her head. “There’s no help for you, Cousin. But if you want to unburden your soul before you meet your maker you could tell me who actually killed my brother?”
His mouth moved but only blood came out.
“I thought not,” she said. “I’ll take this—I believe it is mine, anyhow.” She grabbed the familiar ring on his little finger, having to yank hard before it came off.
Benna slipped the heavy gold de Montfort signet onto her own pinkie, where it fit perfectly.
She leaned close and kissed his temple. “I hope you go straight to Hell, Michael.”
She stood and stared down at him. He gurgled for a moment longer and then stopped with astonishing abruptness, his mouth open, eyes still staring.
He had died and now she would never know who’d helped him kill David. She waited to feel something—anything—but there was nothing; she was empty. No hatred, no hunger for vengeance; nothing.
She turned and went to Jago. “Can I help?” she asked, dropping down beside him.
He held his folded coat pressed against the oozing wound in the countess’s chest, and gave Benna a grim look, shaking his head.
“Jago—”
Blood bubbled out of the corner of Lady Trebolton’s mouth.
“Shh, Claire, you shouldn’t talk. Everything will be fine, I promise you,” he soothed, his tone so calming and certain that even Benna believed him.
“It’s in the trunk. All in the—” A cough wracked her body and blood poured from her mouth as well as the wound in her chest. Like Michael, her death was shocking in its suddenness.
Jago closed her wide-staring eyes, leaving bright red smears on her pale forehead.
He stared at the countess, his expression one of incomprehension. “Why?” He shook his head, as if to wake himself, and then jerked his chin toward Michael’s body. “Is he—”
“Dead.”
His gaze flickered to where Fenwick lay face up on the settee, keening loudly. “What about him?”
“Just a little cut on his arm. He’ll be fine. Unfortunately.”
Jago shook his head in amazement. “My Benna.” He began to pull her toward him, but then stopped at the sound of voices. “You need to get out of here, Benna. Now.” He stood and held out a hand, helping her to her feet. “You can’t be found here with Norland’s body. Take the carriage and go directly to Worth’s house. Stephen and Elinor will help you.”
The same footman as earlier thundered into the room, followed closely by several others. All were too busy gaping at the scattered bodies to notice Jago and Benna.
“But what about—”
“Not now,” he hissed. “Just go.” He shoved her ungently toward the door.
More people started to pour into the library—people in costume—as Benna tried to force her way out of the room.
A hand grabbed Benna’s shoulder, stopping her before she could disappear into the rapidly swelling throng. “What happened?” an elderly Marie Antoinette demanded. “Who are the two on the floor? Are they dead?”
“I don’t know,” Benna said. She stopped and turned, hoping for one last glance of Jago.
But he was tending to Fenwick and his back was to her.
“I heard there were gunshots,” the woman persisted, her gaze avid. “Was there a duel? Or was it murder?” the last word was barely a whisper.
Benna thought of Claire and the way she’d looked—so scared and yet so … relieved—as she lay dying. Only now did she understand what had happened. Yes, there had been a murder—albeit the victim had been the wrong one—but there had also been a suicide. The countess had come to the library not only expecting Fenwick’s death, but looking forward to her own. That was why she had two pistols.
Benna shrugged the woman’s hand from her shoulder. “No, it wasn’t a duel. It was an accident. A tragic accident.”
And then she disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Wake House
Five and a Half Months Later
“You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
Benna looked up from the watercolor her half-sister was painting and took the card from the salver her new butler, Horne, held out to her.
She smiled when she saw the name. “Where is he?”
“I put him in the Garden Room, Your Grace.”
She nodded her dismissal and turned to Gilly, who hadn’t noticed the interruption and was painstakingly adding petals to one of the many flowers in her painting.
“Lord Trebolton is here, Gilly.”
Her sister kept painting, but Benna knew, after living with her for almost five months, that the slight stiffening in her slender shoulders meant she was listening.
“You remember I told you about Jago?”
Gilly gave an infinitesimal nod but didn’t look at her. She didn’t like