Chapter 11

"This," Diana proclaimed, "is the most bloody ridiculous thing I have ever read in the entirety of my life."

Frances even let out a long, slow whistle though whether it was at Diana's swearing or at the pages spread out before them, Emily didn't know.

Perversely, Emily's brain insisted on wondering if this really was the most ridiculous thing Diana—who had a taste for gothic novels, the bloodier and more dramatic the better—had ever read. She shook that thought away and attended to the task at hand.

She'd not gathered the courage to read the letters by herself, so she had dashed off notes to Frances and Diana, asking them to meet. They'd agreed instantly though Diana had informed them that, as she no longer fit through her own front door, they would have to gather at Hawkins Manor. Emily had assumed this was an exaggeration, but looking at Diana, it seemed frankly possible.

Ever since her sudden plunge into scandal and subsequent engagement, Emily had been avoiding her friends just the tiniest bit. If they had enjoyed teasing her back when she'd just been arguing with the Earl, how would they react now that she'd been caught kissing the man?

Emily was not prepared to find out.

With the letters, however, she held the power to distract them from a matter even as dramatic as Emily's incipient marriage.

"I don't…" Frances began, trailing off as she read through one of the documents again. "It doesn't make sense."

Emily rubbed the back of her neck tiredly. They'd been too long hunched over the pile of documents, trying to puzzle out their meaning. Only a few were dated, meaning that they'd had to sift through them like ancient Romans panning for gold.

"Well," she offered, knowing it would not help the confused furrow of Frances' brow, "it does make a sort of sense. The letters do on their own, I mean. It's just the other things—" She waved her hands to show the expansive, messy nature of these ‘other things.' "—that make it all more confounding."

Frances frowned ferociously.

"I abhor this," she said.

Which, honestly, did a fine job of summing up what they had learned.

The letters between the Dowager Countess of Moore and Theodore Dowling had not been tender love notes exchanged between paramours. Instead, viewed together, they revealed two indisputable truths.

One, the Dowager Countess had been blackmailing Dowling.

Two, Grace had not been the first person Dowling had killed.

There were other questions left unanswered. They did not know how many people Dowling had killed, nor why he'd done so. Though the mentions of money suggested that he hadn't killed on his own behalf but because others had paid him.

Frances was clearly performing some quick mental calculations. Because she was so shy, Frances hid her intelligence from most of the world. In front of her close friends, however, she was whip-smart and often sharp-tongued.

"I'm not sure the letters do make sense on their own," she said slowly. "I mean—yes, in a way they do. Dowling was a killer. An established one. But a man who could commit a crime like murder multiple times without getting caught… Why would a man like that turn to a crime of passion?"

Emily frowned. She didn't follow. "Because he was a killer," she said. "He'd killed before, and so he killed again." The words came out like a question.

Frances shook her head sharply. "No, it's different. Killing for someone else—that's cold. Mercenary. He didn't love or hate his other victims—he did it for the money. But Grace…" She looked at Diana, who was gazing off to one side. "He did that because he was obsessed with her."

Diana didn't respond.

Frances turned back to Emily, a somber expression on her face.

"Or maybe he wasn't," she said.

Emily worried that she was starting to understand now. She didn't want to understand.

"What would that mean?" she asked quietly.

Frances sucked in a slow breath then let it out.

"It would mean," she said decisively, "that someone paid him to kill Grace, too."

"But why?" Emily asked, her voice cracking on the last word. Frances merely shook her head, her eyes looking wet.

It didn't make sense. It didn't. There was no reason for anyone to want to harm Grace. She'd been a bit of a flirt, it was true, but she'd never led suitors on nor been cruel to any of them, not enough for them to want to murder her. Emily had understood in an oblique, horrible way, the idea of a crime of passion. Grace had been beautiful, desirable, wonderful—and who could predict the mind of a madman? Who knew why a lunatic like Dowling had behaved as he had?

