He rewrapped his book with rapid, jerky movements. “You’ll be sorry,” he mumbled.
I hoped I’d misunderstood him. “What did you say?”
“You’ll be sorry. One day, you’ll all be sorry.” His package tucked under one arm, he stormed out of the shop, nearly knocking Frances Atterby over as she arrived to travel with me to visit Anne Drake.
I was already sorry. Nicholas Drake was dead, and I had to tell his widow.
*
I LEFT FRANCES later that morning dealing with Anne Drake’s grief. Now that she’d been forced to admit she wasn’t her sister, Edith Carter, she had no reason to hide either her identity or her love for her husband. Her carefully crafted world of lies, and the need for them, fell apart with Drake’s death. She broke down into a gasping, soggy mess.
Frances ordered Anne’s maid to bring heavily sugared tea and laudanum. Years of managing the family hotel with her husband had left Frances with the ability to handle any crisis, no matter how difficult the person or the situation. For now she sat with Anne, holding the new widow against her well-padded bosom as she rocked and crooned. Promising to do everything I could to find justice for Drake, I departed in haste.
My guilt followed me to Lady Westover’s. When I marched into her greenhouse and stared at her, she looked up from her spraying and said, “You’re in a temper.”
“I’ve just come from Nicholas Drake’s wife, informing her she’s a widow.”
She set the sprayer down and walked over to me, stripping off her large canvas gloves. Taking my hands, she said, “I am so sorry. That can’t have been easy for you. Always seeing your parents’ death and Sir Broderick’s accident whenever you have to deliver bad news.”
“No, I just—”
“Georgia, I am far too old to be put off by your denials.”
I pulled my hands away and studied the terra-cotta tile floor, fighting the tears that threatened to rend my heart.
“It’s been a dozen years since you lost your family and Sir Broderick ended up in a wheeled chair because of his injuries. You’ve grown up, but you haven’t lost your pain.”
I gritted my teeth. Swallowing my sobs, I forced my voice into something approaching normality. “I have to give Nicholas Drake justice. Then maybe I won’t grieve so much because I failed my family.”
She took my hands again. “I know, Georgia. I know.”
We stood in silence while the early spring sunshine shone through the glass panes, heating the air around us. The fragrance of moist soil and delicate blooms filled the air. This room always helped to ease my wounded heart. Once again I was reminded of how much time Lady Westover spent here on the anniversaries of events she wished had never happened.
I helped her off with her hat. “You must not tell anyone but your grandson that Drake is dead. We’re keeping it a secret for now so that the killer is the only suspect who knows.”
“All right,” she said with a feeble smile but a businesslike tone. “What do you plan to do now?”
“I need to speak to Lady Dutton-Cox again.”
“No, Georgia.”
“She believes her daughter was murdered. I believe Drake was murdered. If they both died by the same hand, we have to stop the killer.”
“If. Don’t you hear yourself?” Lady Westover shook her poufy gray à la concierge hairdo. I knew if I tried such a move, my hair would be around my shoulders in an instant. A knot worn on top of the head might be fashionable, but I wasn’t born to be fashionable.
Drawing my attention back to her words, I said, “You’re afraid your friend is behind Drake’s death, aren’t you?”
She took a half step back from me and looked out the window at the blooms in the garden. “I know you were terribly rude to her last time I took you to see Lady Dutton-Cox. I don’t want a repeat.”
“I only want to know if she or her husband received blackmail threats because of letters their daughter Victoria had written. Or if they were blackmailed due to something else entirely,” I added, not wanting to miss any possibility. I knew there wouldn’t be a third chance to question her.
“What will that prove?” Lady Westover’s blue eyes sharpened inside her scowl.
“Something Lady Dutton-Cox’s husband said makes me suspect Victoria’s death has nothing to do with Drake blackmailing them. Drake’s thefts are part of a pattern, and the reason why he was killed in a fire.”
“Someone wanted to burn the letters they couldn’t get away from Mr. Drake.” She nodded and walked away from me, sliding out of her enveloping apron. “I hope we can assure Honoria Dutton-Cox that her letters have been burned.”