The Perfect Lover (32 page)

Portia inclined her head. “Indeed.”

“We was all talking in the servants’ hall, frightened it might be one of the gentlemen, but Mrs. Fletcher, she’s the housekeeper, told us it was the gypsies, sure as anything.”

“The gypsies?”

“That Arturo—he’s always hanging about, putting on airs. ‘Andsome devil, he is, and quick with the ladies, if you take my meaning.”

Portia inwardly frowned. She wrestled with her conscience for all of two seconds. “Did any of you have any reason to think it might have been one of the gentlemen?”

“Nah—that was just us, imagining-like.”

“Did the staff like Mrs. Glossup?”

“Mrs. G?” Picking up a pewter vase, the maid rubbed hard, concentration in her face. “She was all right—had a temper on her, o’course, and I suppose some might call her flighty, but then all young married ladies are, aren’t they?”

Portia bit her tongue.

The maid set down the vase, tucked her cloth into her pocket. “Ah well, wouldn’t you know it—it’s the day for the sheets.” She strode across the room to the bed; Portia watched her, envying her her energy.

“Blenkinsop says as how there’ll be a man coming down from Lunnon.” Gripping the turned-down corner, the maid glanced at Portia. “To ask about what happened.”

Portia nodded. “Apparently it’s required.”

The maid’s lips formed an O; she yanked back the sheet—

Furious hissing filled the air.

The maid leapt back, her gaze locked on the bed. She paled.
“Oh my Gawd!”
The last word rose in a shriek.

Portia leapt up and rushed to the girl’s side.

The hissing escalated.

“Oh my heavens!”
Portia stared at the adder, angry and irritated, coiling in the middle of her bed.

She tugged the maid’s sleeve.

The maid squealed.

As one, they turned and fled across the room, yanking open the door, then slamming it shut behind them.

The maid collapsed against the nearby stair rail, gasping for breath.

Portia checked that the bottom of the door fitted flush to the floor—no space for an angry adder to slide through—then slumped against the wall.

An hour later, she sat in Lady O’s room, her hands wrapped about a steaming mug of cocoa. Not even the scalding brew could stop her shivering.

Her bedchamber was at the end of the wing; Blenkinsop, doing his morning rounds opening up the great house, had been at the bottom of the stairs when she and the maid had come flying out of her room. He’d heard the commotion and come hurrying up, just in time to quell the maid before she launched into hysterics.

Portia had explained. Blenkinsop had paled, then quickly taken charge. He’d ushered her downstairs to a small parlor, summoning footmen to assist him, and the housekeeper, into whose charge he assigned the sobbing maid.

In an unsteady voice, she’d asked for Simon to be summoned. Didn’t stop to consider the proprieties, only knew she wanted him, and he would come.

He had; he’d taken one look at her, and insisted on sweeping her upstairs again—to Lady O’s room, into Lady O’s keeping.

Propped high on her pillows, Lady O had listened to Simon’s abbreviated explanation, then fixed him with a black stare. “Fetch Granny.”

When Simon blinked, she’d snorted. “Granville—Lord Netherfield. He may be a trifle feeble these days, but he was always a good man in a crisis. His room’s in the middle of the main wing—closest to the main stairs.”

Simon had nodded; Lady O had transferred her gaze to Portia. “As for you, gel—you’d better sit down before you fall down.”

She’d complied, sinking into the chair by the hearth; Simon had left.

Sliding from the bed, tugging her wrap about her shoulders, Lady O had picked up her cane and clomped over to take the other armchair. Easing down into it, she’d fixed her with a sapient eye. “Right then. Tell me what happened and don’t leave anything out.”

By the time she’d satisfied Lady O—allowing the fiction that she’d fallen asleep in the armchair in her room to stand—Blenkinsop had appeared.

“We’ve removed the viper, miss. The footmen have searched the room—there’s no danger there now.”

