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Sterling knew that Marshall had returned home from Waterloo with a bullet wound to his arm, which had severely incapacitated him for several weeks after his return.
A part of Sterling sincerely hoped Plymouth had been able to inflict that wound before the other man struck him down with his sword!
Finally given leave to ride again, Marshall had unfortunately fallen from his horse and broken his neck.
All of which would have allowed him little opportunity to use his ill-gotten gains to set up a separate household for himself, his wife, and son, away from his father’s influence.
Was it possible Elizabeth might even have been desperate enough to escape her father-in-law’s household to have been complicit in Plymouth’s murder?
Oh, not in those woods at Waterloo, but because men had been known to do much worse things than murder in order to gain favor with a conniving woman. A woman who was perhaps refusing to live under her father-in-law’s roof for a moment longer than she had to?
Was Elizabeth, beneath that air of serenity and ethereal beauty, such a woman?
If so, then her husband’s death had left her even more under her father-in-law’s unpleasant rule, with little chance of escape.
“The Earl of Whitlow and Lady Elizabeth Marshall, Your Grace,” Rogers announced. For the length of their visit, he had taken on the role of butler as well as valet.
Sterling turned to greet his guests, knowing his time for brooding speculation must now come to an end.
He ceased thinking at all when the sight of Elizabeth, her golden hair swept up in a cluster of curls, and wearing a simple, high-necked, long-sleeved gown of dark gray silk with only those pearl earbobs as added adornment, was enough to take his breath away.
Elizabeth was very aware of the way in which her father-in-law was quivering with rage as he escorted her into the Duke of Bristol’s blue salon. She also knew the reason for it.
She had spent the afternoon at the beach with Christopher, enjoying their usual entertainment of shell-seeking and building of sandcastles. She had then taken tea in the nursery with him, before assisting with his bath, reading him a story, and then sitting with him until he fell asleep. Something she did every evening.
After which, Elizabeth had deliberately contrived to be late in coming downstairs from her bedchamber, already wearing a silk cloak the same color as her gown when she joined the earl as he impatiently paced the entrance hall of Whitlow Grange. He made no effort to hide his irritation at being forced to wait for her, once again grasping her arm, the one that was already bruised, the moment she reached the bottom of the staircase, before dragging her outside to the waiting carriage.
Whether the earl believed he had browbeaten her into obeying him, or he simply believed she was too stupid to dare go against his instruction, at no time during their journey to theneighboring estate had he troubled himself to check on what gown she was wearing beneath the cloak.
His fury a few minutes ago, once Bristol’s butler had taken her cloak and Whitlow had been able to see the demure style of her dark gray gown, had been palpable.
His muttered threat as the two of them followed the butler across the lit entrance hall, “You will answer to me later for your disobedience,” had sent a shiver of apprehension down the length of Elizabeth’s spine.
Despite having threatened to do so many times, the earl had not yet administered physical chastisement for her behavior, real or imagined. But the baleful glitter in his eyes now indicated that situation might possibly change the moment they arrived home this evening.
Elizabeth wondered, and not for the first time, how her mild-mannered and attentive husband could ever have been related to such an unpleasant man.
She had known, of course, that the earl would be upset she had not carried out his instructions in regard to the gown she wore this evening.
But how much more upset would he have become if she had decided to wear a gown that left her arms bared, at least, and so revealed the myriad bruises on the paleness of her skin where his fingers had earlier dug so cruelly into that tender flesh?
Bruises which had no doubt been added to when he dragged her out to the carriage earlier this evening.
Bruises that, if seen, would lead to questions and no doubt open speculation from the earl as to how they so perfectly resembled the indentations of four fingers and a thumb.
In any case, Elizabeth considered her defiance well worth whatever the price she might have to pay when she saw the open admiration and approval for her appearance in the Duke of Bristol’s crystalline green gaze as he lifted and bowed low overher lace-gloved hand. “You are looking ravishingly beautiful this evening, Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured huskily.
“Thank you.” Much as she would have liked to return the compliment—the duke looked devilishly handsome in black evening clothes and white linen—Elizabeth did not wish to add to the gleam of sly satisfaction she could see in the eyes of her watchful father-in-law.
Instead of releasing her hand, the duke tucked it securely into the crook of his arm before turning to face the older man. “Your appearance appears a little liverish tonight, Whitlow,” he commented in a hard voice.
Elizabeth caught her lips between her teeth to stop herself from laughing at how the earl’s expression changed to one of indignant fury at the bluntly delivered insult.
Adding to that liverish appearance.
“I assure you, I am in perfect health, Bristol,” the older man bit out irritably.
The duke gave an inclination of his head. “If you say so.”
