Page 39 of Bound By her Earl

“Diana?” she asked gently.

“It was supposed to be over!” Diana burst out, like the words had been fighting their way free for a while. “It was supposed to be over,” she said again. “We got Dowling here, and heconfessed—he said it was him; hesaidit. And then he shot my husband—” She was crying now, powerful tears that turned her face instantly splotchy. Late pregnancy had made Diana more emotional than usual, and well, this was worth crying over.

Emily moved to sit on one side of her while Frances took the other. Together, they wrapped their arms around Diana as sobs wracked her body.

“He admitted it, and he died,” she said between sobs. “And he’s dead—he died right here in this house, and now, he’s dead, and that means if he knew anything else, those answers died with him, and—” She hiccupped. “What if we never know, and it’s my fault?” she asked, sounding like a sad, scared little girl.

Emily pressed her forehead into the side of Diana’s face. “It isnotyour fault,” she whispered intently. “We all thought it was the Duke until you proved otherwise,” she reminded her friend. “We would never know even part of the truth if not for you.”

“That’s true,” Diana said, but the warble of her voice suggested she didn’t quite believe it.

Instead, it was Frances’ quiet comment that made Diana’s tears dry up.

“And wedohave another clue,” Frances said, tapping one small scrap of paper that they’d all but disregarded.

Diana tried to lunge for the paper but was impeded by her stomach. Frances handed it over before Diana could topple herself entirely.

The note was simple, so simple that they’d not thought much of it.

G—I know. And if you’re not careful, dear, I’ll tell. –P.

The author was clearly Priscilla Hoskins, the Dowager Countess. The initial gave it away as did the handwriting.

“But who,” Diana asked, speaking aloud what they all were wondering, “is G?”

Benedict’s first impression of Lord Drowton had not been a favorable one. He had found the man to be too bloviating, too self-important, and too unconcerned with his daughter’s welfare. After all,Benedictknew he wasn’t a virgin-seducing, reckless cad who intended to treat Emily like a useless, cast-off handkerchief. But the Viscount had no way of knowing any such thing. And after the unconventional lead up to Emily and Benedict’s betrothal, Benedict felt that the Viscount should have at leastasked.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d acted like Benedict had done him a massive favor in getting himself tangled up with Emily and had acted not at all worried of thehowof this entanglement. He’d not asked a single question about Miss Amanda which made Benedict wonder if the Viscount had known of his previous pursuit of the younger Rutley daughter.

He had come to wonder if the Viscount knew much about his daughters at all.

And he had come to wonder if this didn’t perhaps explain something about the way Emily acted around her sisters.

Benedict was not, in summation, looking forward to dinner with the Viscount, all three of his daughters, and Benedict’s mother.

This last attendee seemed a fine candidate for making the evening go poorly.

“Mother,” he said firmly on the carriage ride to Drowton House, “do not make advances toward Lord Drowton.”

His mother had acted predictably offended.

“Why, what a simply horrid thing to say, Benedict! You act like I am some slattern who is not fit to be in public. I am acountess—”Dowager countess, he thought tiredly. “—and have been moving in Society for years. I cannot understand why you persist in pecking at me so. Furthermore, your reluctance to the idea is entirely unfounded. The Viscount is a widower, and if his daughter is good enough for you, I cannot imagine why her father should not be good enough for me. But perhaps you are not accounting for the fact that I have not been caught debauching him in public. Is that the difference?”

He ignored her. He couldn’t afford to waste his patience before the event had even started.

Another mark against the Viscount: he hadn’t liked how demure and self-effacing Emily had become in her father’s presence.This was, of course, absolute nonsense as he was constantly lamenting the eagerness with which Emily fought withhim. He should have liked the proof that she was capable of acting demure and gentle as befitted a lady of her status.

He did not like it.

He did not like, furthermore, that he had not heard from Emily in the two days since he’d sent her the packet of letters. Was it so hard to write a note?Thank you for sending these, for example. Or,I have received the stolen package; it has not fallen into other hands. Or even,Your mother is clearly a criminal, and I am disgusted with you and will never permit you to kiss me again; please enjoy a miserable life of celibacy which you deserve, given your cursed ancestry.

Anything.

He had become somewhat obsessed over this silence in a manner that truly did not befit his status. He’d even indulged in a brief fit of jealousy over how easily she’d chatted with and smiled at Evan before reminding himself that he was a busy man with many things to do that were not fretting over a woman.

This was, he decided, entirely Emily’s fault. If only she had sent the note, he would have been free to worry about other things. Like business. Or, ah, Parliament. Anything else, really.

When he and his mother arrived at Drowton House, the three Rutley sisters were waiting to greet them. The Viscount, Benedict noted sourly, was not with them.

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