The Perfect Lover

17

Portia strode rapidly across the lawn and on toward the lake. She’d imagined doing so eagerly if anxiously; the tumult of emotions roiling inside her made it easy to appear overset.

Cocktease? That hadn’t been in the script they’d rehearsed. Nor had her slapping him. He’d done it deliberately; she could, perhaps, understand why, but she wasn’t going to forgive him easily. In the heat of the moment, the accusation had hurt.

She could feel her cheeks still flaming; as she walked, she put her hands to her face, trying to cool the burning.

Tried, desperately, to get her mind back on track-to focus on why she was here, why they’d had to stage that horrible fight.

Stokes had pointed out that the murderer would only approach her if he thought she was alone-alone in a suitable environment in which he could murder her and escape undetected. No one would readily believe she’d be witless enough to go wandering in the gardens alone in the gathering twilight-not unless she had a damned good reason.

Even more, no one would believe Simon would allow her to do so-not unless he had a damned good reason. Not unless, as Charlie had remarked, something cataclysmic had happened to stop him watching over her.

Apparently his habit, one admittedly he’d never concealed, had been widely noted.

Until Charlie had mentioned it, she’d never really thought of how Simon’s behavior must have, over all the years, appeared to others…

Wondered how, knowing what she now did, she’d managed to be so blind.

Remembered with a start that she should keep her eyes peeled for the murderer. If they’d succeeded, he’d be on his way down to find her.

Her liking for the lake path was, so Stokes and Charlie had averred, also well-known, but they’d chosen that venue for other reasons; the path was completely visible all the way around-easy for Stokes and Charlie to hide here and there and watch over her. Simon would join them, of course, but to avoid scuppering their plan, he had to go all the way to the stables before circling back.

Blenkinsop was also on watch, the only other person in their confidence. Simon had wished to seed the gardens with footmen, standing like statues in the shadows; only the argument that the murderer was bound to come across one while following Portia, and thus get the wind up and after all their hard work not appear, had changed his mind.

But Blenkinsop was trustworthy and, like all good servants, next to invisible. He’d keep watch from the house and follow whichever gentleman set out for the lake.

She reached the edge of the main lawn and headed down the first slope toward the lake. Raising her head, she scanned the skies, drew in a breath.

The weather was the only thing that, thus far, had not gone their way. Clouds had blown up, ragged and dark, not quite preempting the sunset but deepening the twilight.

She strode along as if furiously angry, not inwardly calmly expectant as she’d expected to be, but with her nerves jumping, twitching at every sound. The emotions stirred by their argument had yet to settle; roused, uncertain, they left her uneasy.

They’d presumed that, walking quickly, she’d easily reach the lake before the murderer… she hoped they hadn’t overlooked some minor detail-like the murderer’s having already been out, strolling the gardens and thus being much closer-

The bushes just ahead of her rustled. She stopped, quivering…

A man stepped out.

She was so surprised she didn’t scream.

A hand rising to her lips, she squeaked. Then dragged in a breath-

Recognized the man. Saw the startled expression on his face.

Arturo held up both hands placatingly and backed away two steps. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Portia exhaled through her teeth. Frowned. “What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low. “Mrs. Glossup’s dead-you know that.”

He wasn’t intimidated; he frowned back. “I came to see Rosie.”

“Rosie?”

“The maid. We are… good friends.”

She blinked. “You… before… you weren’t coming up here to see Mrs. Glossup?”

His lip curled. “That putain? What would I want with her?”

“Oh.” She shuffled her thoughts, reorganized her conclusions.

Noticed Arturo was still frowning at her.

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head. “You’d better be off.” She waved him away.

He frowned harder. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. There’s a murderer here-you should know that.”

The last thing she needed, another overprotective male.

He took a step toward her.

She lifted her head higher, narrowed her eyes. “Go!” She pointed imperiously down the narrow path he’d been following. “If you don’t, I’ll scream and tell everyone you’re the murderer.”

He debated whether to call her bluff, then grudgingly stepped away. “You are a very aggressive female.”

“It comes from dealing with very aggressive males!”

The acid response settled the matter; with a last frown, Arturo went, melting into the bushes, his footsteps cushioned by the grassed path.

Silence closed in, like a cloak falling about her. With a quick breath, she headed on, as fast as she could. The shadows seemed to have grown darker, denser. She jumped, her heart in her mouth, at one-only to realize it truly was just a shadow.

Pulse pounding, she finally reached the crest beyond which the path ran down to the lake. Pausing to catch her breath, she looked down at the water, ink black, silent, and still.

She listened, strained her ears, but all she could hear was the faint murmuring of leaves. The breeze wasn’t strong enough to disturb the lake; the surface lay like obsidian glass, smooth but not reflective.

There was no true light left; as she went down the slope, she wished she’d worn a brighter color-yellow or bright blue. Her dark green silk would blend into the shadows; only her face, her bare arms and shoulders, her upper chest, would show.

Glancing down, she let the fine Norwich silk shawl she’d draped about her shoulders slide down to her elbows. No need to conceal more of her than necessary. Reaching the lake, she turned away from the summerhouse and followed the circling path.

