Amelia thought.
“That you could see,” she corrected.
The hint of a smile that curved his lips had no humor in it. “I could see a great deal.” Despite everything, he found himself pausing. Even though he thought of her as capable and intelligent, he kept finding himself wanting to protect her, to shield her from the nastier side of life. “Are you sure you want me to continue?”
Her eyes darkened. “I’m not a child, Carrington. Nor was there any affection lost between the prince and myself. I think you know that.” Whatever he told her wasn’t going to reduce her to tears. Disdain, maybe, but not tears. He had to be aware of that.
Russell forged ahead. “I found the prince in bed. He was naked.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise her. It was in keeping with Reginald’s reputation. More than ever, she felt like someone who had just dodged a bullet. But for the moment, the world would see the man as her fiancé. That meant that there would be humiliation by association. “I see. Was there anyone—?”
She didn’t have to finish. Russell knew what she was asking. “No, the prince was alone when I found him. Very alone,” he emphasized. When she raised a quizzical brow, he added, “There wasn’t anyone in the entire mansion.”
That almost seemed impossible. In photographs of Reginald, he had always been surrounded by people. He had a huge entourage following him wherever he went. That they were gone could only mean one thing. “Rats leaving a sinking ship?”
Most of Reginald’s hangers-on were less than savory. The ones employed by the crown were supposed to be more steadfast, but fear could send troops scattering. It all depended on what had happened in the last few hours. Russell intended to get answers. “I suppose that’s as good a guess as any.”
Amelia studied his face, trying to discern his thoughts. Trying not to have any of her own that were unseemly at a time like this. But then, she had never loved Reginald, hadn’t even liked him. If she felt no grief at his passing, only relief, she could be excused for that. “But you don’t think his death was natural.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “The prince was thirty years old and as healthy as a horse.”
The prince brought another kind of animal to mind as far as she was concerned. “He also behaved like a rutting pig.”
“That kind of behavior could have gotten him a knife in his back,” Russell pointed out. “It wouldn’t have killed him like a silent thief in the night.”
Amelia paused, thinking. The prince was given to excesses of all kinds. Alcohol, women, drugs. According to more than one article she’d read, life had to be one continuous party, or Reginald was bored. “It could have been an overdose.”
“Possibly.” It was the first thing he’d thought of, but he wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. “But I’ve seen the prince consume enough alcohol for two men and still remain standing. He had an incredible tolerance for both alcohol and recreational drugs.” He shook his head. “Something isn’t adding up.”
If it turned out that natural causes hadn’t taken him and he hadn’t accidentally died by his own hand, then the only conclusion to be drawn was that the prince had been murdered. The thought made her uneasy. When one royal was struck down, they were all vulnerable. Unless it was personal. “Who stands to gain from his death?”
“I was thinking more of the people who actively disliked him.”
She laughed softly to herself. She wasn’t the only one who had dodged a bullet today. Silvershire had been spared, as well. “From what I hear, that could be most of the country. Since he was Weston’s only heir, who is next in line for the crown?”
Until she asked, he hadn’t even thought about the immediate consequences of Reginald’s death. Or what that meant to him, personally. Since the prince had been so vibrant, the idea that Reginald might not be around to ascend the throne had never even occurred to him.
But now that it did, he found the notion appalling. He had always disliked notoriety. It had only gotten more intense as he had grown older and placed more value on his privacy. Russell’s expression was grim as he replied, “I am.”
Her eyes widened as she felt her heart jump. She hadn’t known that. She’d had no reason to know that. “You?”
He nodded. “According to the rules of succession of Silvershire. Weston ascended the throne because King Dunford had no sons, no children of his own. There were two dukes he felt were equal to the task. Everyone felt he was leaning toward Lord Benton Vladimir. But then he suddenly changed his mind and chose Weston to be the present king.”
Thoughts she didn’t want to entertain began whispering along the perimeter of Amelia’s brain. And if she could think them, so could others who were less charitable. Others who didn’t love Russell.
Amelia pressed her lips together as she looked at him. “If the prince died under suspicious circumstances—if he was murdered—someone might think that you had something to do with it.”
She thought about the night they had spent together. Had that prompted Russell to rethink his position and take matters into his own hands? Was she the reason behind what had happened to the prince? Or could Russell have conceived an elaborate plan to capture the crown and she had blindly played into his hands?
No! How could she even think that way? Amelia upbraided herself. Russell was too honorable a man to be guilty of something like that. She was willing to bet her life on that.
On what? a small voice demanded. On a man she hardly knew? On a boy who used to put bugs into her bed? She didn’t really know the man who stood before her, she reminded herself. She only knew the boy he had been. A great many years had come and gone between then and now.
Amelia felt torn. Logic pointed one way, but she refused to believe that her heart would have led her astray like that. There was goodness in Russell, she could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. She had no answer for it; she just did.
His eyes met hers. “Do you?” He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Something froze inside him. “Do you think I had something to do with it?”
“No.”
Amelia had hesitated for a moment. If she’d believed in him, she wouldn’t have, he thought. “But you’re not sure.”
She knew that protests were useless. He could see right through her. She could only tell him the truth. “Can I swear to it in a courtroom on a stack of Bibles? No. Because I don’t have any way of actually knowing where you were every moment. But do I doubt your loyalty to the crown? No. Do I think that you are a murderer? No.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment as he thought of the night they’d spent together. The night that should never have happened.
“My loyalty to the crown could come under question,” he reminded her quietly.
She drew her shoulders back. “That wasn’t a matter of loyalty.”
That was exactly a matter of loyalty, he thought. “Then what was it?”
“A matter of two kindred spirits coming together.” From out of nowhere, a thought occurred to her. “Or was that out of pity?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
Amelia shook her head. She was just being overwrought, she thought. She shouldn’t have said anything. “Never mind.”
But he didn’t want to let it drop. “No, what did you mean by that? Was there anything that entire time that could make you suspect what happened was even remotely inspired by an emotion as condescending as pity?”
He sounded hurt, offended. She hadn’t meant for any of that to happen. “No. I’m sorry. This whole situation is extremely distressing. I came here to be married to a man whose reputation I loathed—since he’s gone, I don’t see the point