The Haunting of a Duke(89)

"Where is my son?” Eleanor demanded.

"He is dead, madam,” Michael interjected.

His voice was cold, so cold that Emme felt the chill from it. Rhys grieved, but Michael suffered the guilt of his horrible memories.

"He is as dead as poor Melisande, who suffered at your cruel hands."

"No!” Phyllis screamed. “No! Melisande was murdered by a footpad!"

"There are no footpads on the estate, Phyllis,” Michael said, and both Emme and Rhys wondered at what it cost him to gentle his voice when he spoke. “There have never been footpads on this estate. Eleanor killed Melisande to protect Alistair, to hide his crime, to hide the horror of what he had done to his own cousin, perhaps his own sister."

Eleanor stood. “You can't prove it. I loved my son, but it is obvious that he had gone mad."

Spencer still had the satchel over his shoulder. He reached in and pulled out the dress. “Do you recognize this?"

Phyllis fainted and Larissa gingerly patted her cheeks as she removed a vinaigrette from her pocket. Eleanor glared at him, cold disdain marring her features. “You are all so clever. Yes, I killed her. But it wasn't simply to protect Alistair. The stain of what he had done would have damaged the entire family. We would never have been able to show our faces in society again. I couldn't let that happen. Better to be at the center of a tragedy than a scandal!"

"And Elise?” Rhys asked. “What was your motive for killing her?"

Eleanor's face twisted with fury as she explained. “Alistair, in a fit of drunkenness, had confessed to her. He'd gloated about what he had done. Elise, amoral as she was, didn't care in the least, but she made a vital error when she attempted to blackmail me with the information. She would have spread the gossip far and wide. I chose the lesser of two evils. I knew that at least some people would believe she was a suicide. Oh, there would be whispers, but it was better than the alternative,” she finished. Her head was high, her back perfectly straight. She spoke of murder as calmly as she might have discussed a garden party. “What are your plans for me?"

Rhys couldn't bring himself to see her dead, either at his own hands or at the hands of the hangman. “You will go to an insane asylum. You will be cared for, against my better judgment. I cannot bring myself to kill you and I doubt the magistrate could either. A mental break brought about by the tragedy of your only son's death will be far less scandalous than a trial for murder, will it not?"

She smiled at him then, a cold mockery of amusement. “I've taught you well."

"Lock her in the tower room until we can sort things out,” Rhys instructed.

Spencer took her.

Michael watched her pass with cold fury. “It is better than she deserves."

"I know,” Rhys said simply.

Michael turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Phyllis was regaining consciousness. She moaned and then began to weep softly. “My poor Melisande. How could she? How could she have taken my little girl?"

Larissa comforted her. Emme rose from the bed and went to her as well. Together they helped Phyllis back to her room. Larissa stayed with her, comforting the woman as she grieved for the loss of her child and the loss of the woman who had been her friend and companion for decades.

Emme couldn't shake the overwhelming sadness that filled her as she returned to their chamber and to her husband. So many lives destroyed, so many lives taken, all for the sake of preserving appearances.

She entered their chamber and returned to the bed, where she placed her head on her husband's uninjured shoulder. His injury might be mild, but she wasn't foolish enough to think him safe just yet. She would wait to see if fever set in.

"How is she?” he asked softly.

"She is heartbroken, grieving for her child and for her friend. But she is stronger than she realizes, and she will recover. And so will you."

He pulled her closer. “I have everything to live for. Of course I will recover."

"You are a blessed man in spite of these last days,” she whispered, her voice teasing.

They needed a moment of levity in the whirlwind of violence that had nearly consumed them.

He smiled down at the top of her head, his gaze tender. When she looked up and met his gaze, he stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “I am a blessed man, indeed. I am blessed with a wife whom I adore, with a wife that I love."

Her heart stuttered in her chest, skipping alarmingly. “You love me?"

He pulled her up, and claimed her lips in a searing kiss. “Yes,” he said, the word feathering over her lips, “I love you. And today, I nearly lost you. I couldn't bear it if something were to happen to you. You are my life now."