CHAPTER ONE
One can expect large crowds at the funeral of the beloved Earl of Wolverston today, as anyone who is anyone in the Upper Ten Thousand will be flocking to the village of Monmorte. Word has it Prinny is even making a special trip from Brighton to memorialize his old friend...
-Whispers from Lady X, June 1816
Wolverston Estate
Essex, England
Four days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston
On the day that Jemma Forster, Countess of Wolverston, buried her husband, the rain poured down from the sky at a torrential rate. It was as if the heavens too needed to express their devastation at the loss. The large droplets pounded upon the steepled roof of Wolverston Estate, a steady drum-drum-drum that reminded Jemma of the dirges that had been played so long ago at the funeral for a drowned groomsman on her parents’ estate.
She had been a child then, as innocent as the lily-white gowns she wore, and as wild as her untamed brown curls. At seven years of age, she had already scared off two governesses, for she did not like to listen, and she could not be persuaded to do as she did not want. She was thus oft confined to her bedroom, as little girls who refused to be sensible were not granted the privilege of being seen or heard by adults.
When the clock struck the witching hour that fateful night, her governess had long passed into slumber, leaving Jemma free to creep from bed unnoticed, and slide over to the nursery’s big bay window that overlooked the garden. She saw a man, cloaked all in black instead of his hunter green livery, striding across the back gardens toward the fog-shrouded pond. The silver full moon illuminated him, reflected off the water to cast the shadows of the trees as nefarious arms, snagging his coat in their eager grip.
She did not cry out her window for him to stop as he waded into the lake. She had not known she should. It seemed like a great game as he submerged entirely, only the barest hint of his top hat visible in the murky water. She watched and she waited with wide eyes and a delighted smile for him to reemerge. Of all the nights she had sneaked from bed, this was by far the most interesting.
Then, she had not understood what it meant to die. She could not piece together that the man she had seen floating in the pond was the reason why the butler bore the same expression as cousin Nicholas when he’d been punched in the gut by a neighbor boy. When finally her governess took pity on her and endeavored to explain, she had been left with more questions than answers. For months after that talk, she had expected the groom to spring from the tack room bearing shiny red apples for her favorite pony, as he had always done.
She had not learned to fear death yet. Like most children, she knew only the immediate. The permanence of death escaped her.
Now, she understood it all too well. When Jemma was sixteen, her mother contracted a fatal influenza. A year ago, her father had passed from acute heart failure.
But neither of those losses had shaken her the way this one did. She had not been particularly close to her parents—they had been distant figures in her youth, more than happy to delegate the raising of Jemma and her younger sister Rose to a legion of governesses and tutors. She mourned their loss, and then she moved on.
This…this was different. Her husband was dead, his blood spilled on the cobblestones of Soho Square. His body, soon to be laid to rest in a knot-free elm coffin lined with white fine-weaved crepe. All that was left of him, soon to be placed in a dark, dank hole in the ground.
No, Jemma did not need any more reminders of the constancy of death.
What she needed was justice.
And nothing—not the threat of scandal, not the disapproval of Philip’s family, not the pain of past mistakes—would keep her from getting it. She prayed so fervently that all her efforts would be for naught, and Philip’s death would prove to be as random as everyone else claimed.
As she set down another completed rosemary bundle onto the silver tray on the table, she couldn’t shake the sick sensation that Philip’s death hadn’t been just another Covent Garden robbery. And if she was right—then he’d been killed by the very man who should have protected him.
His brother.
The same brother who’d inherited everything Philip owned, except for the small townhouse in London that Jemma would relocate to tomorrow.
She placed a hand on her stomach, willing her breakfast to stay down. She had to remain calm. Focus on the funeral.
The preparations were all in order. Yards and yards of black fabric had been brought from London to Wolverston Estate for the funeral: dull bombazine to cover the mirrors in the house, cloaks for the chief mourners, baize draped all over the room where Philip’s body was laid out. Black cloth even covered the interior of the Church of All Souls, where the funeral would take place.
