After several moments, Peter moved to his horse, taking the reins Dominic held out to him.
“If we can get her back to Havistock, we’ll tell Eliza what’s happened, then I’ll make arrangements to get her to Willowbrook for the funeral,” Peter said, daring anyone to argue.
After several moments of careful silence, Dominic decided that Peter couldn’t really hate him any more than he already did and, after meeting the watchful gazes of Edward and Sebastian, regretfully shook his head.
“We can’t do that. Don’t you think Eliza has been through enough? Scraggan is still out there somewhere,” Dominic inwardly cringed when Peter swung around in his saddle to glare at him. Sucking in a fortifying breath, he continued, “I think that we owe it to her to make certain Jemima is laid to rest in peace and quiet.”
“She is being buried at Willowbrook,” Peter argued, his hard eyes meeting Dominic’s in stark warning.
“It’s really for Eliza to decide; she is her sister, after all. I think Eliza may want to bury Jemima next to her mother and father in Padstow, but Scraggan definitely wouldn’t allow a funeral to take place in his patch.”
“Look, Dominic, it really isn’t anything to do with you. It’s not your decision to make. You didn’t know her,” Peter glared at him, refusing to back down.
“I’m just being practical,” Dominic argued, ignoring Edward’s look of warning. “It is my fault.” He turned uncompromising eyes on Peter and waited until their eyes met before continuing. “If I had remained in Norfolk all those months ago, this would never have happened, but instead I insisted on getting back to Isobel. It’s my fault that Jemima has paid for my mistake with her life and, just like you, I have every intention of making amends.”
“It’s too late now!” Peter snorted, glaring at his friend. “What do you expect to do?” he shouted, pointing a shaking finger toward the back of the cart. “She’s dead! It’s too late! We were too late! Now, it is nothing to do with you,” he growled, shooting each of them a hard glare. “I love her, and I know Eliza will agree that if Jemima cannot be buried in Padstow, then she should be buried far away from Scraggan. She can rest at Willowbrook.”
“Look, you two,” Edward interjected, scowling across the width of the cart toward his brother and Peter. “I think Eliza is the one who has to make the decision. I can understand your argument Peter, but arguing over her body now really isn’t respectful. Leave this discussion until later.”
Swamped by roiling emotions he didn’t know how to handle, Peter lapsed into sullen silence and slowed his horse enough to settle into a steady walk behind the cart. It gave Peter the distance from the others that he desperately needed at that moment. He hadn’t intended to be disrespectful by arguing over Jemima, but felt a fierce protectiveness toward her especially after failing her so catastrophically. Ensuring she could rest in peace was something he could achieve, and he had every intention of not letting her down again.
Little else was said on the long ride back. Peter was disinclined to converse with anyone, preferring instead to remain at the back of the procession, his gaze locked on the lifeless body of the woman he loved.
The atmosphere between the men had grown increasingly tense throughout the journey. None of them had lost sight of the fact that they still had to inform Eliza of her sister’s fate. Edward’s face was filled with dread as they turned into the long driveway of Havistock Hall. Peter couldn’t stand the thought of facing anyone else’s heartbreak, and had to dig deep to enter the house beside Dominic and watch Edward break the news. Briefly his eyes met and held Eliza’s as she desperately sought confirmation that Edward was telling her the truth. Peter couldn’t speak. His throat was locked tight. Unable to bear the desolation on her face as the stark realisation of her loss sank in, Peter averted his gaze, his jaw clenching tightly against the burning need to punch something.
“We were too late,” Eliza whispered, doing nothing to swipe the tears from her drawn face. “Oh God, Edward, we were too late.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” Edward said gently, trying to ease her into the study, only for Eliza to dig her heels in, refusing to budge from the cold marble floor.
“Where is she going?” Grief made her voice tremble.
“We’re going to move her to one of the back rooms. She can stay there until we can arrange the funeral. The maids will prepare her,” Dominic moved forward and held her cold hands. “I am so very sorry, Eliza,” he said softly, his chest tightening with guilt and remorse.
Peter couldn’t stand it any longer. Struggling to contain his grief, he walked silently out of the front door, sweeping past Sebastian without a glance. Once in the fresh air, he sucked in a deep breath of the crisp morning breeze, desperately trying to regain some control over his emotions. If it was his house, he would have no hesitation in going back inside, slamming the door shut behind him and smashing the place to pieces in an attempt to assuage his burning rage. But it wasn’t his house, it was Dominic and Isobel’s, and as a guest he had to respect their property. His inability to vent his pain only increased the burning fury at the unfairness of her death, and he struggled to control the raging emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
Determined to get Jemima inside, away from any prying eyes, Peter strode to the cart and stood behind, waiting for the others to join him. Within moments Edward, Dominic and Sebastian had appeared on either side of him, helping to slide the board beneath Jemima into their waiting hands.
They carried her solemnly through the front door, past a weeping Eliza and down the corridor toward the back of the house and the servants’ quarters. Dominic had already ordered his butler to clear a storage room, and the maids were just finishing carrying the last of the boxes out of the room when they approached. Standing back respectfully, they watched as Jemima was placed carefully on the solitary table in the middle of the room.
Peter paused for a few moments, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder before reluctantly leaving the room. As he approached the main corridor of the house, he could hear Eliza weeping, but couldn’t bring himself to offer his condolences right at that moment. He just needed to be alone.
At the doorway to the library he paused and glanced into the main foyer. A bitter pang of envy stole through him as he watched Edward sweep Eliza high into his arms and carry her up the stairs to the privacy of their rooms. Dominic drew Isobel into his arms for a hug, clearly needing comfort himself.
The sight of their intimate embrace left Peter feeling more desolate than ever; it was a stark reminder of everything he could never have for himself.
Quietly closing the door behind him, he headed for the brandy decanter. While he was pleased his friends had found happiness, a slow tide of bitterness swept through him that he had no woman to come home to now. No wife to have children with, and share the ups and downs of everyday life with. No best friend, and no soul mate.
All he had left now was a raging thirst for vengeance. Until his dying day, he would not rest until Scraggan was brought to justice. He owed it to Jemima to make sure her death wasn’t in vain. If that meant hunting down the man responsible for setting her up, and meting out his own justice, then so be it. He would face the consequences with pride.
With the image of Jemima’s cold and lifeless face firmly in his mind, Peter took another long draught of his brandy and slumped back against the chaise-lounge to make his own macabre plans.
Some considerable time later, he was slouched, half-drunk, on the chaise, when a visibly shaken Eliza sat down beside him. He couldn’t summon the thoughts, or the interest, to ask her what had happened and was about to take another swig of his brandy when the bottle was abruptly snatched out of his loose hold.
Peter jerked out of his alcoholic stupor and sat bolt upright, grumbling a protest at her abrupt removal of his emotional anaesthetic.
“What do you think you are
doing?” she demanded, standing over him and holding the bottle aloft.