The Perfect Lover (36 page)

“Can we?” Charlie asked. “I mean . . . will he let us, do you think?”

“He was at the funeral.” Simon paced by Portia’s side. “He was watching everyone, but he’s guessing where we know enough to be sure.” He caught Portia’s eye. “Perhaps we should offer our services?”

She nodded, determined. “We should.”

“But before we do that”—they’d reached the lake path; Charlie came up beside them—“we’d better head back to the house and put in an appearance at the wake.”

They did. The gathering was held in the drawing room, curtains half-drawn. With a meaningful nod to them both, Charlie went to talk to James, standing a little apart, a glass in his hand.

Simon and Portia circulated; few of the local gentlemen had come back to the house—the company was primarily composed of the houseguests. Portia stopped to chat to the Hammond sisters, subdued and somewhat crushed. Simon left her and moved on, eventually coming up beside Stokes.

The “gentleman from Bow Street” was hanging back by the wall, consuming a pastry. He caught Simon’s eye. “Lord Netherfield suggested I attend.” He took another bite, looked away. “Seems a nice old codger.”

“Very. And no, I don’t think he did it.”

Stokes grinned, and met Simon’s gaze. “Any particular reason for thinking so?”

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Simon looked across the room. “He’s of a type and a generation where stooping to murder someone as essentially powerless as Kitty—Mrs. Glossup—would be seen as very bad form.”

Stokes munched on the pastry, then quietly asked, “Does ‘very bad form’ still matter?”

“Not to all by any means, but to those of his ilk, yes.” Simon met Stokes’s questioning look. “To him, it would be a matter of personal honor, and that, I assure you, matters to him very much.”

After a moment, Stokes nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and dusted his fingers. He didn’t look up as he said, “Do I take it you’re willing to . . . assist me in my inquiries?”

Simon hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps in interpreting any facts you might find, attaching the correct weight to anything you might hear.”

“Ah, I see.” Stokes’s lips curved. “You’re a very old friend of Mr. James Glossup, I hear.”

Simon inclined his head. “Which is why I, and Miss Ashford and Mr. Hastings, are all eager the murderer—the real murderer, whoever he is—be unmasked.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “You’ll need us to get anywhere. We need you to get a result. A fair enough bargain, to my mind.”

Stokes mulled it over, then stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “I’ll be conducting interviews all afternoon—I haven’t yet spoken to all who were here. Then I’m going down to the gypsy encampment. I doubt I’ll be back before dinner, but perhaps we can talk when I return?”

Simon nodded. “The summerhouse—it’s down by the lake. You can’t miss it. It’s private, and no one else is likely to wander that far at dusk. We’ll wait for you there.”

“Agreed.”

With an inclination of his head, Simon moved away.

He, Portia, and Charlie decamped to the summerhouse the instant tea, served as soon as the gentlemen returned to the drawing room, had been dispensed with. Normal custom having been observed, most guests retired to their rooms, although a light still burned in the billiard room; with the library inhabited by Bow Street’s best, it had become the gentlemen’s retreat.

Stokes had spent all afternoon interrogating the rest of the houseguests, then disappeared. There’d already been a curious tension in the air, as if the desperate fiction that the murderer was, of course, one of the gypsies was already wearing thin; Stokes’s unexplained absence only ratcheted that tension one notch tighter.

Beside Simon, Portia walked down the lawns and onto the path around the lake, puzzling, as she had since quitting his bed that morning in great measure restored to her customary spirits, over why Kitty’s murder had come about.

“You have to admit Stokes was mightily brave to specifically interview Lady O.” Charlie followed in their wake, frowning as he ambled.

“He seems very thorough,” Simon replied.

“And determined.”

“That, too.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed?”

Simon glanced at Charlie. “For the Glossups’ sakes—for everyone’s sakes—I hope so.” He seemed to catch something of Charlie’s concern. “Why do you ask? What is it?”

They paused, as one turning to confront Charlie.

Halting, he grimaced. “I spoke to James at the wake, and again this afternoon. He’s . . . not his usual self.”

Portia raised her brows. “I wouldn’t be my usual self either if I knew I was a prime suspect for murder.”

