Page 25 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

V incent could not stay in that manor with the two women who seemed determined to unravel his dignity and respectability in one way or another.

Not without losing his mind, at least. So, he had informed them that he meant to retire for the evening, claiming weariness from his journey back from London.

But rather than head upstairs to his chambers, he slipped out into the dusk, saddled his horse, and took off toward sanity.

The moment he stepped into the noise and smoke of the Oxford Gentlemen’s Club—a rather smaller affair than what he was used to in London—he felt a little of the weight slide from his shoulders. Here, no bothersome women could cause him any trouble.

“Grayling, is that you?” a surprising voice called out, drawing Vincent’s attention to the nearest drinking parlor.

Seated in the corner were two faces who could not have been a more welcome sight.

“What on earth are you doing in Oxford?” Vincent asked with a relieved smile, weaving around a collection of round tables and their attached inebriates.

Edmund and Lionel rose to greet their friend, clapping him on the back, ushering him into a seat. At the same time, Edmund gestured to a passing waiter to bring a glass of whatever they were sipping.

“Business,” Lionel said with a groan. “You know I hate being dragged away from Westyork, but there was a matter that required my attention.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “You are not contending with the office of Philbert I have been in London this past week, far from her… irksome ways.”

“London, eh?” Edmund tilted his head. “So, are you saying there is, perhaps, a young lady in the Capital who has inspired you? Might the evasive Lord Grayling finally be considering marriage?”

In that moment, Vincent wished he could have been more like the missing member of their quartet, Duncan.

Not the Duncan who existed now, utterly besotted with his wife, Valeria, but the Duncan before Valeria, who had been a renowned rake.

A man who had never been without stories about endless women.

Of course, Vincent did not actually want to be a rake, but he wanted to have something other than Beatrice to discuss with his friends. He did not want her to keep sliding into his thoughts, unbidden and confusing, making him feel utterly unanchored from his usual self.

“Isolde was just saying the other day that she wondered why you and Miss Johnson did not just marry,” Edmund continued, sipping his drink pensively. “I suppose she thinks that will solve your current predicament.”

Curiosity tickled the back of Vincent’s mind. “And what did you have to say to that? Last time I saw you, you were trying to figure out if she is truly cursed or not.”

“I said that, for your safety, I could not agree,” Edmund replied. “The notion in general, however, does make a good deal of sense. If she were someone else, I mean.”

Lionel eyed his two friends closely. “You know, I never thought I would marry because of my curse, yet here I am: joyfully married and as healthy as horse.” He shrugged.

“Admittedly, mine is a rather different curse, but I… suppose I feel sorry for her. It cannot be easy to be so incessantly discussed and scrutinized after so much bad fortune; it is rather like pouring salt on a wound.”

“So, you do not think she played a part in the deaths of those men?” Vincent could not help but ask, for it was a question that haunted him often enough.

The Beatrice he knew and had spent time around would not be capable of something so terrible, but perhaps she had a hidden side that only emerged on wedding days. A monster of some kind that craved freedom so fiercely that it would remove any obstacle.

Even that makes no sense, he realized. She would wait a while, until she could be considered a true widow, instead of being in her current situation over and over.

“I highly doubt it,” Lionel replied, lowering his voice.

“I happen to know the physician who attended two of the deaths, and he heard the details of the third from the physician who attended that one. As far as I am concerned, it is nothing but absolute tragedy, and the things they say about Miss Johnson are naught but cruelty to a woman who has suffered so terribly.”

Vincent leaned in, his curiosity no longer a tickle but a fever in his skull. “What did you hear about the deaths? What do you know of Beatrice in those moments?”

“I know that Lord Albany was found in his study,” Lionel replied in a hushed voice.

“His valet was stationed outside the entire time, so no one could have gone in or out without his notice.

Indeed, it was the valet that found him, slumped over.

The physician studied the heart and determined that it was apoplexy, brought on by the two bottles of whiskey that Lord Albany decided to drink at his wedding festivities.

“Lord Brinkley was a far sadder case,” he continued with a sigh.

“ He was discovered in the hallway, apparently on his way to visit his bride. The physician found a fragment of bone in his throat, which had gotten stuck, and must have turned at the wrong moment—perhaps, he coughed or tried to clear his throat—blocking his ability to breathe. It was Miss Johnson herself who found him.”

“And the last one?” Edmund prompted, wearing an expression of fascination that must have been reflected on Vincent’s face.

He had never heard the full details before, as it had never concerned him until he suddenly became the heir to Wycliffe. Indeed, he had been glad that the suspicion and rumors had sent Beatrice into hiding, for it meant that Prudence could not be influenced by her.

And look how well that turned out…

Lionel took a sip of his brandy. “Dead in his bed. No real cause that the physician could find, but there were no fewer than three maids who attested to the fact that Miss Johnson had not left her rooms that night, and that no one came in or out of Lord Wycliffe’s rooms. There was some discussion of poison, but the kitchens confirmed that he had not drunk or eaten anything since dinner, and there is no poison that can kill a man after so many hours.

Not without him feeling unwell first which, according to the staff and Miss Johnson herself, he did not. ”

“It is strange thought, is it not—each husband, on their wedding night?” Edmund remarked, sitting back in his chair now that all of the macabre details had been told.

Lionel nodded. “Undeniably so. I have never believed in actual curses, the kind of witchcraft and sorcery rather than of the blood, but I must say… it is challenging to think of another cause.”

“Society is determined to make a murderess of her, even now,” Edmund said, nodding. “They call her all sorts of unpleasant things, despite what the physicians and witnesses have said. Then again, I know her to some degree, and even I struggle to believe that someone can simply be that unlucky.”

Lionel paused, tilting his head to one side. “You do not actually think she killed them, do you?”

Taking a sip of his drink, Vincent also turned his keen attention toward Edmund, almost daring him to say that he did believe it. You do not know her as I do. If you think she could do that, you do not know her at all.

“It is hard to say,” Edmund replied. “It is certainly a mystery that has no choice but to make one consider accomplices or false testimonies. I know that Lord Albany was rather a cruel man, so perhaps his servants were not inclined to speak in his favor. But Lord Brinkley was a good, decent man. Then again, his death was slightly different, and maybe that is why. And I know nothing of Lord Wycliffe so I cannot speak on that.”

Vincent’s eye twitched as he listened to his friend cast aspersions on Beatrice.

His logic dictated that Edmund was coming up with reasonable enough suggestions of what might have happened, but Vincent could not get his mind to even consider it.

Rather than agreement, anger simmered inside him instead, his entire being tensing as if preparing to fight.

“But no, I just cannot bring myself to believe it,” Edmund added, shaking his head.

“I trust my wife; she does not think Miss Johnson would ever do such a thing, so I do not. Not really. It is strange and suspicious, and the timing cannot be coincidence, and yet, I think she is ultimately innocent.”

That spike of anger receded with those words, though Vincent needed another moment to slow the quickening of his breaths.

He gulped down what was left in his glass, stunned by his behavior.

He had been ready to fight his friend in order to defend Beatrice’s honor, and he had the most awful feeling that nothing would have been able to stop him.

Edmund remained oblivious to the danger he had almost been in, but the fact lingered in Vincent’s veins, making his blood run cold.

What on earth has she done to me?

Lionel might not have believed in witchcraft and sorcery, but Vincent was beginning to.