When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,74
hands us. I account myself responsible for Jack Wentworth’s death, for example.”
Duncan stopped three steps short of the door. “Drink killed him.”
“In the philosophical sense, perhaps. He was already quite drunk and intent on becoming drunker. He reached for the bottle on the windowsill, which contained rat poison. I had placed the bottle there myself. Not very bright of me—or perhaps it was brilliant, in a diabolically evil sort of way. Papa always kept his blue ruin on the windowsill.”
“You did not kill him, Stephen. You were a child, a small boy no more capable of plotting murder than I am capable of witty flirtation aimed at women half my age.”
Stephen withdrew the pencil from behind his ear and flicked it over, under, and through his fingers.
“Believe that if you must, Duncan, but when Papa was choking his last, he bid me to run for the surgeon. I hadn’t run for four years at that point, courtesy of my father’s loving discipline. I could lurch, hobble, struggle, and crawl, but not run. So I ignored the dictates of honored authority and didn’t even try to make haste. By the time I had fetched Nan Pritchard from the pub, Jack Wentworth was wonderfully, absolutely dead.”
Duncan knew a confession when he heard one, and a plea for absolution. “If Jack Wentworth was too drunk to know rat poison from gin, then his death was an accident, Stephen. Had you tried to intervene, he’d be just as dead, and you might have a useless arm to go with your poorly knit leg. Forgive yourself, though in my estimation, you have nothing to forgive yourself for.”
Stephen brushed a glance over him. “Jack was making plans for my older sisters that no decent man contemplates for any woman, much less for mere girls who call him father. My point is that I was eight years old, crippled, unlettered, and none too bright, and yet, I might have put that rat poison into Jack’s blue ruin rather than wait for an accident to solve my problems. I had an option, but I would not admit that to myself.”
More than anything, Duncan wanted to put his arms around Stephen and comfort that guilty, battered eight-year-old boy. Stephen would gut him with his sword cane and serve the pieces to the house cats if Duncan so much as hinted of sympathy.
“No eight-year-old should have to contemplate patricide.”
“No eight-year-old,” Stephen replied, “should have had Jack Wentworth for a father. The fact remains that you need not meekly accept that the only solution to Matilda’s problems is to run from her past.”
I can stand and fight her enemies—if she wants me to. But then, how had fighting for Rachel turned out? “My thanks for your counsel. Does Quinn know about the rat poison?”
Stephen shook his head. “He’d blame himself. Bad gin fit the situation well enough. You can take my secret with you when you and Matilda disappear to Cathay.”
That smarted, as it was intended to. “Design me a sawpit, please.”
“What’s the point? You’ll be in Cathay.”
“Perhaps I’ll be right here, raising a family with my devoted wife.” Duncan quit the room rather than listen to Stephen deride such fanciful twaddle.
Chapter Thirteen
Matilda would have considered this meal a feast just a few short weeks ago, though her appetite was nowhere to be found. The dining parlor was cozy, the fowl and ham well prepared, and the apple torte delicately spiced. Lord Stephen regaled her with tales of his exploits in Copenhagen, where he knew neither the language nor the customs.
“I thus came to the battle of wits unarmed,” Lord Stephen said, topping up Matilda’s glass of Sauternes.
“Shakespeare,” Duncan muttered, from the head of the table. “Though relying on the Bard to supply your humor rather underscores your point. Excuse me, please. It’s time I sought my bed.”
He rose and bowed to Matilda, then left her alone with Lord Stephen and an abundance of food.
“Duncan becomes even more polite than usual when he’s upset,” Stephen said. “He saw you nick the roll.”
I have lost my touch. “I’m merely taking a snack to my room for later.”
Lord Stephen cut another serving of apple torte, set it on a plate, added a few slices of cheddar, and passed it to her.
“That’s a snack for later. The roll in your pocket is stolen goods, to sustain you when you leave here in about”—he glanced at the mantel clock—“five hours.”
Matilda had not decided to leave. She had decided that she needed to leave soon. Duncan’s