showed in her expression. Her hand trembled a little, but she hoped he would dismiss that as lover’s nerves. “But my brother did die that day. Shouldn’t you tell me the whole of it so that we may begin our life together with a clean slate?”
He must have believed her, for Tretham nodded, his downturned lips pressed tightly together. “I meant only for Leighton to get hurt. And even then I did not intend him to die. How was I to know that they would use his curricle to race to Brighton that day? I thought they meant only to go as far as The Pig and Whistle in the village.”
Tretham’s eyes pleaded with her for forgiveness but as Portia listened to his vile tale she could only think of the devastation her brother’s death had wrought upon her family. All because the man before her, whom she hadn’t even noticed that summer, had wanted her for himself. Had imagined something more than mere friendship between her and Tony. She closed her eyes at the sheer madness of it all.
“And I made sure to weaken the axle on the side Leighton favored,” Tretham continued, oblivious to her reaction to his tale. “I’d watched him all summer tooling that ridiculous equipage around with its bright yellow wheels. He never sat on the right hand side. But I suppose the physics of it—I’ve never been very good at science—meant that instead of dumping him to the ground when it broke, instead your brother was the one who was flung farther. They were fools to drive that fast on such a narrow lane. And it was simply the worst sort of luck that made your brother strike his head on that rock.”
Luck, Portia fumed. Luck had nothing to do with what had happened to her brother that day. Unable to look at the man who had just confessed to murdering her baby brother, Portia stood abruptly and walked over to the window overlooking the back garden.
When she reached the casement, she stared unseeing at the scene beyond. The limestone balcony, which straddled this small sitting room, and the study next door was one of her favorite features of this house. On brisk mornings she liked to step outside and gaze on the rather pretty flower garden her mother maintained. But the view was the last thing on her mind at the moment.
“My dear,” Tretham said from behind her—she could hear him approaching her. “Please say you can forgive me. I did it all for you. Every bit of it just so that we could be together.”
Unwilling to turn and look at the villain who had killed in her name, Portia looked westward toward the rose arbor, only to give a sharp intake of breath.
For there, standing just out of Tretham’s line of sight, stood Tony, the finger of his right hand pressed to his lips in the universal sign for “quiet,” the finger of his left hand on the trigger of one of Manton’s best dueling pistols.
Chapter Seven
When Tony had begun the week, he’d been determined to find a way to assuage Portia’s doubts about the viability of a match between them. Though it would be impossible for him to catch up to her age or for her to drop down to his, he did believe that there was a way to ensure all but the tamest of scandals surrounded their betrothal.
Because even after all these years there was still some speculation that he had something to do with James Bascombe’s death, Tony decided that clearing his name in that matter would go a long way toward calming the most vicious gossips.
From the beginning, though he’d been unable to remember anything after setting out in the curricle on their way to Brighton that morning, Tony had suspected that something had gone very wrong with the curricle itself. He had maintained his pride and joy with the tender loving care of a mother bird for her baby chick. And he had known every last inch of it down to the last bolt. When he had checked it for signs of wear and tear that morning he had seen nothing untoward. Unfortunately, after the accident, it had been so badly damaged that it had
He must have believed her, for Tretham nodded, his downturned lips pressed tightly together. “I meant only for Leighton to get hurt. And even then I did not intend him to die. How was I to know that they would use his curricle to race to Brighton that day? I thought they meant only to go as far as The Pig and Whistle in the village.”
Tretham’s eyes pleaded with her for forgiveness but as Portia listened to his vile tale she could only think of the devastation her brother’s death had wrought upon her family. All because the man before her, whom she hadn’t even noticed that summer, had wanted her for himself. Had imagined something more than mere friendship between her and Tony. She closed her eyes at the sheer madness of it all.
“And I made sure to weaken the axle on the side Leighton favored,” Tretham continued, oblivious to her reaction to his tale. “I’d watched him all summer tooling that ridiculous equipage around with its bright yellow wheels. He never sat on the right hand side. But I suppose the physics of it—I’ve never been very good at science—meant that instead of dumping him to the ground when it broke, instead your brother was the one who was flung farther. They were fools to drive that fast on such a narrow lane. And it was simply the worst sort of luck that made your brother strike his head on that rock.”
Luck, Portia fumed. Luck had nothing to do with what had happened to her brother that day. Unable to look at the man who had just confessed to murdering her baby brother, Portia stood abruptly and walked over to the window overlooking the back garden.
When she reached the casement, she stared unseeing at the scene beyond. The limestone balcony, which straddled this small sitting room, and the study next door was one of her favorite features of this house. On brisk mornings she liked to step outside and gaze on the rather pretty flower garden her mother maintained. But the view was the last thing on her mind at the moment.
“My dear,” Tretham said from behind her—she could hear him approaching her. “Please say you can forgive me. I did it all for you. Every bit of it just so that we could be together.”
Unwilling to turn and look at the villain who had killed in her name, Portia looked westward toward the rose arbor, only to give a sharp intake of breath.
For there, standing just out of Tretham’s line of sight, stood Tony, the finger of his right hand pressed to his lips in the universal sign for “quiet,” the finger of his left hand on the trigger of one of Manton’s best dueling pistols.
Chapter Seven
When Tony had begun the week, he’d been determined to find a way to assuage Portia’s doubts about the viability of a match between them. Though it would be impossible for him to catch up to her age or for her to drop down to his, he did believe that there was a way to ensure all but the tamest of scandals surrounded their betrothal.
Because even after all these years there was still some speculation that he had something to do with James Bascombe’s death, Tony decided that clearing his name in that matter would go a long way toward calming the most vicious gossips.
From the beginning, though he’d been unable to remember anything after setting out in the curricle on their way to Brighton that morning, Tony had suspected that something had gone very wrong with the curricle itself. He had maintained his pride and joy with the tender loving care of a mother bird for her baby chick. And he had known every last inch of it down to the last bolt. When he had checked it for signs of wear and tear that morning he had seen nothing untoward. Unfortunately, after the accident, it had been so badly damaged that it had
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