A Most Novel Revenge (24 page)

“Lucinda would have got hold of him soon enough, I think,” he said. “Let me help you back up.”

She was disentangled from his arms, somewhat reluctantly it seemed to me, and mounted her horse. “I don't know why that rat startled him. It wasn't even close. Romeo is high-strung, but he's usually not quite so jumpy.”

“I suppose we should go back now,” Milo said, mounting up himself and turning his horse back in the direction of the stables.

“Oh, no!” Lucinda protested. “I'm all right. Really.”

“Yes,” Milo answered, “but Romeo has scraped his right foreleg on something. The groom should probably look at it.”

“Oh, no!” she said again, paling, leaning down to look at the horse's leg. “Is it deep? My poor darling!”

“I don't think it's bad, but we should probably go back, nonetheless.”

“Yes, let's go,” she said, patting Romeo's neck and speaking in soothing tones to him.

We rode back at a careful pace. Romeo didn't seem much concerned by his injury, but Lucinda was very upset. She barely spared a glance at Milo as we dismounted, and she led him over to the groom.

“That was quite exciting,” I said, with only a touch of cynicism, as Milo and I walked back toward the house. “No doubt you've cemented your place as her knight in shining armor.”

“It was a stupid thing to do.” Somehow I knew he was not referring to his rescue of the damsel in distress.

“What do you mean?”

“She spurred her horse. She was digging her heels into its side the entire time. Until I caught up with her, that is. Then she reined in and let me bring the horse to a stop.”

I stared at him, hovering somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

“She wanted you to rescue her.” I was bit awed by the audacity of it.

Milo was not amused. “That's too fine a horse to risk on a stunt like that.”

“She was very upset when she found out it had been injured. At least it wasn't serious.”

“It might have been.” Milo was seldom angry, but Lucinda had succeeded in doing the one thing that might have roused his ire: putting a horse in danger.

“You mustn't judge her too harshly,” I said, coming to her defense against my baser inclinations. “Things must be rather dull here for a young woman with no friends. I suppose it added a bit of drama to the proceedings.”

“A murder isn't exciting enough?” he asked dryly.

“Yes, I suppose you're right. But it's really your fault, you know, for being so irresistible.”

He shot me a look, and I smiled. I felt that I should probably be very annoyed with Lucinda Lyons, but I also knew from experience that it was true: Milo was very hard to resist.

*   *   *

AFTER AN UNEVENTFUL
lunch, I donned my blue evening gown and prepared to meet Mr. Winters in the conservatory. The gown was one of my favorites, which was why I had had Winnelda pack it, despite the fact that it wasn't the most practical dress for winter. While at Lyonsgate, as cold as it was, I had not yet been intrepid enough to wear it.

I thought it would work admirably for a portrait, however. It was a rich, sapphire-colored silk with thin straps and a fitted bodice that tapered to a flowing skirt with the slightest hint of a train. I felt a bit conspicuous walking through the house in an evening gown in the middle of the day, but I encountered no one on my way.

The conservatory was, as I had expected, frigid. However, I felt as though I was becoming accustomed to the chill in the house. It almost seemed that I was adapting to it. My skin was perpetually cool to the touch, but I no longer felt the constant desire to warm my hands before the fire.

I glanced around the room. It was apparent that it had been neglected in the years that the Lyons family had lived abroad. Minimal effort had been made to maintain the plant life which had either died or grown in tangled abundance. A good many of the windows were streaked with grime, but it appeared the glass was all intact. The sun was shining brightly, which made up somewhat for the cold of the room.

I found Mr. Winters there with his easel and brushes. He had set up a chair in an open space, which I assumed was where I was to sit.

He looked up as I came in. “Come in, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

I took a seat and he came toward me. “Tilt your head to the side. No, no, look at me directly.”

His hands on my bare shoulders, he repositioned me to the correct angle. His long, cool fingers gently grasped my chin, turning my face toward the light.

