Page 60 of When He Was a Duke
“I’ve been wondering about the candlestick. Why someone as intelligent as Lord Ashford would leave the murder weapon in plain sight.”
He scoffed. “Ashford was intelligent, yes, but passion makes fools of clever men. He loved your mother. Or thought he did. He couldn’t have her, and in the end, he snapped. That’s all there is to it.”
“From what I’ve heard, they were simply friendly acquaintances.”
“Oh, Rose,” he said with a tired shake of his head. “Your mother was warm. Charming. Men misinterpreted her kindness all the time. Ashford believed her affection meant something. He became obsessive. Delusional.”
She took a step closer. “You told me once they were friends.”
“They were. But even friendships can turn sour when one party wants more. She chose me, and he never recovered from the loss.”
“You’re saying he killed her because he couldn’t have her?”
“A lovers’ quarrel gone too far. That’s the theory the Crown accepted, and frankly, so should you.”
“I remember her crying that night,” Rose said. “I remember raised voices. Yours.”
He waved that off. “She was an emotional woman. You know that. Like you.”
“No. Don’t compare us in that tone. She wasn’t unwell. She wasn’t hysterical. She was afraid. Of you.”
His fingers stilled on the brandy glass. “You were a child. You remember fragments. Not the truth.”
“I remember her love. Her steadiness. Her warmth. The way her hands trembled when you walked into a room.”
His gaze cooled. “Careful, Rose.”
She pressed forward. “You want me to believe Lord Ashford was the villain. But what if he wasn’t? What if you chose him because hewas easy to blame?”
His voice lowered. “That’s a dangerous thing to suggest.”
“Dangerous for me, you mean?”
He stood slowly, stepped around the desk. Close enough for her to smell the brandy on his breath. Smuggled, no doubt.
“You’re imagining things. Like your mother. She said terrible things when she was upset. Accused me of all sorts of betrayals. She wasn’t well. I should have had her treated. I won’t make that mistake with you.”
Her stomach turned. “She didn’t need treatment. She needed safety. What was it she found out, Father? What did she threaten to expose?”
His jaw flexed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a thread. “Why do you really want me to marry Baron White? What does he know?”
His silence was answer enough.
“I know who he is to you,” Rose continued. “He’s not a suitor. He’s leverage. You want to bind him to you—legally, socially—because he knows too much.”
Wentworth smiled. It was tight, cold. “And where did you come by these fairytales?”
“I know about the smuggling. And I know my marriage to him has nothing to do with my future and everything to do with yours.”
The mask slipped for a breath, his jaw twitching before he forced it still. “Do you think your little theories make you clever? You live in luxury because of me. Because I’ve made the difficult choices.”
She met his eyes. “And did you make a difficult choice the night Mummy died?”
He moved in close, his voice a blade. “You will shut your mouth. Or you won’t open it again.”
Her breath hitched, but she held her ground. “I am not afraid of you.” All lies. She was terrified.
