Henry’s Family
Violet
The third taste went out of the afternoon tea. She had noticed it the morning after she had set the stillroom to rights. Was the murderer panicking because he or she discovered that she knew about herbs? Or was the poison being added to something less obvious? There was always the possibility that they might employ a more brutal method.
She waited to see if the taste would return for two more mornings. She turned it on her tongue twice to be certain. There was nothing there. There was also the possibility that a different substance was being used. Something colourless and tasteless.
She sought out Mrs Greer and asked whether the blend had been changed.
“No, the same as always, the same Mr Vexley sends.” The housekeeper’s eyes sharpened. “Have you found it off? I’ll have the caddy looked to. I shall ask Alice if she had done anything different.”
“Who is Alice?”
“She is Mrs Garrick’s kitchen maid, Your Grace. She’s been making your tea since she started working here.”
“I see. Is that the girl with dark curls? She brings up my tea tray sometimes.”
“That is right, Your Grace. If she displeases you—”
“No, not at all. I was only curious. The tea is lovely as always, Mrs Greer.”
Violet hesitated. “Who else makes my tea? I know Alice and Sarah are the only two who have brought me the tea tray.”
Mrs Greer tapped the pencil on her temple. “Before Alice, Mrs Garrick or Jo had made the tea, Your Grace.”
“How long have Mrs Garrick and Jo been working here, Mrs Greer?”
“Oh, since before the late duchess passed, Your Grace. Mrs Garrick had brought Jo with her.”
“Mrs Garrick runs a fine kitchen, Mrs Greer. Has she been here long?”
“Two and twenty years, Your Grace. She came with Jo, who was her girl from the country. Jo married the year past and left us, and Alice came in her place.”
Violet nodded. The poisoner, if it indeed was poison, could not be Alice.
She left the housekeeper looking perplexed at her desk.
Violet could not sleep, and for once it was not dread that was keeping her from it.
He had been gentle with her the night before. Gentler than he had ever been, gentler than she thought men capable. It made what she meant to do worse, not better. She knew that, and wentto do it anyway, because three women were in the ground and one kind night did not raise them.
His study was the one room in the house that was wholly his. He had gone down to Westminster and would not be looked for before dark, and she went in with her heart going like a thief’s, shamed, and searched it all the same.
The room held a desk, walls of leather-bound books with gilt lettering, hump-back sofas in deep blue, a library table, and one wall of various globes and maps. Her attention paused at the far wall. A small portrait hung between the bookcase and the window, placed where a man sitting at the desk would see it each time he looked up.
Two young men, painted side by side. They could have been twins. Both had dark hair, strong jaws, the same authoritative brow that she recognised from her husband’s face when he was displeased. The taller one stood half a step behind the other with his hand on his shoulder. Henry. She knew him by the set of his mouth—smiling, carefree. The other must be Harold. Softer in the eyes, laughing eyes, easier in his stance, the kind of face that invited friendship.
She took her eyes off the portrait and examined the desk with duke’s ledgers, leases, a seal, a stick of wax, every drawer squared and dull. Then in a pigeonhole at the back, a thin bundle of letters in a round hand she did not know, tied with thread. She drew one out. The salutation was in the same round hand:My dearest Henry. Her eye dropped to the signature:Yours always, Elizabeth.
She heard the footsteps. Dread pooled in her stomach. There was no time to be anywhere but exactly where she stood, his letters in her hand, when he came in.
He stopped inside the door.
What crossed his face first was not anger. It was worse: hurt or betrayal. His gaze lowered to Elizabeth’s letters.
“Put those down.” His voice rumbled low.
She put them down.