The word "poison" hung in the air like a noxious cloud. Uncle Cyrus sat straight-backed on the witness stand, his eyes fixed on Lady Beatrix, who'd gone utterly pale. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Though given everything else our family had done, perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised.
"That's a serious accusation, Mr. Beaumont," Master Marcus Wilkerson said cautiously. "Do you have proof of this attempted poisoning?"
Uncle Cyrus smiled thinly. "Not the kind that would stand in court, no. But I know what happened. After my brother's death, I stayed at the manor for two weeks. Lady Beatrix insisted I take my meals privately in my room. By the third day, I was violently ill—sweating, vomiting, my vision blurring."
"That could have been anything," Lady Beatrix protested, her voice higher than usual. "A simple stomach ailment."
