The Soldier's Poisoned Heart (True Love and Deception) (Victorian Historical Romance Book 1) (16 page)

"Lydia, my dear," he said finally after the ninth straight day of their eating together at his house. "I think I am feeling a bit better. I was just..." he thought for a moment. "Just a bit lonely, you see, and now that I've had some time with other people I think I'm quite alright. So you don't need to keep coming here for supper."

"Oh," she responded. John Paul wondered if she didn't seem a little bit hurt; he couldn't tell. She showed a smile. "I'm glad you're feeling better, dearest. Would you mind if I came here one more time, tomorrow?"

He frowned. Why would she be hesitant? There must have been a cause for the illness simply refusing to subside. He had thought for a while that it might simply be that he was having trouble with getting enough sleep, but the idea that it might be further poisoning had not been far from his mind. If she were fighting him, could it be so that she could stay and continue to mix the poison into his food?

He pushed the thought away. He was simply accusing everyone, now. Soon he would be blaming the horses, at this rate, once he had pushed away everyone else in the house. He shook his head to clear it.

"Of course that would be alright, dear. Why ever wouldn't it be?"

"No reason, darling. I just wanted to make sure that you wouldn't mind, okay?"

"Of course I don't mind," he answered. They walked out the door together; Mark had already set up the carriage, and he helped her step up inside it, waving goodbye as she started to roll off into the distance.

"She certainly is diligent," a voice said behind him. Henry was sitting back in one of the chairs.

John Paul had been quite certain he wasn't there before, when the two of them had gone through the room on the way out, nor had he heard Henry come in, but there he was now. John Paul regarded him curiously. Perhaps he had missed him come in. Certainly, he could have missed it. He had walked out to the street to help Lydia into the carriage, so there had been plenty of time.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I mean the time she's been spending in the kitchens. Has she been helping Thomas cook supper?"

"I don't—" John Paul stopped himself. There was no sense in admitting that he didn't know what his fiancee was up to. He had let her do what she wanted, certainly, throughout the house. If she had gone to the kitchens, then that was well within her rights, but why would she keep it a secret?

She had never come back into the dining room through the kitchen doors. She had never smelled particularly of food, either. John Paul pursed his lips and sucked on his teeth. There were a few possibilities that immediately came to mind, but he pushed them away. One came back again, though, with redoubled force.

Someone was poisoning him. He knew that to be a fact. There could be no alternative answer. Someone must have been poisoning, and that someone must have been doing it consistently for the past week. He had had no time to recover, none whatsoever. He had taken his antibiotics, and other than at supper he hadn't even eaten.

He had felt no particular appetite since he had discovered his poisoning. He wondered if the desire to eat would ever come back, once he felt safe with food again, and he doubted it. It seemed like the more time passed, and the sicker he got, the less he wanted to eat anything at all.

It all tasted like ash and felt like paper in his mouth. All he could think, even as he looked at Lydia's smiling face, even as he listened to her angelic voice, was that he was getting sicker and sicker and someone was doing it to him on purpose.

He had put them into order, in his mind. Ahead by a good distance in likelihood was Simon Wakefield. He had the strongest, most immediate motive, and everything connected to him quite neatly. Then had been the second choice, his nephew, but he had never been given any sort of indication that his nephew had any sort of motive.

The money was out of the question, of course. Henry had never asked him about it, never pressed him for a larger stipend. He'd made a few poor spending choices, but he was young. It could be excused in any young man, hardly enough to accuse a man of murder.

Of Lydia, he had no doubt she was quite innocent. There was no other possibility at all; perhaps she had been enlisted by her brother, though. The thought occurred to him not for the first time. If her brother were to push her to it... then she may be dangerous.

After all, she was a perfectly obedient girl when she chose to be, and if she were pressed into action by someone whose purposes were less than perfectly pure then her purity might be compromised. But, he thought, she had no devious bone in her body.

"Yes," he answered finally, after a long pause. "Yes, I made a comment about how wonderfully our Thomas cooks, so she is probably trying to get from him some advice on what sort of food I might like. That's all."

