couldn’t do it. When Damien died, part of me died with him, but yet I still lived, still knew I lived and was grateful for it. You lived as well. I couldn’t be your killer. I couldn’t be like you.”

“You were close to your brother?”

“He was part of me.”

“I gather you must have some sort of proof, some sort of evidence, that makes you believe me guilty of your brother’s death. It must really be something for you to arrange your elaborate charade as Lord Harry. Now, tell me.”

“Very well, we shall see how well you can lie, Lord Oberlon. I trust you do still remember your wife Elizabeth Springville.”

His eyes darkened at his dead wife’s name. “What has any of this to do with Elizabeth?”

“You’ve a short memory, your grace, so I will refresh it. Not such a long time ago, you, Sir William Filey, and my brother, Damien, were all enamored with a beautiful young lady named Elizabeth Springville. Evidently your respective assaults to win her hand led you to lay a wager at White’s a large wager, I understand to see which of you would succeed in winning her. Is this true?”

“Yes, it’s true,” he said, grim lines etching about his mouth.

“Although I’m disappointed that Damien would do such a thing, and indeed, I can’t excuse him for that, what followed bears witness to your true nature. You’re correct in one thing, your grace, I do have proof of your treachery. Pottson was Damien’s batman. It was he who found a letter from Elizabeth to my brother. The letter damns you. She damns you. You will have to tell me the details of your plot to rid yourself of Damien. I will tell you what I know. Elizabeth chose Damien. Then you, your grace, getting wind of your defeat, used your influence with the ministry through your uncle Lord Melberry no doubt and we both know he has more than enough influence, and you had Damien quickly removed from England to be sent on a series of dangerous missions that, you hoped, would lead to his death. It is my belief, your grace, that Elizabeth gave herself to Damien as a proof of her love. When she discovered she was pregnant with Damien’s child, she had no choice but to wed her lover’s murderer.

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