Her nerves were tensed, tight, poised to react to an attack. Both Stokes and Charlie were concealed nearby; given the minutes she’d spent with Arturo, Simon would be close, too.

Simply thinking it was comforting. She walked along, still brisk, but gradually slackening her pace, as she naturally would as the supposed fury that had propelled her this far slowly dissipated.

She’d passed the path to the pinetum but was still some way from the summerhouse when the bushes lining the path rustled.

Her heart leapt. She halted, scanned the dark, waited…

“It’s only me. Sorry.”

Charlie. She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss, looked down, fussing with her shawl as if the fringe had caught and she’d stopped to untangle it. “You nearly scared me into hysterics!”

She’d whispered; he did, too.

“I’m keeping watch along this side, but it’s hell to get along here. I’m going to edge back toward the pinetum.”

She frowned. “Don’t forget the pine needles.”

“I won’t. Simon should be somewhere just past the summerhouse, and Stokes is near the path to the house, on the way to the pinetum.”

“Thank you.” Flicking out her fringe, she lifted her head and walked on.

Breathed deeply to calm her skittering nerves.

The breeze had dropped; the night itself seemed to have stilled, silent yet expectant, as if it, too, was waiting.

Reaching the space before the summerhouse, she paused, pretended to consider, but had no intention of going in. Inside, her faithful watchers couldn’t see her. Turning away, she continued on.

Pacing, as if thinking. She kept her head down, but watched her surrounds from under her lashes. Let her senses reach, search. They’d assumed the villain would try to strangle her-a gun was too noisy, too easy to trace, a knife would be far too messy.

She hadn’t really thought about who it was-which of the four suspects she expected to meet; as she walked and waited, she had time and reason enough to consider it. She didn’t want it to be Henry or James, yet… if, from all she knew, she’d had to make a choice and pick one of the four, she would have picked James.

It was, in her mind, James she was expecting to meet.

He had the inner strength. The resolve. It was something she recognized both in him and in Simon.

James was, to her, the most likely possibility.

Desmond… he’d put up with Kitty’s interference for so long, had used avoidance of her as his tactic for literally years. She had difficulty seeing him suddenly in the grips of a murderous rage, murderous enough to kill.

As for Ambrose, she honestly couldn’t see him doing anything so rash. Tight-lipped-she’d heard Charlie mumble something about him being tight-arsed and couldn’t find it in her to disagree-he was so careful of his behavior, so calculating, so cold-bloodedly focused on his career, the idea of him falling into a murderous rage just because Kitty propositioned him in public… it was simply too much to believe.

James, then. Regardless of their feelings for him, she knew that, if it indeed proved to be so, Simon and Charlie would not try to shield him. They would find it incredibly painful, but they would hand him over to Stokes themselves. Their code of honor would demand it.

She understood that-indeed, better than most gentlemen. Her brother, Edward, a few years younger than Luc, was no longer spoken of. Many families had a rotten apple; they’d weeded theirs out; despite all, she could find it in her to hope the Glossups wouldn’t have to weather such a scandal.

The path up to the house lay just ahead. She’d nearly completed a circuit of the lake… and no one had arrived. Had she walked too fast? Or was the murderer lying in wait for her back up the path, in the shadows lining the route to the house?

Drawing level with the path, she looked up, scanning the shadows bordering the upward rise-and saw a man. He stood just below the lip of the rise, to one side, in the shadow of a large rhododendron. It was the dark foliage behind him that allowed her to see him well enough to be sure.

It was Henry.

She was shocked, surprised… looked down and kept walking as if she hadn’t seen him, while her mind raced.

Had it been he? Had he learned about Kitty’s pressuring James over her baby, as they’d surmised might have happened? Had that been the last straw?

She felt chilled, but kept walking. If it was Henry, she had to draw him down here-where she was safe. She kept walking, her skirts swaying about her as she steadily paced on, heading once more toward the pinetum, her nerves strained, her senses even more so, waiting, aching to hear the soft thud of a footstep behind her…

Ten feet ahead of her, a figure stepped smoothly out from one of the myriad minor paths between the bushes and waited, elegantly at ease, for her to join him.

Portia stared at Ambrose. Damn! He was going to ruin everything! He smiled as she approached; mind reeling, wits in a whirl, she struggled to find some means, some excuse, to send him packing.

“I heard your altercation with Cynster. While I can appreciate your need for solitude, you really shouldn’t be out walking alone.”

What was it about her that made every last gentleman think he needed to protect her?

Thrusting her irritation aside, she stopped beside him, inclined her head. “Thank you for your concern, but I really do wish to be left quite alone.”

His smile turned distinctly patronizing. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we really can’t allow that.” He didn’t move to take her arm, but turned to pace beside her.

Frowning, she found herself walking on while she debated her next move. She had to get rid of him-did she dare tell him that this was a planned trap, that she was the bait and he was interfering… that the murderer may very well, even now, be watching, closing in from behind?