"See?" Henry pressed, smiling broadly. "A diligent young woman. Quite perfect for you, Uncle."

"I agree, Henry. Thank you for saying."

"Of course," he said, smiling.

John Paul felt sick to his stomach. He hadn't missed the implication. She was the only one in the position to poison him. The only one, he thought. Thomas wouldn't do it. He had no motive. She had no motive, either, of course.

If she wanted his money then she would have to wait until they were married regardless of her desire to poison him or not. But Simon's debt loomed no doubt heavily over the entire family. She was studious enough that she might be motivated purely by a protective desire for her little brothers and her mother, at the behest of her elder brother.

The Colonel laid in bed and tried to convince himself, one by one, that everyone around him could only be quite innocent of the poisoning. But in the end it was quite futile. He opened his eyes after what felt like a few moments and the sun was up in the sky.

He could feel the beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead and the bedsheets, already thin and cooler than he would have preferred for the winter, stuck to his chest where they had been matted down with sweat. He sat up and dressed quickly. He had things to do before Lydia arrived for the evening, and only a few hours in which to do them.

Chapter 16

The only thing that would solve the issue was watching for her. Of course, there wasn't a good way to do it, he thought. If she weren't wandering the house but rather making straight for the kitchen, then she would see if he went in.

Furthermore, Thomas would see if she didn't and between them, one would certainly point out to the other that something wasn't quite right. So it had to bet a bit more sensitive than that. He had a few options, none of them ideal. He decided to write a short note, explaining his absence.

He was feeling awfully tired, and so he'd be in his room until dinner. He would be quite alright, and she was free to wander the halls until Thomas was ready with dinner. He would join them for dinner around five thirty.

That should be in line with the time that they usually ate, and it would make good sense. She knew how he had struggled with his fatigue lately; she wouldn't be surprised that it had laid him a bit low. Not one bit surprised, in fact.

He counted on that to get him through the next couple of hours, as he watched Mark go off in the carriage to fetch her. Then he would have to figure out a way to secrete himself in the kitchens, so that the pair of them would act as usual.

Then he could come out after the fact, perhaps secretly or perhaps not, depending on how things went. His mind imagined a lurid scenario that he immediately pushed out of his mind. There was no reason to imagine she would do anything of the sort—certainly not with his cook.

It was positively unacceptable to think such negative thoughts with no motivation whatsoever, he thought. Unacceptable, and he wouldn't allow himself to do it for even a moment if he could help it.

He waited in the front room, pretending to be quite interested in a novel he'd bought several weeks before but hadn't gotten around to. He turned the pages to keep the illusion going for Thomas's sake; the words danced on the page and he found himself quite unable to read for the panic that he was feeling in his heart.

Every time he tried to read, he could hear his heard beating in his chest, so he continued the charade. Thankfully, he didn't have to keep it up for very long; after a little less than half an hour Thomas stood and walked down the hall toward the lavatory.

The Colonel took his opportunity to slip into the kitchen, closing the door behind him as silently as possible. There were dozens, perhaps hundreds of places to hide in a place like this, he saw. He wouldn't struggle to find one; he would struggle to pick one.

He opened the pantry. It was large enough for three men to stand in comfortably, and he closed the doors behind himself, looking out through the slats as he sat down on the ground. He had a reasonably good view of the stove, and anyone looking from the main part of the room shouldn't see much more than a slatted door from a distance.

John Paul smiled. This was a good spot. Then it was just a matter of waiting. The hours passed slowly, but he reasoned that it would be worth it. Something had to give, and what he needed more than anything right now was someone that he could trust. Someone who would give him good information, information he could use.

Anything else was secondary to his need to know what was going on. If Henry had given him information that he could use, then that was all he needed, surrounded by people who were keeping secrets. One ally who would keep him informed.

After what felt like an eternity in that pantry, he heard the carriage trundle up in front of the house, and a knock at the door. The door opened and he heard a man's voice. Probably Thomas. Then a woman's voice in response. They were not speaking quietly, but they were at such a distance that all he could hear was muffled echoes.

