A Highland Duchess Read online

  When it had happened, she had no idea. Yesterday, or the day before, or in London when she’d stood at the window and willed him to return, brigand that he was. Or perhaps it had even happened earlier, that first night when he grabbed her hand and together they’d flown from her house. Or later in a shadowed garden or when she discovered passion in a stranger’s arms.

  Tomorrow, she would leave Lochlaven, this strange and fey place on the edge of a magical loch. She’d never see Ian again, or if she did, it would be years and years from now.

  She could not bear this. But somehow, she must.

  Glenna rushed into the room, her usual rosy face leached white, her voice quavering.

  “Mrs. McNair,” she said, “you must come quickly. Something terrible . . . please. Come.”

  Without waiting for Emma, she turned and ran out of the room.

  Emma entered the sickroom only steps behind Glenna.

  “I was gone just for a little while,” Glenna said, her voice trembling. “Just to get some biscuits from Cook. I thought Mr. Bryce would like some, that it might tempt his appetite.” She turned and looked at Emma. “He was asleep and I thought it would be all right. It wasn’t long. I swear.”

  Slowly, Emma approached the bed. Bryce wasn’t asleep. His legs were nearly off the bed, his body angled strangely. Biscuits were scattered over the floor along with a silver tray.

  “Shall I fetch His Lordship?”

  “Yes,” Emma said, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Please do.”

  Bryce’s face was tinged blue, his eyes bulging. Both hands were clenched, and there was a froth of blood around his nostrils.

  Emma walked around the fallen biscuits and to the bed. She placed her fingers against Bryce’s neck in a vain attempt to find a pulse.

  Arsenic hadn’t killed Bryce. But someone had.

  She turned and carefully walked to the corner and sat in one of the chairs arranged there, sitting primly, as she’d been taught by her governess, her face carefully expressionless, as she’d been taught by her years of marriage to Anthony. No one looking at her would know what she was thinking or feeling.

  The Ice Queen had frozen solid.

  She couldn’t think of what to do next.

  How long did it take for Ian to arrive? She wasn’t certain she knew, only that every passing second grew stranger, her mind incapable of resolving what her eyes saw.

  She heard a noise and glanced toward the doorway to see Ian standing there, staring at Bryce. A look of disbelief washed over his face, no doubt the match to her own expression. He took a few steps into the room, followed by Glenna. The closer he came to Bryce’s bedside, the stiffer he became. His shoulders straightened, his jaw rigid, his expression fixed.

  “Emma,” he said softly.

  She looked up to find him reaching down to grip her hands in his. How very warm he was. Suddenly, she was standing up and his arms were around her.

  That wasn’t proper, was it? The widow being embraced at the scene of the murder.

  She lay her cheek against Ian’s chest, feeling as if her bones were turning to liquid. If he hadn’t wrapped his arms around her at that moment, Emma was certain she would have lost the ability to stand on her own.

  She let him lead her from the room, heard him give instructions to Glenna to summon Dr. Carrick. She wanted to say the words but somehow they wouldn’t come—a physician couldn’t help Bryce now.

  Bryce was buried in the churchyard of St. Andrews Presbyterian Church in the village of Trelawny, his companions in death his mother, father, and baby sister.

  Despite the fact that Ian had sent out letters of invitation to the funeral, the occasion was sparsely attended. Albert was present, along with his wife, Brenda; and Rebecca, who refused to look in Ian’s direction, although she frowned at Emma from time to time. Patricia and Fergus were not present, Fergus deciding that too much travel would not be judicious for Patricia in her condition. Ian and Patricia’s mother, the woman who had insisted that the parentless Bryce be brought home to Lochlaven all those years ago, was traveling in France and could not be reached.

  Glenna sat to her right, with Ian beside the nurse, close enough that Emma could look over and see him but not so close as to be improper. Half his face was in shadow, revealing his strong, chiseled features. He stared straight ahead for most of the service. The one time he glanced at her, their gazes locked and each had been forced to look away.

  For some reason, the Reverend William Marshall chose to dwell on the thought that Bryce had not been lost but simply gone before God, and that the congregation should give thanks for his three birthdays: his physical birth, his spiritual awakening, and his birthday into glory.

  The minister sent several looks in her direction, no doubt in approval for Emma’s tears. What would he say if he knew that her grief was for the promise of Bryce, for what he might have been, more than for who he was? She cried for the young boy who’d had no family, for the man who’d refused to be loved, for the invalid who’d been smothered.

  Once the service was over, the carriage delivered them back at Lochlaven. Emma exited the carriage with Ian’s help but didn’t look at him again. Without a word to anyone, she simply mounted the stairs and went to her room, trying not to wonder who, among them, was a murderer.

  Chapter 33

  Someone at Lochlaven had killed his cousin.

  Someone at Lochlaven was a murderer.

  Emma had retreated to her room, and Ian couldn’t blame her. He had no explanation to give her, no rationale for what had been done to Bryce. He couldn’t even explain it to himself.

  Three days passed, and Ian felt as if he existed in a clear glass case not unlike those that held his experiments. He was changing, altering in some profound way, but he didn’t know how to measure the change.