The darkness of the pinetum rose on their right. The lake, black and still, lay to her left. Ambrose was on her right, between her and the gloom beneath the soaring trees. According to Charlie, they must have just passed Stokes. The temptation to glance back, to see if Henry was taking the bait and coming down the slope, pricked, but she resisted.

The path into the pinetum lay ahead; she racked her brains to think of a reason to send Ambrose back to the house that way…

“I have to admit, my dear, that I never thought you’d be as stupid as Kitty.”

The words, calm, perfectly even, jerked her back to the moment. She glanced at Ambrose. “What do you mean-as stupid as Kitty?”

“Why, that I hadn’t believed you to be one of those silly women who delights in playing one man against another. In treating men as if they’re puppets and you’re in control of their strings.”

He continued walking, looking down, not at her; his expression, what she could see of it, seemed pensive.

“That was,” he went on, in the same even, considered tone, “poor Kitty’s style to the last. She thought she had power.” His lips twisted wryly. “Who knows-she might have had some, but she never learned how to wield it properly.”

He finally glanced at Portia. “I’d thought you were different-certainly more intelligent.” He met her gaze, smiled. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

It was the smile that did it-that sent a wave of ice washing over her. Convinced her she was walking beside Kitty’s murderer, that it wasn’t Henry, or James…

“Aren’t you?” She halted. Managed a frown. She wasn’t walking another step closer to the path through the pinetum-leading into the darkness where no one could see. “If you didn’t come here to comment-impertinently-on my behavior, what, then, is your point?”

She swung around as she said it, planting herself before him-facing back along the path so she’d be able to see Stokes, but Ambrose, facing her, wouldn’t.

His smile remained. “That’s simple, my dear. My point is to silence you and leave Cynster to take the blame. He’s out walking, so are you. After that scene on the terrace…” His chilling smile deepened. “I couldn’t have scripted it better myself.”

He lifted his hands, until then clasped behind his back. She saw a curtain cord dangling from one, then he caught the swinging tassel, wound the cord between his hands-

She grabbed it. Locked both fists around the cord between his hands and hung on.

He swore. Tried to shake her loose, but couldn’t-couldn’t break her grip without letting go himself.

Behind him, she saw the burly shadow that was Stokes burst from the bushes and rush toward them.

Snarling, Ambrose released the curtain cord-throwing her off-balance. She staggered; he grabbed the trailing end of her silk shawl.

Swung about her, whipping it around her neck.

She didn’t think-didn’t have time. She got a hand inside the folds; in the instant before he wrenched them tight, she leaned back toward him, pushing the shawl simultaneously away, and slid down.

Out of the noose.

She ended crouched at Ambrose’s feet, hard by the lake’s edge. Stokes was thundering up. Ambrose was too close, standing, snarling over her, looping the shawl between his hands.

She flung herself sideways, into the lake.

The black waters closed over her-the banks were precipitous, there was nothing beneath her feet. But the water was cool, not icy; the long summer had warmed it. There was neither current nor waves to fight; it was easy to rise to the surface and swim.

As she did, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Ambrose’s stunned face-then he heard Stokes. Saw him. Realized…

Ambrose’s face contorted with fury-

She swam. Behind her, she heard a thud and an “oomph!” as Stokes collided with Ambrose. Kicking as well as her skirts allowed, she stroked away from the bank, then, at a safe distance, turned.

Charlie was rushing up to assist. Henry was lumbering down the path. Simon had been on his way to help the others but had stopped on the lake circuit at the point closest to her. He now stood at the lake’s edge. Watching. Poised to react…

Reaching the fray, Charlie joined in, grappling to help Stokes hold his prey. Ambrose fought like a madman-wrenched free-

And jumped into the lake.

Her heart leaping again, Portia turned to swim away-saw Simon tense on the bank-

But he didn’t dive in.

Hearing splashing-too much splashing, surely?-she glanced back.

And realized, as all the others had, that Ambrose had assumed the lake was ornamental-not fathoms deep.

He couldn’t swim. Certainly not well enough.

Within a few strokes he was foundering.

She drifted, watching…

Stokes and Charlie stood on the bank, hands on hips, chests heaving, and watched as Ambrose, now panicked and thrashing wildly, sank.

He came up spluttering. “Help! I’m drowning, you bastards! Help me!”

It was Stokes who answered. “Why should we?”

“Because I’m drowning-I’ll die!”

“The way I see it, that might be best all around. Save us all a lot of bother.”

Startled, Portia looked at Stokes. It wouldn’t do-they had to have Ambrose known as the murderer-

But Stokes knew his man.

Ambrose went down again, and came up screeching, “All right. All right! I did it. I strangled the little bitch!”

“That would be Mrs. Glossup, I take it?”

“Yes, dammit!” Ambrose was yelling at the top of his lungs. “Now get me out of here!”

Stokes looked at Charlie, then at Henry, who, stunned, had slowly come to join them. “You heard?”

Charlie nodded; when Henry realized Stokes had included him, he nodded, too.

“Right, then.” Stokes looked down at Ambrose. “I can’t swim either. How do we fetch him out?”

From the water, Portia raised her voice. “Use my shawl.” It was lying on the ground where Ambrose had dropped it. “Wind it and knot the fringes as well-it should reach him. It’s silk-if it’s not torn, it’ll hold.”

