Page 102 of A Momentary Marriage

But he could not seem to stop buying things for her. He could not stop thinking about her. He felt as if he were in exile. The worst thing was, he had only himself to blame.

James sat at his desk, studying the name in front of him. He’d gotten it two days ago from a tavern owner he knew in Southwark, who had assured him the man’s skills at all manner of death were well worth the price. Now all he had to do was hire the fellow, and he would have the means to keep Claude in line.

It was stupid to delay it. Foolhardy. It would not happen unless Claude hurt Laura, but still . . . the idea of hiring a man to kill his brother chilled him. He kept remembering things he’d rather not think of, like teaching Claude how to climb a tree, and the day a few weeks after that when Claude had fallen out of one, the breath knocked from him, and James had been swept with panic, certain he’d killed him.

Maybe James’s threat of retribution would be enough to keep Claude in check. “Contemplating how to get rid of me?”

James glanced up, startled, to see Claude standing in the doorway. “Actually, I was remembering the first time I saw you.”

Claude’s brows rose. “I suppose you recognized me as a devil straight off.”

“No. But I did think you were a distinct disappointment, doing nothing but lying there and crying all the time. I would have preferred a new pony.”

“No surprise there.” Claude stood for a moment, arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb. “I’m tired of this. I have someone looking for a house for Adelaide and Robbie and me. We’ll move out of . . . your home soon.”

It felt strange to hear Grace Hill called that, as if it had not always been Claude’s home, as well. James stood up abruptly. “I’m not asking that. I don’t care where you live. All I want is Laura’s safety.”

“That’s not up to me.” Claude held up his hands, forestalling James’s reply. “No, I know you don’t intend to listen to reason. You’ve got your hard head set; no one can change it.” He straightened and moved a little farther into the room. “Have you hired your assassin yet?”

“Naturally.” James was not about to tell Claude that he hadn’t even talked to one yet.

“What made you think I tried to kill you? I know what you hold as proof for your wife, the accidents you think were not. But how did someone poison you? How did they make it seem an illness?”

James gazed at him levelly. “You really mean to play this out? Do you think I’ll believe you innocent if you pretend you don’t know the method?”

“No.” Claude glared at him. “I know I’ve no hope of that with you. You’re bound and determined I’m the villain of the piece. I just want to know how it was done.”

“Why?”

“Because how else can I prove who really did it? You’re bloody certain it was me. I presume everyone else will fall in with your thinking because that’s what they’re accustomed to. And you’re going to wind up dead because of it.”

“As if you’d care.”

“It’s my head if you do,” Claude retorted. “Don’t you think I have a vested interest in the matter?”

James sighed. “Mercury.”

“What?” Claude looked at him blankly.

“Mercury,” James repeated, uneasiness beginning to coil in his stomach. “Quicksilver.”

“Someone put quicksilver in what, your food? How?”

“My medicine. And beneath my bed.”

“Under your bed!” Claude gaped at him. “I don’t understand. You don’t have to swallow it?”

James was growing tighter every moment. Could Claude possibly be this good an actor? “You breathe it in.”

“That’s it? You just breathe it and it makes you have . . .” He waved his hand toward James in a vague, encompassing gesture.

“Coughing. Tremors. Nightmares. Headaches. Insomnia. Weakness. Hallucinations.”

“Hallucinations!”

“Yes. Visions.” James leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk, his voice harsh. “I saw your father. I saw Mother’s dead cat, of all things. You lose your memory and your mind and eventually your life. It’s a long, lingering, bloody awful way to go. It would have been kinder to have shot me.”

Claude swallowed, looking ill. “James . . .” He shook his head. “James, I didn’t . . . Good God, you honestly think that I could do such a thing? That I’m that low? That . . . that desperate and cruel?”