‘Yes, sir.’ Guin found she was quite steady on her feet, although the Duke came to offer his arm as though she was an invalid. Not Jared, she noticed, although she had felt him instinctively gather himself to rise. She only wished she felt as in control of her reactions and actions as he was.

The Coroner took her through all aspects of the box of sweetmeats in exhaustive detail. What she liked and did not like, how long she had been receiving them, who knew about them, why she did not like marchpane.

‘I just do not find it to my taste, sir. It is too sweet. Cloying.’

‘And yet you eat other sweet things? You have established your dislike of marchpane from the beginning?’

‘Well, yes, sir. At least, I never ate those when they were in a box, and Cook knows not to use it in cakes.’ What on earth was he getting at? Established? ‘I did not tell Parmentier’s to omit them until Doctor Felbrigg had warned me that I should reduce the sweet things my husband was eating. Before then Augustus would often help himself to bon-bons from my box. Those were the ones he enjoyed most, so they were the most tempting to him once he had been advised to avoid confectionary for his health.’

‘Can you inform the court how your husband’s will leaves you situated, Lady Northam?’

Guin went through the provisions. ‘I think I have that correctly. My lawyer, who is here, will correct me if I am wrong.’

Mr Foster stood, the perfect image of a solemn family lawyer, his red hair pomaded into submission. ‘I can confirm that while Lady Northam has been left very comfortably provided for, she will not be able to enjoy the standard of living to which she will have become accustomed and that all financial support will cease should she remarry.’ He sat down again and Guin, despite everything, had to hide a smile. Bless him, she thought. He has made it clear that I could not have wanted Augustus dead for the money, at least.

‘Lord Northam was very much your senior. In the natural course of events he would be expected to predecease you by many years. Are there any gentlemen with aspirations to, shall we say, support you in that event, Lady Northam?’

Guin stared at him blankly for a moment the realised what he was asking her. ‘Have I any lovers? Is that your meaning, sir?’ She stood up, shaking more with indignation than anything. ‘Absolutely not. No.’

The Duke was on his feet too, but Mr Runcorn glowered at both of them over his glasses. ‘The question must be asked. Your answer is noted. Kindly resume your seats.’

There were a few innocuous questions to clarify the domestic arrangements and she was allowed back to her place.

Mr Runcorn reached for the clerk’s notes, shuffled them, glanced at them, then handed them back before turning to face the jury. ‘You have viewed the body and have heard it identified as that of Augustus Quenten, Viscount Northam. You have heard Doctor Felbrigg’s evidence, supported by that of his colleague, Doctor Strang, that he died after ingesting a poison, as yet unidentified, which was contained in one or more marchpane sweetmeats from a box in her ladyship’s sitting room. You have heard how these sweetmeats were a regular order and that Lady Northam did not eat marchpane…’

He went on, summarising and organising the evidence without recourse to the notes, and Guin found herself reluctantly admiring his intellect and grasp of the material until he jerked her back to reality by drily recounting the attacks on herself and her own evidence.

‘We have had it established that the attacks upon Lady Northam were inept as attempts at murder. You must therefore now withdraw and decide four things. Firstly, do you agree that the deceased is Augustus Quenten? Secondly, how do you find he met his death? If by poison, say so. If, however, you are uncertain of the means, then that must be stated. Thirdly, do you find accidental death, manslaughter or murder? And if manslaughter or murder, do you identify any person or persons as responsible?’

As Guin stood up so did everyone in the front row, exchanging seats until she was sitting between Sophie and Mrs Cutler. She saw the jury glance over towards her as they filed out and she realised that the other women’s movements had been quite deliberate, not only to give her female support but to remove any possible impression that Jared Hunt was someone she might turn to for comfort.

That question about lovers. The hot, stuffy room suddenly felt very cold. If those twelve complete strangers thought she had murdered her elderly husband then she would be facing a different jury next, on trial for her life.

Time dragged on. The clock struck three and the on-lookers seemed to be holding their collective breath. What could be taking the jury so long? Not the identification, not the cause of death and surely not the question of whether it might be accidental.

Murder by…

A door banged. The clerk came back into court followed by the Coroner and then, finally, the jury shuffled in. They seemed to be looking anywhere but at her as all except the Foreman sat down,. She had heard a dinner guest, a lawyer, remark once that the jury never looked at the prisoner when they came back into court if they had a guilty verdict on a capital offence.

They are going to accuse me. I must be calm, I will not panic. They are going to…

‘Have you reached a decision?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then inform the court of it. Who do you find the deceased to have been?’

‘Augustus Quenten, Viscount Northam, sir.’

‘And the cause of death?’

‘Deliberate poisoning by means of marchpane sweetmeats which had been interfered with, deliberate like, with some poison what isn’t known.’

‘You find, then, that this is murder?’ Mr Runcorn’s voice was cool and precise and a thousand miles away. ‘Not an accidental poisoning?’

‘Yes, sir. Murder.’

He made a note. ‘And do you find any person or persons responsible for this heinous crime?’

