Page 45 of Mischief at Marsden Manor

Yes, of course they did. If it had been an accident, no one was guilty of murder, or even criminal negligence.

I should have questioned Crispin more closely on why he believed that Cecily wouldn’t have done this to herself, I realized, but of course I hadn’t had the opportunity right then. And—I glanced in the direction of Laetitia and St George—there was no possible way I could question him now. Not without the entire table hearing me.

Although… would that be so bad? It would certainly get the conversation going, and if people were thrown off balance and talking impulsively, perhaps someone might let something slip.

“St George.”

He looked up and over, harassment clear in his expression.

“When you were in Cecily’s room last night?—”

Laetitia’s eyes narrowed. Someone gasped. Crispin sighed. “Yes, Darling. Was it really necessary to say it like that?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I told him sweetly. “You weren’t the only one, after all.”

“No, I’m sure I wasn’t.”

Every other conversation had stopped dead now, while everyone was watching us. Laetitia leaned away from Crispin but kept her eyes on me. The expression in them could have peeled the skin from my bones.

I ignored her in favor of her fiancé. “Was she drinking tea, by any chance, when you were in there?”

He eyed me silently for a moment. “As a matter of fact she was.”

“Did you bring it to her?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know who did?”

“No,” Crispin said. “I didn’t see it arrive, and she didn’t mention it.”

That was too bad. I had hoped she might have said something at a point when she would have had no reason to lie, and no inkling that something was wrong with the tea.

“Would anyone else like to confess?”

There was the sound of a collective intake of breath and an almost visible stiffening of spines that spread around the table, and suddenly everyone was talking, all over one another.

Laetitia raised her voice. “Quiet!”

The voices cut off as if by a knife. Laetitia turned to me. “Miss Darling.”

“Lady Laetitia.”

She scowled at me. “Why are you asking about the tea?”

“That should be obvious, shouldn’t it?” I flicked a glance at Crispin, who made a face. “If this didn’t happen on its own, someone made it happen. And the tea is a likely vehicle.”

There was a moment of appalled silence. Then?—

“That’s an awful suggestion, young woman,” Bilge Fortescue said roughly. “I’ll have you know that it’s a lot more common than you might think.”

‘It’ being a spontaneous miscarriage, I assumed. His wife made a pained sound, and he looked immediately guilty, before reaching out and putting a paw on her shoulder. “Sorry, Serena. But you know?—”

Serena bit her lip, eyes on the table, while she blinked rapidly. Not just a loss, it seemed, but a recent one.

“I’m sorry to have brought up a difficult subject,” I said, since I certainly hadn’t been going for this kind of reaction. “It wasn’t my intention to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Or not this kind of uncomfortable, at any rate. Guilty and afraid, yes, in the event that they had murdered Cecily. But upset because they had lost a baby of their own, certainly not.