Upon entering Wolverston Estate, the guests would be given the rosemary cuttings, each trimmed to three inches. The bundles contained three sprigs, tied together by a black silk ribbon. Each mourner would deposit his rosemary onto Philip’s coffin to ensure that his memory would not be forgotten by the living.
Rosemary for remembrance. So the old custom dictated, but Jemma had never needed help remembering. Her memory was impeccable; she recalled everything. Even the things she wished so badly she could forget, like a kiss from the man she hadn’t seen in three years, but would have to call on tomorrow.
She tied a bow around another cutting and dropped it on the tray. Most of the guests were not coming to honor Philip’s memory. Their sharp words were like the talons of vultures, picking at the bones of her pain to glean on dits for their friends. They’d done it when her sister Rose had been ruined, and they’d do it again today.
As if to prove her point, Philip’s cousin, Georgina, sauntered into the room. Georgina Harding Middleton never walked anywhere when she could glide; she never spoke plainly when she could lecture.
“Why are you handling the gifts for the mourners, Jemma? You have servants for that.”
Jemma continued assembling the bundles, ignoring the reproach. She had to pretend that everything was normal—as normal as it could be, given her husband’s death. “I wanted something to do. Besides, the servants are busy preparing for the guests.”
“Harrumph.” Georgina made throat clearing sound like a cut direct. “I told you that you should have hired more servants for this. Are the handkerchiefs ready?”
Jemma nodded. “Wrapped in silk cloth and placed by the door already, to be given to the guests along with the rosemary sprigs.” The black silk handkerchiefs for the favors had been specially ordered from Philip’s favorite haberdasher in Bond Street.
After stopping at the house, the guests would go on to the church service. David would be in the front row, as though he really had tried so valiantly to save him, like the scandal sheets claimed.
Jemma pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting another wave of nausea. God, if she were right…
She told herself not to think about the possible ramifications, not yet. Tomorrow, she’d go to war.
Today, she buried her best friend in the Wolverston family plot.
“Good.” Georgina settled down on the settee beside her, but did not offer to help. Such work would be beneath her, of course. “The weather outside is absolutely wretched. I do hope this ends your desire to be part of the funeral procession. Even you cannot possibly think of trudging about in the mud in your mourning.”
Jemma had been thinking about doing just that, but she knew better than to say so again. She sat still, her hands at her sides, fingers clenched around the dark muslin of her mourning gown. Society demanded she wear heavy mourning for a year, as if she needed a black gown to grieve. As if she’d ever, ever forget that Philip was dead, likely by his own brother’s hand.
But she obliged. She had her existing gowns all dipped in black dye. She did what was expected of her, because she knew all too well how society turned on those who were different.
David had spared no expense on the funeral, and he’d ordered four new black coats from Schweitzer & Davison on Cork Street in London. He’d never been frugal—it was important to him to be envied by the rest of the ton.
Was he trying to do the same thing now, turning Philip’s funeral into the event of the Season, or was he hiding something else?
“Unseemly.” Georgina sniffed, continuing on as though Jemma had expressed her true desire. “We are women of quality, Jemma, not some tavern wenches. We don’t do that. The very last thing we need is for Lady X to get wind of you being there. It’s bad enough she reported where Philip was killed.”
Jemma forced herself to take a deep breath, lest she say something she’d regret. The nerve of Georgina, to lecture her on Lady X’s impact, when the scandal sheet had so ruthlessly reported Rosie’s scandal that she’d been forced to flee to a convent to have her baby. Even after the baby had been adopted out, Rosie remained at the abbey.
You should move on, Rosie’s last letter had said. I have. I’ve built a life for myself here, Jemma.
“Lady X is not to be trifled with.” Georgina’s brows arched downward with censure, as they always seemed to do. It was no wonder Rosie thought Georgina’s brows looked like two plump caterpillars.
“I’m well aware of Lady X’s power.” Somehow, Jemma managed to keep her voice from shaking with fury. It had been three years, yes, but time had not dulled the ache for her sister, for the little nephew she’d never met.
But to Georgina—to the rest of the ton—Rose Gregory had ceased to exist when she’d entered the convent. A fallen woman could not hope to make a good match, and so she was no use to society.