She waited, watching while they followed her instructions. Heard, from the bank a little way behind her the growled words, “Don’t you dare even think of going to his aid.”

For the first time in too many hours, she smiled.

Luckily, with rescue assured, Ambrose calmed enough to, very clumsily, keep his head above water until they flung the shawl out to him.

He lunged, grabbed the knotted fringe, and clung. The dunking and his resulting panic had drained all the fight from him. As they drew him, shaking, from the water, she turned and stroked to the nearer shore.

Where Simon stood waiting.

She couldn’t read his expression as he stood looking down at her. Relief and something more poured through her. Smiling-simply glad to be alive-she held up both hands. He grasped them, waited until she’d brought her feet against the rocky wall of the lake, then pulled her smoothly out, onto the bank.

Released her hands and caught her in his arms.

Yanked her close, locked her to him.

Ignoring her dripping state, he kissed her-hard, ruthless, ravishing, and desperate-kissed her witless.

Much better than being shaken witless.

When he finally consented to lift his head, she looked into his face, didn’t need her intellect to correctly interpret the tension holding him, to know that he had come very close to the edge of his control.

“I’m perfectly all right.” She spoke directly to what she knew to be his fear, the vulnerability he possessed, all because of her.

He humphed. The telltale tension eased only slightly. “As I remember it, the plan did not call for you to jump into the lake.”

His arms loosened; she pushed back. Stepped out of his arms as he reluctantly let her go. Lifted her hands to her shoulders and pressed down on her gown, following the line of her body to her hips and thighs, squeezing the water out and down, then grasping her skirts and wringing them.

“It seemed the most sensible way to go.” She kept her tone determinedly mild, as if they were discussing a hunt meet rather than her flight from a murderer.

“What if he’d been able to swim?” The aggravated growl was still tense and accusatory. “You didn’t know he couldn’t.”

She straightened, looked him in the eye. “I didn’t know about Ambrose, but I swim quite well.” She raised her brows fractionally, let a smile touch her lips. “And you swim even better.”

He held her gaze. She could feel him weighing what she’d said…

Suddenly realized. “You did know I could swim, didn’t you?”

His lips, until then a tight line, twisted, then he exhaled. “No.” His gaze locked with hers; he hesitated, then grudgingly added, “But I assumed you could or you wouldn’t have jumped in.”

She read his face, his eyes, then smiled delightedly as sudden joy infused her, rushed up through her. Left her feeling slightly giddy. She looked down, still smiling. “Precisely.” Linking her arm with his, she turned to see what the others were doing.

He continued to study her face. “What?”

She glanced back, met his eyes. Smiled gently. “Later.” Once she’d fully savored the moment, and found the words to tell him how much she appreciated his restraint. He’d stood at the lake’s edge, ready to step in and protect her, but, given she’d been able to do so, he’d held back and let her save herself. He hadn’t treated her as a helpless female; he hadn’t smothered her in his protectiveness. He’d behaved as if she were a partner, one with skills and talents somewhat different from his own yet perfectly capable of dealing with the moment.

He’d have stepped in the instant she needed him-but he’d resisted the temptation to step in before.

A future together really would work-with time, with familiarity, his overprotectiveness would become a more rational, considered response. One that considered her and her wishes, not just his.

Hope filled her, buoyed her with a joy totally divorced from their recent activities.

But those activities were still unfolding. Blenkinsop had joined the group in the shadow of the pinetum. Now he and Stokes turned, Ambrose supported between them. They marched him along the path, passing Simon and Portia at the bottom of the upward slope. His hands bound with her sodden shawl, Ambrose was still shaking; he didn’t even glance their way.

Charlie and Henry followed close behind, Charlie explaining all they’d been doing.

Henry halted beside her and took her hands in his. “Charlie hasn’t yet told me all, but I understand, my dear, that we owe you a great deal.”

She colored. “Nonsense-we all had a hand.”

“Not nonsense at all-without you and your bravery, they couldn’t have pulled it off.” Henry’s eyes had shifted to Simon’s face. A glance passed between them, deep with masculine meaning. “And you, Simon.” Henry reached out and clapped his shoulder.

Then glanced at her gown, suddenly became aware that she was clad in only two layers of silk, both drenched.

He coughed, looked away-up at the house. “Charlie and I will go on ahead, but you should hurry inside and change. Not wise to stand around in wet clothes, even in summer.”

Charlie grinned at Portia, nodded to Simon. “We got him!” His transparent happiness that all was now well, that they’d succeeded in rescuing James, Henry, and Desmond, too, was infectious.

They both smiled. Henry and Charlie walked on; they fell in behind, walking slowly up the rise.

As they crested it, the breeze sprang up, and sent cool fingers sliding down her skin. She shivered.

Simon halted. He shrugged out of his coat and swirled it around her, draping it over her shoulders. She smiled, grateful, even in the balminess of the night, for the caress of heat-his heat-lingering in the silk lining. Holding the coat closed, she met his eyes. “Thank you.”

He humphed. “It’ll do for the moment.”