My sweetmeats. My supposed lovers. My first husband dead… Guin lifted her head and looked steadily at the Foreman of the jury. She was not going to break down, she was not going to provide a spectacle by screaming or weeping or fainting. She was the Viscountess Northam and Augustus would expect her to behave with dignity and courage, even on the steps of the gallows.

The man’s lips moved. He was speaking but she could hear nothing. Nothing but the thudding of her heart, the whisper of air through her lungs. Nothing.

 

‘We do not, sir. It’s a right mystery to us all. We have to agree on saying person or persons unknown.’ The Foreman gave a hasty bow to the Coroner and sat down as the court erupted into talk and speculation.

Jared let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since the jury re-entered and looked across to Guinevere, stark white and still as the marble statue she resembled. She had been holding up remarkably well, so far. Too well, probably. She needed to give way to her feelings, but not here.

He went to the clerk who was filling in details on some printed form. ‘Is there a back way out of here? Lady Northam has had about as much as she can stand without fighting her way through that mob.’

The man looked up, glanced from Guinevere to the milling throng around the door and stood. ‘Bring the lady with me, sir. Through this door at the back.’

Jared stood right in front of her before her eyes focused on him. ‘Come with me.’ He held out his hand and she took it as though in a trance, let him place it on his arm and then walk her to the far door and through to the shabby vestibule behind it. Stairs led down and he took them, not waiting to talk, focused only on getting her away and safely home.

A hackney was standing almost outside the door, held up by the press of traffic in Piccadilly and he opened the door, almost pushed Guinevere inside and snapped the address to the driver.

‘Sorry about this hackney,’ he apologised as he sat down beside her. ‘But I didn’t want to wait for your own coach. Too much of a crowd around the entrance by now.’ He drew down the blind on that side as they pulled out into the main road at last.

‘Where are we going?’ She sounded as though speaking was an exercise in willpower, the words a phrase in a foreign language.

‘Home, of course. Your house. Guinevere?’ He swivelled on the seat to look at her. ‘Where did you think we were going?’

‘I thought… prison? I couldn’t hear what that man said and then everyone – you and the Duke and Sophie all looked so strange.’

‘We were trying not to look relieved.’ And had managed to look grim in consequence. Lord, she must be going out of her mind with terror. ‘They found murder by person or persons unknown, Guinevere.’

She did not speak, simply turned to him, put her arms around his neck, buried her face into his neck cloth and shook.

‘It’s all right. There now, it’s all right.’ He sat and rocked her, awkward and uncertain. He had never had a woman turn to him for comfort like this. It was not sexual, far from it, but the intensity of her hold on him, the quivering that ran through her, was as physical, as powerful, as any carnal encounter he had ever experienced.

He was used to male emotions, male despair and fear and courage. He knew how to respond to those, how to support his friends, encourage or condole. He had not the first idea what to do with a woman who needed him like this, like a lifeline holding her back from an abyss.

Jared lowered the window and leaned out as far as he was able with his arms around Guinevere. ‘Keep driving, round the parks, anywhere. I’ll tell you when to come back.’

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the driver and Jared pulled the window up again, then unwound Guinevere’s arms from around his neck, gave her a shake and tipped up her face so they were almost nose to nose. ‘You are Not. Going. To. Hang.’

She took a huge, shuddering breath and her eyes lost the blank look that had so worried him. ‘No?’

‘No. And we will find out who did this and they will face justice.’

‘I was so sure they would think it was me. So sure. I owe the Fates, you see,’ she added, her voice still unsteady.

‘Nonsense.’ What the devil was she talking about? ‘You did not kill your husband, you owe the Fates nothing. Do you suppose that some cosmic force will demand repayment for a marriage above your station, a few years of comfort, a title?’

‘I am sorry.’ Guinevere pulled back from him and he released her, the loss of contact as tangible as the sensation when he put down a sword after a fight. ‘I am overwrought, I think. Talking nonsense. I haven’t been sleeping. I miss him so much and I am so angry – how could anyone do that to him?’ She searched in her reticule and came up with a black-bordered handkerchief, blew her nose briskly, even though she had not been crying. ‘What do we do?’

‘I go to Yorkshire. That is where it started, is it not?’

‘I suppose it did. Somehow I never saw it like that, but that was because nothing had been ordinary and calm for so long – meeting Francis, eloping, his death and everything that happened after it. I had been married to Augustus for just over eighteen months and I had only just become used to marriage, to feeling safe, when those strange attacks began.’

She had felt safe when she married. It was a strange word to use, as though she had felt unsafe before then. Jared tucked it away in his mind along with all the other strange happenings and inconsistencies of this problem.

‘Tell me more about Theo Quenten. Was he telling the truth just now?’

‘You noticed that? No, of course not. He had come to ask my husband to pay his debts again, even though he had refused him the week before. I expect Augustus would have relented in the end. He would not have wanted his brother finding out that Theo had got himself in trouble again.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Cards, women, horses. Theo isn’t vicious, I am certain, just young and spoiled. He needs to grow up fast, because he will find himself the Viscount before long, but he’s a good young man at heart.’

‘He would not be desperate enough to try and hasten the process of inheritance along?’