Jemma retied the black silk ribbon that had come loose around one of the sprigs, and threw it down on the silver tray atop the coffee table. Every decision she’d made in her adult life was for the good of her reputation, and what did she have to show for it now? Nothing.
Rosie hadn’t wanted to return to London—even after Jemma had married Philip. She’d refused her sister’s offers to visit her in Nottinghamshire, and had asked that Jemma stop communicating with her.
And now Philip was dead. No one cared to question David’s version of events.
No one but her.
Georgina’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “Good. I knew you’d see reason once I pointed out what your actions would do to the family.”
Jemma didn’t care about the reputation of the Forster family. She cared about Philip, and what had really happened to him. “I will be in the graveyard tonight.”
Georgina leapt up from her seat on the ivory settee, her sudden movement almost upsetting the whole tray of rosemary. “Jemma, that is absurd—”
“No, Cousin, what is absurd is you telling me how to behave at my husband’s funeral.” Jemma spoke calmly, though she wanted to scream at Georgina. To scream at the whole bloody ton, which had decided Philip’s scandalous visit to the White House was more important than all the honorable things he’d done while he was alive.
They’d already taken Rosie from her, and now Philip’s memory was being tarnished too. Everyone Jemma cared about left her.
The black ostrich feather in Georgina’s bonnet bobbed wildly as she shook her head. “David won’t like this. Enough is enough, Jemma. Let Philip pass in peace, and move on.”
“David understands.” Or so he claimed—but he could have told her that so she’d stop asking about the fight he’d had with Philip the night he died.
“You’re playing on his guilt, when he almost died. We are fortunate he was not lost too.”
“Yes, it is so fortunate.” She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “I’ll stay to the edges of the graveyard. Felicity and Claire will go with me. With this rain, no one will see us.”
“I should have known Felicity would be involved. How atrocious—the Duchess of Wycliffe, recommending you attend your husband’s funeral!” Georgina clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You shouldn’t listen to my brother’s horrid wife. She is a disgrace to the Harding family line.”
“I believe that’s a matter of opinion.” The booming voice of the brother in question, Nicholas, echoed from the doorway. “I happen to find my wife delightful.”
“You’re the only one,” Georgina muttered, with a loud sigh of resignation.
With a frown, Jemma set down the rosemary, turning so she looked Georgina directly in the eye. Felicity had many quirks, but she was loyal to the core, and she’d proved her worth as a friend over and over again. “I won’t have you insulting Felicity in my house. She is one of my dearest friends.”
Georgina started, her spine snapping ramrod straight. “There’s no need for rudeness, Jemma. When will the duchess be joining us?”
Nicholas entered the room, taking the tray of rosemary from Jemma’s hands. His smile—sad yet supportive—was a balm to her tired soul. “She is relieving Aunt Elizabeth in her vigil.”
Until Philip’s body was taken away for the funeral, the female family members took turns sitting vigil with him. The body had come home two days ago, after the coroner had released him.
Jemma had passed the last two nights sitting by his side, watching over him. The disfigurement of his face made her sick—no amount of telling herself that his pain was over now and the wounds could not hurt him anymore made her feel better. The injuries done to him were vile and vicious, and it only fueled her determination to catch his killer.
She’d known so very few good men in her life, and Philip had always supported and protected her. Theirs had not been a marriage built upon any great romance, yet they’d built an amicable life together as equals.
So, swallowing her trepidation, she’d held his ice-cold, limp hand in her own, and murmured every prayer she could think of for him to pass on peacefully to heaven. And in that room, away from the rest of the world, she’d thought—she’d hoped—she felt Philip’s specter, watching over her for the last time.
She would have stayed with him longer, but the funeral guests would be arriving soon, and she needed to make sure all the preparations were in order. She followed Nicholas out into the hall, her bones already aching with a deep-set weariness.
“Why don’t you go up to your chambers and rest for a bit?” Nicholas asked, worry etched deep into his handsome face. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Jemma shook her head. “If I’m going to make it through this day, I have to keep busy.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s work, I suppose.” Nicholas shrugged. “Have you been sleeping at all?”
