The Perfect Lover (34 page)

Stokes blinked. His gaze shifted to Simon; faint puzzlement showed in his eyes. Neither of them exhibited the slightest sign of any tension between them—quite the opposite.

She took pity on him. “Mr. Cynster and I have known each other since childhood—we frequently upset each other.”

Stokes looked back at her. “Ah.” He met her gaze; she saw a glimmer of respect—he’d realized she’d followed his thoughts well enough to answer the question he hadn’t yet posed. He looked down at his notebook. “Very well. So you continued on around the room . . .”

She continued her story. When she came to the point of Simon’s rushing in, Stokes stopped her, and switched his interrogation to Simon.

It was easier to appreciate Stokes’s art when it wasn’t directed at her. She watched and listened as he drew a highly detailed and factual account from Simon, then turned his attention to Charlie; Stokes was really very good. All three of them had come prepared to tell him all, yet there remained a reticence, a barrier over which they would speak, but not cross; Stokes was not of their class, not of their world.

They’d all entered the room reserving judgment. She exchanged a glance with Simon, noted Charlie’s more relaxed pose; both of them were revising their opinions of “the gentleman from Bow Street.”

He’d be fighting an uphill battle if they didn’t reach over that barrier and help him understand what had truly been going on, what concerns drove the various members of the house party, what tangled webs Kitty had been weaving before she’d come to grief.

Stokes himself was intelligent enough to know it. Clever enough, now he had their measure, to openly acknowledge it. He’d taken them to the point where others had rushed in and Kitty’s death had become more widely known. Setting aside his map, he looked up, let his gaze linger, then gravely asked, “Is there anything you can tell me—any fact you know, any reason at all you can even imagine—that might have led one of the guests here, or the staff, or even one of the gypsies, to kill Mrs. Glossup?”

When they didn’t immediately react, he straightened in the chair. “Is there anyone at all you suspect?”

Portia glanced at Simon; so did Charlie. Simon met her gaze, read her decision, checked with Charlie, who almost imperceptibly nodded, then looked at Stokes. “Do you have a list of the guests?”

At the end of an hour, Stokes ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the network of notes he’d made around Kitty’s name. “Was the damned woman
looking
to get herself strangled?”

“If you’d known her, you’d understand.” Meeting Portia’s gaze, Simon continued, “She seemed incapable of seeing how her actions were affecting others—she didn’t think of others’ reactions at all.”

“This is not going to be easy.” Stokes sighed, waved his notebook. “I’m usually searching for motive, but here we’ve motives aplenty, opportunity for all the household to have done the deed, and precious little to tell us which of them actually did.”

He searched their faces again. “And you’re sure no one has given the slightest sign since—”

The library door opened; Stokes swung around, a frown gathering, then he saw who it was; his expression blanked as he rose to his feet.

As did the others as Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield, looking like a pair of aged conspirators, carefully shut the door, then—as silently as two largish people using canes could—swept across the room to join them.

Stokes tried to assert his authority. “My lord, ma’am—if you don’t mind, I really need to—”

“Oh, posh!” Lady O declared. “They’re not going to play mum just because we’re here.”

“Yes, but—”

“We came to make sure they told you all.” Leaning on her cane, Lady O fixed Stokes with her best basilisk stare. “Have they told you about the serpent?”

“Serpent?” Stokes’s face was a study in impassivity; he shot a glance at Simon and Portia, clearly hoping they’d rescue him . . .

When they didn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowed; he looked back at Lady O. “What serpent?”

Simon sighed. “We hadn’t got that far yet.”

Naturally, there was no getting rid of Lady O after that. They all sat again, Simon relinquishing his seat on the chaise to Lady O and Lord Netherfield and taking up a stance by the hearth.

They related to Stokes the tale of the adder found in Portia’s bed which, by sheer luck, she’d not attempted to lie in having fallen asleep in a chair instead. Stokes accepted the explanation without a blink; Portia exchanged a glance with Simon, relieved.

“Good God! The blackguard!” It was the first Charlie had heard of the adder. He looked at Portia. “I can’t believe you didn’t retire with a fit of the vapors.”

