“If they were on the cusp of marriage, as she intimated, why wasn’t she a guest at your debut ball? I combed through the guest list repeatedly when that painting was … stolen.” He slanted a knowing glance at her. “She was not included on the roll. Her intended throws a ball for his daughter and her best friend, and she doesn’t attend? They would not have needed to let on they were anything more than friends if that was his wish on such a big night for Agatha, but for her not to have been invited?” He shrugged. “I shall never understand the upper classes.”

Did he include her in his generalizations? It hurt to think he might. That he saw such a yawning gap between his own circumstances and hers.

“I wish Agatha’s father had treated her as an adult with a good mind and kind heart. Now he will not have the chance. He should have told her about Mrs. Fairchild.”

A murmur went through the room as a man and woman in somber clothes entered. They looked unremarkable to Juliette, but others clearly knew more than she.

“Who is that?”

Juliette shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”

“Carlyle,” said a man behind her. “He’s a nerve showing up here.”

Daniel’s attention sharpened, as did Juliette’s. “Why would you say that, sir?” Daniel asked.

“They were noted rivals. Carlyle has a mill of his own on the river, just a mile above Montgomery’s, and they often competed for the same farmers’ grain. There were rumors, and I, of course, could not substantiate them, but …” He bent forward, his eyes alight, clearly enjoying the gossip. “They accused each other of all sorts of skulduggery. Sabotage, pinching customers and workers, and”—his voice lowered further—“I heard customers weren’t all Montgomery stole from Carlyle. I heard he cast his eye toward Carlyle’s wife.”

It was a day of revelations into the romantic life of Garfield Montgomery. If this rumor was to be believed, he was something of a Lothario. It staggered the mind.

Juliette studied Mrs. Carlyle with interest. Brown hair, blue eyes, sharp features, shapely of figure, and considerably younger than her husband, who was portly with gray peppering his dark hair. She was nothing like the ethereal widow who had staked a claim on the deceased.

What had Mrs. Fairchild thought of the rumors? Had she known?

Had Mr. Carlyle killed Mr. Montgomery in a fit of rage over being made a cuckold by his wife and his rival? Was it something as pedestrian as that? Not money, not power, but that other motive?

Again her thoughts went to Agatha. If she came to know all that people were saying about her father, it would break her heart.