Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

Kilbourne merely stared at him stonily, as if he’d let hope seize his emotions too many times in the past to permit it free rein again.

Trevillion met his gaze and said bluntly, “Your uncle is in debt, my lord, to your grandfather, the earl’s, estate—and has been for at least a decade. If you inherit the title, I suspect he would find himself in a very awkward position, for he doesn’t have the monies to repay the estate. Had you died that night, he would’ve inherited the title—and the money that goes with it upon your grandfather’s death. He would never have to repay the debt and wouldn’t fear the courts or debtor’s prison.”

Kilbourne’s expression didn’t even flicker—proving that he was as intelligent as Trevillion had suspected. “But I… didn’t die. Instead… apparently I… was drugged.”

“Think,” Kilbourne murmured low, for if what he suspected was true, they had a powerful man as an enemy. “Had you been murdered then, had not a common thief or some such been apprehended, your uncle, as the next heir to the earldom, would’ve been the natural suspect. But if you were drugged and your friends killed instead, you are made the murderer, and must perforce be brought to justice—and the hangman. A scandal, surely, but in no way your uncle’s fault—and with the same result as if he’d murdered you himself: your death. It was,” he added thoughtfully, “a rather elegant scheme, you must admit, my lord.”

“You’ll… forgive me if… I don’t,” Kilbourne replied drily. “I would’ve… been dead these four years… had not my distant… cousin, the Earl of… Brightmore not been so horrified… at the thought of a relation… of his being tried for… murder that he bundled… me away in Bedlam instead.” He paused, swallowing, after such a long speech. “Scant… comfort though… that was at the time. I think… I might’ve preferred… the noose.”

Trevillion reflected sardonically that he must be grateful, then, to Brightmore, for he’d saved Trevillion from indirectly sending an innocent man to his death.

“Why…” Kilbourne started, and then had to cough and clear his throat. “If your… theory is true, why… wouldn’t my… uncle have had me killed in Bedlam?”

“Perhaps he thought you would die there, my lord.” Trevillion shrugged. “Many do.”

hat was hardly his concern.

The wherryman caught at the dock, pulling the small boat close enough to fling a rope over one of the wooden posts on the side.

“We’re here, my lady,” Trevillion said to Lady Phoebe, although she probably knew from the lurch of the boat. “There’s a ladder to your right, just past the gunwale of the boat.”

He watched as she felt for the rough wooden ladder with her fingertips.

“Now take my hand, my lady.” He lightly pressed against her forearm so she’d know where his hand was.

“I have it,” she said impatiently, taking his hand nevertheless as she gingerly climbed out.

He made sure to hold her firmly until she was standing on the dock. He followed as swiftly as possible, despite being hampered by both lame leg and cane.

“Wait for us,” he ordered the wherryman, tossing him a coin.

“Aye,” the wherryman muttered, pulling his broad-brimmed hat over his face as he lounged back in his boat. No doubt he meant to fill the time with a nap.

“This way, my lady,” Trevillion said to Lady Phoebe, giving her his left arm. He leaned heavily on his cane with his right hand. A crude path had been cleared, leading from the dock into the garden, but debris still littered the ground. “Mind your step. The ground is uneven.”

She turned her head from side to side as they walked, sniffing the air. “It still smells quite strongly of the fire.”

“Indeed,” he replied, guiding her around a charred lump—perhaps a fallen tree, though it was hard to tell. “The ground is blackened and what trees remain are scorched.”

“How sad,” she murmured. “I did so love this place.”

Her brows were knit, her plump lips drooping.

He cleared his throat. “There are a few signs of rebirth,” he remarked, feeling a fool even as he said it.

She perked up. “Such as?”

“Some green blades of grass. And the sun is shining,” he said lamely. He caught sight of something. “Ah. There’s a sort of small purple flower off to the left as well.”

“Is there?” She brightened. “Show me.”

He took her hand and carefully pulled it down to the pathetic little flower.

She felt it so gently the petals weren’t even bruised.

“A violet, I think,” she said at last, straightening. “I’d pick it to smell, but with so few survivors I don’t want to steal it away.”

He forbore to say that one violet hardly made a garden.