He retook her hand. She went to walk on but he didn’t move, held her back. The others were well ahead.

She glanced at him, brows rising.

Looking at the others, he drew in a breath. “What happened on the terrace-what I said. I apologize. I didn’t mean…” He waved, as if to wipe the scene from their minds, glanced fleetingly at her, then away.

She stepped across him, raised her free hand to his face, and turned it to hers.

Reluctantly, he let her.

Until, in the fading light, she could read his eyes, until she could sense, as if it were stated, the vulnerability he sought, as always, to hide. To excuse.

She understood that much at least. At last. And was touched beyond measure.

“It won’t ever happen. Believe me.” She would never take from him, then turn from him, never love, then leave him.

His face, hard, set, didn’t soften. “Is it possible to promise such a thing?”

She held his gaze. “Between you and me-yes.”

He read her eyes in turn, saw her sincerity; his chest swelled. She felt the change in the tension holding him, the swift return of his possessiveness, the sinking of his protectiveness.

His arm locked around her; he drew her close.

“Wait.” She pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t rush.”

His brows rose-she could hear the incredulous “Rush?” in his mind.

She eased back in his arms. “We need to end what we’ve started-we need to hear what truly happened and put Ambrose and the murders behind us. Then we can talk about”-she drew breath, finally said the crucial word-”us.”

He held her gaze, then grimaced and released her. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”

He took her hand; together, they climbed the lawns to the house.

It was as grim a scene as he’d foreseen; there was relief but no triumph. In rescuing the Glossups, and to some extent the Archers in that Desmond had been invited at their behest, they’d shifted the weight of opprobium to the Calvins. To the continuing distress of everyone.

Simon ushered Portia into the library through the terrace doors. The scene that met their eyes was, very likely, Stokes’s worst nightmare; they exchanged glances, but knew it was beyond their ability to remedy.

The ladies had rebelled. They’d realized something was going on and had come sweeping into the library; now they’d been told the bare facts-that it was Ambrose who had killed Kitty-they’d all slumped into chairs and sofas, and refused to depart.

Literally everyone was there, even two footmen. The only one with any connection to the drama not present was Arturo; studying the shocked and, in some instances, disbelieving faces, imagining the angst to come, Simon suspected the gypsy would be eternally grateful to have been spared the ordeal.

So would he. He glanced at Portia, from the set of her features accepted that she would not consent to go upstairs and change before she’d learned the answers she didn’t yet know. Fetching the admiral’s chair from behind the big desk, he wheeled it down the room, set it beside the end of the chaise where Lady O sat, and handed Portia into it.

Lady O cast a glance at her sodden attire. “No doubt that, too, will be explained?”

There was a note in her old voice, a flicker in her black eyes, that told them both she’d been seriously alarmed.

Portia put out a hand and gripped one ancient claw. “I was never in any danger.”

“Humph!” Lady O cast a warning glance up at him, as if to put him on notice that she would disapprove mightily if he fell short of her expectations in any way.

Apropos of which… glancing at Stokes, absorbed calming Lady Calvin, assuring her he would explain if she would permit it, Simon stepped back and beckoned one of the footmen; when he came, he rattled off a string of orders. The footman bowed and departed, very likely glad of an opportunity to carry the latest news back to the servants’ hall.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Stokes stepped to the middle of the room, his tone harassed. “As you’ve insisted on remaining, I must ask you all to remain mute while I question Mr. Calvin. If I wish to know anything from any of you, I will ask.”

He waited; when the ladies merely composed themselves as if settling to listen, he exhaled, and turned to Ambrose, slumped in a straight-backed chair under the central chandelier, facing the congregation before the hearth.

Blenkinsop and a sturdy footman, both standing to attention, flanked him.

“Now, Mr. Calvin-you’ve already admitted before a number of witnesses that you strangled Kitty, Mrs. Glossup. Will you please confirm how you killed her?”

Ambrose didn’t look up; his forearms on his thighs, he spoke to his bound hands. “I strangled her with the curtain cord from the window over there.” With his head, he indicated the long window closest to the desk.

“Why?”

“Because the stupid woman wouldn’t let be.”

“In what way?”

As if realizing there would be no way out, that speaking quickly and truthfully would get the ordeal over with that much faster-he couldn’t but be aware of his mother, sitting on the chaise deathly pale, a woman who’d been dealt a deadly blow, one hand gripping Lady Glossup’s, the other clutching Drusilla’s, her eyes fixed in a type of pleading horror on him-Ambrose drew in a huge breath, and rushed on, “She and I-earlier in the year, in London-we had an affair. She wasn’t my type, but she was always offering, and I needed Mr. Archer’s support. It seemed a wise move at the time-she promised to speak to Mr. Archer for me. When summer came, and we left town, we parted.” He shrugged. “Amicably enough. We’d arranged that I would attend this party, but other than that, she let go. Or so I thought.”

He paused only to draw breath. “When I got down here, she was up to her worst tricks, but she seemed to be after James. I didn’t worry, until she caught me one evening and told me she was pregnant.

