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“What happened to Betsy?” he asked.

“I’m not supposed to know,” the boy confided.

“But I heard Da talking this morning. Betsy didn’t come home from work yesterday.

We waited and waited until supper got cold.

Da got mad and said he never should have allowed her to work in the glove shop in the first place and he was going to make her quit. Then he told us to eat our dinner.

“But even after we were done and the dishes were put away she still didn’t come home.

It was real dark outside and Mum said she was scared, so Da went to look for Betsy.

He came home crying. There were a bunch of men with him.

They were carrying her body. They didn’t have a cart with them and Da wouldn’t leave Betsy, not even for a minute.

“They found her in the alley, right near the shop where she worked. One of the men said she had been strangled. And another man said they had found two other girls last month the same way as Betsy, only outside of different shops. Guess strangled means you hurt your neck real bad, right?”

Every nerve in Trevor’s body began to quiver. Strangled? He looked again at the marks on Betsy’s neck, then forced his mind to remember Lavinia. Time, shock, and sorrow had dulled much in his brain, but the memory of his beloved in death was a sight he saw as clearly as though it were yesterday.

Vivid lines of dark purple streaking across the creamy whiteness of Lavinia’s elegant female neck that rested at an unnatural angle: the result of a broken neck. Deliberately done? By whom?

“Harold? Harold? Where are you? Come down at once and say hello to your auntie.”

Harold raised his head in alarm. “My Mum’s calling me.”

“Then we had best go downstairs and see her,” Trevor said calmly.

Thoughts of the pitiful corpse resting in the drawing room began to fade slowly from his mind as the marquess descended the staircase. He gave the appropriate condolences to the grieving family, which now included Betsy’s father, then escorted Meredith out to their coach.

The ride began in a strained quiet, broken only by the crunching of the carriage wheels.

“Did Mrs. Pritcher or her sister say anything about how Betsy died?” Trevor asked.

“No. Considering how young she was, I merely assumed it was an illness. Consumption, most likely. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason.”

Yet Trevor’s mind could not relinquish the picture it carried of Betsy’s bruised neck. The stunning reality of violence that had been visited upon her person was a brutal reminder of the fragility of human life. Had she indeed been murdered—strangled, as young Harold suggested?

It was almost too horrible to conceive of such a frightening end for an innocent young woman. The grief visited upon the family was doubly understandable under these circumstances.

And what of the striking similarity of these bruises to Lavinia’s?

In the anguish and grief over his wife’s death nearly eight years ago, had he somehow missed an important clue?

Was it even possible to consider that Lavinia’s sudden, shocking death had not been an accident, but rather a deliberate act of murder?

Yet perhaps the most chilling aspect was young Harold’s mention of two other women who had recently come to a similar end. If there were truly a connection between the deaths of these young shop girls, would more now follow?

“John Coachman wishes to know if you want to return to the house or if you prefer to be dropped at your club.” Meredith’s gentle voice cut through the marquess’s musings.

“I have no specific plans for the day.” Trevor frowned. “Is there anywhere you wish to go? Bond Street, perhaps, for some shopping?”

Meredith sighed. “After the morning we have had, I am hardly in the mood for something as frivolous as shopping.”

Trevor rapped on the roof and the coach slowed. He lowered the window and bellowed up to the driver, “Take us out to the park. Her ladyship and I would enjoy a slow turn around the paths.” Trevor glanced over at Meredith. “Unless you object?”

“This is a most unfashionably early hour to be driving in the park, my lord.”

“You should know by now that I never like to follow the dictates of fashion.” Trevor watched his wife for a moment. “Therefore I would very much appreciate if you would please address me by my Christian name. You are so formal at times I half expect you to start curtsying when I enter a room.”

Meredith’s eyes flared and Trevor felt a jolt of satisfaction. Good. At least he had managed to wedge a crack in her infernal composure. It was starting to get on his nerves.

“I was under the impression you preferred formality between us. Your behavior, Trevor, since our marriage has certainly told me you wish to have as little to do with me as possible. I was merely following your wishes.”

“You have rarely, if ever, followed the dictates of any man,” the marquess replied. “You do it to annoy me. Or garner my attention?”

