Page 72 of A Dark and Stormy Knight
“Say no more.” He reached over and caught at the hand still fluttering at her chest, caressing a gentle thumb over her knuckles. “I’ve been thinking the very same—”
“Mi scusi, Signore Morley, mi scusi!” The proprietor, Francesco, weighted down by a magnificent mustache, a round belly, and a Sunday newspaper labored over to their table. "Il giornale! Il giornale! È così brutto quello che dice! Non ci credo!"He turned to her. “I do not believe.”
A dawning frown overtook all semblance of her husband’s good humor as he snatched the paper from the restaurateur and scanned it. Storms gathered in his eyes and thunder in his expression as he crushed it in his fist.
“Thank you, Francesco,” he said, his teeth never separating as his lip curled into a silent snarl.
“Of course…” The man shot her a look of pity and scurried inside, not wanting to witness Pru’s reaction to what she knew was going to happen. She wished she could follow him. Her heart became like a sparrow in a cage, flittering around her ribs as though searching for escape.
They’d drawn upon the luxury of luck for far too long. Eventually, the story would have to break. The truth was always going to come out, and with it a few lies as well, to flavor the story with delicious scandal.
She wanted to read it, but her eyes refused to focus. Not only did she blink back the threat of overwhelming tears, but also a creeping darkness at her periphery. She felt as though she’d been the victim of a blow to the head, and couldn’t seem to shake the accompanying disorientation.
She caught the unmistakable word in the title of the article.
MURDER.
“What? What do they say? Do they think I—”
“It’ll be all right,” he soothed, instinctively tucking the paper behind him.
“Tell me what they wrote,” she implored him.
He hesitated for a moment, before exhaling defeat. “It’s been released to the press that Sutherland was stabbed and that you were in the room with him. The article mentions his past…infidelities and your possible reaction to them.”
“They’ve given me a motive.” She lifted her hand to her face, just to make sure she was still in possession of one, as it’d suddenly gone quite numb. “That can’t be all,” she fretted. “How did Mr. Francesco know to bring you the paper, does it mention our marriage?”
His features became ever more grim. “Thankfully, no.”
“Then…”
He produced the paper and folded it so she could see. “Your portrait, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear God.” She looked down at the likeness, touched by a cold, cold horror. “What a rude sketch! It doesn’t even look like me.”
“Not perfectly, but enough that Francesco stitched it together.”
“What am I going to do?” she cried, unable to stop the words she didn’t want to read from jumping out at her. “They’ve made me out to be a villainess. They’ve all but made the adjudicator’s case for him.”
“We’re prepared for this,” he said, attempting to calm her. “However, I think it’s best we go home.”
“But…I’m supposed to go to the Duchess of Trenwyth’s Ladies’ Aid Society gathering with Farah today.” She looked down at her plate of cooling pasta disconsolately. She wasn’t finished, but she’d lost her appetite.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He gave his lips and hands one last wipe with his linen before tossing it on the table. “The damned vulture who wrote this, and any other press, will be looking for you. It’s best you stay out of the public eye for a bit, until we get this sorted.”
“I see the logic in that,” she said, her insides twisting with desperation. “Wouldn’t that prove the journalist’s point? I’ll be hiding in disgrace. I’ll look guilty.”
Beyond that, shecouldn’tgo back to the way it was before, back to only having their quiet staff and dust motes for company. Back to sheer silence and distance from the one man who’d begun to mean so much to her. “How close is this to getting sorted, would you say?”
She’d avoided pressing him about it too much. The past several almost carefree, passionate nights had heralded a new epoch in their relationship, and she’d convinced herself that he’d all but forgotten about his suspicion. That he believed she didn’t have blood on her hands.
That he was looking to exonerate her.
His face became a cool mask of careful emptiness. “I’ve a church full of suspects in Sutherland’s case, and we’re working through them as fast as we are able, starting with those closest at the time of the murder. Lord and Lady Woodhaven, your father, the Vicar, and spreading out from there. I’m even looking at Adrian McKendrick, the new Earl of Sutherland.”
She nodded, scanning the paper again and again. “What about Father?”
“My searches of your father’s warehouses and interests have borne some rather rotten fruit, I’m afraid,” he admitted reluctantly, examining her for a reaction. “I’ve found registers of shipments from ports where the plant is believed to be indigenous. Shipments that bear Sutherland’s name and signature. This intimates that your fiancé might have been in league with your father…and if that’s the case, we’ll need to add the Commissioner to the very short list of lead suspects in his murder.”