  The home, of which he was so fond, had ceased to be a haven. Someone who walked among them had killed Bryce. Worse was the fact that, as the days passed, he became more and more certain of the identity of the murderer, and the thought sickened him.

  A month ago everything was peaceful at Lochlaven. The winds blew across the lake, the pines gave off their pungent scent, the summer was advancing into autumn.

  Emma had come to Lochlaven with Bryce. Glenna had come back from her schooling in London. Patricia and Fergus had visited. In addition, one thing had substantially altered his life in the last month: the fact that he’d broken his engagement to Rebecca Carrick.

  Ian walked into his laboratory and closed the door slowly behind him. Only rarely did he lock the door but he did so now, the snick of the mechanism sounding too loud in the silence.

  He placed his hand flat against the door and leaned into it, wishing that he could push away his thoughts as easily. Slowly, he turned and walked through the first room, then into the second, reaching the third too quickly. He stood in the doorway and waited until Albert sensed his presence.

  The older man was intent upon his microscope, his back curved, his head tucked into his neck like a turtle.

  How many times had he seen Albert in such a pose? Ten years of work, a few days of every week—he couldn’t even calculate it.

  “Good morning, Albert,” he said softly.

  Albert slowly straightened. “Good morning, Ian,” he said, turning slowly on his stool to face Ian. “Did you not sleep well? You don’t look rested.”

  “I didn’t, no,” Ian said, advancing on his old friend. He pulled a stool close to Albert and sat. “I spent a goodly number of hours thinking.”

  Albert only smiled. The expression, coupled with that thick mass of black, springy locks, made Albert look like an aging, mischievous cherub.

  “We employ thirty-seven people at Lochlaven,” Ian said. “Did you know that?”

  “I believe you might have mentioned it over the years,�
� Albert said.

  “That’s not counting the farms, of course, and caring for the sheep.”

  “I will accept a number of fifty, if it makes you feel better,” Albert offered, his smile deepening.

  Ian forced an answering smile to his face. “Fifty, then. I know them all well. I’ve grown up with most of them. The newest employees are daughters and sons or nephews and nieces of those who have served Lochlaven for years.”

  “Is there a reason for this litany, Ian?”

  Ian ignored the question and continued. “Ever since Bryce died, I’ve considered each man, each woman, and asked myself who could have brought murder to Lochlaven. I thought of Glenna. Then Mrs. Jenkins. A score of maids and footmen.”

  “Did you consider Emma, Ian?” The older man smiled again, but it was not a genial smile. Instead, it held a touch of bitterness.

  “Not once,” Ian said easily. “You see, Emma has a core of integrity. She was more than prepared to be a good wife to my cousin. She’s also capable of enduring a great deal, a fact most people don’t know about her. She’s been tested by circumstance, and has behaved with decorum despite it.”

  “It seems to me that you have a reason, Ian. With Bryce dead, the avenue is clear to Emma.”

  Ian nodded. “You’re right. Of all of us, I probably had the most reason to want Bryce dead. But I have the advantage, because I know I didn’t kill him.”

  The older man didn’t flinch as Ian stared at him.

  “Imagine my shock when, after thinking of one person after another, I came to you.”

  No emotion shone from Albert’s eyes; his face was as expressionless as a death mask. Another sign, then, that he was right.

  “How much did he pay you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Albert said, turning back to his microscope.

  “You left for Inverness angry with me. I half expected you not to return. I wouldn’t have been surprised to receive a letter from you telling me that you’d decided to sever our acquaintance. Instead, you returned, amiable and seemingly unaffected by what I did.”

  Albert glanced over at him.

  “I told myself it was because you understood my dilemma. I told myself it was because we shared not only a working relationship but a friendship.”

  Albert smiled. “You neglected one item on your list, Ian. The work is important to me.”

  “A convenient point,” Ian said. “Because it allowed you an excuse to come back to Lochlaven.”

  “I was obliged to do so regardless,” Albert responded. “Some of the equipment here is mine.”

  Ian looked steadily at the other man. “Did you not trust me to crate it up on your behalf? Another anomaly in your behavior, Albert. Your return to Lochlaven is filled with inconsistencies, and we’ve both learned to pay attention to those, have we not?”

  “What, exactly, are you accusing me of, Ian?”

  “Murder.”

  The word was lobbed into the silence and sat there.

  “I realized,” Ian continued, “that you had returned to Lochlaven for one thing, to fulfill part of a bargain. One for which you were probably paid a great deal of money. Did the Earl of Falmouth contact you directly, Albert? Or did he have someone else meet with you? Was the money sufficient to silence your conscience?”

  Albert turned to face him. “What do you know of a conscience, Ian? I gave up my practice to work with you. I was willing to do with less, and so was Brenda. When you offered for Rebecca, it was an answer to a prayer. We weren’t going to be poor any longer. My girl was going to be a countess. And then, you changed. All our dreams were gone, as quick as you please, because you fell in love with a woman you couldn’t have. What about your conscience, Ian? What about my life, my Brenda’s life, my daughter’s?”