She almost leaped across the coach in protest. “Balderdash! I own that I can be stubborn and foolhardy at times, but I would never stoop to such unsavory tactics and push myself on a man who does not want me. You proved that point most admirably last night in your bedchamber.”

“I would like to explain about last night, Meredith.”

“That is hardly necessary.” Her eyes became slits of blue outrage. “You did not wish me in your bed. I understood that very clearly.”

“You were mistaken.”

She shook her head and gazed steadily into his face. “Since our marriage you have treated me with nothing but apathy and disinterest. Or do you deny you have shown more deference to the servants than to me?”

“I had my reasons,” he said.

She looked caught off guard by his admission. “They must be fascinating.”

Trevor smiled wryly. Even while he was trying to distance himself from her, his admiration for her spirit and strength grew. Most women had been taught from the cradle to placate a man. Apparently this was a lesson Meredith never took to, for she showed not a bit of apprehension at challenging him.

It only furthered his opinion that she deserved far more than he could give her. It was time for him to be blunt.

“Sex between a man and a woman can often be a physical release for one or both of them. Nothing more. It is not, as the poets suggest, woven together in an unbreakable bond with love.”

Meredith had ceased squirming in her seat and was now regarding him with a look akin to amazement. Encouraged, Trevor continued.

“And yet there is a sort of madness connected with sexual desire and fulfillment that can lead a person to forget everything that matters, everything they hold dear within themselves. They reach a point where they would say anything, do anything, risk anything to please and pleasure their partner.”

“Is that not love?”

“No,” he answered vehemently. “Many often confuse it with love, and therein lies the tragedy. This sexual obsession is a momentary flash. It burns fierce and bright and menacingly hot and then fades and fizzles just as quickly, leaving behind hurt feelings, anguish, even heartbreak for one partner.”

“Me?” she whispered.

“I fear so,” he replied, though in the back of his mind the voice of truth shouted, Liar. You are just as susceptible to this heartbreak as she.

“If you find I have been distant and cautious these last weeks, ’tis because I fear if we let passion rule, you and I will find ourselves in this hopeless situation.”

“If you knew this to be the predicament, why did you marry me?” she asked.

“I was an idiot, blinded by some primitive need to bend you to my will,” he said. “Selfishly, I did not recognize the truth of our situation until it was too late.”

She sagged against the seat, her brow furrowed. She was staring at him intently, but her gaze seemed unfocused. “Are we beyond all hope, Trevor?”

He felt a trickle of shame at the sad confusion that laced her tone. “Now that you are aware of the consequences, perhaps we can eventually resume marital relations. But you must fully understand that all I can offer you is physical pleasure. Nothing more.”

“Is more necessary?”

“It should be for a wife.”

She flinched. “I had no idea you were such an incurable romantic. I thought most men felt exactly the opposite when it came to marriage, expecting nothing more than a woman of breeding, civilized conversation, and children. Good looks would be a plus, but hardly a requirement. And passion? Is that even a consideration between a man and his wife?”

“’Tis your passionate nature that brings us to this juncture,” Trevor said. “It flows so easily from you, and I am merely a man, struggling to resist your allure.”

“I am your wife. Why must you resist me?”

“I thought you would want more between us than rough, hard, meaningless sex.”

He thought he might have finally succeeded in shocking her. She looked as though she was about to roar with fury.

“Is that what you are offering me?” she inquired with a chilly smile.

“Is that what you are asking of me?”

“You arrogant cur. I am not a complete ninny. I did not expect our union to be without its challenges. I admit I have been distressed to learn how very little you care about me. Despite what you may think, I have long accepted you would fail to love me. Ever. But it goes beyond that. Can you not be truthful with yourself? Apparently you do not even like me.”

“Just the opposite is true. I like you very much. Far too much.”

Irritation flashed over her lovely features. “You have a most peculiar way of showing this regard.”

“In lieu of true affection, would you prefer I seduce you with passion?” He kept his voice reasonable, hoping to emphasize his sincerity. “Forgive me, but I know that is not enough. You deserve better than what I can give you.”