He knew that the woman was Lydia, but he didn't know more. After a moment's conversation, he heard the floor creaking. The carpenters hadn't replaced the first floor yet, so it still creaked badly when anyone walked on it, and now John Paul silently thanked them for taking their time as he heard the footsteps, two sets of them, walking up to the door of the kitchen.

Thomas came in first, wrapping the ties on his apron around back and then knotting them in front, rubbing his hands off on the front. Then a moment later, the door opened and Lydia followed him in. She touched her hair, making certain that it was piled up onto her head, and then pulled a cap on to cover it and reached over to the wall. She grabbed her own apron and wrapped it, though she had to wrap it around her thin waist twice to tie it snugly.

Thomas walked over to the other side of the room, and John Paul leaned to follow the cook with his eyes. He was taking down meat, he saw, from a hook on the far wall. He carried it back and laid it down on the table as Lydia pulled a knife from the wall. With a thick, ugly CHOP she cut off a large chunk of the beef and separated it with the blade of the knife. Thomas hefted the meat back onto his shoulder and walked away as she started preparing.

It seemed less like she was taking lessons, and more like she was simply preparing the food. At times Thomas would stop her and demonstrate something, but then he would let her continue. If she was learning, then she was just about finished learning. Thomas sat back as she set the meat onto the stove, the pan loudly hissing and popping. He got up to look, and then sat back down. He pulled out a book.

It was nearly exactly, John Paul saw, what Henry had suspected. The only difference was exactly how much she was participating. If she wanted to poison him, John Paul realized, not only could she, but Thomas would be none the wiser. He shuddered. That wasn't the position he wanted to be in. Not remotely.

A few hours later he watched Lydia leaving. He was frustrated with himself at being so glad to see her go. She had cooked the meal, he saw, and it had been delicious. Simply delicious, no complaints at all. If he hadn't seen it himself, he might not have believed her when she told him.

It had tasted very much the same as the food Thomas had been cooking for the past months since he had come to the house. He had detected hints, here and there, of different flavors, but she made a terribly convincing attempt at imitating the style. He couldn't blame her, either.

If she cooked such delicious meals for the rest of their lives together, then he would have been overjoyed. But he wondered. In all of that time, had there been anything, a pinch of "seasoning" on his plate after the food were cooked, that had been the ultimate source of all this trouble?

How could he be sure? He couldn't just come out with it directly. There was a laundry list of reasons why he couldn't, which began with the fact that he had been watching secretly, and ended with the way she had looked to him so earnestly to know if he had enjoyed the meal she had made for him.

He had, and he'd told her that he had, but he couldn't exactly come out and then accuse her of trying to have him murdered, either. That would be beyond the furthest reaches of politeness. No matter how he put it, unless he had proof he couldn't accuse her.

He hadn't seen one single hint that she had anything but the best intentions, and he couldn't accuse her brother. That would endanger the entire wedding, and there was a real possibility that unless he could prove it beyond a shadow of doubt, she would never forgive him. He stepped back into the house. Henry was sitting, his feet up, reading, and John Paul sat down beside him.

"Henry, can I talk to you about something?"

"About what?"

"You have to keep this between the two of us, Henry."

"Of course."

"Swear it."

"Okay," he said, his brow furrowed. "I swear. Are you going to tell me what this is about, now?"

"I think," John Paul said. Suddenly it seemed as if all of his thinking was for nothing. He couldn't bring it up, not so directly. Not with no proof. He grit his teeth for a moment. If he couldn't tell someone, then he feared he might go mad. Henry had given him information when it seemed as if everyone around him was busily giving him nothing but more questions, and that was enough that if he had to take the risk of trusting someone, he thought Henry perhaps the best choice. "I think I am being poisoned."

Henry put his book down and leaned forward, listening now.

"Do you know who it is?"

"I suspect, but I don't know. I can't prove anything, and that's why you need to be very quiet about what I'm about to tell you."

"Of course," Henry answered, his voice falling hush. "My lips to God's ears."

"Are you aware," John Paul asked, "that your new friend Simon Wakefield owes me some eight hundred pounds?"