“I didn’t see the problem at first, but she quickly fixed that. I was appalled!” Even now, the emotion rang in his voice. “It never entered my head that she and Henry weren’t… well, I never dreamed a married lady would behave as she did knowing she no longer had the protection of her marriage.”

He halted, as if stunned anew. Stokes, frowning, asked, “How did that contribute to your reasons for killing her?”

Ambrose looked up at him, then shook his head. “There are any number of tonnish ladies who bear children who are not their husband’s get. I didn’t foresee any problem until Kitty roundly informed me that under no circumstances could she, or would she, bear the child, and if I didn’t want it known it was mine-if I didn’t want her to make a fuss and tell her father-I’d have to make arrangements for her to get rid of it. That was the ultimatum she gave me that night.”

He studied his hands. “I had no idea what to do. My career-being selected for a sound seat and being elected-all I needed was Mr. Archer’s support, and while here I’d found Lord Glossup and Mr. Buckstead well-disposed as well-it was all going so swimmingly… except for Kitty.” His voice hardened; he kept his gaze on his hands. “I didn’t know how to help her-I honestly don’t know if I would have if I’d known. It’s not the sort of thing ladies should ask of their lovers-most women would know how to deal with it themselves. I thought all she needed to do was ask around. She’s here in the country, there’s surely plenty of maids who get in the family way… I was sure she could manage. Either that, or engineer a reconciliation with Henry.”

Clasping his hands tight, he went on, “I made the mistake of telling her so.” A shudder ran through him. “God-how she took on! You’d have thought I’d recommended she drink hemlock-she ranted, railed-her voice rose and rose. I tried to shut her up and she slapped me. She started to screech-

“I grabbed the curtain cord and wound it about her neck… and pulled.” He fell silent; the room was still-a pin dropping would have echoed. Then he tilted his head, his gaze far away, remembering… “It was surprisingly easy-she wasn’t at all strong. She struggled a bit, tried to reach back and scratch me, grab me, but I held her until she stopped struggling… when I let her go, she just crumpled to the floor.”

His voice changed. “I realized I’d killed her. I rushed out-upstairs. Away. I went to my room and poured myself a brandy-I was gulping it down when I saw my coat sleeve had been torn. The flap was gone. Then I remembered that was where Kitty had grabbed. I realized… then I remembered seeing the flap in Kitty’s hand when I’d looked at her lying on the floor. It was plaid-only I wore a plaid coat that day.

“I raced out of my room. I was at the top of the stairs when Portia screamed. Simon came running, then Charlie-there was nothing I could do. I stood there, waiting to be accused, but… nothing happened.”

Ambrose drew in a breath. “Charlie came out and closed the library door. He looked up and saw me. I could see in his face he didn’t think I was the murderer. Instead, he asked where Henry and Blenkinsop were.

“When he left, I realized there was hope-no one had noticed the flap yet. If I could get to it and retrieve it, I’d be safe.” He paused. “I had nothing to lose. I went down the stairs. Henry and Blenkinsop came rushing up and entered the library. I followed.

“Portia and Simon were at the other end of the room, Portia deeply shaken, Simon focused on her. Both saw me, but neither reacted. I was still wearing the plaid coat-they couldn’t have seen the flap.

“I followed Henry and Blenkinsop to the desk. They were shocked, stunned-they just stared. I looked at Kitty-at her right hand.” Ambrose lifted his head. “It was empty.

“I couldn’t believe it. The fingers were open, the hand lax. Then I realized both her hands and arms had been moved, her head shifted. I immediately thought of Portia coming in, finding Kitty, rushing to her, then touching her, chafing her hands-doing all those useless little things women do. The flap was narrow, only a few inches long. If it had fallen from Kitty’s hand…”

He looked down at the Turkish rugs spread over the library floor. “Brown, green, and red. The plaid was the same colors as the rugs. The flap could easily have caught in Portia’s skirts or petticoats, or even a man’s trouser hem. Once out of Kitty’s grasp, it could have ended anywhere, and in this room, it would have been difficult to see. I looked about the body, but it wasn’t there. I couldn’t risk openly searching. Henry and Blenkinsop were still stunned, so I seized the moment. I walked around the desk and bent as if to look closer, and snagged my sleeve on a handle of one of the desk drawers. I straightened, and it ripped. I swore, then apologized. Both Blenkinsop and Henry were dazed, but they did notice. If the flap was found later, I could say I’d lost it then.”

Ambrose’s gaze remained distant. “I felt safe. I left the library, and then it struck me-what if someone else had found Kitty before Portia, recognized the flap and taken it away? But I couldn’t imagine any of those here doing such a thing. They’d have raised the alarm, denounced me… all except Mama. She’d told me she was going to spend the afternoon writing letters, keeping in touch with people whose support I needed. I went up to her room. She was there, writing. She didn’t know anything about the murder. I told her, then left.”

He paused, head slightly tilted, as if looking back on a strange time. “I returned to my room and finished the brandy. I thought about the servants. No reason any should have gone to the library at that hour, but one can never be sure what an enterprising footman or maid might think to do.