  Ian stood, walked to the windows and stared out at the lake. “I’m sorry for that, Albert. If you would have told me, I could have helped. I would have given you a salary, if nothing else.”

  “I didn’t need your damn charity.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Albert. “What kind of man refuses the act of a friend but accepts blood money from a murderer?”

  “His liver was compromised,” Albert said. “Bryce would have died soon in any case. No doubt in a great deal of agony.”

  “So you delivered the coup de grace, did you? How much did you get paid for your act of godliness?”

  Instead of answering him, Albert asked a question of his own. “What are you going to do, Ian?”

  Ian stared out at the lake. The sunlight was diffuse this morning, as if seen through a filter.

  “You have a choice, Albert,” he said. “I can take you to the authorities. Or you can surrender yourself.”

  “You can’t prove your hypothesis, Ian.”

  “I’m convinced I can, Albert, and I’m willing to expend whatever sum is necessary to prove it. How much were you paid? I’ll equal that, at least.”

  “Five thousand pounds,” Albert said. “Enough to ensure a future, a bright one, for all of us.”

  Sometimes, Ian didn’t want a mind that refused to stop until an answer was found. Sometimes, the answer wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  “Why did you smother him, Albert? Why not a solution of something injected into a vein? Being a physician, there must be all sorts of ways to kill.”

  “Do you really want to know, Ian?” Albert asked, his voice soft and almost sympathetic.

  “Consider it my unshakable curiosity,” he said.

  “It’s not as if I was prepared for murder,” Albert said. “I had to take the opportunity that presented itself. Glenna was out of the room, and Bryce was leaving the next day. I had no other choice. “

  Albert stood, looked toward the door.

  “You had a choice, Albert. You could have chosen not to kill him.”

  Albert didn’t respond.

  “Did he struggle?” Ian asked, feeling numb inside. “Or was he too weak?”

  Albert didn’t answer him.

  “Have you done this before, Albert? I kept wondering that. In your practice, were there other patients you’ve helped along to death?”

  Albert glanced toward the door again.

  “You won’t make it,” Ian said, looking at him over his shoulder. “I’ve locked the door. Broderick and Samuel are on the other side, waiting.”

  “What about the choice you mentioned?”

  “Let’s just say that Broderick and Samuel are there to ensure you make the right choice. They’ll accompany you to the authorities.”

  “And remain with me at all times, I gather,” Albert said.

  Ian didn’t answer.

  Albert smiled. “Regardless of what happens to me, I’ve cared for my family.”

  “And killed a man.”

  “Who was going to die.”

  “So you say. Who contacted you?”

  “The Earl of Falmouth,” Albert said. “I would have been paid twice the amount if she’d died as well, Ian. What kind of woman inspires her own uncle to want her dead?”

  One who deserves better. An answer he didn’t give Albert. Instead, he asked, “How did he know Bryce survived the poison?”

  “How should I know?” Albert said, annoyed.

  Murder was abhorrent to Ian. Murder was, simply put, the worst act a man could commit. But Albert had compounded that sin, because he’d killed a man who could not fight back.

  What responsibility did he himself bear for that act? By not understanding how much Albert had sacrificed, was he somehow guilty as well? A question for which there was no ready—or easy—answer.

  Evil had a new face, and it was kind, genial, and topped with curly black hair.

  “How did he find you?” Ian asked.

&n
bsp; Albert looked annoyed. “I’m well known enough. I’m not the Earl of Buchane but people know me.”

  “People will certainly know you now,” Ian said, walking to Albert’s side. “Did you never think what this would do to Brenda and Rebecca? You may have secured their future financially, Albert, but you will always be known as a murderer, and they a murderer’s family.”

  “Then do not do this, my friend,” Albert said, reaching up and clapping his hand on Ian’s upper arm. “You have to believe me. Bryce was dying.”

  Ian stepped back, unable to bear the touch of the man he’d considered a surrogate father, the man who’d been his mentor, a man whose mind he’d respected.

  Anger shadowed Albert’s face. “I’ve done you a favor, Your Lordship,” he said, one of the few times he’d ever addressed Ian in such a fashion.

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ve cleared the way to the woman you love.”

  Ian could only wordlessly stare at the older man. A moment later he turned and walked away, leaving Albert for the last time.

  Chapter 34

  A week passed, seven interminable days since Bryce died, and during that time Emma kept to her room. Isobel brought her meal trays, but Glenna also visited, sharing information about Lochlaven when she did. As the days passed, Glenna was as close to a friend as Emma had known in years. Mrs. Jenkins called upon her once a day, each time inquiring if there was anything she required. Everyone at Lochlaven was extraordinarily kind.

  From Glenna, she’d learned that Dr. Carrick had been taken to the authorities in Edinburgh, accompanied by Ian and a number of people from Lochlaven. That Albert had killed Bryce, when he’d labored so long to save him, was one of those facts she could not quite grasp.

  Another was that while most people went their entire lives without being touched by violence, she had two murdered husbands to her credit.

  Today, she’d retreated to the garden, because the breeze from the lake seemed capable of blowing away her thoughts. It had certainly been turbulent enough to loosen the snood from her hair.