Chapter 20

Twenty

“ T homas? Are you there?”

Cherie knocked on the door of her husband’s study firmly and decisively. She had considered calling him by his title, but in the end, had decided that it was better if she did not resort to petty recriminations. She’d agreed to call him Thomas, and she didn’t want to go back now, just because she was angry at him.

And really, the feeling that was currently coursing through her was far more complex than anger. There was anger, yes, but also grief and fear. And it wasn’t anger that had brought her to this moment now, when she was finally ready to confront him. It was belief and faith in herself and the life she wanted.

“Hello?” she called again, knocking once more. But there was no reply, and after another pause, she pushed open the study door.

Inside, the study was empty. It was also dark, as none of the candles had been lit, and the fire wasn’t on.

Cherie sighed, then moved further into the room. She hadn’t been expecting her husband to be out at this time of day. He rarely went to his club; usually, he was locked up in his study working on getting the duchy in order, which she knew still overwhelmed him since his father’s death.

“I guess you’re out drinking your sorrows away,” she said, staring around the study. “Probably because you know that our marriage is over as well.”

Emotion swelled inside of her, and for a moment, she thought she was going to cry. But then she steeled herself.

You’re not here to cry, you’re here to tell him you’ve decided that, for your own happiness, you want to live separately.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make. For the past several days, she had been mulling it over, ever since Cassandra had put the thought in her mind.

“It’s the perfect solution,” she’d told Minerva the day before when the two of them had promenaded along the Serpentine. “I can have my own life without causing the scandal of an annulment.”

“But you won’t be able to remarry and have children,” Minerva pointed out.

“But I also won’t ruin your prospects for marriage by association,” Cherie had said, with determination she didn’t feel. “If I do that, then what was all this for? No, I gave up on the idea of marrying for love when I agreed to marry the duke. I’ve resigned myself to that fate. And as for children, well, I think I shall love being an aunt. That will just have to be enough for me.”

“Very well,” her friend had said, taking her arm. “As long as you’re sure.”

As long as you’re sure. Even now, Cherie wasn’t sure that she was sure. And a small part of her was afraid that the reason she was choosing separation, as opposed to annulment, was because she still believed that Thomas might come around.

No, you’re doing it for your friends. Just them.

Still, as Cherie stood in the study, she had the feeling that she was about to end her marriage. It might not be as serious as an annulment, but it was still a major break. Thomas might never forgive her for it. He probably expected her to live with him and manage his household, host events for him, and play the part of the dutiful wife.

But she had to do this for herself.

She glanced up at the portrait of Thomas that hung above the desk. The likeness was good, and she felt as if she were staring up into the eyes of her husband.

“Well, I guess you get a few more hours of not knowing,” she said out loud to it. “Lucky you.”

As she looked away, her eyes were caught by the bottle of cognac that Lord Rochford had brought for her and Thomas as a gift on their wedding day. It was sitting behind her husband’s desk, unopened.

Moving forward, she picked up the bottle and turned it over in her hands. Just as the earl had said, it looked like an extremely precious and rare cognac.

Holding the bottle, Cherie felt herself starting to grow angry. This cognac symbolized everything bad that had happened in the last few months of her life: first, the earl’s attempt to buy her as a bride; then the failed escape that had ended in her marriage to Thomas; and the whole marriage itself, which was a farce of epic proportions.

“This isn’t a marriage,” she muttered out loud, “and I’m not a wife, I’m a glorified housekeeper. Not someone for him to cherish and love and treat as an equal, but just a woman to do his bidding and manage his household.”

All of a sudden, a reckless rage came over her, and she decided to open the cognac. She pulled at the cork until it began to budge, and then finally it came out of the bottle with a loud pop.

Immediately, a rich, heady smell filled the room. Cherie breathed in deeply. She’d never had cognac before, and she felt like a naughty schoolchild as she poured herself a glass. She then picked it up, swirled it around under her nose—trying not to gag as the smell of alcohol hit her—and then took a sip.

It tasted… good. Although very strong. The alcohol was astringent, which made her cough and her eyes water, but there was also a sweetness to the liquor that she liked. Underneath it, she also detected something bitter. She didn’t think she liked the aftertaste, but she assumed she just didn’t know much about alcohol.

She raised the glass again in the direction of Thomas’s portrait. “Here’s to our charade of a marriage!” she said, raising the glass high. Then she took another swig.

This time it tasted worse. The bitter taste was even stronger, and she gagged. Some of the liquid must have gone down the wrong way, because it suddenly got harder to breathe, and she began to cough.

“This—is—so—strong,” she gasped, thumping her chest to try and get the alcohol to clear out of her lungs.

But nothing cleared. If anything, it was getting harder to breathe, and suddenly, Cherie began to feel afraid. She was starting to fight for breath, and everything around her was starting to blur. Dizziness overcame her, as did tiredness. Her body felt very heavy and cold. Far too cold.

This was not what a small amount of cognac was supposed to do to a person. And all of a sudden, it became clear.

It’s poison! L ord Rochford poisoned it!

