"Why the devil do you think?"
I balled my hands. To think I'd fretted about the tracker, wondering if it were Westin's killer. All this time it had been Brandon. It fit. He knew better than most how to follow someone about without being seen. Hell, he had taught me.
My hands tightened. "You thought I knew where Louisa was. You thought I'd come down here to see her."
"Can you blame me? Why else would you gallivant down to the country? You do not even know these people."
"They were at Badajoz," I said. "Did it not occur to you that I was still poking into the question of Captain Spencer's death?"
"Of course it occurred to me. You can never let well enough alone. But one conclusion does not preclude the other."
I stared at him. "Did you think I'd brought her with me? How damned stupid do you think I am?"
We faced each other, fists clenched. The sun shone down on us, the bright, soft morning belying the storm that ever roiled between us.
Brandon was speaking again, rapidly. "I would have thought you'd had enough of scandal. If you have her hidden somewhere, I swear I will have you arrested."
"You are an idiot. I do not know where she is."
"Damn it, Gabriel, do not lie to me. I am surprised it is not all over the scandal sheets along with all your other adventures."
I leaned to him. "It will be if you do not stop making such a pig's breakfast of it. You can follow me all over England and make scenes and look overjoyed when you think me dead, but I still do not know where your wife is."
I watched him lose strength. A warm breeze stirred his hair, brushed a loose brown lock across his cheek. "Then where did she go? If she did not go to you, then tell me where she went."
That question still troubled me as well. Lady Aline's letter had only told me she was safe, and I trusted Lady Aline to know that. But I wanted to know myself. I wanted to see her, to hold her hand, to reassure myself that all was well.
"Louisa's note said she needed time alone," I reminded him.
"Alone, where? Do you think she has gone to the continent?" He paused and would not look at me. "Or to a lover?"
"She would not disgrace you like that. If she wanted to abandon you for another, no doubt she would look you in the face and tell you so."
He did not appear convinced. But I knew that Louisa had no slyness in her, no deceit. She would rather face her husband with the truth than resort to trickery. She had left him for some other reason, a reason he could not see beyond his fear and jealousy.
A dart of pain laced my heart. On the Peninsula, when Brandon had cast her out, Louisa had come to me. I had been dreaming of that hot night when I'd walked down to the bridge in the night I'd saved Lydia Westin. Louisa had come to me, ill with weeping, and had thrown her arms about me. Her golden hair had tangled on my shoulder, and for the first time since I'd met her, I dared furrow it with my fingers.
This time, she had not turned to me. Whatever Louisa had needed or wanted, she had known I could not give it to her. This time, she had left me as well.
I ended the futile quarrel by turning from him and walking back to the house in silence.
The inquest of Viscount Breckenridge was held the next day at the public house, the Crow and Cross, in the village. The local magistrate had called in a magistrate from London, Sir Montague Harris, a rotund man obviously fond of his beefsteak and port, but one with a shrewd eye.
Colonel Brandon stood up and described how he had found the body. He had been staying in the village, he said, in fact, here at the Crow and Cross. He had decided the morning in question to walk along Linden Hill Lane. He had wanted a brisk walk and thought it would be just the thing.
This caused the coroner to ask why he was in their corner of Kent at all? To take the country air after the hot closeness of London, he replied. The Londoners in the crowd nodded in commiseration.
Had he attended the exhibition of the pugilist, Jack Sharp? No, Brandon replied. He did not like blood sports. This caused a murmur of disapproval from all those who had flocked down for their fill of the blood sport.
So far Brandon had delivered his answers in a strong, matter-of-fact voice. But when he began to describe how he had found the body and what he had done, his hands clenched into hard fists, and he kept his eyes firmly fixed two feet to the right of the coroner.
He had gone walking, as he'd said, about nine o'clock that morning. Upon reaching the crest of the hill, he'd notice that branches to the right of him had been snapped and broken, as though someone had tried to force a path through the undergrowth. Upon investigating, he had spotted the body of Lord Breckenridge lying facedown in the brush. The man had been dressed for riding, but no horse was about.
Had he gone down to the body? No? Why not? Because, Brandon said, he could see at once that the man was dead and Brandon would likely need help to lift him back to the road. Thought it more sensible to go at once for help.
The coroner shrugged, but Sir Montague Harris leaned forward. Why had Brandon made for the manor house rather than the village, which was closer? Brandon, reddening, answered that he had been acquainted with members of the house party there and naturally turned to people he knew.
Sir Montague sat back, satisfied. Then Brandon, as if suddenly remembering, said that of course he had sought out Astley Close because Lord Breckenridge had been a guest there and of course his friends would want to know if he'd been hurt.
The coroner, looking uninterested, nodded. Prompted, Brandon continued that he'd entered the stables where the grooms and stable hands had been readying horses for exercise. Brandon had reported the death and asked to be taken to the main house. Upon reaching the house, he'd found the only guest awake had been Mr. Grenville, to whom he had repeated the account of the accident.
The coroner carefully noted all this and dismissed him. Brandon visibly relaxed as he walked back to his chair. He hated to lie, and was bad at it, just as I was. And he was certainly lying about how he'd found the body. Not about all of it, but about a good part, if I were any judge.
Grenville and the stable lad and I all concurred with Brandon's story of his first going to the stables and then to the main house. We each related how we'd gone up the hill with Brandon and found Breckenridge together. Neither Brandon nor Grenville mentioned Brandon's certainty that the dead man had been me, and I did not volunteer the information.
I did mention the saddle. I explained my reasoning, that Breckenridge would have used his own cavalry saddle, which he'd said he preferred, when it was so close to hand. Sir Montague listened, his eyes fastened on me, taking in every word. I used the opportunity to mention the marks I'd found on the road, and concluded that, in my opinion, the death warranted further investigation.
The coroner eyed me in dislike. He was sitting on the body of a viscount-a peer, not an unfortunate farmhand. He wanted a simple accident, and here I was trying to complicate things.
Once all statements were made, a doctor was consulted who agreed that Lord Breckenridge had died when his neck was severed early on the morning of his death. The coroner finished his note-taking, and then instructed the jury.
Notwithstanding Captain Lacey's remarks, he said, they must decide whether they thought this a clear enough accident. There was nothing to stop a man from changing his mind and using a different saddle if the whim took him. The marks on the road could have been made at any time. The horse was found, Lord Breckenridge had been dressed for riding, and for what other purpose could he have gone up the hill?
The jury did not deliberate long. To the coroner's obvious relief, they returned with the verdict I expected-Lord Breckenridge had died while accidentally falling from his horse.