Page 88 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“I bet he took that well,” Horace murmured, more to himself than to them. “Where is he?”
“He’s out,” Mrs. Holmes answered simply, as Miss Bonneville was not bothering to answer, but busy standing beside Horace as if they had walked into the house together, as a couple. “He should be returning soon.”
“Then I suggest you both use this opportunity to pack your bags and leave at once.” His instruction startled them both. Even Miss Bonneville managed to stop smiling.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, her voice quiet at last.
“Mrs. Holmes, if you value your niece’s reputation and your own, you will remove the two of you from this house at once.” He was relieved to see that she took him seriously, no longer glowering at him, but with a suspicious curl to her nose.
“What is it we do not know?” she asked quietly.
“You might find your host is shortly to be…” He stopped short. He could no longer say the word, for the door was opening once again and Walter was rushing in.
“Yates, I need you to–” He faltered sharply in his conversation with the butler, looking around at Horace. “Horace…” His voice was suddenly tremulous. In an instant, his face had gone from the ruddy pinkness of an early-morning walk to pale as a rain cloud. “You’re… You’re on your feet.”
“Surprised? I thought you would be.” Horace shot Mrs. Holmes a meaningful glance, lowering his voice once again. “Remove yourselves at once,” he recommended. She jerked her chin in understanding, but her niece did not. She tried to follow Horace as he moved toward a front sitting room in the house, but her arm was caught by her aunt.
“Aunt, what are you doing?”
“Be quiet, Grace, for once in your life.”
Horace strode into the sitting room with Walter quickly following behind him. Walter kicked the door shut; his face ashen as he turned to stare at Horace. With one examining glance, Horace saw that this room was as finely decorated as the hallway had been.
There were paintings by the famous John Constable decorating the walls, and such fine rococo settees that the frames glittered like gold. Even across the mantelpiece there were so many fine ornaments that Horace found it cluttered.
He bought it all from the extra money he was skimming whilst I was ill. I’d bet anything on that now.
“I-I’m so glad to see you’re up,” Walter said, his voice stammering just a little. Horace turned to face the man he had once considered a friend. “Adam’s note suggested that you might not get up again… well, I am glad indeed to see he was wrong.”
“Are you?” Horace kept his voice quiet, though there was sharpness in it. “My healer says I was poisoned.”
Walter raised a single eyebrow. There was doubt in that look, something so plain to see that Horace hesitated.
“Which healer?” Walter asked suddenly.
“Miss Byrne.” Horace had to remind himself to use her surname. “She’s convinced I was poisoned. Either a large dose of camphor or something more was slipped into my system.”
Walter did a very good job of keeping a stoic face. It was as immovable as stone.
“We used to play cards together, Walter, before I got ill. Do you remember that? You were never very good at that game. Shall I let you into a little secret?”
Walter bristled, clearly shocked at the change in conversation.
“You mastered the skill of not moving your face to give away a bluff, but you neglected how to speak or respond as a compassionate man would do,” Horace said sharply. “By now, a true friend would have been horrified at the news I had been poisoned. So, I can only deduce one thing, Walter.”
“Wait… don’t say it.” Walter walked across the room. He strode straight past Horace and reached for a whisky carafe resting on a corner table. He poured out a whisky for himself and downed half of it. “It’s not what you think.”
“No? Because I thinkyoupoisoned me, Walter. I think it wasyou.”Horace’s gut tightened. The thing that shocked him most of all was the silence that followed and the numbness. It was as if they had been building to this point for so long that when the words actually came, they were not enough to describe the horror of the situation.
“No. I did not.”
“You gave me something to drink,” Horace reminded him. “That day you came to see me; you gave me something. I was dreaming I was seeing things around me, but that wasn’t right. It wasn’t a dream; it was a memory. I was remembering. I remember drinking something forced into me, and I recall a handshake too. Muffled voices.”
Walter said nothing, but downed the rest of the whisky. He shook off his tailcoat, his whole manner frantic and shaking.
“Why, Walter?” Horace asked, sharp. “Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t do it. I was horrified to hear that you were back in your sickbed.”
