The Perfect Lover (38 page)

She thought she heard a laugh, abruptly smothered, didn’t look back. Head up, she set off, striding across the main lawn in the direction of the lake.

Halfway across, she glanced back. Saw him leisurely descending the steps. Didn’t look to see if his lips were curved or straight. Facing forward, she walked on.

And turned her mind determinedly to her topic.

Him. And her. Together.

An almost unbelievable development. She recalled her original aim, the one that had landed her in his arms. She’d wanted to learn about the attraction that flared between a man and a woman, the attraction that led a woman to consider marriage.

She’d learned the answer. Quite possibly too well.

Frowning, she looked down. Hands clasped behind her back, she ambled on.

Was she truly considering marrying Simon, latent, ofttimes not-so-latent tyrant?

Yes.

Why?

Not because she enjoyed sharing his bed. While that aspect was all very nice, it wasn’t of itself compelling enough. Out of ignorance, she’d assumed the physical aspects weighed heavily in the scale; now, while she would admit they had some weight, indeed, were pleasantly addictive, at least with a gentleman like him, she couldn’t imagine—even now, even with him—that that alone had tipped the scales.

It was that elusive something that had grown between them that had added definitive weight and influenced her so strongly.

She might as well call it by its real name; love was what it had to be—there was no longer any point doubting that. It was there, between them, almost tangible, never truly absent.

Was it really new to them? Was there something different he was offering that he hadn’t before? Or had age and perhaps circumstances shifted their perspectives, opened their eyes, made them appreciate things about each other they hadn’t until now?

The latter seemed most likely. Looking back, she could admit that the potential might, indeed, always have been there but masked and hidden by the natural clash of their personalities.

Their personalities hadn’t changed, yet she and apparently he . . . perhaps they’d both reached an age when they could accept each other as they were, willing to adjust and cope in pursuit of a greater prize.

The lawn narrowed into the path leading toward the lake. She looked up as she turned the corner—

Nearly tripped, stumbled—grabbed up her skirts and leapt over some obstacle. Regaining her balance, she looked back.

Saw . . .

Was suddenly conscious of the soft breeze lifting tendrils of her hair, conscious of the thud of her heart, the rush of blood through her veins.

Of the icy chill washing over her skin.

“Simon?”

Too weak. He was close, but momentarily out of sight.

“Simon!”

She heard the immediate pounding as he rushed to her. Put out her hands to stop him as he, as she had, tripped, then stumbled.

He caught his balance, glanced down, swore, and grabbed her, held her tight.

Swore again, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, swinging her away, shielding her from the sight.

Of the young gypsy gardener, Dennis, lying sprawled on his back, strangled . . . like Kitty.

Like Kitty, quite dead.

N
o.” Stokes answered the question put to him by Lord Netherfield; they—Stokes, Simon, Portia, Charlie, Lady O, and his lordship—were gathered in the library, taking stock. “So early in the morning, no one had any real alibi. Everyone was in their rooms, alone.”

“That early, heh?”

“Apparently Dennis often started soon after first light. Today, the head gardener passed him and spoke with him—the exact time’s uncertain, but it was long before the household was up and about. One thing, however, we can say.” Stokes stood in the middle of the room and faced them, gathered on the chaise and armchairs before the main hearth. “Whoever killed Dennis was a man in his prime. The lad put up quite a struggle—that much was clear.”

Perched on the arm of the chair in which Portia sat, Simon glanced at her face. She was still white with shock, and far too quiet, even though half a day had passed since her gruesome discovery. Second gruesome discovery. Lips thinning, he looked back at Stokes; remembering the gouges in the grass, the twisted body, he nodded. “Kitty could have been murdered by anyone; Dennis is another matter.”

“Aye. We can forget all thought of any woman being the murderer.”

Lady O blinked. “I didn’t know we were considering the ladies.”

“We were considering everyone. We can’t afford to guess.”

“Humph! I suppose not.” She fluffed her shawl. Her customary air of invincible certainty was wavering; the second murder had shocked everyone, not just anew, but to a deeper level. The murderer was unquestionably still there, among them; some had, perhaps, started to push the matter aside in their minds, but Dennis’s death had forced all to realize the horror couldn’t be so easily buried.

Lounging against the mantelpiece, Charlie asked, “What did the blackguard use to strangle the poor blighter?”

“Another curtain cord. This time from the morning room.”

Charlie grimaced. “So it could have been anyone.”

Stokes nodded. “However, if we assume the same person’s responsible for both murders, we can reduce the list of suspects considerably.”

“Only men,” Lady O said.

Stokes inclined his head. “And only those strong enough to be sure of subduing Dennis—I think the being sure is important. Our murderer couldn’t risk trying but not succeeding, and he had to get the deed done quickly—he would have known there’d be others about.”

He hesitated, then went on, “I’m inclined to say the murderer must be Henry Glossup, James Glossup, Desmond Winfield, or Ambrose Calvin.” He paused; when no one argued, he continued, “All have strong motives for killing Mrs. Glossup, all could physically have done the deeds, all had the opportunity, and none has an alibi.”

Simon heard Portia sigh; he glanced down in time to see her shiver, then she looked up. “His shoes. The grass must have been wet that early. Perhaps if we check . . .”

Grim-faced, Stokes shook his head. “I already did. Whoever our man is, he’s clever and careful. All their shoes were clean and dry.” He glanced at Lord Netherfield. “I have to thank you, sir—Blenkinsop and the staff have been most helpful.”

Lord Netherfield waved the remark aside. “I want this murderer caught. I won’t have my grandsons—or the family—tainted by this sort of thing, and they will be unless we catch the blackguard.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “I’ve lived too long to shrink from reality. Not exposing the villain will only ensure the innocent are shunned along with him. We need the blackguard caught, now, before things get any worse.”

