Page 65 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Rafe had lostthe bastard again. He couldn’t shout his frustration, chop down trees, or shoot squirrels until his temper cooled. He couldn’t shake ladies until they told him the truth.
But he could and would question them. Which was why he was in the manor now instead of galloping across the countryside with everyone else. The would-be killer had hidden an infernal horse behind the chapel. On foot, all any of them had been able to do was listen to the bastard ride away.
Knowing it was too late, he’d still sent out men with horses, but he refused to leave Verity this time. The manor ladies had whisked her off to safety, and she was pretending to be brave, but he could see her trembling even as he stalked the floor of the small, well-guarded, withdrawing room. She was the key, even if he couldn’t understand how.
“I am not hysterical. I am fine. I am furious!” Verity repeated for the benefit of the anxious people gathering around with smelling salts.
Despite her protestations, she shook like a willow leaf. Rafe hung back, hating to play sergeant, knowing it was his job, once his temper cooled. But he had to ask, “Did you see the man who pushed you?”
She caught her elbows, shivered, but seemed to ponder the question. “No. I think he heard you and fled. He must have been hiding in the attic, biding his time.”
Rafe tried to calm his temper at the thought of any man pushing a woman, but one with a cane... She could havedied! This intelligent, caring woman who hadn’t had a chance to live could have died... on his watch, in his inn. Selfish to think that, but it only made him more furious. Verity deserved far better than she’d been served thus far.
“A little food, a little tea, will be good for all of us,” the apothecary said, staving off any shouting. The maids scurried off, obeying Meera’s orders as if she were lady of the manor.
Rafe racked up another observation—all the ladies here were sergeants, at the very least.
“Now then,” Meera continued, “Rafe is pacing for a reason. I will turn you over to him once I’m assured you’re steady enough to resist his browbeating. How is your foot? You were limping more.”
Rafe patrolled this less grand chamber at the back of the house. Despite the elaborate ceiling decorations, and artwork, it wasn’t completely furnished. The ladies had claimed the sturdiest seats. He refused to occupy one of those frail pieces with fading tapestry and tiny arms that would squeeze him like an unwanted lover. He might smash one against the wall soon if he didn’t get answers.
“I twisted my foot when I lost my balance. I’m sure it’s just bruised.” Verity folded her hands in her lap and appeared resigned to interrogation. “I think I shall carry a cane forever. It’s very useful.”
Unable to restrain himself, Rafe shouted, “If you’re already dead, why would anyone want to kill you again?”
“I looked at the herbs you brought from the Gypsy caravan.” Ignoring his shout, Meera pinned him with her dark gaze. “They were mostly harmless. In quantities, the fennel might cause extra time in the outhouse and wouldn’t be healthy for people withcertain conditions. The elixir in the bottle, however, contained both alcohol and laudanum, addictive and possibly deadly, if the patient was taking other medicine.”
“In other words, nothing new,” Rafe said in scorn. “The killer might not have needed to mix poison in the tea, they could have used the elixir.”
“Miss Edgerton would have tasted it. The killer knew not to use anything so conspicuous. But they took chances with herbs or weren’t very experienced.”
Waiting for the tea, Rafe pondered poison tea, herb thieves, and a killer who shoved frail, limping women down stairs. Instead of calming down, he grew more furious by the minute.
“I think I need to explain something,” Verity declared with quiet determination once the tea tray was delivered. “No matter how I look at it, I cannot see how it matters, but today’s incident felt very personal.”
Personal? She thought someonepushing her down stairsmight be personal?
Now that he’d worked up a full head of steam, she was calming down. Rafe gritted his teeth and tried not to shout while young Lavender and elegant Thea protested she need explain nothing.
More experienced and observant, Minerva and Meera sat silent.
Rafe tried not to loom. He was out of his depth in a room full of women, while other men did his work for him. He hated this. But he knew Verity held secrets, and he suspected one had come back to haunt her. He took a scone and tore into it angrily.
She held a cup of tea out to him. “Sit. Have a sandwich. You’ll need it.”
She’d been nearly killed and she wantedhimto take nourishment? This was not an experience Rafe recognized. He was the one who gave orders and saw to guests... No one ever took care of him. Confused, he couldn’t rage at her. He accepted the cupand looked for a place to set it down. He wasn’t much at balancing delicate china.
Verity placed a plate of bite-sized sandwiches on the table beside the sofa. Instead of lying down and putting up her injured foot, she eased over so he had room to sit. Rafe figured the other women watched and judged his awkwardness, but they continued filling cups and plates, waiting politely.
In resignation, Rafe settled beside Verity, who he knew to really be Faith. He’d asked Walker to have the solicitor investigate, but it was too soon to expect a response.
Once he grudgingly settled, she took a sip of tea, followed by a deep breath. She had her audience riveted better than any actress. She’d make a good teacher.
“As I said, I cannot understand how this matters, but a few weeks ago,” she began, hesitatingly, “I lived in a lovely home in a not very fashionable part of London. You have seen the painting of my father’s death. My uncle was his heir. He gradually took over our home and turned it into a counting house. After my mother died, I moved into servants’ rooms in the cellar to avoid the strangers coming and going upstairs.”
Rafe swallowed his hot tea in two gulps. He knew he wouldn’t like this story, and he wanted the china safely out of his hands. He crammed his mouth with bread to prevent shouting. The sandwiches were scarcely large enough to stop him.
Verity sipped her tea as if it were fortifying whiskey. “I was quite young, so I occupied myself by studying my father’s extensive library. Once I finished a book, if I didn’t like it, I’d sell it. I built a small savings in futile hope that my uncle would move his business, and I would have the house back again. He kept expanding instead.”