Except perhaps Dowling wasn't a lunatic at all. Perhaps he had killed Grace because someone else had coldly and knowingly paid him to do so.

But who? Why?

It didn't make any sense.

Emily looked over at Diana, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the last several minutes. Her friend was pale, her jaw clenched hard enough that it had to hurt.

"Diana?" she asked gently.

"It was supposed to be over!" Diana burst out, like the words had been fighting their way free for a while. "It was supposed to be over," she said again. "We got Dowling here, and he confessed—he said it was him; he said it. And then he shot my husband—" She was crying now, powerful tears that turned her face instantly splotchy. Late pregnancy had made Diana more emotional than usual, and well, this was worth crying over.

Emily moved to sit on one side of her while Frances took the other. Together, they wrapped their arms around Diana as sobs wracked her body.

"He admitted it, and he died," she said between sobs. "And he's dead—he died right here in this house, and now, he's dead, and that means if he knew anything else, those answers died with him, and—" She hiccupped. "What if we never know, and it's my fault?" she asked, sounding like a sad, scared little girl.

Emily pressed her forehead into the side of Diana's face. "It is not your fault," she whispered intently. "We all thought it was the Duke until you proved otherwise," she reminded her friend. "We would never know even part of the truth if not for you."

"That's true," Diana said, but the warble of her voice suggested she didn't quite believe it.

Instead, it was Frances' quiet comment that made Diana's tears dry up.

"And we do have another clue," Frances said, tapping one small scrap of paper that they'd all but disregarded.

Diana tried to lunge for the paper but was impeded by her stomach. Frances handed it over before Diana could topple herself entirely.

The note was simple, so simple that they'd not thought much of it.

G—I know. And if you're not careful, dear, I'll tell. –P.

The author was clearly Priscilla Hoskins, the Dowager Countess. The initial gave it away as did the handwriting.

"But who," Diana asked, speaking aloud what they all were wondering, "is G?"

Benedict's first impression of Lord Drowton had not been a favorable one. He had found the man to be too bloviating, too self-important, and too unconcerned with his daughter's welfare. After all, Benedict knew he wasn't a virgin-seducing, reckless cad who intended to treat Emily like a useless, cast-off handkerchief. But the Viscount had no way of knowing any such thing. And after the unconventional lead up to Emily and Benedict's betrothal, Benedict felt that the Viscount should have at least asked.

But he hadn't. Instead, he'd acted like Benedict had done him a massive favor in getting himself tangled up with Emily and had acted not at all worried of the how of this entanglement. He'd not asked a single question about Miss Amanda which made Benedict wonder if the Viscount had known of his previous pursuit of the younger Rutley daughter.

He had come to wonder if the Viscount knew much about his daughters at all.

And he had come to wonder if this didn't perhaps explain something about the way Emily acted around her sisters.

Benedict was not, in summation, looking forward to dinner with the Viscount, all three of his daughters, and Benedict's mother.

This last attendee seemed a fine candidate for making the evening go poorly.

"Mother," he said firmly on the carriage ride to Drowton House, "do not make advances toward Lord Drowton."

His mother had acted predictably offended.

"Why, what a simply horrid thing to say, Benedict! You act like I am some slattern who is not fit to be in public. I am a countess—" Dowager countess, he thought tiredly. "—and have been moving in Society for years. I cannot understand why you persist in pecking at me so. Furthermore, your reluctance to the idea is entirely unfounded. The Viscount is a widower, and if his daughter is good enough for you, I cannot imagine why her father should not be good enough for me. But perhaps you are not accounting for the fact that I have not been caught debauching him in public. Is that the difference?"

He ignored her. He couldn't afford to waste his patience before the event had even started.

Another mark against the Viscount: he hadn't liked how demure and self-effacing Emily had become in her father's presence. This was, of course, absolute nonsense as he was constantly lamenting the eagerness with which Emily fought with him. He should have liked the proof that she was capable of acting demure and gentle as befitted a lady of her status.

He did not like it.

