Lady in the Mist - Laurie Alice Eakes [126]
“The man who did this to me”—she touched her now-bandaged shoulder, lumpy beneath her gown—“was the same one who held a knife to me the night I met you.”
“It makes sense in that the method is the same, but how do you know?”
“I caught his scent. It’s tobacco and whiskey and”—she gave him a sidelong glance—“sandalwood.”
“Don’t look at me that way. I am not guilty.” He rubbed his thumb along her chin. “And that’s pretty slim proof.”
“I smelled it in Sally Belote’s room too.”
Dominick straightened, alert. “Who would have been—Wilkins.”
“Yes. She practically admitted to having seen him and how he told her to lie to me about it, to say the mayor is the baby’s father.”
“Kendall? Never.”
“Really?” Tabitha arched her brows. “You were quick to believe him guilty of treachery.”
“That’s different from debauching a young woman.”
“True, but if Wilkins was ready to implicate Mayor Kendall . . .” She trailed off, waiting for him to reach the conclusion she had.
“He could have placed that paper in Kendall’s study hoping someone would find it.” Dominick nodded.
“Someone like you.”
“Who might conceivably look for that paper or, if nothing else, a book.” Dominick pursed his lips. “But where do you come into this? Why is he harming you? Other than this young woman in Norfolk and what you know about that.”
“That would be enough, I think, but I was assaulted before then.”
“Yes.” Dominick nudged her with his elbow. “You accused me.”
“I still could.” She resisted the urge to rest her head against his shoulder and simply let him hold her, forget knives and betrayal, dangers and futures of love she couldn’t have. “But maybe I know more than just about Sally. Or he thinks I do.”
Dominick gave her a quizzical look.
“His wife,” she said. “I was there when she died. The servants said she fell down the steps pacing about the house waiting for him to come home, but what if she fell down the steps before he left home? What if she was pushed? Or even was trying to stop him from doing something?”
“Like go out hunting victims for the British Navy?” Dominick shook his head. “That’s a strong accusation without more than speculation. Unless she did say something?”
“Nothing that made sense without context.” Tabitha rubbed her gritty eyes. “I don’t even recall what exactly she said. Not a great deal. I thought she spoke against the pain. She suffered . . . I could do too little for her . . .” She covered her face with her hands, remembering the woman’s face, her fruitless early labor, her dying words. “‘Don’t go,’ she’d said. But he abandoned her when she needed him most. And where was God?”
“He was there, Tabitha.” Dominick pulled her hands down and held them between his. “He was waiting to be invited to join you.”
“I was too busy trying to stop the hemorrhage and raging against her husband. He should have been there uninvited. God should have been there uninvited.”
“He was. You just didn’t acknowledge Him.”
“Would He have saved her life?” Tabitha challenged.
“I don’t know. Man interferes with God’s plans.” He grimaced. “Believe me, I know that more than anyone. But Wilkins. Do you think she knew something and he pushed her down the steps?”
“It’s possible. It’s as likely as him being our traitor.”
“But why?” Dominick rose and began to pace between rows of verdant herbs—chamomile and mint, rosemary and thyme, parsley, garlic, and comfrey. His voice drifted back to her. “Why would Wilkins or Kendall risk their lives for a few hundred pounds they’re making from the sale of seamen to the British Navy?” He turned down the row of lavender, paused, and plucked a sprig. “What can either of them gain?”
“Men prosper from war.” Tabitha smiled at the sight of him surrounded by delicate plants and wished for the strength to join him. “I kept thinking about this last night, when I was conscious enough to think. Mayor Kendall