“I decided to burn the coat. No one would be surprised that I’d got rid of it after ripping it. If anyone later tried to blackmail me, with the coat destroyed, I could say the plaid of the flap was like mine but not the same. No one can ever be sure about plaids.”

He shifted on the chair. “I took the coat into the woods and burned it. The gypsy undergardener saw me, but I didn’t worry about him then. I felt sure I’d successfully covered all eventualities… except for the possibility that, as I’d first supposed, the flap had been in Kitty’s hand when Portia found her, but the shock had driven it from Portia’s mind.”

He looked down, lifting his bound hands to rub his forehead. “I could see the flap in Kitty’s hand-the image was so vivid in my mind. The more I thought of it the more I felt certain that Portia had to have seen it. Even with both flap and coat gone… she’s usually calm and collected, and very well-connected. Any suggestion from her that I was the murderer would make people step back. An accusation from her could easily ruin my career. I realized I had no guarantee that when she recovered from the shock, she wouldn’t remember.”

Stokes stirred. “So you tried to scare her witless by putting an adder in her bed.”

Gasps and a ripple of consternation broke the spell holding the gathering; for most, it was the first they’d heard of the adder.

Staring down at his hands, Ambrose nodded. “I came across the adder on my way back to the house-I still had the sack I’d used to carry the coat. I thought another shock would keep her from remembering, even make her leave… but she didn’t. And then you arrived, and I had to be careful. But as the days passed, and no one came to tell me they’d found the flap, I realized that it was as I’d thought-no one else had taken the flap. It was there when Portia found Kitty.”

Raising his head, he looked directly at Portia. “Do you remember now? You must have seen it. She had it clutched in her right hand.”

Portia met his gaze, then shook her head. “It wasn’t there when I found her.”

Ambrose pulled a patronizing face. “It had to be-”

“You fool!”

The exclamation startled everyone. Drew all eyes to Drusilla, sitting bolt upright beside Lady Calvin. Her face was white, her eyes huge, her whole body in the grip of some powerful emotion.

Her gaze remained locked on her brother. “You… you… idiot! Portia said nothing-she would have if she’d seen it. She might have been shocked but she hadn’t lost her wits.”

As stunned as anyone, Ambrose simply stared at her.

Stokes recovered first. “What do you know of this missing flap, Miss Calvin?”

Drusilla looked up at him, and paled even more. “I…” The emotions flitting across her face were visible for all to see. She’d only just realized…

Lady Calvin lifted a hand to her lips as if to suppress a cry. Lady Glossup put an arm about her.

Mrs. Buckstead, seated beside Drusilla, leaned forward. “You must tell us all, my dear. There really is no choice.”

Drusilla looked at her, then dragged in a breath, and glanced at Stokes. “I was walking in the gardens that afternoon. I came back into the house by the library doors. I saw Kitty lying there and saw the flap in her hand. I recognized it, of course. I realized Ambrose had finally had enough and…” She paused, moistened her lips, then went on, “For whatever reason, he’d killed her. If he was caught… the scandal, the shame… it would kill Mama. So I prised the flap from Kitty’s fingers, and took it with me. I heard voices in the front hall-Simon’s and Portia’s-so I went out by the terrace doors.”

Stokes regarded her gravely. “Even when the attempts to silence Miss Ashford commenced, you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

Drusilla’s gaze flew to his face. She swayed; her skin turned grey. “What attempts?” Her tone was weak, horrified. “I didn’t know about the adder.” She looked at Ambrose, then at Stokes. “The urn… that was an accident-wasn’t it?”

Stokes looked down at Ambrose. “You may as well tell us.”

Ambrose fixed his gaze on his hands. “I’d taken to pacing on the roof-I couldn’t let anyone see how worried I was. I saw Portia on the terrace. She looked to be alone-I couldn’t see Cynster by the wall. I was there-it was easy to do…” He suddenly drew a huge breath. Lifted his head but didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “You have to remember I had no choice-not if I wanted to win a seat and become a Member. I’d set my heart on it, and…”

He stopped, looked down. Clasped his hands tightly. Stokes shifted his gaze to Drusilla.

She was staring at Ambrose. Her face was ashen.

When she lifted her gaze to Stokes, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell your brother you’d taken the flap?”

For a long moment, she stared at Stokes; he was about to repeat the question when Drusilla lowered her gaze to Ambrose.

Drew breath, and said, “I hate him, you know. No-how could you? But in our house, it was always Ambrose. He got everything, I was given nothing. Only Ambrose mattered. Even now. I love Mama, I’ve cared for her dutifully, I remain by her side-I even took the flap to protect her-her, not Ambrose, never Ambrose.” Her voice was rising, more strident and strong. “Yet even now, all Mama thinks about is Ambrose.”

She kept her gaze fixed on her brother’s bowed head. “He inherited everything from Papa-I was left nothing. Even Mama’s estate will all go to him. I’m his pensioner-he can throw me out whenever he wishes, and don’t think he doesn’t know it. He’s always been quick to make sure I understand my position.”

Her face contorted. Vitriol had infused her; jealousy, suppressed and now loosed, poured from her. “The flap-taking it, keeping it, was my chance to pay him back. I didn’t tell him-I wanted him to feel fear, to squirm-more, to know someone had it in their hands to ruin him.”

