The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery L.C. Sharp (i read books .TXT) 📖

went far beyond merely investigating her case and acting for her in court. From the moment he’d set eyes on her he’d felt an odd connection between them. He could only go forward and discover what that connection meant.

Chapter Twelve

Juliana went upstairs and found the bedroom thankfully empty. She needed a moment. Her father’s visit had shaken her more than she cared to admit. The man dominated every room he entered, except, apparently, the ones here. Ash had conquered him with simple facts and refusing to raise his voice to the level her father customarily used. He did not challenge, he countered. And always he retained that exquisite courtesy, giving the earl nothing to complain about.

Her father would be back, but for now she had time to breathe, to think. She kept seeing the events of her wedding night flashing in her mind, almost as if they were real and happening all over again. Her reaction, the horror and terror infuriated her, because however much she told herself it was over, she would never be in that situation again, the emotions returned.

She paced the room, her heavy leather shoes clumping on the floorboards. No costly Oriental rugs here, only a thin strip of drugget next to the bed. The boards were warped and gapped, and she couldn’t help wondering how cold it got in winter. She might never see a winter again.

Pausing, she gave herself time to absorb that. A time when she would not be here, when she would be—somewhere else, or nowhere. The rationalists would have it that there was nothing.

She couldn’t think about that, the hollow chasm that opened up. And despite forcing herself to accept her probability of her death, she could not think of what came after it. No philosophical concepts. Not yet. Would she let a clergyman into her condemned cell? Undoubtedly. She would not refuse comfort from anyone.

But now she had another task to perform. Briskly, she checked her appearance in the small mirror before leaving the room.

Downstairs she found the gnarled footman in the hall. He fascinated her; while footmen were generally on the large side, most employers also wanted them to be presentable, even comely. But she was grateful for his hulking presence, standing between her and the mob. He gave her a sense of solidity, reliability that she appreciated.

“Freeman, where is Sir Edmund?”

The footman motioned to the back of the hall. “In his study, my—miss. He said you could go in if you asked for him.”

“Oh. Thank you.” How did he know she wanted to speak to him?

She went to the door and knocked softly, waiting for the “Come!” that came promptly.

Entering, she found a room that, while not small, was made to appear so. It was packed, and none too tidy. Shelves that lined the walls. Books and files were ranked there, each labeled in the same handwriting. The shelves framed a window looking out over the garden, where a gardener pottered about trimming and pruning the flowers.

“You have a large garden,” she remarked.

“We do. These houses were built for gracious living. However, they have to mingle with those of us who belong to a less exalted part of society.” His upper lip twisted in what was almost a smile, and the corners of his eyes showed a slight crinkle.

Juliana allowed herself a smile. “I like this house.”

“Thank you.”

A cluster of denuded quills stood ready in a pot, and one lay on the substantial walnut and gilt stand in the middle of Ash’s equally substantial desk. He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers. “You are welcome to visit the garden at any time, but I would appreciate you letting someone know before you do so.”

“Are you still afraid of the mob?”

“Not afraid. Suitably armed. No, at this stage I am more wary of your father. I fear he might still try to persuade you to leave the country.”

“I will not,” she said. She took the seat he motioned to, a well-worn but comfortably padded one. “I don’t want to live a long life in constant fear. I would rather face my problems.”

“He might try to abduct you,” he warned her. “He will want to avoid the scandal.”

She had already inferred that. “I know.”

“Therefore, you will not leave the house without a companion. Myself, or Freeman, or both. I have instructed him that you have priority in your orders.”

She nodded, swallowing. “I understand.”

“Will you do as your father says if matters look bad for you?”

“I don’t know.” She could not make that assertion and he deserved the truth. “I fear the gallows.”

He leaned back in his chair, the quill between his fingers, and met her direct gaze with one of his own. “As any sensible person would. Your honesty does you credit.”

A little flutter of warmth went through her at the compliment. It meant something to her that Ash respected her.

He went on. “We’ll know within the next week or two if you risk facing that eventuality. If I can persuade Fielding to reduce the charge to manslaughter, we have a better chance of escaping the noose.”

“We?”

He studied his pen, avoiding her gaze. “Yes, we. I have taken your case. I will see it through.”

She glanced at the paper before him. She could not read it, but it appeared to be a mixture of writing and drawing. She had not seen anything like it before. “Like that?”

He nodded. “Indeed.” With one finger he pushed the paper across the desk to her. “Take a look.”

She did. Her name was written in the middle of the sheet of foolscap, with a circle around it. A line was drawn up, and her parents’ names appeared in similar circles. A line was drawn to another name in a circle: her husband’s.

So far it appeared like a roughly drawn family tree. But what made this different were the other notations. Dotted lines were sketched between her parents and Godfrey’s, with a question mark. Another dotted line suspended from Godfrey’s circle with