“Tell me something,” he said. “Did you really have a pig when you were a child?”

Success. She laughed, and it was a musical sound. “I did.”

“As a pet?” he continued.

“Yes, she lived in the house and everything. She was a very small pig,” Kate clarified. “But a pig just the same.”

James couldn’t help but smile at that. He tried to picture a young Kate chasing a pig around the house. But he couldn’t picture her as a child. He couldn’t picture her any way other than the lovely woman she was, sitting across from him, self-consciously pushing a lock of shimmery golden-red hair behind her ear and glancing up at him from behind velvety black lashes.

“Please tell me something,” she said in a saucy tone to which James was immediately drawn.

He nodded. “As you wish.”

“What exactly is a raccoon?”

His laughter shook the coach. “It’s a furry little animal that’s sort of black, gray, and white with a long striped tail. Looks as though it’s wearing a mask. Quite common in the Americas or so I’ve heard.”

“Do Lily and Annie really have a fox and a raccoon?”

He grinned at her. “Yes and no.”

At her questioning look he continued. “Annie has a fox all right, but the raccoon is really just a dog that looks like a raccoon. Her name is Bandit.”

Kate laughed. “Oh, I see. And here I thought I was being improper with my pet pig.”

He shook his head. “No, you’re in excellent company actually.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She paused for a moment, biting her lip. “James, may I ask you something else?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Why did you seem so standoffish at the farm today?”

He glanced out the window. “Did I?”

She bowed her head and plucked at the folds in her skirt. “You know you did.”

He leaned to the side and braced an elbow on the seat cushion. “The truth is … I’m feeling guilty for kissing you.”

Her jaw dropped. Apparently, she hadn’t expected him to be quite that … forthright. “Guilty? Why?”

“I had no right.”

Her voice was soft. “There were two of us in the ballroom that night, James. It wasn’t just you.”

“I know, but—”

“I feel guilty too,” she murmured.

His eyes narrowed on her. “Why?”

“You’ve asked me to write for you, not to distract you with dancing and…”

He shook his head. “You distract me just sitting there, but that’s no excuse for me to behave like a total jackass and—”

She sat up straight. “But you didn’t. You didn’t act like an ass at all.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No.”

“Thank you for that,” he said. “I shall endeavor to keep my hands off you and allow you to write in peace.”

Was that a look of disappointment on her face? Oh, now he was guilty of wishful thinking. Fool.

Kate glanced away and tugged on her curl again. “Do you think Lily and Annie like me?”

He sobered. “Yes, they do. Very much.”

“They seemed a bit hesitant when they asked about George, and I just—”

“They weren’t sure whether you’re in mourning. It’s an odd situation.”

She cringed. “To say the least. I know. I hate to make them feel uncomfortable, and I know I should be mourning, but I just cannot. George and I … we barely knew each other and the fact was I hadn’t seen him in at least five years. How can I grieve for someone whom I didn’t even know?”

“Believe me, I understand.”

“Do you?” she asked.

James scrubbed his hand through his hair. He wasn’t about to explain to her how he understood, but he did. He simply nodded.

Kate glanced out the window. “And the worst part is, George and I didn’t even have that unconventional of a marriage. I’d say it was more normal than anything.”

James shook his head. “Most wives are not left in the countryside to rot while their husbands gallivant around London if that’s what you mean.”

She laid her head back against the seat cushion. “Perhaps not, but many married couples spend long amounts of time apart. Though I suppose the divorce and the murder make us entirely unconventional.” She tried to laugh but tears shone in her eyes.

“Kate.” James’s voice caught. He leaned forward.

She glanced out the window. “I am sorry he died that way. I’m sorry and I’m angry. Angry with him for being such an ass and angry at myself for how I reacted, and angry at whoever did it and allowed me to take the blame. There’s a murderer out there, James. A murderer.”

He clenched his jaw. “I know.”

* * *

James set about making the rest of the journey full of lighthearted discussion and jests. Kate kept remembering the way he’d said, “You distract me just sitting there.” The words made her go hot and cold at the same time. She tried to shove them from her mind, but they came back to make her smile again and again.