‘No! No… I think he is too intelligent for that. And too fond of Augustus – genuinely, not only as an indulgent uncle who pays the bills. And surely he would have had no opportunity to add those poisoned marchpane sweetmeats to the box?’

He might if he knew about the regular delivery, Jared thought. And he was shifty about staying in the library that day. I wonder just how tame he ran in that household. Guin seemed to like him and trust him, which was a point in his favour. Unless she has other feelings for him entirely. He’s a good-looking young man and her own age. No, he had believed her when she had told him she had been faithful to her husband. But he would set Dover to investigating the young man, even so.

Jared dropped the window again and called up to the driver to go to Clarges Street.

‘Make up your mind, guv’nor,’ the man retorted. ‘Still, it’s your money.’ He cracked the whip and the hackney turned left.

‘I will come in with you, if I may, get as many details as possible and a note from you to the housekeeper, or whoever is in charge at Allerton Grange, to cooperate with me, answer questions.’

‘That will not be necessary.’ Guinevere seemed to be changing before his eyes, her shoulders were back, her chin was up, her voice calm. ‘I will come with you.’

‘That would not be a good idea.’ However much I wish you would.

‘Jared, I find, more than anything, that I am angry. More than angry. Furious. I am not going to sit at home, draping myself in widow’s weeds and wringing my hands while you hunt this… this… Oh, I do not know a bad enough word for them!’

Jared was not going to supply one for her, although he could think of several. He wondered why he had no trouble at all asserting himself with men and yet one word from him was enough, apparently, to set Guinevere off in exactly the opposite direction to the one he wanted her to take.

‘Your reputation – ’

‘To the blazes with my reputation. Just so long as no-one decides to hang me for it, I no longer care,’ she snapped. ‘That was hellish at the inquest – and without the support of you and Sophie and the Duke, and the staff being so loyal and sensible, it would have been even more of a nightmare. It is time I fought back. I am going to get justice for Augustus and I am going to punish whoever has been torturing us for weeks.’

‘Very well.’ She was an adult, she appeared to have recovered from the shock of the murder, even though she was still grieving and distressed. If she wanted to go to Yorkshire, then he could hardly stop her. Jared took a sideways look at his own conscience. Had he just decided that because he wanted to be with her? No. Probably not. He hoped not. As for the attraction that had flared between them in his apartment, well, that was doubtless the result of how disorientated and upset Guinevere had been. It had not been real on her part and she was certain to be hoping and praying that he had forgotten all about it.

Unfortunately, I have an excellent memory.

 

Where had it come from, that flood of anger, of fighting energy? Guin found she could hardly sit still while the hackney carriage wound its way back to Clarges Street. One glance at Jared’s expressionless face, though, was enough to bring her down to earth. He was not happy about this, although he had the sense to know he could hardly stop her travelling to Allerton Grange if she wanted to. But he did not want her to go with him. Which meant, she supposed, that he did not want her and he had thought better of his response to her insane burst of frankness in his apartment.

‘There is no need to be afraid that I will expect more than your escort,’ Guin said firmly. ‘I think I was not at all myself the other day in your rooms. I was in shock. I know I can rely on you to forget what was said.’ There, that was straightforward and assertive and clear.

Something changed in Jared’s expression, but she could not interpret it. ‘That should make for a considerably more tranquil journey,’ he said.

And suddenly she realised that he was amused and, possibly, more than a little relieved. But he was not laughing at her, rather at whatever it was between them, this strange relationship they had been pitchforked into.

‘I thought so,’ she said calmly. ‘I can tell that you value tranquillity.’

‘Above anything,’ Jared said, and now she could see that he was biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. ‘I strive for it constantly. Nothing I like better than nice dull tranquillity.’

‘I can imagine,’ she agreed solemnly, then remembered that there was more to his life than finding out who was attacking Lord and Lady Northam. ‘But what about your salle d’armes and your new apartment?’

Jared shrugged. ‘I accepted your husband’s commission knowing it would have an effect on that. There is nothing now that my new manservant cannot manage day to day for the next two weeks.’

‘But when you agreed to help us you did not think it was going to take you out of London, did you? No, I thought not,’ she said when he made a dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘I cannot allow you to be out of pocket over this. Naturally I will cover all your expenses and double what Augustus has already paid you.’

The amusement vanished like the sudden frazzle of burnt hair under over-hot curling tongs. ‘I have been more than adequately paid for this commission by Lord Northam. I will not take more from you.’

‘You have a living to make. I do not expect my doctor or my lawyer to work for free, to forego expenses, simply because I am a woman, because they feel sorry for me,’ she protested and saw as soon as she had spoken that it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Now I have hurt his pride, she thought. Damn. ‘Nor do I expect my friends to be out of pocket for helping me,’ she added, praying he would not notice the faintest hesitation between the two statements.

‘Then I think we had better be clear exactly what I am, Lady Northam. I am your late husband’s agent, paid by him, accountable to the agreement I made with him. I am not a lawyer, not a doctor. I am a swordsman, a bodyguard. I am, if necessary, the death of anyone attempting to harm you. Nor am I your friend nor – we have just most sensibly agreed – your lover. You are a viscountess, I am a hired man. The executors will have an accounting of my expenses. Nothing more.’