The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,24

not what the men decided.

If she denied committing adultery, the divorce would take longer but it would still go through. St. Arles had made that very clear and she believed him.

If she agreed, matters would move far faster and she’d still keep one priceless asset, an item that would infuriate him.

Her continued silence had drawn everyone’s nervous attention, even St. Arles. Very good.

“How plead ye, my lady?” The judge reiterated the bailiff’s question, sharpening the whip’s edge in an implicit threat to hurl her back down into the pit if she didn’t obey him quickly.

How much choice did she truly have, if she wanted to start afresh?

“Aye.” Her admission rang out through the room like a battlefield bugle call compelling attention and belief. After all, she would have done everything she was accused of, and more, with Gareth Lowell.

If she’d only had the chance.

Chapter Twelve

Newport, Rhode Island, February 1887

Viola Donovan fought to bring the spyglass back into focus. She refused to curse either the high winds that kept her inside, far away from the fast moving boats, or her own weakness which left her unable to hold the heavy bits of steel and glass for more than a few minutes.

William and Hal were outside, standing in the sun and probably chatting about the Navy’s recent annexation of Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. William knew more about it than any of the East Coast-based Lindsays, thanks to his San Francisco home. Hal’s Great Lakes empire was immense but he always had a keen eye for his Lindsay cousins’ potential advantage.

She’d always worried how he’d treat his own son but she never fussed over his handling of the various male relations who sought their fortune under his auspices.

Marlowe and Spenser, her five-year-old twins, raced across the finely manicured lawn, their black hair blowing in the wind just like their Irish father’s did. Fourteen-year-old Neil watched them warily, ever careful to keep himself between them and the sea, despite the stout brick wall hidden by the steep cliff edge.

Thirteen-year-old Brian, on the other hand, willingly chased his little brothers in yet another game of tag. He even pretended to stumble and fall over a non-existent bump, no doubt hidden under the sere grass by last night’s bitter frost. Little Spenser laughed and jumped into the air to clap, while Marlowe raced to victory atop the garden wall.

Brian sat up quickly—and her heart eased. She should have known nothing physical would injure her fairy-blessed second son. Not for him was Neil’s horrified frown when Spenser’s coat came unbuttoned, bringing the attendant horror of possible bronchitis. No, Brian chuckled and teased and fastened his little brother up again, while Viola shuddered and prayed that her youngest might be spared to live another day.

She’d paid too high a price to have him. She’d even sworn to her frantic husband that they’d never have another child, lest they not be able to dismiss death from both her door and the babe’s.

But she didn’t have to think about that today. This afternoon was for sharing family joys. She was with her father again, able to talk about the Lindsay clan’s passion for boats. She was warm and comfortable behind her cousin’s observatory’s thick glass panes, no matter what else they might think about. Like the upcoming finalization of Portia’s divorce.

“There, d’you see the triple-masted yacht? That’s Gould’s latest.” The old commodore, still unbowed by his many decades, pointed out to the foaming seas where a sleek black funnel sprang into life above the white caps.

“Very pretty,” Viola approved, remembering old lessons from her hometown’s shipyards. More of the boat revealed itself coyly, glimpses snatched between waves reaching for the sky. “She’s very big—and very seaworthy.”

“Aye, Gould builds them well.”

“Them?” She set the spyglass down and tucked her shawl around her more closely. She’d somehow grown less tolerant of drafts since the twins’ birth. If William caught her without a coat, he’d blister her ears—or worse, look terrified. But she hadn’t had pneumonia yet this winter so there was nothing for him to worry about.

Heaven knows they both spent enough time fretting about Portia’s refusal to come directly back to America, with its baying jackals called newspaper reporters. The trial’s coverage had been hell for her, with its mixture of a few facts and much fiction. Every British and American newspaper had discussed her for months, painting her in terms which made Jezebel appear virtuous.

Her family had tried to silence them, or at least reduce the baying jackals to printing