The Spare by Carolyn Jewel Page B

slow.
    "A good many women."
    "That's familiar." Sebastian pulled himself straighter yet in the hopes of easing the pain in his side, but everything cramped or throbbed or just plain hurt. Ahead of him, James put an arm around Miss Willow's waist.
    "He changed. Completely. Why, he even started coming to Sunday services, and the women— That stopped entirely. Not so much as a whisper. Your brother stayed at Pennhyll, and if he gave parties, it wasn't for his friends from London. He invited the local gentry."
    "If that's so, then Andrew indeed changed."
    "Yes."
    "What of his countess, Mr. Verney?"
    He drew a breath. "Lady Tiern-Cope was not suited to life in the country."
    "Meaning?"
    "After a time, your brother—" Verney grimaced. "How shall I say this? He became suspicious of his wife."
    "With reason?" Sebastian sat on an upholstered bench nestled between a Fra Angelico and a pieta by an artist he did not recognize.
    The clergyman pressed his lips together. "There was some unpleasantness." He lifted his hands. "Gossip, my Lord."
    "When did the gossip begin?"
    "I can't give a precise date, really."
    Sebastian raised one eyebrow.
    "I'd say a year and a half before the tragedy of their death. Yes, I'd say that's so."
    He kept his face still and cast out a lure just to see what might come back on the hook. "I have reason to believe, Mr. Verney, that at the time of his death Andrew had a liaison." From the corner of his eye, he saw James with his arm still around Miss Willow's waist, leaning to whisper something to her.
    "My heavens." Verney sank onto the bench next to Sebastian. "This is a surprise. I cannot imagine who, my Lord. Indeed, I cannot."
    He studied Verney. "Two years ago Miss Willow returned to Far Caister."
    Verney flashed the color of a beet. "Oh, that is quite impossible. Absolutely not." He threw an arm into the air to punctuate his words. "Your brother may once have earned a certain reputation, but I repeat, he reformed. To suggest that Miss Willow could be enticed to— It doesn't bear thinking. You mistake her, my Lord." His voice shook with passion. "Oh, gravely, indeed. That poor girl nearly died."
    Verney collapsed forward, elbows on his knees, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders heaved once, and then stilled. When he lifted his head, his expression was utter misery. "Nearly two days without waking and then fever. We expected she would die any moment. Thank the heavens, she did not. Dr. Richards said even if she lived she might not regain her full faculties. And for a time, so it seemed. My God, but I never saw a woman so altered. Miss Willow was full of life and spirit and to see her like that—at death's door. My heart broke. Praise God she recovered."
    The others were far enough ahead they hadn't heard the outburst. He didn't sound like a man with reason to jilt his intended bride. He sounded more like a man still in love. "If I am forced to ask unpleasant questions, sir, it is because the inquest was a whitewash. Whoever killed my brother and his wife walks free because the woman who could answer my questions recalls nothing. Nothing at all."
    "For which one may say God is indeed merciful."
    He leaned against the wall, stretching out one leg. "Mr. Verney, what do you know of that night?"
    Verney opened his mouth, then closed it. "The earl and countess gave a party, as I am sure you know. Miss Willow came. Keep in mind, I was not a witness. I did not attend as I was feeling poorly. Would I had not stayed home."
    "Had you already broken with Miss Willow?"
    Verney turned white. "You are well informed, my Lord. However, I must answer that before that day, the thought never entered my mind. Indeed, I had decided to marry her. We'd worked closely on the school, and I had every reason to admire and respect her character and her spirit. My affection for her was firm and resolute. If I'd gone to the party, perhaps what happened might have been prevented." His voice went low. "We might now be