My Husband Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

The estate ledgers laid open before me, their neat columns of black ink a battlefield of my own making. I dipped my quill, the scratch of the nib loud in the hollow silence of my study. I was siphoning Westmoor’s wealth, coin by heavy gold coin. Not for gowns or jewels, but for armor.

I established the Westmoor Charity Kitchens in the shadow of the grand cathedral. On the first morning, the biting frost of late autumn clung to the cobblestones. I stood wrapped in heavy sable furs, the icy wind biting my cheeks as I watched the wretched and the starving line up for hot oats and bread. But my eyes were not truly on the poor; they were on the local magistrates and the Bishop. I played the part of the weeping, pious Marchioness perfectly. I pressed heavy purses of silver into the clergymen's hands, whispering of my fears for my unborn child and my desperate desire to buy heaven's favor. Greed and gossip are twin sisters. I knew they would sing my praises all the way to the capital.

The trap snapped shut three weeks later. The sky above Westmoor was the color of bruised iron when the royal outriders breached our gates.

Conrad stood beside me in the grand hall, his hand resting on the small of my back—a possessive, suffocating weight. The royal envoy unrolled the parchment, the heavy crimson wax of the Crown dangling from its base like a drop of fresh blood.

"...for her unparalleled benevolence and piety, Her Majesty the Queen hereby bestows upon Alexandria Russell, Marchioness of Westmoor, the title of First Lady of the Realm."

I felt the muscles in Conrad’s jaw lock. The hand on my back went entirely rigid, his fingertips digging sharply into my velvet bodice. I turned to him, letting my triumph bleed into a demure, breathless smile.

"Oh, Conrad," I murmured, my voice trembling with manufactured awe. "The Queen herself."

"A profound honor, my sweet," he replied. His voice was ash. His eyes, usually so adept at feigning aristocratic warmth, were flat and glassy. He knew exactly what this meant. A quiet, tragic hemorrhage in the birthing bed was no longer an option. The Crown would demand a thorough inquisition for the sudden death of their new favorite. I had woven an impenetrable shield of public adoration around my fragile, heavy body.

His carefully laid plans in ruins, Conrad grew careless. Two days later, Margaret slipped into my dressing room, her breath smelling of peppermint and winter air. "The rookery on Elm Street, my lady. He left an hour ago."

The carriage ride was a bone-rattling torment to my swollen joints, but the fire of vengeance burned away the ache. I was smuggled through the servant’s entrance of the secluded townhouse, my heavy cloak masking my figure. Margaret led me to a narrow, slatted alcove behind the parlor walls—a spy hole built for blackmail.

Dust motes danced in the thin shafts of light piercing the gloom. Through the wooden slats, I saw them.

Conrad paced the Persian rug like a caged hound. Sarai Chapman sat on the velvet settee, weeping. She was beautiful, even in her distress, but it was the soft, unmistakable swell of her abdomen beneath her silk gown that made my breath catch.

Pregnant.

"You promised me, Conrad!" Sarai’s voice was a shrill blade, entirely devoid of the refined cadence she so desperately tried to mimic in society. She clutched a gold pendant at her throat—a piece from my own dowry. "You said she would be gone before the winter thaw! Look at me! I am carrying your true heir, and you expect me to hide in the shadows while she parades around as the Queen's favorite?"

Conrad stopped, rubbing his temples. The arrogant lord was gone; in his place stood a cornered, exhausted man. "You must lower your voice, Sarai. The decree changes everything. If she dies now, the royal physicians will swarm Westmoor like locusts. I need time."

"I don't have time!" She surged to her feet, crossing the room to grip his lapels. Her knuckles were stark white, her face flushed with hysterical fury. "Dispose of her, Conrad. Poison her tea, push her down the stairs—I do not care! If my child is born a bastard, I will tell the magistrates everything!"

Conrad’s hands seized her wrists, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Do not threaten me," he hissed, the sudden venom in his tone causing Sarai to flinch. "I will handle my wife. You will sit quietly and wait."

In the dark of the alcove, I rested a hand over my own womb. My child kicked, a strong, rhythmic thumping against my palm. I did not weep. I did not tremble. I simply watched the man who had murdered me in another life shatter under the weight of his own deceit.

Wait as long as you like, Sarai, I thought, a razor-thin smile curving my lips. You are both already digging your own graves.