Secret Brides [3] Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage by Valerie Bowman

and Annie were right. It was possible that Kate was innocent, that she would be put to death for a crime she did not commit. If so, and her last wish was to live out her final days in the semblance of normalcy, James had to admit that made sense to him.
    And the very nature of her plea had intrigued him. Wanting to live. Live. God, had he ever had that thought? Perhaps when he was very young. Before he’d realized what his father had expected of him. But James had learned at an early age that life wasn’t about enjoyment. It was about duty and honor and studies and business and commitments. It fascinated him, however, that the last wish of a dying woman would be to live.
    He eyed the barrister. “The duchess has the blackened reputation of Napoleon himself. Even if you conduct your own investigation, this will be very difficult, won’t it, Abernathy?”
    “Very difficult indeed, my lord,” Abernathy replied solemnly.
    James leaned back in his chair and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. He had a very clear delineation in his life. The man who owned the printing press, engaged scandal, and enjoyed a good tale. And the viscount who courted the ton’ s favor and who had a pristine reputation second only to Wellington himself. And he had every intention of keeping it that way.
    But first he had to discover the truth.
    He leaned forward and braced his elbows on the desk again. He met Abernathy’s eyes, and gave the barrister a stern stare. “I want you to hire a runner, Abernathy. The best Bow Street has. Spare no expense. I want to know every detail of what happened that day.”

 
    CHAPTER 14
     
    Kate sat on the sofa in the library, her feet curled under her. She was writing on a small table that had been pulled up in front of her by one of James’s ever-so-helpful footmen.
    She stared blindly at the paper in front of her. The pamphlet.
    She sighed, twirling a curl around her finger. Writing the pamphlet was proving more difficult than she’d imagined. And she’d never expected it to be simple. She smoothed her hand over the pieces of parchment in front of her. The ink had long since dried. But it just wasn’t right. Not yet. None of it. She’d started and stopped a dozen times already, crumpling up the insufficient words, and tossing them into the rubbish bin.
    She’d begun by telling her story that day. She’d begun by relating her feelings. She’d begun by attempting to explain why she and Markingham had never suited. All of the stories, hopelessly inadequate. Though all of them true. That’s what James wanted … the truth. But which truth? Which one should she tell? Which one was right?
    She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck with ink-stained fingers. How exactly did one explain one was not a murderess? Or, more correctly … how did one explain one was not a murderess when faced with a mountain of incriminating evidence to the contrary? Every word she’d written seemed hopelessly inadequate.
    A knock sounded at the door and she let her hand fall away from her neck, her heart nearly pounding out of her chest. She hadn’t yet become accustomed to the fact that she was no longer at the Tower. A knock on the door there might mean anything from she was being taken to trial to she was being put to death. The constant fear hadn’t left her.
    Her pounding heart soon slowed when she called, “Come in,” and glanced up to see James stroll into the room. The man had one hand shoved in his pocket, his dark hair was perfectly in place as usual, and a hint of a smile played upon his firm lips. Kate glanced away. He was too good-looking by half. She pinched the inside of her arm. It was positively indecent of her to have that thought. Oh God, perhaps she deserved to be burned at the stake for her disloyalty to her poor dead husband. But then she thought of Lady Bettina Swinton spending the night at her house, flaunting her relationship with George, and Kate couldn’t quite conjure the guilt she was