She’d murmured her thanks, inwardly struggling to believe that such a thing had actually happened, that this wasn’t some disordered dream. Lady O had summoned maids to help her dress and sent another to fetch Portia fresh clothes. And the cocoa.

When a tap on the door heralded Lord Netherfield and Simon, she was sitting, primly neat in a gown of magenta twill, sipping the cocoa and trying to assimilate the fact that someone had tried to kill her. At the very least, to scare her witless.

Lord Netherfield was concerned yet practical; after she’d recounted her story, catching Simon’s eye when she explained why she’d not slept in her bed, his lordship, perched on a stool between the armchairs, sat back and regarded them all.

“This is all most distressing. I’ve asked Blenkinsop to keep the matter quiet. None of the other ladies heard the commotion, it seems, and the staff are all trustworthy—they’ll keep mum.”

One arm braced against the mantelpiece, Simon frowned. “Why?”

Lord Netherfield looked up at him. “Starve the enemy of information, what?” He looked again at Portia. “It might not be much, but we have to face the fact that that adder could not have got under your covers by itself. Someone’s expecting you to be dead, or if not that, then at least hysterical enough to leave immediately.”

“Before the gentleman from Bow Street arrives?” Simon glanced at his lordship, who grimly nodded.

“That’s the way I see it.” Again, he looked at Portia. “How do you feel, my dear?”

She thought, admitted, “Shaken, but not shaken enough to flee.”

“That’s my girl. So”—his lordship slapped his palms on his thighs—“what can we learn from this? Why did Kitty’s murderer—in the circumstances, I think we must assume it was he or she—want you gone, one way or t’other?”

Portia looked blankly back at him.

“Because,” Simon answered, “the murderer believes you saw something that identifies him.”

“Or heard something, or in some other way know something.” Lady O nodded. “Yes, that has to be it.” She skewered Portia with her black gaze. “So—what is it you know?”

She looked back at them. “Nothing.”

They questioned her—took her back over all she’d done, all she’d seen since entering the front hall the previous afternoon. She knew what they were doing, and why, so kept her temper. In the end, she put down her empty cup, and simply said, “I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”

With a humph, a sigh, and a concerned frown, they finally accepted that.

“Well, then!” Lord Netherfield rose. “Next thing is to see this fellow Bow Street sends down. When you speak with him, tell him everything you know—about Kitty and everyone else here, too. Not just from yesterday, but ever since you arrived . . . no, more than that. Anything you know about those presently here from farther afield, too.” He met Portia’s gaze. “We can’t tell what little piece of information you may have that points a finger at the blackguard.”

She blinked, then nodded. “Yes, of course.” She started mentally cataloging those of the guests she’d known before.

Lady O snorted. “What is this business of persons from Bow Street? Why are they involved?”

“It’s the way things are done now. Not comfortable, but in the interests of justice, it seems to have its merits. Heard about a most peculiar case at my club not long ago. Gentleman done to death with a poker in his own library. They were all set to blame the butler, but then the investigating chappie proved it was the man’s brother. Huge scandal, of course. The family were devastated . . .”

His lordship’s words trailed away. They all remained silent, all thinking the same thing.

Whoever had killed Kitty, there was a good chance it was one of the guests or one of the Glossups, either Henry or James, his lordship’s grandsons. If the murderer was unmasked, there would be a scandal. Potentially a very damaging one. For someone, for some family.

Lord Netherfield eventually sighed. “You know, I can’t say I liked Kitty. Didn’t approve of her, of how she played fast and loose with Henry. She was a supremely silly and brazen chit, yet”—his lips twisted—“for all that, she didn’t deserve to be done in like that.”

He focused on them all. “I wouldn’t want her murderer to escape retribution. The poor woman deserves at least that.”

They all nodded. A pact had been made. They knew each other well enough to recognize all they held in common, a belief in justice, an instinctive reaction against those who flouted it. Together, they would work to unmask the murderer regardless of who it was.

