heeks ballooned, reddened with outrage. “That’s enough of this nonsense! As your grandmother, I demand you burn those letters now.” She stabbed a finger at the fire blazing in the grate. “I demand your friends at Bow Street arrest Mr Coulter for fraud and defamation.”
Dante jumped to his feet, his face twisted in anger. “Did you hire thugs to kill Babington? No doubt Mabel is familiar with the process considering she used the same method to kill our parents.” He motioned to Beatrice. “No doubt you had my mother followed the moment she wrote to you to beg an audience. Instructed the men to obtain the letters and return them to you.”
Mabel shot forward. “No! No! I would never have hurt Lady Daphne, sir. You must believe that. She was the kindest, dearest soul and did not deserve to die so tragically.”
The comment had a noticeable effect on Dante. All anger dissipated, and he hung his head, whispered, “Yes, she was.”
A sober silence descended—a moment to contemplate human fragility.
The dowager’s sharp tone cut through the quiet. “Our parents?” Her suspicious gaze swept over Beatrice. “What do you mean?”
A prickle of fear raced across Beatrice’s back. “My father was murdered, too, my lady. Henry Watson. He was hired by Alessandro to prove or disprove Mr Coulter’s claim.”
This time the silence landed with a thud. Shaking the room with an invisible force. Mabel looked at Dante, panic flashing in her eyes.
And then the dowager leant forward and set her hate-filled eyes on Beatrice. “You dare bring that murderer’s spawn into my house! You dare accuse me of hurting my daughter when you’re keeping company with the offspring of the person responsible.”
Beatrice wished the ground would open and swallow her whole. Guilt slithered through her veins. She glanced at her gloves, imagining them stained red with the blood of innocent people.
Your father was a scoundrel who lost his way when your mother died.
Her uncle’s words rang in her head.
“Shame on you, boy!”
Beatrice couldn’t look at Dante.
She couldn’t raise an argument because she feared it might be true.
“What proof do you have that Henry Watson was responsible?” Dante spoke like a professional agent, calm, exact, though she could sense his emotional turmoil.
“Proof?” the dowager scoffed. “Henry Watson was a gambler and a cad. Indeed, were I not so incensed, I might laugh at the irony of it all.” She shook her head. “They sat there, too, Daphne and that fiend. Accused me of paying someone to attack my daughter in an alley. Demanded—”
“Someone did attack my mother. It cannot be a coincidence.”
“If I’d had anything to do with it, I would have hired someone to attack your father, not Daphne. He’s the reason my poor child is dead. He’s the one who seduced her with his exotic ways, the one who hired that damn Watson fellow.”
Beatrice found it hard to breathe, let alone think logically.
Instinct said Lady Deighton had not hired brutes to hurt her daughter. Had Mable hired them to ransack Babington’s home, hoping to find the letters? Probably. Had Mabel hired a brute to slay Babington in the street? Perhaps.
“Henry Watson conspired with my cousin’s boy to bring about my downfall. They concocted the whole story so they might blackmail me for funds. Two devious men. Two wicked men. They’re the ones responsible.”
Dante stepped closer to his grandmother. “Lord Summers’ letter suggests otherwise. Is Coulter your son? Answer me!”
The dowager’s lips curled into a scowl. “Do you think I would admit to siring a child with a lover? Do you think I would sacrifice everything I’ve worked for all these years? Mr Coulter is the child of my cousin Wilfred. And you will never, never, hear me say otherwise.”
After a lengthy pause, Dante bowed and stepped back. “Then there is nothing more to say. As an agent of the Order, I shall present the letters as evidence in the murder of George Babington.” He turned to Beatrice and offered his hand. “We should go now.”
Beatrice gripped his hand and stood. She wanted to look at him but needed to see passion and admiration in his eyes, not suspicion and doubt.
“You would embroil this family in another scandal?” A hint of fear marked the dowager’s tone. “You would have people question your lineage?”
“You courted scandal when you jumped into bed with Lord Summers. You made matters worse when you abandoned your son. When you disowned your daughter because she fell in love with a foreigner. My integrity is not open to manipulation. It’s time we all faced the truth and dealt with it.”
Was the last comment directed at Beatrice?
Was she to accept her father may have played a part in the tragedy?