Stokes hesitated, then said, “If you’ll pardon the observation, my lord, you seem very confident neither of your grandsons is our villain.”

His old hands folded on the top of his cane, Lord Netherfield nodded. “I am. I’ve known them from babes, and neither of them has it in him. But you can’t be expected to know that, and I’m not going to waste breath trying to convince you. You must look at all four, but mark my words, it’ll be one of the other two.”

The respect with which Stokes inclined his head was transparently genuine. “Thank you. And now”—his gaze swept them all—“I must ask you to excuse me. There are details to check, although I confess I’m not expecting to find any useful clue.”

With a small bow, he left them.

As the door closed, Simon noticed Lady O trying to catch his eye, directing his attention to Portia.

Not that it needed directing. He glanced at her, then reached for her hand. “Come on—let’s go for a ride.”

Charlie came, too. They found James and asked him if he wanted to join them, but he uncharacteristically demurred. The awkwardness he felt, knowing he was suspect, was patently clear; he was uncomfortable, which meant so were they. Reluctantly, they left him in the billiard room, idly potting balls.

They found the other ladies sitting silently in the back parlor. Lucy Buckstead and the Hammond girls jumped at the invitation; their mothers encouraged them, looking relieved.

Once they’d all changed, crossed to the stables, and found mounts, the afternoon was well advanced. Once again atop the frisky chestnut mare, Portia led the way out; Simon followed close behind.

He watched her; she seemed distant. However, she managed the mare with her usual assured ease; it wasn’t long before they’d left the others behind. Reaching the leafy rides of Cranborne Chase, in unspoken accord they let their mounts stretch their legs . . . until they were galloping, thundering down the rides, hard, fast, side by side.

Suddenly, so suddenly he shot straight past her, Portia wrenched the mare aside. Startled, he reined in, wheeled and came about—saw her fling herself from the saddle, leaving the chestnut quivering, reins dangling. She rushed up a small rise, her boots shushing through the old fallen leaves; at the top, she halted, spine rigid, head erect, looking out through the trees.

Mystified, he halted his gelding beside the mare, tied both sets of reins to a nearby branch, then strode after Portia.

Seriously concerned. To have wrenched her horse about like that, then dropped the reins . . . it was so unlike her.

He slowed as he neared. Halted a few feet away. “What is it?”

She didn’t look at him, just shook her head. “Nothing. It’s—” She broke off, waved one hand, her voice choked with tears, the gesture helpless.

He closed the distance, reached for her, drew her close; ignoring her token resistance, he wrapped her in his arms.

Held her while she cried.

“It’s so
awful!
” She sobbed. “They’re both dead. Gone! And he—he was so
young
. Younger than us.”

He said nothing, just touched his lips to her hair, then rested his cheek against the black silk. Let all he felt for her well within him, rise up and surround them.

Let it soothe her.

Her hand clenched tighter in his coat, then, very slowly, relaxed.

Eventually her sobs eased; the tension drained from her.

“I’ve wet your coat.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She sniffed. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

He eased his hold on her, found it, handed it over.

She patted his coat with the linen, then mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffed the crumpled item into her pocket and glanced up at him.

Her lashes were still wet, her dark blue eyes still glistening. The expression in them . . .

He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, but gradually drawing her to him, gradually deepening the caress until she was caught.

Until she stopped thinking.

Thinking that crying in his arms was infinitely more revealing—between them perhaps an even greater intimacy than lying naked together. Emotionally, for her, it was, but he didn’t want her dwelling on that.

Or dwelling on how he might feel about it, how he might exult that she would allow him that close, to see her with her defenses completely down. See her as she really was, behind her shields, a woman with a kind and inherently soft heart.

One she habitually guarded very well.

A heart he wanted.

More than anything else in life.

Evening came, and with it an uneasy, watchful tension. As he had foreseen, Stokes had uncovered nothing of any value; a sense of foreboding hung over the house.

There was no laughter or smiles left to lighten the mood. No one suggested music. The ladies conversed quietly in somber tones, talking of inconsequential things—faraway things, things that didn’t matter.

When, with Lord Netherfield and Lord Glossup, he rejoined the ladies, Simon sought out Portia, and led her out onto the terrace. Out of the heavy, brooding atmosphere, outside where they could breathe a little easier and talk freely.

Not that outside was all that much better; the air was heavy and sultry, just beginning to stir as another storm blew in.

Releasing his arm, Portia walked to the balustrade; leaning both hands on it, she looked out over the lawn. “Why kill Dennis?”

He’d halted in the middle of the flags; he stayed where he was, giving her some space. “Presumably for the same reason he had a try at you. Dennis wasn’t so lucky.”

“But if Dennis had known anything, why didn’t he say something? Stokes questioned him, didn’t he?”

“Yes. And he might have said something, only to the wrong person.”

She turned, frowning. “What do you mean?”

He grimaced. “When Stokes went to tell the gypsies, one of the women said Dennis had been brooding over something. He wouldn’t say what—the woman thought it was something he’d seen on his way back from the house after he’d learned of Kitty’s death.”

She turned away, facing the deepening shadows. “I’ve thought and thought, but I still can’t remember . . .”

He waited. When she said nothing more, he shifted back; hands in his pockets, he leaned his shoulders against the wall. And watched the night slowly wash over the trees and lawns, wash over them as the last of the light faded.

Watched her, and quelled the welling urge to corral her, to somehow claim her, seal her off in some tower away from the world and all possible harm. The feeling was familiar, yet so much stronger than it had been before. Before he had realized all she truly was.