“Well, then!” Lord Netherfield clapped his hands together, looked first at Portia, then Lady O. “Let’s head down to breakfast—and see who’s surprised to see Miss Ashford in the pink.”

They rose, shook out skirts, settled coats and cuffs, then headed downstairs to do battle.

M
uch good did it do them; there was so much nervousness about the breakfast table, some starting at every little thing, others sunk in abstraction, that it was impossible to point to any one response to Portia’s appearance as especially indicative.

Everyone was already pale; many looked wan, as if they’d slept poorly.

“If we were to judge by looks alone, at least half the party would qualify as suspects,” Simon muttered, as he and Portia, having quit the breakfast parlor, stepped off the terrace onto the lawn.

“I think there’s a certain amount of guilt doing the rounds.” Many of the older ladies had broken their habit of breakfasting in their rooms and joined the rest of the company in the parlor. “If instead of trying to ignore her, and when they couldn’t do that, trying to rein her in, if they’d talked to Kitty, tried to understand . . . she didn’t seem to have a friend, a confidante, or anyone to advise her. If she had, maybe someone would know why she was killed. Or maybe she wouldn’t have been killed at all.”

He raised his brows, but forebore to comment. In his family and Portia’s all the females from their earliest years were surrounded by strong women. He had difficulty imagining any other existence.

By unvoiced consent, he and Portia headed for the lake path—cool, soothing. Quiet. Calming.

“The ladies seem to think it’s someone from outside, by which I infer they mean the gypsies.” He glanced at her. “Do you know if any of them have reason to think it really might have been Arturo or Dennis?”

She shook her head. “It’s simply the most unthreatening possibility. To imagine the murderer is someone they know, someone in whose company they’ve spent the last days . . . that’s quite frightening.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was frightened, then he glanced at her face, and swallowed the words. She was too intelligent not to be. While he’d much rather protect her from all such feelings, he couldn’t stop her from seeing, thinking, understanding.

Reluctantly, he accepted that between them it would always be so; if he was to deal with her as she was, that was something that wouldn’t change. She might adjust a little to please him, but it was he who would have to change most—adjust his thinking and modify his reactions—to have any chance of meeting her at the altar.

“This is senseless!” They’d reached the spot before the summerhouse; leaving the path, Portia stalked to the summerhouse steps, swung her skirts around, and sat.

The sunshine washed over her; looking down at her, he wondered if she was still chilled, then he turned and sat beside her, close enough that she could, if she wished, lean against him.

Elbows on her knees, she cupped her chin in her palms and frowned out at the lake. “Which of the men could have killed Kitty?”

“You heard Willoughby—other than Charlie, who was with Lady O, and me, any of them.” After a moment, he added, “As far as I know, that also applies to most of the ladies.”

She turned her head and stared at him. “Winifred?”

“Drusilla?”

She grimaced. “Kitty was so short, it could have been either.”

“Or even one of the others—how can we say?” Setting an elbow on the step behind, he leaned back, a little to the side so he could see her face. “Perhaps Kitty did something in London last Season to make one of them her sworn enemy?”

Portia frowned, then shook her head. “I didn’t get any sense of that—of old and hidden emnity.”

After a moment, he suggested, “Let’s decide who it couldn’t have been. Not the Hammond sisters—they’re too short and I can’t believe it of them. And I think Lucy Buckstead’s in the same class.”

“But not Mrs. Buckstead—she’s large enough, and perhaps Kitty was planning on doing something that would damage Lucy’s chances—she’s the Bucksteads’ only child, after all, and she has set her heart on James.”

He inclined his head. “Mrs. Buckstead remains possible. Not probable, perhaps, but we can’t cross her off our list.”

“And for the same reason, Mr. Buckstead stays a suspect, too.”

He glanced at Portia. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re all suspects. Except me and Charlie.”

She blinked at him. “What about Lord Netherfield?”

He held her gaze. Eventually said, “Until we know who it really is, I’m assuming it could be anyone—anyone still on our list.”