Suddenly she looked at Stokes. “Of course I would have told him eventually. When next he thought to tell me how useless I was, how unflattering an ornament I was to a man of his future position.”

She stopped, then added, “I honestly didn’t think he wouldn’t realize… he only had to think to know only Mama or I would protect him by concealing the flap. And Mama would have told him straightaway. When he didn’t say anything, I thought he’d guessed I had it, but was too careful to broach the subject while we were here.” She met Stokes’s gaze. “It never occurred to me that he would think Portia had seen it and was witless enough not to remember.”

Silence filled the room. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was clearly audible.

Drusilla dropped her gaze to the floor. Ambrose sat with head bowed. Lady Calvin looked from one to the other, as if she no longer recognized them-her own children-then she buried her face in her hands and softly wept.

The sound released others from the grip of the revelations; they stirred, shifted. Charlie stood as if he could no longer remain seated, as if he longed to leave, to get away.

Lord Netherfield cleared his throat. He glanced at Stokes. “If I may…?”

Stokes nodded.

His lordship looked at Ambrose. “You haven’t mentioned Dennis, the gypsy. Why did you kill the lad?”

Ambrose didn’t look up. “He saw me burning the coat. Then Stokes came and started questioning everyone.” He twisted his hands, then went on, “I didn’t mean to kill Kitty-I didn’t intend to. She drove me to it… it didn’t seem fair that killing her should ruin me. There was only Portia and the gypsy who could…” He stopped, then rushed on, a spoiled child excusing himself, “It was them or me-it was my life!”

Lord Glossup rose, his well-bred features reflecting patent disgust. “Mr. Stokes, if you’ve heard all you need?”

Stokes straightened. “Indeed, sir. I’m sure we can…”

He and Lord Glossup discussed arrangements for holding Ambrose. The rest of the company dispersed.

All the ladies hesitated, then Lady O heaved herself to her feet. “Catherine, my dear, I think we should retire to the drawing room-tea would be most welcome. I daresay Drusilla will wish to retire immediately, but I believe the rest of us could do with a restorative.”

Portia rose; Simon laid a restraining hand on her arm. Lady O glanced back at them, saw, nodded. “Indeed-you should go up and take a bath, and get out of those wet clothes. Unhealthy to do otherwise-your brother won’t forgive me if I send you home with a chill.”

There was just enough emphasis in her words, just enough gleam in her old black eyes to tell them she was determined to send Portia home with something else.

Simon merely inclined his head, acknowledging her message. Lady O humphed and stumped off, the other ladies in her train, Lady Calvin supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead.

“Come on.” Taking Portia’s arm, he steered her toward the far doors, those closer to the main stairs.

Stokes intercepted them. “One last thing-I have to consider whether or not to lay charges against Miss Calvin.”

Both Simon and Portia looked back at Drusilla, sitting alone on the chaise now that the others had all departed. She was staring at her brother; he was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, his gaze fixed on his bound hands.

Portia shivered, and looked at Stokes. “What a dreadful thing jealousy can be.”

Stokes nodded, met her gaze. “She didn’t mean to harm anyone else. I accept she had no idea Ambrose was so murderously inclined.”

“I don’t think charges are necessary.” Portia lifted her head. “She’s brought censure enough down on her head-her life will not be easier because of what she’s done.”

Stokes nodded, looked to Simon.

He was far less inclined to be lenient, but was aware much of his reaction was because Portia had been the one most threatened. When he didn’t immediately speak, she glanced at him… he realized he had no choice. She would read him like a book if he gave rein to his impulses. He nodded curtly. “No charges. No point.”

She smiled slightly, then looked at Stokes.

The three of them exchanged glances, relieved, satisfied. Little needed to be put into words. Stokes was not of their class, yet they’d formed a friendship; they all recognized that.

Stokes cleared his throat, looked away. “I’ll be off at first light with Mr. Calvin. It’s best-lets people get back to their lives that much sooner.” He looked back at them. Put out his hand. “Thank you. I’d never have nabbed him if you and Mr. Hastings hadn’t helped.” They shook hands. “I hope…” Stokes colored slightly, but forced himself to go on, “the necessary charade didn’t do any real violence to your feelings.”

Simon glanced at Portia. She smiled at Stokes. “The revelations were quite interesting-I believe we’ll survive.”

She slanted a glance at him; feeling exposed, he fought to suppress a growl. Retook her arm. “There’s a bath awaiting you upstairs.”

With last smiles and farewells, they left Stokes.

James was waiting with Charlie in the hall.

“Thank you-both of you.” James beamed; he took Portia’s hands. “I haven’t heard it all yet, but even so-how very brave you’ve been.”

This time Simon didn’t suppress his growl. “For God’s sake!-the last thing I need is for that to go to her head.”

James laughed; Simon nudged him aside and he stood back, letting Simon steer Portia up the stairs.

“We’ll catch up with you later,” James called as they ascended.

Simon flicked him a look. “Tomorrow.”

Jaw set, he drew Portia on.