Page 100 of A Perfect Gentleman

Graeme went still. “They had a disagreement? My father and Mr. Ponsonby? Do you know why?”

“Oh, well, one doesn’t want to speculate. I overheard a bit of it—quite by accident, you understand. It was a while after that last fete; I had come to call on Lord Montclair because I was in London. I was waiting to see him—walking along the hall there, looking at the paintings, you know. The door was closed, but their voices grew rather loud. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, so I returned to the bench in the entry.”

“Please, sir, it’s very important to me. If there is anything you remember . . .”

“Well.” The vicar paused, wrinkling his brow in thought. “I don’t remember the exact words, but it sounded like Mr. Ponsonby was supposed to do something for your father, and he didn’t. Forgot or something, I suppose. I do remember that Lord Montclair said something like, ‘How can I trust you now?’ ” Cumbrey’s pale cheeks colored a little. “Sounds a bit dramatic, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but please, go on.”

“No doubt it was something minor, but I’d no sooner gone back to that bench than Ponsonby came rushing out. Walked right past me and out the front door without a word. Your father followed, looking like a thundercloud. When he saw me sitting there, Montclair seemed a bit taken aback, but of course I made it clear that I had heard nothing.”

“Of course.”

“The next time I saw your father was at Ponsonby’s funeral, in fact. He was quite shaken, you know. We all were. Such a terrible accident . . . and coming right on the heels of their harsh words.”

Except, Graeme thought, it hadn’t been an accident. Ponsonby had killed himself.

Cumbrey went on, shaking his head, “I am sure Lord Montclair was most distraught over it. He would have bitterly regretted that his friend had died with hard words still between them. No chance to make things right.”

“Tell me, did Mr. Ponsonby help my father a good deal with the charity?”

“What? Oh, well, yes, I imagine he did. As I remember, Ponsonby was apt to run errands and such for him if Lord Montclair needed it. Mr. Bangston, as well.” He smiled. “Your father had that effect on people, you know.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Not, of course, that he took advantage of anyone,” Cumbrey added hastily. “He was just such a pleasant fellow.”

“I suppose Mr. Ponsonby dealt with some of the financial matters for the fund—that is the sort of thing he did for Father?”

“Yes, I think so. Your father always dealt with the people; he had such a way with them. But I’m sure he left a number of the details to his friends.”

“Like entering the numbers in the accounts book?” Graeme suggested.

“Yes. Exactly.” The vicar beamed at his quick understanding. “I remember after that last fete we held, Ponsonby was going to London, so he carried the money to the bank for Lord Montclair.”

“I see.” There it was, tumbling so innocently, so casually, from the vicar’s lips . . . the secret Baker must have known and intended to sell to Abby. It had not been his father who embezzled the money from the charity, but his childhood friend, his cousin. Reginald had entrusted the money to Ponsonby and Ponsonby had instead used it to buy into the same worthless stock that ruined Montclair.

Graeme stayed for a few minutes longer, talking with the vicar, though afterward he had no idea what had been said by either of them. As soon as he could politely take his leave, he did so, mounting his horse and riding for home. He was eager to lay the whole story out in front of Abigail and see if the same conclusions leapt out at her as they had at him.

His father had been happy to leave a mundane task such as depositing the money into the bank to his trusted friend George. It wouldn’t have occurred to Reginald to think that it wasn’t safe, that the money might prove too much of a temptation for Ponsonby, who was always in financial straits.

Ponsonby had taken the money and foolishly followed Reginald’s example by investing in the same stock, with equally disastrous results. No, far more disastrous, for Ponsonby had had no American robber baron waiting in the wings, eager to exchange cash for a British title. Ponsonby must have gone to his friend and confessed, resulting in the quarrel Reverend Cumbrey had overheard. Devastated by Montclair’s anger at what he had done, facing the loss of Reginald’s friendship and the public disgrace, Ponsonby had gone home and committed suicide.

No wonder his father blamed himself. Reginald had allowed his friend access to the money when he should not have and as a result had lost both the money and his friend. It all made sense—although it threw his speculations about the attempts on Abby’s life off course. The danger couldn’t have come from the person who had taken the money ten years ago; he was dead. No one would care about the damage to George’s reputation if they discovered the truth.

Graeme’s hands tightened convulsively on the reins as he realized that there was one person who would care. Philomena Ponsonby, who adored her husband and would hate to see his memory tarnished. The woman who was living in his home, only feet away from Abigail. The woman who was with Abby at this very moment.

Graeme dug his heels into his horse’s sides, and the animal leaped forward. He turned off the road, taking a path that cut through fields and trees, an ancient byway used long before the Normans came, probably even before the Romans. It was narrow and in places rougher, with walls and brooks along the way. But his mount was a hunter and could handle the obstacles, and the old path was far shorter.

Even as he rode as fast as he dared on the trail, he told himself he was being foolish. Surely the meek, diminutive woman who was his grandmother’s companion was incapable of trying to kill anyone. It was ludicrous to think that she had left their house in London that night and hidden herself at the docks, then shot Mr. Baker.

That thought steadied him, but hard on its heels came another—she would have been in a perfect position to set fire to Abby’s room. It was that attempt that had seemed unlikeliest to Graeme, the one that made him wonder if he had merely been starting at shadows. How could a stranger have broken in and gone creeping about the house in the middle of the night without anyone noticing?

But it would have been easy enough for a resident of the house to do it. Mrs. Ponsonby would have known it was Abby’s habit to drink a cup of hot chocolate every night. The cook made it and set it out for Molly to carry up to her. No one would have noticed if Mrs. Ponsonby slipped by and poured a bit of laudanum in it. No doubt there was a bottle of the stuff among their medicines; his grandmother often took it when her rheumatism flared up.

Then she would only have had to wait until the household was asleep to finish the deed. No one would have seen Mrs. Ponsonby walking down the hall and if by chance she had run into someone, she could easily have made up an excuse for being there. All it would have taken was entering Abby’s room and lighting a candle or taking an already burning one and holding it to the drapes.

Easy, too, for her to mingle with the other women on the staircase at the Middleton ball and give Abby a push. Mrs. Ponsonby was one of those women one never noticed.