“Yes, well,” Lord Netherfield said. “That’s what the blackguard wants, don’t you see?”

“Indeed.” Stokes’s eyes gleamed. “It means there’s something—something that will give the murderer away.” He looked at Portia, frowned. “Something he thinks you know.”

Portia shook her head. “I’ve thought and thought, and there’s nothing I’ve forgotten, I swear.”

Deep in the house, the dinner gong clanged. It was the second summons, calling them to the table; they’d already ignored the earlier warning that it was time to go and dress. Tonight, they weren’t standing on ceremony; filling Stokes in had seemed far more important than donning silks and retying cravats.

Stokes shut his notebook. “Clearly, the villain, whoever he is, doesn’t realize that.”

“Didn’t realize, maybe, but now I’ve spoken to you and yet still you don’t know his identity, presumably he’ll let be.” Portia spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know.”

They all rose.

“That’s as may be.” Stokes exchanged a meaningful glance with Simon as they headed for the door. “But the villain might well think you’ll remember the vital point later. If it was important enough for him to try to kill you once, there’s no reason he won’t try again.”

“I say!” Charlie stared at Stokes, then looked at Portia. “We’ll need to guard you.”

Portia halted. “That’s hardly nec—”

“Day and night.” Stokes nodded gravely; he was quite patently sincere.

Lady O thumped the floor. “She can sleep on a trestle in my room.” She grimaced at Portia. “Daresay even you would think twice before getting between the sheets where once you’d seen a serpent.”

Portia managed not to shudder. Glanced instead—pointedly—at Simon; if she was sleeping in Lady O’s room . . .

He met her gaze directly; his face was set. “Day and night.” He glanced at Charlie. “You and I should be able to handle the days.”

Stunned—not a little irritated by being thus disposed of, like an item to be handed one to the other—Portia opened her lips to protest . . . realized every face was turned her way, all set, all determined. Realized she’d never win.

“Oh, all right!” Flinging her hands in the air, she stepped to the door. Lord Netherfield opened it for her and offered her his arm.

She took it, heard him chuckle as he led her out.

He patted her hand. “Very wise, m’dear. That was one battle you couldn’t hope to win.”

She managed not to humph. Head high, she swept down the corridor and into the dining room.

Simon followed more slowly, Lady O on his arm. Stokes and Charlie came behind. At the door to the dining room, Stokes took his leave of them, charging Simon with telling the company he’d resume his questions on the morrow before retiring to the servants’ hall.

Charlie headed in to find his seat. Simon steered Lady O through the door.

Pausing on the threshold, ostensibly to rearrange her shawl, she chuckled evilly. “Don’t look so glum. I can’t see across the room—how will I know if she’s there or not?”

Under cover of retaking his arm, she poked him in the ribs. “And I’m a horribly heavy sleeper . . . no use at all in the guardian stakes, now I think on it.”

Simon managed not to gape—he’d long known she was an incorrigible matchmaker, just plain incorrigible most of the time, yet the idea that she might actually
aid
him, actively support his pursuit of Portia . . .

She allowed him to help her into her seat, then dismissed him with a wave. As he headed down the table to the empty place beside Portia, pulled out the chair, paused to look down on her dark head, presently set at an angle that from experience he could interpret quite well, then sat, he reflected that having Lady O as an ally was not a bad thing.

Especially now. Aside from all else, Lady O was pragmatic to a fault; she could be counted on to insist Portia behave sensibly. Safely.

Shaking out his napkin, he glanced briefly at Portia’s haughty face, then allowed the footman to serve him. He—they—might not be out of the woods yet, but he felt more positive than at any time since Portia had learned of his true goal.

By consensus, the tone of the house party was consciously and deliberately altered. As Portia sat sipping tea in the drawing room, she couldn’t help but note that Kitty wouldn’t have approved. The atmosphere was akin to that of a large family gathering, but without any attendant gaiety; those present were comfortable with each other and seemed to have dropped their masks, as if deeming themselves excused by the circumstances from maintaining the usual social facades.

The ladies had retired there; no one expected the gentlemen to join them. The company sat in groups about the long room, talking quietly, no laughter, no drama, just gentle conversation.