“It's as I suspected,” he said, his hand still on my face. “Your skin is glorious in bright light. Your coloring is exceptional. One does not often find that combination, the pale skin and eyes with such dark hair. Lovely. And your eyes are magnificent. Like cold, clear water.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, a bit afraid to move.

“What scent do you wear?” he asked, still standing very close. “Gardenia?”

“Yes.”

“It suits you.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

I was just beginning to wonder if this had not, in fact, been a good idea when he stepped back suddenly and moved behind his easel where he stood for a long moment just looking at me.

Now that I had become accustomed to his somehow odd behavior, I found him much less alarming than I had upon our first acquaintance. Despite his idiosyncrasies, there was something a bit soothing about his airy detachment. It was as though the realities of life had little effect on him. He lived in his own world, untouched by the troubles of mere mortals.

I studied him as he dipped a brush into paint and began to work. His unruly curls gleamed gold in the sunlight, and his eyes glimmered like there was some flame in them as well. He was incredibly striking, and I wondered idly if he had ever been painted himself. “Have you ever done a self-portrait?”

He shook his head. “It wouldn't work.”

“What do you mean?”

“The artwork will only be worthwhile if the artist sees something worth painting; the beauty of a thing. There is no beauty in me.”

It seemed a bit of false modesty. Surely he knew very well that he was an exceptional-looking man.

He must have read my thoughts, for he replied to them. “I know I am considered handsome.” He said this without either self-consciousness or conceit. “But when I look at myself, that is not what I see.”

I wondered what it was that he did see, but he did not appear ready to divulge the information and there was no polite way to ask.

He went back to painting, and I realized that I had been mistaken to think I might have the opportunity to question him more thoroughly in these surroundings. His complete attention was absorbed by his craft, and it would be difficult to pull him away from it.

We fell into a comfortable silence as he worked. I had never observed an artist in action before, and it was intriguing for me to watch his process, the changes in his expressions as he concentrated. Eventually, I became lost in my own thoughts, soothed by the quiet and the gentle scraping of his brush against the canvas.

I didn't realize how long I had sat in the chair until I began to move, my muscles stiff from inaction. The light had begun fade, the shadows shifting. It would be time to dress for dinner soon.

I looked over at Mr. Winters. He was looking out one of the windows. The pink rays of the setting sun seemed to settle a rose-colored hue across the lawns, making everything seem bright and lovely.

“It's very beautiful,” I said. “I imagine you look at it with different eyes, being an artist.

“I have never been much good with landscapes,” he said, still not turning to me. “People are different.”

“How so?”

He turned to face me then. “I can see people much more clearly. But, I suppose in some ways there is not much difference between portraits and landscapes. The curves and lines, the inherent danger.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” I said thoughtfully, wondering if there was something he wasn't saying. That airy quality about him seemed to have faded. It had been replaced with a somber sadness. He didn't look as though he was lost in another world, but was somewhere in the past.

“Is everything all right?” I asked at last.

“I wish I hadn't come back,” he said suddenly. He looked up at me, and I was surprised at the intense emotion in his eyes. “I shouldn't have, but it was as though I couldn't stay away. She was like a magnet I was powerless to resist.”

“You loved Isobel,” I said, the realization coming so naturally it felt as though I must have known it all along.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. I always loved her.”

Yet another man who had fallen sway to Isobel's charms. I remembered Laurel's speculation that Isobel might have been in love with someone besides Reggie. Was it possible it had been the handsome artist who had done her portrait?

“Did she feel the same way?” I asked.

“We were lovers for a time.” He said this without embarrassment, not taking his eyes from mine. “But she wasn't interested in anything more, anything lasting. Isobel was always one to do what she pleased with whom she pleased.”

I nodded. That had been my impression of her. I wondered if Reggie Lyons had known about her liaison with Mr. Winters.

“I don't want to speak ill of her,” he said, “but there wasn't much in her that was kind or loving.”

