Helen recalled the deep slash across the man’s throat. Mrs Waltham was all of five feet, nowhere near tall enough or strong enough to come behind a man and commit such an evil deed.
“I know what happened,” she said. Nicholas had seen the woman creeping through the house that night. “Mrs Waltham lured her nephew to the folly where you were waiting to attack. What I don’t understand is why?”
It was Mrs Waltham’s turn to reveal her wicked streak. “Let that Jezebel’s son have my brother’s house?” she cried, her face twisting into an ugly grimace. “I’d rather die than let St Clair rule Oakmere. I would have contested the will and won.”
Could the woman not hear her own hypocrisy?
“And yet you were planning to use the funds from the sale to run away with Monsieur Laurent, another of Esther’s sons.” She hoped to prod the Frenchman hard enough for him to break his cover. “Maybe you should think about saving your own neck, Mrs Waltham. Come with me to the magistrate. I will prove the man posing as a valet is your nephew, and he had a motive for murder.”
Monsieur Laurent flew into a sudden rage. “Why are we listening to her blathering? Let us stick to our plan. The magistrate, he is convinced St Clair is the killer and means to arrest him tonight. Let us get rid of this mischief-maker like we did Charles.”
A sudden stillness settled over the room.
She might have breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the confession, but the valet charged at her, his eyes bulging, his teeth bared like a madman. He grabbed her by the throat and squeezed hard.
As quick as a lightning bolt, Nicholas burst into the room, striking Laurent hard and knocking him to the floor. In a frenzy, he climbed on top of the valet and punched him repeatedly while Sir Percival tried to intervene.
Then, the miracle she’d prayed for happened.
The valet let his mask slip and cried in a perfect English accent, “Get off me, you crazed fool. You’re the one who’s supposed to hang.”
ChapterTwenty
Helen accepted a glass of sherry from Aaron Chance and waited for him to sit in the leather wing chair before continuing the story. “When Mrs Waltham saw the magistrate, she blamed everything on the valet.”
Nicholas smiled to himself. Helen sounded relieved, her tone lighter than it had been in days. It was hard to believe their troubles were over and they would soon be married.
Aaron Chance frowned. “But he’s not really a valet?”
“No. He’s my half-brother,” Nicholas scoffed. It all sounded absurd, like a tale one might read in a Gothic novel—the evil twin seeking revenge. “He persuaded Mrs Waltham they might have a romantic relationship if only he could rise from his lowly station. But once I’d been sentenced for the crime, he planned to claim he was Robert Holland’s secret son and appeal for the right to inherit Oakmere.”
“So, he was deceiving Mrs Waltham all along?”
“Yes, he used her for his own gain.” Helen swallowed a sip of sherry, and her shoulders relaxed. “Being lonely and twenty years his senior, Mrs Waltham found his attentions flattering. And when the valet told her of Charles’ illegitimacy and that Nicholas was to inherit Oakmere, she lost her wits and they hatched a plan.”
“Did Charles know his valet was his twin brother?” Aaron said.
“He told Mr Holland hours before he killed him.”
Nicholas’ heart grew heavy.
Resentment was like poison eating away at a man’s conscience. It was easy to blame Esther and Robert Holland for their failings, but people were all merely victims of victims, and one should focus on being better, not bitter.
Then Aaron asked the question that had baffled them at first. “But if he meant to frame you for murder, why try to kill you on the road to Grayswood?”
“We assume it was a sudden decision. If I died, he could frame Mrs Waltham for murder, making it easier for him to claim Oakmere.”
It was a risky plan that hadn’t paid off. But Sebastian would explain the facts in detail when he returned from the meeting with Peel.
“Does that mean you’re a free man?” Aaron asked.
Nicholas nodded. “Sir Percival offered a bumbling apology and thanked me for my efforts.” The fool had given many excuses for his mistake and said he should have known not to trust a Frenchman. Clearly, he had forgotten Laurent was a devious English bastard. “You’ll be glad to know you can have your clothes back.”
Aaron laughed. “Keep them as a reminder of whom to trust in your hour of need. Besides, I may have a favour to ask of you one day and might need a coat that smells of cow dung.”
Nicholas laughed, too. His chest grew warm when he thought of Aaron’s kindness. “We could not have solved the case without you. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me, for us.”
Mischief flashed in Aaron’s eyes. “Good. In payment, you can give me a rematch in the ring. My brothers enjoy taunting me about my defeat, and I need a chance to reclaim my crown.”