He did not like, furthermore, that he had not heard from Emily in the two days since he'd sent her the packet of letters. Was it so hard to write a note? Thank you for sending these, for example. Or, I have received the stolen package; it has not fallen into other hands. Or even, Your mother is clearly a criminal, and I am disgusted with you and will never permit you to kiss me again; please enjoy a miserable life of celibacy which you deserve, given your cursed ancestry.

Anything.

He had become somewhat obsessed over this silence in a manner that truly did not befit his status. He'd even indulged in a brief fit of jealousy over how easily she'd chatted with and smiled at Evan before reminding himself that he was a busy man with many things to do that were not fretting over a woman.

This was, he decided, entirely Emily's fault. If only she had sent the note, he would have been free to worry about other things. Like business. Or, ah, Parliament. Anything else, really.

When he and his mother arrived at Drowton House, the three Rutley sisters were waiting to greet them. The Viscount, Benedict noted sourly, was not with them.

"Good evening, My Lord, My Lady," Emily said with an extremely correct curtsey. "I am so glad you could join us this evening."

"Yes, I'm sure," his mother said with an icy smile. Benedict cut her a warning look. So far, she'd not offered further insult against Emily—his threats about the Dowager finding a new home had apparently hit their mark. But he could tell that she was pushing against these boundaries like a child forever trying to escape the nursery.

"My father shall be with us shortly," Emily went on smoothly. Benedict could only assume that she was pretending not to hear the snub in his mother's tone; Emily was too clever to have genuinely missed it. "Shall we adjoin to the sitting room in the meantime? Dinner should be just a few minutes more."

"Wonderful," Priscilla simpered, sounding like she found it anything but.

Emily ignored this, too, leading them towards the sitting room with a gracious gesture. Priscilla followed her as did Rose.

Amanda did not.

"Well, well, well," she said, propping her hands on her hips.

Benedict was a confident man. For one, he was very tall. That helped, he'd found, in facing down opponents—in business, in politics, in life. For another, he knew himself. He was steady, certain, competent.

Standing in front of this eighteen-year-old debutante, he experienced the exact same feeling as he had as a first year at Eton, being scolded by one of the masters for his poor performance on an assignment.

He shook the feeling off. That was ridiculous, of course.

Although he probably did owe Miss Amanda something of an apology, come to think of it.

"Miss Rutley," he began, wincing slightly. "Please allow me to assure you, I did not intend…" He trailed off. Well, there was no good way to end that sentence, was there?

Miss Amanda Rutley remained silent, merely arching an eyebrow.

The Eton masters, Benedict decided, could learn a thing or two from Miss Rutley.

He scrambled for how to explain…everything.

"It's merely that…" he tried again. Dash it all, but this was uncomfortable. This was why he preferred to occupy the moral high ground.

"I really am desperately curious to hear if you can finish a sentence," Miss Amanda commented.

It was then that Benedict began to suspect that she was toying with him.

He scowled, and she burst into laughter.

"Oh, bravo," she said, her face lighting up with a grin. "That is a ferocious look. You should try that on my sister. And by that, I mean that you should try that on my sister when I am there to witness it. I am desperate to see what she would have to say."

Despite the fact that he was being soundly mocked by a girl barely out of the schoolroom, Benedict felt himself begin to lighten. And strangely enough, this also helped him find his words.

"I am sorry for how it all happened," he said sincerely. "I did not mean to…imply things that I was unable to deliver."

She waved him off, still laughing. "Oh, never mind that. I feel rather that I might have been the one leading you on. Unless Emily was telling tales when she said you intended to marry me?" Why did she sound hopeful about this?

Feeling once again that there was no right answer—and that if he ever found himself needing a dose of humility, he would seek out Amanda Rutley posthaste—Benedict said, "Ah, well, yes. I did. Rather."

"Good Lord," she muttered, apparently to herself. "But you're so old."

Well, that was him told, wasn't it?

Then Miss Amanda shrugged, her appalled expression disappearing in a flash.