She released the bottle, and it rolled away from her across the floor, emptying out most of its contents into the rug. Everything was spinning, and she grabbed the edge of the desk and tried to keep herself from falling over. She thought she was going to cast up her crumpets; nausea was seizing her.

Keep fighting! The words blazed through her as she tried to force herself to remain standing. You have to warn Thomas that Lord Rochford is trying to kill him—to kill us!

But then the nausea passed, and something far worse replaced it: the feeling that her heart was slowing. That it was going to stop beating at any moment.

She tried to take a breath but couldn’t. Everything was going dark. A rushing sound filled her ears. And then she felt herself falling to the ground. Her knees must have hit it hard, but she couldn’t feel anything. She fell onto her side, then rolled onto her back.

The last thing she saw was Thomas’s portrait, her husband’s face staring down at her, worry and concern etching his face, and then his voice… Cherie, stay with me.

But portraits couldn’t talk, and she already knew it was too late.

“I don’t want to hear any more conspiracy theories about Lord Rochford,” Thomas snapped, as she walked down the stairs, followed closely by his wife’s cousin, Mr. Charles Norton, who he was starting to think was the most simple-minded fellow he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

“It’s not a conspiracy theory, Your Grace!” Mr. Norton insisted, his face going pale with horror at such a suggestion. “You know already he is an herbalist, but there are rumors that his hobby has taken a more sinister turn, that he knows how to administer cyanide in the right doses to?—”

“That’s enough,” Thomas interrupted. “I have enough things to worry about without it being suggested that my cousin is walking around trying to off members of the ton! Honestly, it’s preposterous.”

“Is it, though?” Mr. Norton asked. “You saw what he tried to do with your wife.”

“Forcing a woman to marry you isn’t the same as murder,” Thomas said.

“I think many women would disagree about that!” Mr. Norton exclaimed, and Thomas paused. This might have been the first truly wise thing his wife’s cousin had said.

Thomas stopped on the third stair from the bottom and looked Mr. Norton over, this time with a shade more interest than he usually afforded the man.

“You have really heard this?” he inquired. “From reliable sources?”

“Indeed, I have! There is an apothecary in South London who swears that the earl came in looking for cyanide. I talked to him myself because I had to know.”

“Are you really so worried that the earl will try to off you?” Thomas asked, with some interest.

Mr. Norton reddened. “I owe him a great deal of money…”

Thomas frowned at him. “I settled those debts for you.”

“And that was so very generous of you, Your Grace. But you see, since then, the temptations of the card tables have lured me back, and I am but a weak man…”

Thomas turned away in disgust, no longer afraid that he’d made a mistake in misjudging the man. Mr. Norton’s weakness for gambling had almost condemned Cherie to a life as the Countess of Rochford, and for that, he could never forgive him.

“Are you here to ask for another loan?” Thomas asked.

“N-no! Of course not!” Mr. Norton spluttered, his cheeks burning even more brightly. “I came here to warn you of what I heard about Lord Rochford! It isn’t only me that he has designs to ruin, after all. He is also your sworn enemy, as well as the enemy of the duchess.”

“He is not the duchess’s enemy,” Thomas said. “In fact, if anything, he is quite taken with her. He’d love nothing better than to get me out of the picture so that—” Thomas stopped talking, a terrifying thought suddenly overtaking him. Constantine would like him out of the picture, especially before he produced an heir. That would leave him free to ascend to the dukedom and to marry Cherie, which seemed as much about revenge against Thomas as it was desire for her.

Is there any way that the earl could have tried to poison me? But no, it isn’t possible. He hasn’t had me drink anything, except…

He looked at Mr. Norton, and they both seemed to have the same thought at the same time.

“The bottle of cognac he gave you for your wedding!” Mr. Norton exclaimed.

“But that is too risky! We could have opened it and drank it at the wedding!”

“Perhaps he knew you would snub him. Perhaps he hoped you would drink it later, once you were alone.”

“But everyone at the wedding saw him give it to us.”

“People can take ill from so many causes,” Mr. Norton pointed out. “And it would be rude to drink a single bottle among guests who could not sample it. Perhaps he felt it was worth the risk.”

“We need to get it out of the house—now!” Thomas said, and he leapt down the last few stairs on the staircase.

“I can test it!” Norton shouted after him. “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you! The apothecary gave me a solution to put in liquids to see if they have been poisoned with cyanide.”

“Well then hurry!” Thomas shouted. “Before?—”

But at that very moment, there was a thud from the study, and Thomas felt his whole body go cold. Because that thud had sounded eerily similar to a body hitting the ground.

“Hurry!” he shouted. He sprinted across the hallway and wrenched open the door of his study. A terrifying sight met his eyes: Cherie was motionless on the ground, right below his desk, her skin very red and her face lifeless and swollen. Next to her lay the bottle of cognac, while an empty glass sat on the top of the desk.

“No!” The shout was wrenched from Thomas’s throat like a tooth from the mouth of a sick patient. It filled the room, reverberating throughout, shaking the windows. “Cherie, no!”

He bounded across the room, flung himself around the side of the desk, and bent down to grab his wife. Her body was cold already and stiff, and for one wild, unimaginable moment, Thomas thought she was already dead.

