Page 27 of The Icy Duke Claims a Bride

“You wouldn’t. Cyanide smells like bitter almonds, you see. There was a bottle of cyanide in our butler’s pantry when I was a child, dark blue with skull and crossbones branded on it and a label that read ‘Poison: Not to be Eaten’. My cousin dared me to touch it once, but I went further and opened the bottle to sniff it. I’ve never forgotten the smell…”

“This all sounds a little unlikely,” Hugh said cynically, after a few seconds of considering Catherine’s claim. “Why should anyone want to put cyanide in my drink? My staff and my relatives havehad plenty of opportunities to kill me if they wished. Why should someone start trying now? Whatever you or the world thinks of me, I’ve done no harm to anyone, Catherine.”

“I’m not saying that you have,” Catherine replied quickly, not wishing to antagonize him. “But something has changed, Hugh—something important enough to make someone want to kill you.”

When he continued to look at her questioningly, she had to wonder whether he was being deliberately obtuse.

“You’re married now, Hugh. As far as the world is concerned, you have a wife and are likely to produce an heir in the near future.”

This was definitely not how she had planned to raise the subject of their non-consummated marriage, but it couldn’t be helped.

“But the only people that would be affected are Uncle Edwin and Andrew,” Hugh mused. “Surely, you can’t be saying that my uncle…”

Catherine took a deep breath, remembering how Edwin had been bent over that silver tray when she entered the library. He had both the motive and opportunity, but he was Hugh’s uncle. Her husband would likely be loath to think ill of him.

“There might be another explanation for whatever came to be in that glass, but I could not in good conscience let you drink that toddy,” she stalled.

Hugh sighed. “Catherine, might my aunt be right and you are simply overwrought? It must be a big change for you, coming here to live with me, away from your family and…”

Catherine felt her temper flare just as when her father used to patronize her and dismiss her suggestions. Before she could say anything she might regret, however, they heard a commotion and several agitated voices somewhere nearby.

“It’s choking! Try mustard… too late… cat can’t breath… glass in the milk…”

“That cat drank the poison!” Catherine exclaimed, remembering how the cat had lapped at the spilled drink. “Come quickly!”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hugh followed her out into the hallway and onto the front stone steps. A small group of servants was gathered around the cat as Mrs. Kaye knelt and tried to force something into its mouth. The poor animal’s limbs were twitching and spasming, and one of the maids was weeping on another’s shoulder.

“Can anything be done?” Hugh asked the assembled party, immediately taking charge of the situation.

“Susie thinks Tibby has ingested some of the glass from the spill in the library, Your Grace,” Mrs. Kaye explained awkwardly. “But I think he’s more likely eaten something rotten. I’m trying to get some mustard into him.”

“What if it were cyanide poisoning?” he suggested.

His question received no answers but drew several shocked glances.

“Mustard!” Mrs. Kaye repeated after a moment’s consideration, trying to get the carton of yellow powder near the cat’s mouth with renewed vigor. “Rotten meat or poison, the mustard will clear everything out if I can only get it in. He’s our best mouser, and I’d hate to lose him.”

“It’s too late for mustard if Tibby is in this state,” Catherine murmured.

Unable to stand by and watch any longer, she knelt beside the housekeeper and examined the animal as closely as she could, her heart sinking at what she found.

“Look at how red his lips and tongue are!” she pointed out to Hugh and anyone else listening. “He can’t breathe properly. I’m sure it’s cyanide. Is there an antidote or some charcoal anywhere on the estate? Perhaps the gamekeepers would know?”

“Bellchurch?” Hugh prompted crisply.

The portly, grey-haired man in a leather jacket shook his head. “Maybe there is some in the hut at the lower field, Your Grace, but it would take twenty minutes to get there and back,” he answered. “The poor animal would be dead by then and suffering every minute.”

“There’s no hope, then?” Hugh asked, looking at Catherine and Bellchurch, who both shook their heads. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kaye. We can’t let Tibby suffer further. Bellchurch, could you put this cat out of its misery?”

Expressionlessly, the older man came forward and picked up the cat. He turned his back to the ladies while he twisted its neck quickly and then laid it back at Mrs. Kaye’s feet. “I can bury him if you like, Mrs. Kaye, Your Grace?” he offered.

“Can I be there, too?” the young maid who had evidently loved Tibby sobbed. “He was such a good cat and caught so many mice…”

“Yes, if Mrs. Kaye agrees,” Hugh said and then walked backinto the house, his face grim. “I’ll leave her to settle the details with Bellchurch.”

Catherine stood up and followed him. “Now, do you believe me?” she asked.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Hugh replied expressionlessly and headed to the west wing, leaving her alone in the hallway once more.

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