He had her laughing the rest of the way, and by the time they arrived at his town house, Kate had forgotten to pull up her hood or close the curtains in the coach.

She gasped and quickly tugged on the hood as they descended the steps. She glanced about surreptitiously. A few people hurried past the alleyway. A couple of horses ambled past the mews on the corner. Kate kept her head down and hurried up the stairs onto the back porch.

* * *

James cursed under his breath. Damn it. He should have been paying closer attention. Should have ensured she’d covered her head when she’d alighted from the coach, but he’d been so entranced by her, by their afternoon together.

“You don’t think anyone saw me, do you?” she asked as soon as they were inside.

James shook his head. “No. I don’t think so,” he replied in his most reassuring tone. But if anyone had, it was too late.

CHAPTER 19

Kate sat curled up in her favorite spot in the library, writing the pamphlet. Themis lay at her feet. Kate tapped the nib of her quill against the parchment. It was easy enough for her to record the details, but that’s not what she wanted to convey. She wanted to convey her sense of sadness, sense of horror when she’d found George lying on the floor that morning. Explain why she went to him, cradled his head, tried to save him. And that she wouldn’t, couldn’t—no matter what had happened between them—have killed him. Because murder was not in her heart.

Of course, even if she were able to convey her innocence, it didn’t mean anyone would believe her. She’d have no way of knowing. All she could do was try. Tell her story as honestly as she could and hope at least some among the haughty ton believed her.

She thought about her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess of Markingham. “Not fit to shine your boots,” she’d told her son when he’d introduced Kate to her all those years ago.

“George is momentarily turned by your pretty face,” she’d sneered to Kate when George had left them alone to become acquainted. “But rest assured he’ll return to his senses.” Kate winced at the memory. Unfortunately for everyone, neither of them had come to their senses before the wedding took place. And her mother-in-law had continued to detest her with a shocking virulence.

It had struck Kate to the core. But she’d been so naïve believing their supposed love would conquer all. She’d spent years trying to court the woman’s favor, all to no avail. Finally, she’d given up. She hadn’t seen the dowager in years, even though the lady lived only a mile away from Markingham Abbey in her dower house. Kate had realized finally that George’s mother had been right. A match between a duke and a dairy maid (as his mother was fond of calling her) was a hideous idea. Absolutely awful. And now she could only imagine the dowager duchess’s pain … and anger. In addition to hearing the news that her beloved only son had been murdered, she believed the murderer was her own detested daughter-in-law. Oh, Kate hadn’t blamed the woman for hating her in years and now she certainly couldn’t. Her heart wrenched when she thought of the awful pain George’s mother must be going through now. Losing a child was completely unnatural. And to lose him in such a way … unimaginable.

Kate laid down her quill on the parchment and rested her head in her hand. Her thoughts turned to George again. Poor George. He hadn’t deserved to die that way, a bullet to the chest. And he’d seen whoever had killed him, Kate was sure of it. He’d seen the face of his murderer with those cold, staring eyes.

Kate dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Oh God. Who had done it, and why? She’d gone to her room, begun packing her things. She’d decided to leave him for good. He might have refused to grant her a divorce, but she’d refused to remain under his roof.

She’d decided she’d live on the streets rather than spend one more day a prisoner at Markingham Abbey. Her whole marriage had been a sham, and she would no longer spend another day dead. For that’s what her life had become, a living death.

Dead. The word stopped her cold. George’s body, lying on the carpet. George was dead. But she had been too. For years. Just in a completely different way. She shuddered.

She shook her head. Who would have killed George? Lady Bettina? That made no sense. The two had been wrapped around each other. That lady had flaunted her relationship with George in Kate’s face, in her own house. Lady Bettina supposedly loved George. But who else?

Perhaps someone had sneaked in. George’s cousin? The next in line to the dukedom? She’d only met Oliver a few times, and he seemed perfectly nice, but she supposed it was possible. People had been killed for lesser things than a dukedom.