Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [120]
“The words seem to come to you easily.” She looked down at the hands clenched in her lap. “But all the explanation does not make it untrue. I am sure Adolphus did not murder my husband. You will not shake me from that.”
“And I imagine he is equally sure you did not,” Pitt replied.
This time she jerked her head up to stare at him as if he had struck her.
“What? What did you say? You—oh, dear God—did you say all this to him? Did you make him think I …”
“That you were guilty?” he finished for her. “Or that you had blamed him?”
Her face was white, her eyes brilliant with a sudden and hectic fear. Was it for Pryce or for herself?
“Surely you are not concerned he would think such a thing of you?” he went on.
“Of course not,” she snapped. And in that instant they both knew it was a lie. She was terrified Pryce would think it was she; the humiliation and the horror were hideously obvious.
She swung around, away from him, concealing her face. “Have you been to Mr. Pryce?” she said again, barely controlling her voice.
“Not yet,” he replied. “But I shall have to.”
“And you will try to put it in his mind that I murdered my husband, in a desire to be free so that I might marry him.” Her voice was shaking. “That is monstrous! How dare you be so—to portray me as—so—insatiable …” She stopped, tears of anger and fear in her eyes. She started again. “He would think …”
“That you may have?” he finished for her. “Surely not, if he knows you as you apparently know him.”
“No.” With great difficulty she was regaining mastery of herself again, at least of her voice. “I was going to say he would think that I was very immodest, taking too much for granted. It is for a man to speak of marriage, Mr. Pitt, not a woman!” Now her cheeks were white, with two spots of color high on the bones.
“Are you saying that Mr. Pryce never spoke to you of marriage?” he asked.
She gulped. “How could he? I am already married—at least I was. Of course he didn’t!” She sat very straight, and again he knew she was lying. They must have talked of marriage often. How could they not? Her chin came up a little higher. “You will not maneuver me into blaming him, Mr. Pitt.”
“You are very sure, Mrs. Stafford,” he said thoughtfully. “I admire your confidence. And yet it leaves me with a profoundly ugly thought.”
She stared at him, waiting.
“If it was one of you, and you are so certain it was not Mr. Pryce …” He did not need to finish.
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to laugh, and choked.
When she had recovered, she was unable to say the words of denial. “You are mistaken, Mr. Pitt,” she said instead. “It was not one of us. I swear it was not me. Certainly I wished at times I were free, but wished, that is all. I would never have hurt Samuel!”
Pitt did not speak. He looked at her face, the fine beads of sweat on her lip, no more than a gleam, the pallor of her skin, almost bloodless.
“I—I felt so sure. No, I still cannot believe that Adolphus would …”
“His emotion was not strong enough?” he said gently. “Was it not, are you really sure of that, Mrs. Stafford?”
He watched the expressions chase each other across her face: fear, pride, denial, exultancy, and fear again.
She looked down, avoiding his probing gaze.
She could not bear to deny his passion; it was a denial of the love itself. “Perhaps not,” she said falteringly. “I could not bear to think I was guilty of provoking such a …” Her head came up sharply, her dark eyes bright and bold. “I had no knowledge of it. You must believe me! I still only half credit it. You will have to prove it to me beyond any doubt whatsoever or I will still say you are mistaken. Only I know, before God, it was not I.”
There was no pleasure in victory. He rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford. Your candor has been a great help to me.”
“Mr. Pitt …” Then again she found no words. What she wanted to say was pointless. To deny Pryce’s guilt was too late. She had already committed