Once a Duchess(97)

 

“Well,” Isabelle demurred, “if you hadn’t gone, you wouldn’t have met Mrs. Miller.” She smiled and nodded toward the woman. “And sweet Belle wouldn’t be gracing my home with her presence.”

 

The baby pawed at her mother’s face, oblivious to anyone else. A fresh pang of longing shot through Isabelle like an arrow. She turned on Justin again. “But why didn’t you write at all?”

 

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his head drooped between his shoulders. He raised his eyes to her hurt gaze. “When your mother-in-law came to Hamhurst, she made those horrible accusations. She said she sent for your husband, and she demanded I leave at once. I didn’t want to go, Isa, I swear. But I feared staying in the house would make things worse for you. So I decided to wait at a nearby inn. Figured between us, you and I could convince Marshall of the truth.”

 

Justin’s fingers clenched and released. “The next evening, there was a knock on my door. Two big fellows. After that, I don’t remember anything, until I woke up on a ship already at sea, with a lump on my head, a broken nose, and that letter stuffed in my pocket.”

 

Isabelle’s hand flew to her throat. “My God, Justin!” She grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?”

 

He chuckled. “I am now. It was a long time ago.” His expression sobered. “All along, I planned to turn around and come right home, despite the threats. When we arrived in Boston, though, the captain gave me this.” He produced another missive and handed it to Isabelle.

 

The Monthwaite ducal seal had stamped this one, too. Isabelle smoothed the creases out of the paper and began to read. And promptly felt as though she’d been slammed into a wall.

 

“Me?” Who hated her so much? Her voice raised an octave; there was a hollow ringing in her ears. “Why? What did we ever do to deserve this?”

 

Rebecca took a porcelain figurine away from the baby. “Isabelle, it’s all right now. Everyone is safe. Justin, do something, for mercy’s sake.”

 

Her friend took the letter and its unthinkable words away.

 

“I just don’t understand.” she said. “Threaten me harm if you so much as contacted me? This is unreal.”

 

“Now you know why I didn’t write,” Justin explained. “I didn’t want to believe Monthwaite would actually hurt you. It just didn’t seem like anything he was capable of. But I couldn’t take a chance, Isa. I wasn’t willing to risk causing you harm.”

 

“How is it you are back now?” Isabelle asked. “If you were told never to return under pain of your death and mine … ”

 

Justin exhaled a laugh. “It’s a curious thing. Two months ago, I received a letter from Monthwaite. The third and final epistle in this saga.”

 

“Two months?” Isabelle’s eyes drifted to the window. For Justin to have received the letter two months ago, Marshall must have sent it after Isabelle left Bensbury.

 

He pulled another letter from the interior pocket of his coat. As he unfolded the paper he said, “He apologized profusely for accusing us of … ” Justin’s face reddened and his eyes cut to his wife.

 

“He said what I knew all along,” Rebecca announced stoutly, “that Justin hadn’t done anything wrong. Or you, ma’am,” she added.

 

Belle twisted around in her mother’s arms. She lunged toward Isabelle, who took her from Rebecca and jostled her on her knee. The little girl gurgled in delight.

 

Isabelle bent her neck to breathe in Belle’s scent. Her hair smelled faintly of powder. All the upset of the last few minutes faded and the world receded to a hazy background. She could have happily held her friend’s child for the next twenty years.

 

“Isa?”

 

Justin’s voice pulled her from her blissful daze. “Hmm?”

 

“Can you look at this letter? This is what I wanted to ask you about. The handwriting doesn’t match the others. I thought perhaps this most recent letter was a forgery, but the bank draft was good, so it seemed safe.”

 

“Those first two aren’t Marshall’s hand,” Isabelle said simply. “He did not write those threats. I’m stunned that anyone would, but I knew at once it wasn’t Marshall. He would never kill in cold blood. And he most certainly would never threaten me so.”

 

Calm certainty spread through her as she spoke. Marshall might be capable of horrible blunders, but he was no murderer.

 

He frowned. “A secretary, maybe?”