her.
“Another suggestion. What a helpful fellow you are.”
“You are teasing me. Were you this disrespectful to your late husband?” Whose ledgers they hadn’t so much as mentioned.
“Gregory had clearly defined expectations of what ladylike deportment entailed. I learned to meet those expectations.”
“Do you regret marrying him?” Axel asked, when they reached her door.
She shrugged free of his arm. “Of course not. My parents and most of their possessions had perished in a fire. My grandfather had died only weeks earlier of old age or a wasting disease. Gregory had been one of Grandpapa Pennington’s business associates, and thus I’d had a passing acquaintance with him for years. The colonel’s offer of marriage was all that saved me from the workhouse, and I would have married him if he’d kept me in his kennels.”
What a ghastly admission, not because it whispered of reasons to kill a man, but because it reflected so miserably on the late colonel.
“Abigail, sometimes I am relieved my spouse is gone. I loved her as well as I could, but in the end, she was suffering terribly. One finds peace, eventually, in being honest, and I’m honestly glad Caroline’s suffering ended. I’ll not chide you for honestly resenting that Gregory was a disappointment.”
A disgrace to his gender more like.
Abby nodded once, then slipped into her room, quietly closing the door behind her.
What in the hell was wrong with the young men of England, that a self-important, fifty-year-old cavalry veteran had been the only option for a woman as lovely as Abigail Stoneleigh?
And when had Axel begun to think of her as not simply pretty, but lovely?
Chapter Six
A long, laudanum-laced nap did nothing to restore Abigail’s spirits, though the thought of all the books in Axel Belmont’s library was modestly cheering. Mr. Belmont owned a variety of novels, and Gregory had scoffed at fiction.
Women were to read improving tracts, sermons, and recipe books in addition to the Book of Common Prayer and the Bible.
Sometimes I am relieved my spouse is gone.
A woman whose husband had been murdered did not dare admit to the same sentiment. Axel Belmont’s honesty had been so welcome, such a relief, Abigail had nearly hugged him for it.
And yet, she’d also been happy to doze through the dinner hour, and sorely hoped Mr. Belmont had sought his own chambers for the late evening hours rather than the warmth of the library.
The library door was a few inches ajar, and a murmur of masculine voices drifted into the corridor. For a moment, Abby was thrown back to all the times she’d heard Gregory and Sir Dewey chatting similarly, all the times she’d waited, hand poised to knock, until the conversation had found a natural lull, for Gregory had not tolerated unannounced interruptions.
“I haven’t any real suspects yet.” That would be Mr. Belmont. “More brandy?”
“If you please.” Another man spoke, his voice as cultured as Mr. Belmont’s, maybe a little smoother. “What about the wife? You say she inherited the property, and is decades younger than the deceased.”
Liquid sloshed, glass tinkled. “She didn’t inherit any more than the son or daughter did. Two reliable witnesses placed her on the next floor up when the shot was fired.”
“She could have hired it done.” The other man was idly speculating, while Abby’s heart had begun to thump against her ribs. “Thirty years is a great age difference, even in these opportunistic times.”
The corridor was chilly, but Abby could not have moved if her life had depended upon it—which, if Axel Belmont still considered her a suspect, it might.
Damn him, though. Damn him for his feigned solicitude.
Do not neglect your potatoes, Abigail.
“If Mrs. Stoneleigh wanted her husband gone, why wait eight years into the marriage?” Mr. Belmont mused. “Why use a gun, when poison would have been tidier? She’s not a stupid woman.”
Abby wasn’t a smart woman,
“Another suggestion. What a helpful fellow you are.”
“You are teasing me. Were you this disrespectful to your late husband?” Whose ledgers they hadn’t so much as mentioned.
“Gregory had clearly defined expectations of what ladylike deportment entailed. I learned to meet those expectations.”
“Do you regret marrying him?” Axel asked, when they reached her door.
She shrugged free of his arm. “Of course not. My parents and most of their possessions had perished in a fire. My grandfather had died only weeks earlier of old age or a wasting disease. Gregory had been one of Grandpapa Pennington’s business associates, and thus I’d had a passing acquaintance with him for years. The colonel’s offer of marriage was all that saved me from the workhouse, and I would have married him if he’d kept me in his kennels.”
What a ghastly admission, not because it whispered of reasons to kill a man, but because it reflected so miserably on the late colonel.
“Abigail, sometimes I am relieved my spouse is gone. I loved her as well as I could, but in the end, she was suffering terribly. One finds peace, eventually, in being honest, and I’m honestly glad Caroline’s suffering ended. I’ll not chide you for honestly resenting that Gregory was a disappointment.”
A disgrace to his gender more like.
Abby nodded once, then slipped into her room, quietly closing the door behind her.
What in the hell was wrong with the young men of England, that a self-important, fifty-year-old cavalry veteran had been the only option for a woman as lovely as Abigail Stoneleigh?
And when had Axel begun to think of her as not simply pretty, but lovely?
Chapter Six
A long, laudanum-laced nap did nothing to restore Abigail’s spirits, though the thought of all the books in Axel Belmont’s library was modestly cheering. Mr. Belmont owned a variety of novels, and Gregory had scoffed at fiction.
Women were to read improving tracts, sermons, and recipe books in addition to the Book of Common Prayer and the Bible.
Sometimes I am relieved my spouse is gone.
A woman whose husband had been murdered did not dare admit to the same sentiment. Axel Belmont’s honesty had been so welcome, such a relief, Abigail had nearly hugged him for it.
And yet, she’d also been happy to doze through the dinner hour, and sorely hoped Mr. Belmont had sought his own chambers for the late evening hours rather than the warmth of the library.
The library door was a few inches ajar, and a murmur of masculine voices drifted into the corridor. For a moment, Abby was thrown back to all the times she’d heard Gregory and Sir Dewey chatting similarly, all the times she’d waited, hand poised to knock, until the conversation had found a natural lull, for Gregory had not tolerated unannounced interruptions.
“I haven’t any real suspects yet.” That would be Mr. Belmont. “More brandy?”
“If you please.” Another man spoke, his voice as cultured as Mr. Belmont’s, maybe a little smoother. “What about the wife? You say she inherited the property, and is decades younger than the deceased.”
Liquid sloshed, glass tinkled. “She didn’t inherit any more than the son or daughter did. Two reliable witnesses placed her on the next floor up when the shot was fired.”
“She could have hired it done.” The other man was idly speculating, while Abby’s heart had begun to thump against her ribs. “Thirty years is a great age difference, even in these opportunistic times.”
The corridor was chilly, but Abby could not have moved if her life had depended upon it—which, if Axel Belmont still considered her a suspect, it might.
Damn him, though. Damn him for his feigned solicitude.
Do not neglect your potatoes, Abigail.
“If Mrs. Stoneleigh wanted her husband gone, why wait eight years into the marriage?” Mr. Belmont mused. “Why use a gun, when poison would have been tidier? She’s not a stupid woman.”
Abby wasn’t a smart woman,
Similar Books
