Cassandra’s diary, Cecilia felt as if she knew her—almost as if she and the late marchioness had somehow become…friends? No, not that, precisely, but how strange it was, how peculiar that of everyone at Darlington Castle, the key to unraveling the mystery of Cassandra’s death had come from Cassandra herself. It was as if she’d put that diary into Cecilia’s hands, whispered her secrets into Cecilia’s ear.
Gideon loved me, and he’d never hurt me…
Then the darker, more sinister secret.
Poison.
It was as if Cassandra trusted Cecilia, and only Cecilia, to reveal the truth. Not just for her own sake, but for Gideon’s.
Cecilia fortified herself with another sip of sherry, then set her glass aside. “Tell me about Lady Cassandra, Mrs. Briggs. What was she like?”
“You’re curious this evening, Cecilia. Why do you want to know?” There was no mistaking the hint of disapproval in Mrs. Briggs’s voice.
Cecilia hesitated. It felt like a betrayal of Gideon’s confidence, but if she wanted answers, she had no choice. “Lord Darlington took me to Lady Darlington’s grave, Mrs. Briggs. Hers, and their son’s.”
Mrs. Briggs nearly dropped her sherry glass. “He took you…that’s…well, my goodness, Cecilia. I’ve never known him to do that with anyone before.”
No, Cecilia didn’t suppose he did, but she didn’t care to share with Mrs. Briggs the reasons why Gideon had made an exception for her. “He said she died of an illness.”
“Aye, she did. We thought it was the child at first, of course, the stomach sickness, I mean, but I’ve seen my share of ladies in the family way, and I never saw anyone as ill as the poor marchioness. It was dreadful to watch her grow weaker with every passing day.” Mrs. Briggs shuddered. “One could hardly recognize her by the end, she’d grown so frail.”
“She was ill for some time, I believe?”
Mrs. Briggs nodded. “Months, yes. Then the child came too early, and the poor marchioness couldn’t…well, that was what ended it.”
“Who tended her during her illness? Her cousin, Lady Leanora?”
Mrs. Briggs’s mouth turned down at the corners. “No. Lady Leanora wasn’t the sort one wanted in a sickroom—too squeamish, that one, and in any case, she and Cassandra grew apart somewhat after Cassandra became the marchioness.”
Cecilia struggled to keep her expression neutral. “I see. Did you tend the marchioness, then?”
“No. I tidied her bedchamber and did little tasks for her, but Lord Darlington himself did most of the nursing. He spent every moment he could with her. At the end he wouldn’t suffer anyone but himself to enter Cassandra’s bedchamber. I think he couldn’t bear for anyone to see her that way.”
Cecilia paused to draw a deep breath. Her next question would sound strange to Mrs. Briggs, but she had to ask it. “Did she…was she able to eat at all?”
“Not much, no. Lord Darlington brought her a tray of broth every night at dinnertime, but she never took much. I know, because I took that tray down every morning. The only thing she ever touched was the spearmint tea he gave her much later in the evenings to help her sleep.” Mrs. Briggs shook her head, a sad smile twisting her lips. “It was heartbreaking to see how hard he tried.”
Cecilia gave a sympathetic nod, but her mind was racing to make sense of this new information. Gideon was the only one permitted to enter Cassandra’s bedchamber, and Gideon the one who brought her broth every night.
It led to only one logical conclusion. If Cassandra had been poisoned—and Cecilia was more certain than ever she had been—then Gideon must have been the one who’d poisoned her. It was a tale worthy of Bluebeard himself. A wicked marquess poisons his young wife and their unborn child so he can seduce his brother’s widow.
But…no.
She simply wouldn’t—couldn’t—believe that. Everything inside her, her every instinct screamed the most logical conclusion was, in this case, the wrong one.
The man Cassandra described in her diary would never have hurt her. He’d never have harmed a single hair on her head. Gideon might no longer be the cheerful, openly affectionate man Cassandra had known—he was much more reserved and secretive now, even distant. Grief had wrought these changes in him, made him darker, and thus an easy target for the gossips.
But he wasn’t wicked, and Bluebeards only existed in the grimmest of fairy tales.
Gideon was innocent.
Cecilia knew it in the same way she knew she could always trust Lady Clifford, in the same way she knew Sophia and Georgiana and Emma loved her;