"Ah, well, never mind. It has all worked out in the end, hasn't it? You've got Emily, who is quite a dear for all that she's a bit of a stickler for being proper. Always on about ‘Amanda, don't bring amphibians inside,' or ‘Amanda, you cannot perform social experiments on unsuspecting gentleman.'"

She shot Benedict a glance that said she assumed he would be sympathetic to this clearly dreadful plight. He wondered for the first time if, had he actually ended up marrying Amanda Rutley, he wouldn't have found himself in completely over his head. After all, here she was, saying so many bizarre things that he very nearly glossed over the clearly mad observation that Emily, the little hellion, was excessively proper.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But did you say your sister was a stickler for propriety?"

Amanda sighed as if this was a disappointing if predictable answer.

"I suppose you go in for that sort of thing, don't you?" she said with a distinct note of pity in her voice.

This was not an answer—and Benedict truly could not conjure a response.

Which, in the end, might have been just as well as Emily chose that moment to reenter the foyer, a harried expression on her face.

"There you two are," she said. "I've been looking all over for you."

Her voice was tense, and Benedict felt a sudden stab of terror that perhaps she'd thought he'd hied off with her sister for nefarious purposes. He could hardly blame her for suspecting him, given how he'd ended up with Emily in his arms in the first place. He felt intensely grateful that there was an entire foyer's worth of space between himself and Amanda.

He felt, moreover, curiously annoyed that Lord Drowton wasn't here punching Benedict in the face. Benedict had been so caught up in worrying about his previous inappropriate behavior that he hadn't paused to consider that his current behavior—which was to say, alone with Miss Amanda—was even more inappropriate if one disregarded the lack of amorous intent. After all, he hadn't been betrothed the first time.

If his daughter had been spending time with such a man, Benedict certainly would not have been so lackadaisical about it. Nor, he assumed, would Emily, who could transparently hold her own and would no doubt prove a fearsome parent.

Case in point, she was presently eyeing her sister with a glare that could have melted glass.

"What," she asked Amanda archly, "have you been up to?"

Amanda put on an entirely unconvincing look of innocence. "I have been welcoming my new brother into the family!"

Despite everything—and at this point, he really did mean everything—Benedict found himself oddly flattered to be considered someone's brother. It was also rather astonishing how comfortable the title settled upon him. Already any time where he had considered Miss Amanda Rutley as a potential bride felt like the distant past, like a bizarre dream that fades upon waking. He'd not been flattered when she'd called him old, of course, but she did now strike him as rather too young for him as well.

Emily, on the other hand, was no flighty child, and the unimpressed look she gave her sister only served to emphasize this point.

"Kindly endeavor to at least pretend you were raised properly, would you?" Emily asked in a tone that made it clear this was an order, not a true request. Benedict found himself fighting back a smirk. Perhaps he was suited to the older brother role after all for all that he'd not had practice.

Emily turned on him as Amanda sighed, put out. "And you—" she began before cutting herself off. He watched as she wiped her ire away and forced her face into a mask of politeness.

He…did not care for it.

"I beg your pardon," she said solicitously, and it was just awful. "But we are gathering for dinner, My Lord. My father and your mother have already been seated at the table. Would you be so kind as to join us?"

She was every inch the proper hostess, and he struggled to consider this a good sign.

"Of course," he said, offering her his arm. He didn't know how else to respond, not in the face of such aggressive politeness. She tucked her hand neatly into his elbow, not making eye contact for even a moment.

He tried not to let it bother him. He would not demand she look at him—he was not quite so autocratic as all that. Besides, her sister was still present. And he would not, as he longed to do, drag her off and demand to know what she'd thought of the letters…and then kiss the answers out of her if she refused to give them. She always did give up arguing when he kissed her.

Instead, he led her wordlessly into the drawing room, feeling that he'd successfully navigated his relationship with one Rutley sister…but worrying that he still had a long way to go with the sister who mattered to him the most.