“Yes, well, it’s rather more than that.” Charlie looked at Simon. “You know how close James and Henry really are. This business, if anything, has drawn them closer . . .” Charlie ran a hand through his hair. “Point is, James feels guilty over Kitty—not because he harmed her, but over her preferring him to Henry. Even though he never encouraged it . . . well, it was pretty clear how it was. Deuced awkward enough while she was living—hell now she’s not.”

Simon had stilled; Portia sensed the change in him.

“What exactly are you saying?”

Charlie sighed. “I’m worried that James will do something foolish—especially if things look to be going badly for Henry, and heaven knows, it already looks bad enough. I think he might confess to spare Henry.”

Simon exhaled. “Damn!”

Portia looked from one to the other. “Would he really do that?”

Simon nodded. “Oh, yes. If you knew their past, you’d understand. James will do anything to protect Henry, because Henry spent half his life shielding James.”

“So what can we do?” Charlie asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“The only thing we can do,” Simon replied. “Help unmask the real murderer with all speed.”

It was late when Stokes, clearly weary, joined them.

“Dealing with gypsies is never easy.” He sank into one of the armchairs. “They always assume we’re about to haul them off.” He grimaced. “Can’t say I blame them, given how things used to be.”

“Given you haven’t hauled anyone off,” Simon said, “I take it you don’t think Arturo is guilty?”

“I can’t see it, myself.” Stokes looked across at him. “Can you?”

“No,” Simon acknowledged. “But everyone will suggest it, I’m sure.”

“Aye, they have, but it’s drawing a very long bow. I’ve no reason to suspect he—or that other one, the younger one . . . Dennis, that was it—did the deed.”

Portia leaned forward. “Have you any theories on who did?”

“Not as such.” Stokes relaxed back in the chair. “But I have some thoughts.”

He shared them; they, for their part, told him all they knew—all Kitty’s little snipes, all her recent barbs. While waiting for Stokes, they’d agreed to hold nothing back, trusting that the truth in Stokes’s hands would not harm the innocent. There was too much at stake to toe the line of polite reticence.

So they told him of all Portia had overheard, all they individually and collectively surmised of Kitty’s propensities for meddling in others’ lives.

Stokes was impressed—and impressive; he questioned them, truly listened, and tried to follow their explanations.

Eventually they reached a point where he had no more questions, but they’d yet to see even a glimmer of a conclusion. They all rose and walked back to the house, silently mulling all they’d touched on, as with a jigsaw trying to see a pattern prior to aligning the pieces.

Portia was still mulling, still deep in thought, when she slipped into Simon’s room an hour later.

Standing beside the bed, he looked up, then continued lighting the six candles in the candelabra he’d borrowed from one of the unused parlors.

He heard the door lock snib, heard Portia’s footsteps cross the floor.

Knew the instant she noticed.

She stopped, staring at the candelabra, now with all candles burning. Then she looked around—at the window, the heavy winter curtains normally tied back through the warmer months fully drawn, then at the bed, bathed in the golden glow thrown by two six-armed candelabra perched on the angled bedside tables, a seven-armed cousin on the tallboy against the corridor wall, and a five-armed one standing on the chest against the opposite wall.

“What . . . ?” She looked at him across the warmly lit expanse.

He shook out the taper, adjusted the second six-armed candelabrum so its light fell on the massed pillows. Then he lifted his head. Met her gaze. “I want to see you, this time.”

She blushed. Not fierily but the wash of color was readily discernible under her alabaster skin.

He hid a wholly predatory smile. His gaze on her, gauging her reaction, he rounded the bed, walked to her side.

She was staring at the counterpane, a silky soft crimson sheening in the candlelight.

He reached for her, slid his hands around her slender form, and drew her into his arms. She came easily, but when she lifted her eyes to his, she was frowning.

“I’m not at all sure this is one of your better ideas.”

He ducked his head and kissed her, gently, persuasively.

“You’ll be able to see me, too.” He whispered the temptation across her lips, then took them again, made them—and her—cling.

Her body sank into his arms, his unreservedly, yet she drew back from the kiss, her hesitation clear in her eyes. He gathered her closer, molded her hips to his. “Trust me. You’ll enjoy it.”

He shifted suggestively against her.