“Cherie!” he shouted, lifting her up. “Stay with me!”

He wanted to shake her, as if that would wake her up, or bring her back to him, but he knew it was pointless. Tears were on his cheeks, he realized. “Please, Cherie, don’t leave me!”

“What’s going on in here?” Thomas turned to see Aidan standing in the doorway, a puzzled and concerned look on his face. The moment he took in his lifeless sister in Thomas’s arms, he went as pale as snow. “What happened to her?”

“W-we think she drank cyanide,” Norton stammered.

“WELL THEN FETCH A DOCTOR!” Aidan roared, and Norton nearly jumped out of his skin in fright.

“Of course! Right away!”

“And then come back!” Thomas shouted after him. “We have to test the bottle.” He motioned at Aidan. “Quick, pick it up before any more of it leaks out over the rug!”

Aidan moved forward with lightning speed. He didn’t wait for an explanation, just jumped into action, and Thomas appreciated that. His old friend grabbed the bottle of cognac and righted it. There was still a finger of liquid at the bottom of it, and for that at least, Thomas was grateful.

We have to prove Rochford did this!

But even revenge was far from his mind as he gazed down at his wife, who was still lying in his arms, too still for comfort. He raised a finger and held it to her neck, feeling for a pulse.

“Is she… is she dead?” Aidan’s voice sounded through the sudden quiet of the study, and it sounded nothing like Thomas had ever heard before. The fear in that voice chilled him to the core.

“I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “I can feel a pulse. It’s slow, but I can feel it.”

“She isn’t breathing,” Aidan said. “Her chest isn’t moving.”

“She’s breathing,” Thomas said. “But it’s very faint.” An idea suddenly struck him, and he pushed Cherie onto her side, still in his arms, and began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress.

“What are you doing?” Aidan asked sharply.

“Getting her out of her corset,” Thomas growled. He didn’t care if it was scandalous to undress his wife here in his study, with other men present. If it saved her life, then nothing mattered.

He shrugged off her dress and then began to pull up her petticoat as quickly as possible. The delicate fabric tore under his shaking hands, but that was the least of his concerns. Finally, it was off, and then Thomas was faced with a truly daunting task: trying to get off her corset.

“How do these things work?” he growled, as he pawed at the laces.

“Don’t ask me,” Aidan said, his voice heavy with panic. “Her Grace usually has it already removed when?—”

“All right, I don’t want to know more.” Thomas tried to pull at the laces, but they were only getting tired. Letting out a furious, frustrated cry, he reached for the desk and felt around until he found his letter opener. Then he brought it to the laces of the corset and slashed as forcefully as he could.

The knife ripped through the laces, and the corset loosened at once. At the same time, Cherie gave a small, rattling gasp, and Thomas and Aidan exchanged hopeful glances. Thomas pulled the corset off of her and then cradled her in his arms, watching with fevered hope as some of the color seemed to come back into her cheeks.

“That helped, but if it was poison, then she doesn’t have long,” Thomas whispered, and behind him, he heard Aidan begin to pray.

Soon, Aidan’s whispered prayers became the only sound in the room other than Thomas’s uneven breaths. Time seemed to tick so slowly as they waited for the physician. And with every passing second, Thomas was sure that his wife was slipping away. He could feel her pulse growing fainter, her breathing slow, the color draining away from her cheeks…

And then, at last, the sound of footsteps on the drive outside filled their ears, then they heard the front door of the house burst open.

“They’re in here!” Mr. Norton shouted, and then the door to the study flew open and Mr. Norton entered, followed by a physician. If either of them were startled by the state of undress they found Cherie in, they had the good graces not to say anything. At once, the doctor bent over his charge and began to feel her pulse and check her breath.

Mr. Norton, meanwhile, was tipping a clear substance from a small vial into the bottle of cognac.

“This will turn the cognac blue if there is cyanide in it.”

Thomas didn’t know where to look or what to feel. On the one hand, he wanted the liquor to turn blue so that he could know for sure what had happened to Cherie. On the other hand, if it was cyanide, that could mean she wouldn’t survive.

And all the while, the doctor was poking and prodding Cherie. It all seemed to be taking far too much time. Didn’t they know she had already been poisoned for minutes?

And then the cognac in the bottle shifted color. The moment Thomas saw it, he felt as if his heart had been torn out of his chest.

“It’s blue!” Aidan shouted.

“Cyanide,” Norton confirmed, his jaw set. “That bastard…”

“What bastard? Who gave you…” and then Aidan’s expression became stoney. “Rochford. He gave them this bottle at the wedding breakfast. We were all there; we all saw it.”

“And he will pay for what he has done!” Norton cried, but Thomas wasn’t looking at them anymore, or even at the bottle of blue cognac. He was staring at the doctor, whose brow had begun to sweat, and whose expression looked like that of someone about to deliver bad news.

“What is it, doctor?” Thomas whispered. “Can you save her?”

The physician looked up at him. “I can try. But at this point, Your Grace, it is up to God whether or not she survives.”