"Eight hundred—" Henry's eyes widened. "That doesn't sound right."

"Eight hundred and not one penny less. I suspect that is as good a motive as any, don't you?"

Henry sat back, his eyes wide. They seemed almost to roll around freely in his head, as if he were completely disoriented.

"But how? How could he be poisoning you? You only see him, what, every few weeks?"

"I suppose that sounds about right."

"Then how on earth could it be his doing?"

John Paul took a deep breath. It was the moment of truth, then.

"I believe," he said, barely above a whisper, "that he's acting through his sister as an agent. I don't know if she has any knowledge of what she's doing, but I believe my fiancee to be instrumental to this entire affair."

Henry's mouth puckered and then pulled wide into a grimace.

"Then you should call off the wedding," he said. "It's that simple, after all, isn't it?"

"Not at all, Henry. I don't think she has a hand in it. I can't simply break our engagement because of suspicions. I need proof, whether it be of her innocence or of her knowledge. I can't get that sort of evidence, Henry. I trust her too much. She will act coy and I will believe her. I need you to be vigilant for evidence from her." John Paul took a deep breath and sunk into the chair. "Can you do me that favor?"

"Of course," Henry breathed. "Thank you for coming to me with this, uncle. I'll do my best."

"Of course," John Paul said. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He was exhausted, he found. The entire day had been exhausting, and this confession had taken a great deal out of him. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed. He looked at the clock. Six thirty. The sun was already long-since down. He could sleep, then. It wasn't so early. And he was exhausted.

John Paul laid down in the bed and tried to lay very still. He let his mind wander. That seemed to be the only thing, lately, that let him sleep, though it troubled him as well, leading him to often unpleasant thoughts about the people around him and their intentions.

For a moment, it seemed as if it would be a relatively calm night; nothing immediately came to mind. His heart was seized by terror, though, when he realized hat in spite of his best efforts he could not push away the fact that no matter what he did, he seemed to be surrounded by people who couldn't be trusted.

He had placed some trust in Henry, telling him about his secret fears, but there was a real question in his mind of whether or not Lydia could possibly be guilty of the things he feared she was being accused of—being accused by him, he realized.

There was nothing that she stood to gain by poisoning him. He had heard of "black widows" or some such, women who poisoned their husbands, but it was usually over something the husband had done, or for the inheritance money. They were not married; she stood to gain nothing at all by poisoning him. At the same time, he had never done anything to her.

Perhaps, he thought, she was setting him up; perhaps her brother was setting him up, he corrected, so that he would die just after the wedding. They would be in line to inherit, then, with nobody but Henry to stand in opposition to it. His nephew would be powerless.

He wondered for a moment if Thomas could be involved. If the servants could be involved in the plot, then there would be no escaping it. He tried to think. Had Thomas Wheeler ever shown any indication that he had any sort of grudge against him? No.

Though, if he were related to one of the soldiers that night, then he would have been quiet about it. Played it very close to the chest. John Paul was not an easily-spooked man, but he took no chances when it came to the gold.

Anyone looking to get their vengeance would surely know this, and he would have been left with a terribly long leash. He might have only found out about the feud that killed him on his deathbed, when it was all done. Perhaps he would die not knowing who had done him in. He shuddered and pushed his face into the pillow. He couldn't stand this line of thought. His heart was pounding.

He had been in the service for nearly twenty years by that point. Every assignment that crossed his desk, he was displeased to say, seemed as if it were the same. In the end, the only things that varied from day to day were the names he wrote on the papers. He shouldn't even have been on that patrol, not really. That was the best, and the worst, part. He shouldn't have even been there.

There had been reports coming in for several months, reports of a small force that had been taking out units in the bush. They were suspected to be aboriginals who had stolen some weapons from the armory a few months back, and were laying traps for the men. John Paul remembered the entire thing well.

He had been of two minds—was still of two minds—on the entire issue. The Crown had brought civilization to the bush. Before that, there had been people, certainly, but as he had rode through the streets of Sydney he had thought, nothing like that.