Portia inwardly humphed, decided not to tell him that that was what she feared, that she would enjoy the wanton adventure, enjoy being drawn deeper and deeper into his web—one she knew he was deliberately weaving.

But she’d already accepted the challenge, decided on her path.

Holding his gaze, she slid her hands, until then braced between them, up, over his shoulders, twined her arms about his neck. Stretched up against him. “All right.” Just before their lips met, she hesitated. Long enough to feel the tension he reined back. Feel it build . . .

Her gaze on his lips, she murmured, deliberately sultry, “Show me, then.”

And offered her mouth.

He took—ravenously. Captured her senses, feasted on her, ripped her wits away.

Plunged them both straight into passion’s furnace, into the roaring flames of desire.

A desire they both let rage—his hands roved her body, powerfully possessive, every touch flagrantly evocative; she speared her fingers through his hair and clung, urging him on—then he reined the fire in. Held it back, seething, simmering, waiting to erupt. Shifted, and trapped her against the bed, his legs outside hers.

Broke from the kiss, waited, head bowed to hers until she lifted her heavy lids.

He trapped her gaze. “Tonight, we are not going to rush.”

The words were deep, gravelly—dictatorial. Fearless, she held his gaze, arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware we had previously.”

Consideration flashed behind his eyes, then he murmured, “I’ve a proposition. Let’s see how slow we can go.”

She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. Nevertheless she lightly shrugged. “If you wish.”

He bent his head. “I wish.”

He took her mouth again in a long, slow, achingly pleasurable, disturbingly arousing kiss. She was long past resisting in even a token way, long past trying to hold on to her wits, or her will. She let both slide as he drew her ever deeper into mesmerizing delight.

Didn’t even think of the revealing light as he unbuttoned her gown, eased it off her shoulders, then, when she obligingly freed her arms, peeled it down until it fell slack about her waist. With his lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, artfully promising, she barely registered the tugs as he unraveled the ribbon ties of her chemise.

But then he drew back from the kiss, looked down, and drew the fine silk down, exposing her breasts.

To him, to his sight, to the burning blue of his eyes.

The look on his face made her lungs lock; he raised a hand, ran the backs of his fingers from her collarbone down over the upper swell of one breast, then turned his hand and cupped the firm weight, a conqueror assessing an offered prize. Then he closed his hand. And sanity rocked.

She couldn’t breathe, could only watch, caught, trapped, ruthlessly held by a sensual spell as he visually feasted, examining, caressing, fondling—unhurriedly, almost languidly.

Then he flicked her a glance from under his lashes, caught her gaze, then shifted before her and slowly bent his head. Set his lips to one tightly puckered nipple, sucked lightly. At her indrawn breath, he released her, traced and kissed, licked, savored . . . eventually moved to her other breast while his fingers closed over the heated peak and continued its torture.

Until he returned, opened his mouth and drew it in. Suckled fiercely. Fingers spasming on his skull, clenching tight, she cried out, let her head arch back as she held him to her, spine lightly bowed.

Tried to focus on the pattern of the tapestry lining the bed’s canopy. Couldn’t.

Closed her eyes as he suckled again, wondered how long her legs would hold her.

As if he’d heard the thought, his hands slid down, around, and gripped her bottom, hard, possessively.

On a gasp, she forced her lids up, looked down, watched him feast. He caught her gaze, watched her watching as he rolled one aching nipple over his tongue, then rasped it.

She shuddered and closed her eyes again.

Felt him straighten—let her hands slide down to his chest as his fingers slowly unclenched and released her; she opened her eyes regardless of the effort.

She had to see this—his face as he eased her gown and chemise down, as he pushed the fabric over the swell of her hips, then down until, with a soft swoosh, both garments fell to pool on the floor.

He stepped back a fraction, but his eyes didn’t follow the material; they stopped, locked, on the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

She tried to imagine what he was thinking; couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure, looking at the hard-edged planes of his face, that he was thinking at all.

Then his hands, which had risen to her waist, feathered down, thumbs tracing the slight curve of her stomach, down to the crease between thigh and torso. Head rising, he stepped closer—something she glimpsed in his face made her breath catch. She braced her hands on his chest; held him back.