Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries

next to his. “Father was only on the bridge the night he died because Joshua had summoned him to the dower house. And Father didn’t just fall off the bridge; he fell through the railing and into the river. We know this because a large portion of the railing was broken away.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me, Grey, what made him fall? It’s not as if Father was ever clumsy.”

      “Well, no, but he was getting older, and if it was dark—”

      “He was armed with a lantern. And it was a full moon. No reason for him to fall. What’s more, the bridge is sturdy, so even if he did somehow stumble into the railing, it should have held under his weight. I believe someone set him up to drown—damaged the bridge before he crossed it and then pushed him through the railing to make it look like an accident. Bad leg or no, Joshua has the muscular arms of a field hand—strong enough to shove an old man into a railing, believe me. Especially if he took that man off guard.”

      Grey sighed. Clearly, Sheridan’s grief had disordered the man’s brain. “And why the hell would you suspect Wolfe of such a thing?”

      “You’re not listening! I told you, Uncle Armie treated Joshua very shabbily—”

      “So why didn’t Wolfe kill your uncle Armie instead?” Grey pointed out.

      With a grimace, Sheridan set down his glass. “That’s just it. I think he did that, too.”

      “For God’s sake—”

      “Let me finish, blast it!”

      Jumping to his feet, Sheridan went to stand behind the desk, its scarred mahogany surface reminding Grey that his half brother had inherited a huge estate with what sounded like a mountain of debt. That’s what they should be discussing, not this mad idea that Maurice had been murdered.

      But Sheridan didn’t seem to care about anything else. “Uncle Armie died in an accident that also took place late at night. He was found with a broken neck early in the morning near his precious ‘ruins.’ Those at the tavern in town said he’d been drinking there the night before and had headed home late. It was the same route he always took and his horse stood grazing nearby. So we assume he somehow tumbled from his horse. It was only a few months ago. Don’t you think those two ‘accidents’ occurred awfully close together?”

      That was a bit odd, Grey had to admit. Still . . . “Coincidences do happen.” After draining the rest of his brandy, he stood and walked over to pour himself more. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you once tell me that whenever he rode into town he got foxed?”

      Just as Grey would have to do to endure this exercise in daft theories. He downed some brandy.

      Sheridan shot him a black look. “Yes, Uncle Armie was often drunker than an Etonian after matriculation. But he’d been drinking and riding that road—at night, alone—for twenty years or more. Yet he’d never before fallen off his horse. And even you must admit it wouldn’t take much to unseat a drunk man and break his neck.”

      “So what are you saying?” Grey roamed the study restlessly. “According to you, Wolfe killed your uncle out of resentment for how the family had treated him. Did Maurice also treat him badly?”

      “No, of course not.”

      “Then your suspicions make no sense. Why now? Your uncle Armie treated Wolfe badly for years, so what brought this on?”

      “Perhaps Joshua got tired of serving the family like, well, a bloody servant. Perhaps he’d had enough of Uncle Armie’s excesses, which were driving the estate into the ground. He figured he could gain the dukedom for himself.”

      God, but the man had lost his mind. “To do that, he’d also have to kill you and Heywood.”

      “Exactly.” Sheridan crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what worries me.”

      Grey gestured to him with his brandy glass. “What worries me is the possibility that you’ve gone mad.”

      Sheridan rounded the desk. “You haven’t seen how Joshua’s behaving. He hasn’t once come over here to pay his respects to Mother. And he didn’t pay his respects to Father after Uncle Armie died, either.”

      “Perhaps he doesn’t particularly enjoy the company of others,” Grey muttered. Especially in such situations.

      He thought back to his uncle Eustace’s death, and how little he’d wanted to be involved in the arrangements. Grey had been damned glad to see the arse in the grave, where he could no longer torment anyone, could no longer lock a child in a room without food for days to force him to sign—

      Grey pushed away the dark memories. “People grieve differently.” Particularly when they loath and despise the deceased. “Have you talked to Wolfe about this?”

      “No,” Sheridan said, a bit sheepishly. “I need evidence. I can’t . . . pursue my suspicions without it.”

      “Exactly.” Grey stared his brother down.

      “Come now, Grey. Two deaths, so close together? Don’t you find that odd?”

      When Sheridan set his shoulders, the way he’d done as a boy when he was being stubborn, Grey wished he could pound some sense into him. “And what does Wolfe’s sister think of all this? Is Bea complicit in this scheme?”

      Sheridan muttered a curse. “Don’t be absurd. Of course she’s not complicit. Bea would never countenance murder. She’s the kindest, most compassionate woman I know.”

      “We are talking about the same woman, right? Because the Miss Wolfe I met wasn’t kind.”

      Sheridan scowled. “What exactly occurred between you and Bea while you were alone together?”

      “She put me in my place after I . . . um . . . behaved like a pompous arse.”

      One corner of Sheridan’s lips quirked up. “Fancy that—you behaving like a pompous arse.”

      “At least I’m not seeing murderers at every turn. And if you’re so convinced someone murdered Maurice, why didn’t you call the constable to investigate his death?”

      “I told you. I have no proof. Just my suspicions.”

      Grey lifted his eyes heavenward. “Which, forgive me, sound daft.”

      “You might think differently once you’ve met Joshua.” Sheridan shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s difficult. Angry. Changed, by all accounts, after his experiences in the war. I wouldn’t put anything past him, including killing four people to gain the dukedom.”

      “Well, I’ll have to trust you on that,” he said dryly, “since I didn’t even know of his existence—or his sister’s—until today.”

      Sheridan rubbed the back of his neck. “I should have introduced both of them to you when you visited here before. But we had so little time with you that we wanted to keep you to ourselves. And honestly, that was before Mother decided to take Bea on as one of her projects.”

      “Oh, God.”

      Mother was famous for her projects. She liked “helping” young people. Even as a boy, Grey remembered strange youths trooping in and out of their home while Mother tried to figure out how to improve their future prospects.

      As if she hadn’t had her hands full with her own children. Well, except for the one she sent away. “So what exactly is she trying to do for Miss Wolfe?”

      Sheridan shrugged. “Bea has never had a come-out. Grandmother was too sickly to accomplish it, and Uncle Armie too lax. I think the idea was that Bea would eventually become a companion to Uncle Armie’s wife, but by the time Bea was the right age, his wife was dead. It’s not as if he could have brought her out without asking some female relation to do so.”

      “And why didn’t he?”

      “God, who knows? He wasn’t a nice man, from what I understand. And money