“Some.” Jemma forced a smile, not wanting Nicholas to worry about her. As the Duke of Wycliffe, and manager of two large, separate estates, he had his own concerns.
Nicholas set down the tray by the door. “Some is better than none. I’ll have Felicity make you a draught.”
Jemma smiled again, this time genuine. “That would be lovely.” Felicity was a brilliant alchemist; she delighted in developing concoctions in her laboratory.
“You know I’ll be here for you.” Nicholas draped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him in a comforting embrace. “As will Felicity, and Teddy and Claire too. We’ll get through this together. Philip’s killer is gone, so at least we have justice.”
Jemma nodded, pulling back from him. She didn’t dare tell him what she suspected. She’d told no one but Felicity and Claire, and they’d vowed to keep it a secret, even from their spouses. Claiming a peer murdered someone was a huge accusation to make, especially when it was the new heir, and the victim was his own brother.
No, she needed evidence. Solid, incontestable proof that David had something to do with Philip’s death.
She swallowed down her panic, following Nicholas from the room. She could do this. She’d do anything if it meant answers—even face Philip’s old friend Gabriel Sinclair again, a man she hadn’t seen in three years.
A man who had kissed her with more passion than she’d ever thought possible.
A man she could never, ever have.
Three years ago, with her family already embroiled in scandal, she couldn’t risk breaking her engagement to Philip. She’d needed the goodwill that came with marrying into Philip’s family. As Jemma Gregory, she couldn’t pave the way for Rosie to return to London, but as Jemma Forster, she thought she might have a chance. She hadn’t counted on Rosie wanting to stay at the convent.
So she told Gabriel the kiss was a mistake, the product of too much claret.
It was the only lie she’d ever said to him.
Then Gabriel had been promoted with Bow Street, and he’d stopped coming to the Forster family parties. She’d hoped—prayed, even—that once he was gone, she’d stop thinking about him. Stop wanting him. Stop waking in the middle of night, wishing he was the one asleep by her side.
If only it had been that simple.
***
In comparison to the great cathedrals of London, the Church of All Souls was small in size, but no less impressive in appearance. Built on land belonging to the Wolverston family, little had changed in appearance since its original construction several centuries prior. Like the family’s estate, the limestone church modeled the old Gothic style: ornate designs, a nave arcade, and many tall, thin windows ending in arcs. Lancets, Philip had told her, named because they resembled a lance. He’d been full of odd facts like that.
Throughout the years, the vicars had obtained an alarmingly large quantity of religious statuary to place in the little crevices made by the lancets. When Jemma attended mass, she felt as though the eyes of six saints and one peculiarly cantankerous Mary sneered down at her from high above in the ogive. It was no great wonder that the majority of her prayers during mass consisted of a simple request that heaven would not reproach her the way those statues did.
Tonight, she did not pray for her own soul. She stood on the edge of the church’s graveyard, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her black cloak, and thought of Philip. The accepting husband he’d been, and the lecherous man with taboo desires that society now saw fit to remember.
“Should we light the lantern?” Her friend Claire Lockwood, the Countess of Ashbrooke, whispered. The moon was but a crescent tonight, and they huddled together underneath a grove of trees.
“Depends on your objective. Do you wish everyone to notice us, or do you wish to remain anonymous?” Felicity asked bluntly. Tact was not the duchess’s strength, although she had grown much in her few years of marriage to Nicholas.
“Anonymous, definitely,” Jemma whispered back. It meant they wouldn’t be able to see as well, but at least the lanterns held by the funeral procession lent enough light to see the service.
Despite the slick of wet grass against her mourning gown from the earlier rain, she was glad to be so far away from the service. She could see the men whispering to each other as they stood graveside, but she could not hear their gossip—and that was fine with her.
She’d heard more than enough earlier, handing out the rosemary sprigs to the vipers who had come only to fulfill their morbid curiosity. While some had been kind, their expressions of sorrow heartfelt and well-meant, others had not bothered to hide their condescension.
She tugged her mourning cloak closed tighter around her, but it did not abate the icy chill that had taken possession of her body. She looked forward to returning to her chambers and taking the draught Felicity had made for her.
