did that sometimes. That is, she used to before August began following her, thinking she was cuckolding him. She’d stopped, for his sake, and I’m not sure why she went that night, but the next day, her horse was found drowned at the base of a cliff overlooking the sea.”
“Oh!” I gasp.
“He’d stumbled and gone over. Rosalind loved to ride along that clifftop and . . .”
“The horse lost his footing, and they were both drowned.”
“Yet the lack of Rosalind’s body convinced August that she’d run away. Which is ludicrous. Ran away and abandoned her horse, which then ran off a cliff in despair?” He snorts. “It’s madness, and I do not know why he will not accept the very obvious fact that his wife is dead.”
“Because it hurts too much,” I murmur. “He’d rather hate her than mourn her. Easier to think she’s run off with some unsuitable man, and she’ll return one day, begging forgiveness.”
He shifts, uncomfortable. “Like a young man who decided to hate a girl because she didn’t come back through time for him? Almost ran her off when she did?”
“It’s not the same,” I say softly. “August’s self-delusion is unhealthy and self-destructive. I’m glad you’re here for him, though.”
“Well, I am glad I wasn’t here that night. They’d visited here that very day, and we’d departed together as I needed to return to London. Otherwise, I fear August would have thought Rosalind was coming to visit me, particularly after late-night revelers claim they saw her heading this way.”
I frown. “But we’re ten miles from the ocean.”
“Yes, and one ought not to doubt the word of three men, drunk on youth and gin.” He rolls his eyes. “It makes for a fine scandal, though. My dearest friend’s wife came for a secret assignation, and I murdered her and tossed her body into the sea.”
“What? People think . . . ?” My mind spins. “You said scandal. That day I overheard you with August, there was some mention of a scandal.”
His brows rise. “And you didn’t ask me about it?”
“I thought it involved a lady. I was going to ask, but it didn’t quite seem the time to bring up past relationships.”
He chuckles. “Well, I admire your discretion, and I appreciate your faith in me, that you suspected only something so relatively benign. The scandal does involve women, but not, alas, a deliciously forbidden affair.”
“I was thinking duel.” I pause. “Wait, women? Plural?”
“I killed my sister, too, don’t you know?” he says, and his tone is light, but anger and pain simmers behind his blue eyes. “Murdered my sister and my best friend’s wife. Oh, and I also killed you.”
“Wait? What?”
“You and I were seen at least once by local villagers. The young lord, spotted in the company of a mysterious girl, who was never seen again after that summer. At the time, no one thought much of it. But after Cordelia left, people remembered . . . and added you to my death toll.”
“The locals—?”
“No, the villagers—bless them—defend me, sometimes with fisticuffs, I fear. It’s others, taking their stories and twisting them. The locals also know that Cordelia left of her own accord. One of their own drove her to the train station. They also know that I was not here the night Rosalind died. I was in a coach bound for London, with witnesses.”
I open my mouth, but words won’t come. I know rumors can be vicious, but this is ridiculous. Accusing a man of murdering his sister . . . when witnesses saw her leave? Of murdering his friend’s wife . . . when witnesses place him a hundred miles away? Of killing a mysterious girl seen with him once or twice?
“I’m sorry,” I say, finally. “People can be nasty and horrible and downright stupid.”
He shrugs. “They like a good story, and I was not particularly popular in some society circles. Too successful at business. Too successful”—he clears his throat—“in other ways.”
I smile. “With the ladies as you’d say. I’m still sorry, though.” I pause. I see an opening here, and I take a moment to evaluate his mood. He’s calm, relaxed, relieved at having revealed his “scandal” and getting nothing but outrage on his behalf.
I could ruin that mood with my question, but I’m going to gamble and decide that this is, instead, the perfect time to pose it with care.
“As much as I’d love to dismiss the impact of the rumors,” I say, “I know at the very least, they’re inconvenient. It