“I didn't know her at all well,” I said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Did you ever hear from her while she was in Kenya?”

“I had a letter. Only one. It was just the sort of thing Isobel would be inclined to send, very brief and trite, without any true feeling in it. She told me how happy she was in Africa, that there was nothing in England worth returning for. I think it was more to taunt me than anything.”

He looked up at me and smiled, and I could see no bitterness in it. I wondered if he had truly loved her so much that he had been willing to forgive her faults or if he was an excellent actor who had stabbed Isobel to repay her for all the times she had wronged him. There was passion in him. It would not be outside the realm of possibility for him to have used a knife.

Or perhaps he was nothing more than a gentle man who had had his heart broken by a heartless woman. Suddenly, I hated that I was in this situation, that I was being forced to examine people for signs of guilt, people I might have liked had circumstances been different.

I opened my mouth to say something comforting, but just like that, the reflectiveness in his face was gone, replaced with that vague, distant smile.

“I think that's enough for one afternoon, Mrs. Ames. Perhaps we can continue tomorrow.”

*   *   *

MILO WAS NOT
in my room when I finally arrived to change for dinner. It might have been just as well to wear the blue evening gown, but I was freezing and wanted something that offered a bit more warmth. I chose a dress of burgundy velvet and went down to the drawing room just in time to be called in to dinner.

“How was your session with Mr. Winters?” Milo asked in a low voice as we walked toward the dining room. “Did you manage to keep your clothes on?”

“Only just,” I retorted.

I had hoped that dinner would be a fairly relaxed meal, but it was immediately apparent that tension was high. Though no one said anything, there was a feeling of uneasiness in the air.

Reggie was flushed and uncomfortable. Beatrice looked as though she was preoccupied.

I wondered if something had happened. I had been locked away in the conservatory with Mr. Winters all afternoon.

I did not have long to wonder.

“That Inspector Laszlo was here again this afternoon,” Reggie said, taking a long drink from his wineglass. I noticed that his hands did not seem quite steady.

I was a bit surprised that the inspector had not asked to see me, but I was also relieved. I didn't care to have any more interaction with him than was absolutely necessary.

I glanced at my cousin and it almost seemed to me that she flushed. I wondered if she had spoken with the handsome inspector. I would have to ask her about that later.

“Did he have anything of interest to say?” Milo asked, without any apparent interest.

I wondered where Milo had taken himself off to all afternoon. I somehow suspected that he had not spent his time with Lucinda Lyons. He was still cross that she had put her horse in jeopardy. Milo seldom took things seriously, but horses were one thing he didn't trifle with.

Reggie looked at Beatrice, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

Reggie cleared his throat, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He was immensely uncomfortable about something.

“He said … it seems that…” He broke off and Beatrice cut in, her voice crisp and cool.

“Before Isobel was stabbed to death, it seemed she was also poisoned.”

 

22

“POISONED?” LAUREL CRIED.

Despite my surprise, I somehow had the presence of mind to glance quickly around the table, taking in the reactions of the others sitting there. Lucinda's brows had risen in surprise. Freida had paled and Mr. Collins frowned. Mr. Winters, as usual, exhibited very little sign of emotion. He still seemed preoccupied with the food on his plate.

“Yes,” Beatrice said. “He was very definite about it. Thallium, they think.”

So it had not been the cyanide. This was a shock indeed. Two lethal poisons had been floating around the house, and yet Isobel had been stabbed to death. It was all so very strange.

“What does this mean?” Mr. Collins demanded.

“Nothing, I suppose,” Beatrice said. “I don't see that it makes much difference. Someone tried to kill her, and they eventually succeeded.”

“Or two people tried to kill her,” Laurel said quietly.

I looked at my cousin. She was right. Did this mean that more than one person had tried to murder Isobel Van Allen? I had certainly discovered motives enough to go around. But I did not want to believe that anyone here was a murderer, let alone that two of them might be.