The Wicked Truth

“Touch him,” Neil whispered—a dare, a plea, permission? “To say farewell.”

Following his example, she tucked her hat and cane under one arm and removed one glove. Then she laid her fingertips on Terry’s left cheek. The coldness of his skin stunned her and her heart lurched in her breast. Her throat worked desperately. This couldn’t be all that was left! Not of her warm, exasperating Terry who was never still for a moment, always laughing, teasing, wriggling with enthusiasm. Her hand curled in a fist before her eyes, the knuckles white as Terry’s skin. Neil’s grasp on her elbow pulled her away and turned her, breaking the horrified spell.

Wordlessly, they returned to the family pew, sat down and replaced their gloves. The sound of the scuffling feet of other mourners covered his next words. He leaned toward her so that his lips were near her ear. “Weep later. Promise yourself you can, and dwell on that. Delay it.”

She realized what he was doing. In the midst of his own grief, he was giving her advice on how to cover her own turmoil. He must know that, as a woman, she’d never been called upon to conceal her tears. Men always were.

“Count the flower petals,” she returned in kind, nodding. She patted his thigh gently, offering the little consolation she could. He shifted uncomfortably, and Elizabeth snatched her hand away, suddenly aware of the intimacy of her unthinking gesture.

“Whatever it takes,” he mumbled, fiddling with his watch fob. He eased the watch out of its pocket and held it for a moment. Then he put it back impatiently, as though realizing it would not appear proper to glance at the time now. So he was anxious to have this over. His habit with the watch irri-tated her, especially now, even though she had felt much the same ever since they’d arrived.

For a moment there, she’d thought he was concerned about her. A warm feeling of comfort had begun to develop. Now she understood. If she were unmasked by one of the guests, he could be adjudged guilty along with her, as an accomplice. A coldness rivaling that of death drove out all warmth. She felt desolate, empty.

Others—she counted only fourteen, including servants—made their way to the coffin, and out of mourning, respect or curiosity, took their turns at view. She recognized no one among the mourners.

One by one they approached Neil and muttered their regrets and comforts. Due to her proximity to the earl, she was next to receive the handshakes and murmurs. Those in attendance obviously believed her to be a close friend of the family. She quirked a brow at the thought. And so she was.

When everyone was seated, the service began. She grasped every word and examined it for truth as applied to Terry. In turn, she had to hold back tears, laughter and outrage. When the vicar finally closed his mouth, her relief was so great she wanted to scream with it. The clear, pure tenor of the vicar’s wife rose in an a cappella version of “Amazing Grace.” Elizabeth soothed herself with the thought that Terry at least would have appreciated that. All the rest would have been a grand old joke—the vicar’s syrupy eulogizing of a budding rake he barely knew, his ignorance of Terry’s blatant irreverence in the face of a solemn occasion. God in heaven, she wanted to hear him laugh about it. She smiled for Terry.

Neil’s dark look promptly erased it.

Elizabeth used the fear of discovery to distract herself from her grief. She dedicated her every gesture, each facial expression to his memory, calling up his actions and reactions like required recitations in the schoolroom.

Thankfully, the entombment would take place after the mourners had departed. Terry would lie beside his father and the mother he had never known in the stone vault behind the chapel, with all the former earls and their families.

Elizabeth left the chapel, head down, avoiding the others. Dismal fog hung about the churchyard like apall, persisting long after it should have burned away. She craved sunshine, but perhaps this suited. Terry would never see the sun again.

Due to Gormsloft’s proximity to London, none of those who had driven down for the ceremony would be staying the night. After less than an hour of desultory mingling outside the ancient stone chapel, the gentlemen returned to their coaches and departed for town, their noble duty done. On with life.

Neil excused himself to oversee the entombment, and MacLinden ushered Elizabeth inside the old keep to wait. They sat at the table in the drafty old hall while the caretaker’s woman went to fetch tea.

The inspector drew out his ever present pipe and gripped it between his straight, white teeth. He drew on it once as though it were lighted, causing an irritating little sucking sound. “The service was rather nice, wasn’t it?”

Elizabeth stared at him, incredulous. She recalled the pious, beak-nosed vicar and his nauseating nonsense about Terry’s being the flower of England’s youth. Terry would have choked. And all that trash about his death being God’s will made her see red. Her thoughts spilled out. “God’s will, indeed! I wanted to smack the fellow in the teeth with my cane!” She huffed and shivered. “Bloody fool. Why couldn’t he just call down God’s vengeance on the bastard that shot Terry and be done with it?”

“Now, now, steady on, Betts. Man’s just doin’ what he can to keep his living here. Not his fault he’s no talent for the pulpit. You’re just-overset.”

Lindy ran a finger around the rim of his bowler as he changed the subject. “Didn’t happen to notice a familiar face or voice, did you?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “The man from the theater? No, I’m afraid not. Matter of fact, I didn’t see a soul I know personally.” She frowned at the thought. “Not many attended. Probably because of Terry’s relationship with me.”

“Quite possibly,” he agreed. The good inspector certainly wasn’t one to gloss things over, she thought

They fell silent for a while. MacLinden sucked on his pipe. Elizabeth glared at him until he wrinkled his nose in apology and tucked it back in its special pocket.

Not long after tea, Neil returned and curtly announced he was ready to leave. MacLinden bade them a perfunctory fare-well and took his own rig, intending to stop over in Charing Cross.

For Elizabeth and Neil, the three-hour ride back to the city was silent but for the creaking of the coach springs and the sound of hoofbeats. From under lowered lashes, she studied her companion from time to time. Encased in tense silence, he gripped his engraved gold watch in a bare, fisted hand as he stared out the window into the darkness. His thumb rubbed the watchcase in a hard, circular motion, as though the thing were a talisman to ward off pain.

They arrived at the town house well after nine. Elizabeth pulled her stifling cravat loose and sank down on the bed in the countess’s chamber of the master suite. Neil had finally agreed to allow her to sleep here, but not before locking her hall door so that the only way out was through his room. He was alone in the adjoining room now and the silence was deafening,

Was he crying for Terry? His eyes had looked bloodshot throughout the day’s ordeal, the irises so dark a blue they appeared black. She felt a new respect for men and their capacity to remain dry-eyed in situations such as this. Even though she’d wept copiously the night before, the funeral had nearly destroyed her composure all over again.

Because of the autopsy, Terry had not lain in state at the town house, but had been carried directly from the morgue to the mortician and then to the chapel at Gormsloft. Though she had braced herself for it, seeing his sweet face composed in death had come as a frightful shock. It had taken all her concentration to hold herself in check.

Divesting herself of her male attire, Elizabeth drew on one. of Terry’s dressing gowns. She hugged it about her as though she could draw some of the young earl’s former warmth. Then she cried again for the friend who was gone forever.

Later, she woke to a clinking sound from next door. She slid out of bed and was lighting the lamp as the door opened. Neil appeared, balancing a tray on one hand.

“I suspect you are little at tea. Are you hungry?” he asked. Elizabeth stepped away so that he could deposit his burden on the bedside table beside the lamp.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of burnt toast. “You cooked?”

He shrugged his shoulders. His voice sounded constrained and hoarse. “Not very well, I’m afraid. There’s ham, compliments of Lindy’s mother, and I’ve done up some eggs. Bread’s a mite singed at the edge, but there you are. Tea’s good and hot.” Not once had he looked up.

They stood close enough to touch. Elizabeth reached out. She couldn’t seem to help herself. It was the first time in memory that anyone had given a thought to her comfort who hadn’t been paid to do so. Even her father had ignored her for the most part after her mother died. Now Neil, despite his suffering, worried that she might be hungry.

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