Bound By Their Secret Passion. Diane Gaston
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friends are.’
‘They know who I am. The Earl of Penford.’ He released Ross. ‘But all that is irrelevant. You being my friend is irrelevant. All that matters is what really happened. And I have nothing with which to reproach myself.’
They started back to the morning room.
‘Damned Tinmore,’ Ross said. ‘If anyone is to blame, it is he. Fitting end, I say. He tried to manipulate everyone. Tess and Glenville told me what he did to them.’
‘What did he do to them?’
‘Forced them to marry. They did not even know each other. They were caught in a storm together and Tinmore used that as an excuse to marry her off without paying her dowry. He put pressure on Genna to marry, too.’
Dell knew about Tinmore’s pressure on Genna. That was partly why Ross came up with his scheme to pretend to be betrothed to her.
‘Lorene should never have married him. She and her sisters deserved better than his treatment of them,’ Dell said.
Of course, it was really Dell’s father who put Lorene in a position to agree to marry the elderly, autocratic Tinmore. When Lorene’s father died, Dell’s father inherited the Summerfield estate. It was Dell’s father who turned out the Summerfield sisters. His father might have been generous to them instead. Allowed them to stay at Summerfield House; provided them dowries. He might have done so, but Dell’s father assumed the sisters were as morally loose as their parents.
What possessed his father to be so heartless?
A pang of guilt hit Dell.
How could he reproach a father he so tragically lost a few months after his father made that decision?
Ross went on. ‘I am going to tell the coroner and the magistrate just what I think. I would be remiss if I did not.’
‘Do not bully them, Ross,’ Dell insisted. ‘It will not work with this Walsh fellow.’
‘I can at least let them know I expect them to proceed properly,’ Ross insisted. ‘And that I expect them to protect Lorene’s reputation.’
For Lorene’s sake, Dell would not further argue with his friend. Her reputation must be protected above all else. After all, the Summerfield sisters had suffered enough damage to their reputations, most of it due to their parents, not themselves.
Lorene, though, had often been the object of gossip, accused of tricking the ancient, but wealthy, Lord Tinmore into marrying her. Yes, she had married Tinmore for his money, but not for herself. For her sisters and her half-brother.
She deserved their esteem, not more gossip.
* * *
Lorene’s knees shook as she stood before Squire Hedges and the coroner. There was no reason for her to be fearful, but she could not help it. She glanced around the room, but it did nothing to still her unease. Rather, the portraits on the wall seemed to be glaring at her, blaming her for what happened.
If she had not defied him, they seemed to say, he would be alive today.
Would the Squire and the coroner see her guilt?
Or did they already believe Dell had pushed Tinmore?
Dell would never have done such a thing. Never. Surely they would have believed him and not a grieving butler too upset to realise who he accused.
Squire Hedges gestured to a chair near the desk. ‘Would you care to sit, Lady Tinmore?’
Sitting would make her feel too small, somehow. She was Lady Tinmore, she must remember. Here was one rare occasion that she must assert her rank.
She straightened her spine. ‘I will stand, thank you.’ She pointed to the pen and paper on the desk. ‘But you must sit so you may write.’
The Squire inclined his head and lowered himself into his chair. Mr Walsh, the coroner, stood with his arms folded across his chest. He was the one who made her insides tremble.
Squire Hedges smiled. ‘Tell us what happened, my lady. What you saw. What you heard.’
She decided to begin with her return from Summerfield House. ‘I spent the day with my sisters at Summerfield House and when the day was over, Lord Penford offered his carriage and his escort to return me to Tinmore Hall—’
Mr Walsh interrupted. ‘You did not have a carriage at your disposal?’
She faced him. ‘No.’
‘Then how did you travel to Summerfield House?’ he asked.
‘I walked.’
His dark brows rose. ‘You walked?’
‘Lord Tinmore was supposed to have come with me to spend Christmas with my family. At the last minute he declared that we would not be going. He gave no reason for declining the invitation right before we were expected to arrive.’ It had been a deliberate cruelty, which had surprised her. Tinmore’s cruelty was more commonly thoughtless. ‘He knew how much I desired to see my sisters. I had not seen my youngest sister since her wedding to Lord Rossdale. I decided to go without him even though he refused me the carriage. So I walked.’
‘You defied him,’ Walsh stated.
‘Yes.’ No use denying it.
Walsh nodded. ‘Go on.’
She wished she could tell what the man was thinking. ‘When Lord Penford’s carriage reached Tinmore Hall, Lord Penford walked me to the door. I entered the house and encountered Lord Tinmore in the hall, waiting for me. He immediately started to accuse me of—of things that were not true. I started up the stairs when Lord Penford opened the door and tried to speak with Tinmore, to tell him he was mistaken—he must have heard Lord Tinmore shouting at me through the door. Tinmore took him to one of the drawing rooms to talk, but only for a minute or two, then Lord Penford returned to the hall and walked out. Lord Tinmore followed him.’
‘Followed him?’ Walsh repeated.
‘Yes.’ Was she telling Walsh too much? ‘Tinmore was angry. First angry at me, then at Lord Penford, but without reason. I never saw him so angry.’
Walsh’s face remained expressionless. ‘Then what?’
She took a breath. ‘Lord Penford left, but Tinmore followed him outside.’ She swallowed. ‘I heard a cry and I ran outside, too. Lord Tinmore was—was on the pavement.’
‘You did not see him fall?’ Walsh asked, somewhat ominously.
‘I did not.’
He glanced away. ‘And in what position did you find him when you came outside?’
She was confused. ‘I—I—he was at the bottom of the steps.’
Squire Hedges spoke, his voice kinder than the other man’s. ‘This is a delicate question, we do realise, my lady. Mr Walsh means for you to describe the position of your husband’s body. Describe how he looked.’
She closed her eyes, but it only made her see it all again. ‘He—he was on his back, his head to one side in—in a pool of blood.’
‘Where were his arms and hands?’ Walsh asked.
‘Up.’ She raised her arms to demonstrate. ‘Up above his head.’
Walsh nodded. ‘Tell us, ma’am, was your husband ill?’
‘Not that I knew of,’ she responded.
But he had been acting strangely that day. Had he been ill? If so, she never should have left him. Although he always refused to allow her to tend to him when he was ill, so what good would her presence have done?
‘He was acting very unlike himself, though. Very irrational,’ she added.
Walsh’s brows rose. ‘Are you referring to your husband’s suspicion