The knot in her stomach tightened terribly, as she thought of how Felicity and Nicholas had looked at each other earlier that day. Such love in their eyes—the simplest of conversations became an epic affair. It was the same way Claire interacted with her husband Teddy.
Philip had never looked at her like that. With fondness, yes, but not earth-shattering, all-encompassing passion. Jemma had told herself she did not mind. If he’d loved her, she’d have felt guilt for not returning his feelings. What Felicity and Claire had with their husbands just wasn’t in the cards for her.
Passion was fleeting, she’d learned. Rosie had depended upon promises made in passion, and it had cost her everything. Better then to stick with a man like Philip. They’d been companions, coming together only to try to produce an heir.
She’d thought, for so long, that since she did not love Philip, and he did not love her, she could not be hurt.
She’d been wrong. Oh so very, very wrong.
Standing here in the graveyard, watching as David led the funeral procession, was as hard as saying goodbye to Rosie. Letting out an unsteady breath, Jemma rubbed at her face, drying the tears. At least with her friends, she did not have to hide her pain.
That was another gift Philip had given her. She’d met Felicity and Claire through him, for Nicholas was his cousin. The girls had been a godsend, helping her to navigate the society events that were a necessary part of being the wife of a prominent member of the House of Lords.
“After Mama died, I felt lost.” Claire squeezed her hand, the gentle touch soothing Jemma. Five years ago, Claire’s mother had succumbed to madness in Ticehurst Asylum. Because of Lady Brauning’s illness, Whispers from Lady X cruelly dubbed Claire the Mad Daughter.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know you then,” Jemma said. “I would have stood by your side.”
“I know,” Claire replied. “And I thank you for that.”
“When Margaret passed, I tried to reanimate her corpse.” Felicity pronounced this in the same flat, unaffected tone she pronounced everything, but the quick flash of pain across her features was a reminder that the death of her guardian still stung, five years later.
Death had left its wounds on each of them, but somehow, they had survived. Jemma could only hope to do the same.
Wryly, Felicity continued, “I do not recommend resurrection as a method of grieving. It is apparently frowned upon by the ton.”
Jemma smiled, appreciating her friend’s attempt at humor, dark though it was. “I’ll take that to heart.”
“Coincidentally, if you wished to attack David, the heart would be a good place to start,” Felicity suggested. “I suspect it would be easier to proceed with your original plan, but it is always good to have other options.”
Claire grimaced. “I’d say we put ‘stabbing David’ as Plan Zeta, then.”
“Plan M,” Jemma said. “Look at him over there, acting as though he gave a damn about Philip, outside of the money he borrowed.”
“You really think he’s to blame for Philip’s death?” Claire’s grip tightened around the umbrella, her face growing wane. When Jemma nodded, she sighed. “It’s going to be ugly if word gets out.”
“Only the truth matters.” Felicity stuck her chin out, frowning at the group of mourners. “Let the scandal sheets say what they want—it won’t change the facts. If David harmed Philip, then he should be punished for it.”
“Let’s hope Gabriel agrees,” Jemma said.
Persuading the Bow Street Runner to help her wouldn’t be easy. Especially since they’d have to keep it quiet. But she had to try.
The service finished. The pallbearers were lifting the coffin, getting it into position. Jemma’s breath caught. This was it—the end. Claire placed her arm over Jemma’s shoulders. After a moment’s delay, Felicity followed her cue and slipped her arm over Jemma’s shoulders too.
“God, I miss him,” she murmured, as the tears rolled down her cheeks rapidly, blurring her line of vision. Nothing had prepared her for this. The ache of unfulfilled dreams, the loss of a life she’d always thought would be certain.
Silently, they stood there, linked like this, bearing solemn witness as Philip’s coffin was lowered into the hole. As the pallbearers scooped up shovelful after shovelful of dirt, Felicity and Claire remained with her. Only when the last scoop of dirt was dumped upon the hole and patted down did they turn around to leave. Together.
For the first time since Sir John Townsend of the illustrious Bow Street Runners had appeared at her door, the knot in her stomach loosened ever so slightly.
Philip was gone, and nothing could bring him back. She could not change that, no matter how much she wanted to.
But she was not alone.