Conversation designed to soothe, to settle, to let the horror of Kitty’s murder and the very concept of the investigation now upon them slide into the background.

The Hammond sisters remained pale, but had started to cope; Lucy Buckstead was little better. Winifred, in dark navy, a color that didn’t suit her, looked pallid and wan. Mrs. Archer had not come down for dinner.

As soon as their tea had been drunk, everyone rose and retired. There seemed an unstated sentiment that they would all need their rest to face what the morrow and Stokes’s questions might bring. Only Drusilla had thought to ask Portia what Stokes was like, whether she thought him competent. Portia had answered that she rather thought he was, but there seemed so little evidence that the matter may well remain unresolved.

Drusilla had grimaced, nodded, and moved away.

On helping Lady O to her room, Portia noted the threatened trestle bed had indeed been set up by the empty hearth, on the other side of the room from the main bed. Lady O’s maid was there to help her mistress undress; Portia retreated to the window seat, only then noticing that her own clothes had been fetched from her room. Her gowns hung on a string stretched across the room’s corner; her linens and stockings were neatly laid in her chest, sitting open in the corner. Lifting her head, she saw her brushes and hairpins, her perfume flask and combs all neatly arrayed on the mantelpiece.

Sinking onto the cushioned window seat, she looked out at the darkening gardens, and put her mind to devising an excuse to go wandering that Lady O would accept.

Nothing useful had occurred to her when the maid came to ask if she desired any help getting out of her gown. She shook her head, bade the maid good night, then rose and crossed to the bed.

The candle on the nightstand had already been blown out; Lady O lay propped high on her pillows, eyes closed.

Portia leaned close and kissed her papery cheek. “Sleep well.”

Lady O chuckled. “Oh, I will. Don’t know how you’ll fare, mind you, but you’d better get along and find out.” Eyes still closed, she lifted a hand and made shooing motions toward the door. “Go on, now—off with you.”

Portia simply stared. Then decided she had to ask, “Get along where?”

One old eye cracked open; one black eye transfixed her. “Where do you think?”

When she stood staring, mind swinging wildly, Lady O snorted and closed her eye again. “I’m rather more than seven—gracious heavens, I’m more than seventy-seven! I know enough to recognize what’s going on under my nose.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. Mind you, I’m not sure that you do, and he certainly doesn’t, but that’s as may be.” She settled deeper into her pillows. “Now off you go—no sense wasting time. You’re twenty-four—and he’s what? Thirty? You’ve both wasted time enough as it is.”

Portia couldn’t think how to respond, in the end decided not responding was wisest. “Good night, then.” Turning, she headed for the door.

“Wait a minute!”

At the irritated command, Portia turned.

“Where are you going?”

She pointed to the door. “You just said—”

“Great heavens, gel—do I have to teach you everything? You should change your gown first.”

Portia looked down at her magenta twill. She seriously doubted Simon would care what she wore; knowing him, she wouldn’t be wearing it for long. Lifting her head, she opened her lips to ask why it mattered—

Lady O sighed. “Change into the day gown you intend wearing tomorrow. That way, if any one sees you coming back in the morning, they’ll simply assume you got up early and went for a walk. If they see you in the corridors tonight, they’ll assume you got ready for bed, then remembered something you needed to do, or I’ve sent you to fetch something.” She let out an exasperated snort and fell back on her pillows. “You young things—the things I could teach you . . . but then again”—she closed her eyes; a wicked smile curled her lips—“as I recall, learning them was half the fun.”

Portia grinned; what else could she do? Obediently, she stripped off the magenta twill and wriggled into a day gown of blue poplin. As she struggled to do up the tiny buttons closing the bodice, she thought of Simon—shortly struggling to undo them again. Still, Lady O’s suggested practice made eminent sense . . .

She stopped, lifted her head, struck by a wayward thought, a sudden suspicion . . .

When the last button slipped into place, she walked, not to the door, but back to the bed. Pausing by the bedpost, she looked at Lady O, wondered if she was sleeping . . .

“Still here?”

“I’m just going, but I wondered . . . did you know Simon would be here, attending the house party?”

Silence, then, “I knew he and James were close friends from their Eton days. Seemed likely he’d drop by.”