“Ma’am—dinner is served.”
Portia had never in her life been so thankful to hear those words. Quite what the others would have said if the moment had lengthened, how Charlie might have replied, what riposte she might have been forced to make . . . thank heaven for butlers.
Desmond offered Winifred his arm; she glanced at it, then met his eyes, then, as if making a decision, laid her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the dining room. Portia followed on Charlie’s arm. He pinched her fingers when, her gaze fixing on Winifred and Desmond—her mind praying the murderer would not prove to be he—she failed to play her part.
She turned her lapse to advantage; as they passed into the dining room, she slanted him a playfully knowing glance. “You’re altogether too demanding.”
The smile that went with the words clearly invited him to demand as much as he wished; taking their seats about the dinner table, many of the company noticed.
The Hammond sisters had regained something of their youthful exuberance; with the prospect of escape nearing, and the incident with the urn reduced to mere accident, they were sufficiently restored to laugh and chatter gaily with Oswald and Swanston—thoroughly innocent play that cast Portia’s endeavor in an even stronger, more contrasting light.
She was grateful to Lady Glossup, who had clearly attempted to separate the warring parties, thereby reducing the opportunity for further conflict. Portia was seated close to one end of the table, Simon in the middle on the opposite side, and Charlie at the far end, on the same side as she so they couldn’t even exchange glances.
With perfect equanimity, ignoring Simon’s unrelievedly dark looks, she set herself to entertain her neighbors, Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead, the two of the company least aware of the drama being enacted under their noses.
When the ladies rose, she joined them, her expression easy and content. But as she drew level with Simon on the other side of the table, on his feet as were all the gentlemen as the ladies filed out, she deliberately, coldly, challengingly, met his gaze. Held it. Equally deliberately, as she came to Charlie, she raised a hand and ran her fingers along the back of his shoulders, briefly ruffling the hair at his nape, before smiling into Simon’s furious eyes. Letting her hand fall, she turned and, head high, glided out of the dining room.
Most had caught the moment.
Lady O’s black eyes narrowed to shards, but she said nothing. Just watched.
The other matrons were more openly censorious, but in the circumstances, could do little to interfere. Flirting, even of the type she was indulging in, had never been a crime within the ton; it was only the memory of Kitty that now made it seem so dangerous in their eyes.
Nevertheless, she gave them no other opening to reproach her actively; she behaved as she normally would, with perfect grace, while they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Tonight, the last night of the house party, it would be viewed as odd if any gentleman excused himself, for whatever reason. They would all come, and relatively soon; they would all be present to witness the penultimate scene.
As the minutes ticked by, Portia felt her nerves tighten. She tried not to think of what was to come, yet, notch by notch, a vise closed about her lungs.
Finally, the doors opened and the gentlemen walked in. Lord Glossup led the way, Henry beside him. Simon followed, strolling beside James; his eyes searched the company and found her.
As they’d arranged, Charlie ambled in a few feet behind Simon.
Portia fixed her gaze on Charlie, let her face light with anticipation and more. Smiling delightedly, she left her position beside the chaise and crossed the room toward him.
Simon stepped sideways, blocking her path. His fingers closed about her elbow; he swung her to him. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”
No question, no request.
Portia reacted, let her face set. She tried to twist her elbow free—winced when his grasp tightened and his fingers bit. Head rising, she met his gaze squarely—as belligerent, as challenging as she needed to be. “I think not.”
She felt it then—felt his anger rise like a wave and crash down on her.
“Indeed?” His tone was controlled; his fury swirled around them. “I believe you’ll find you’re mistaken.”
Even knowing the script they’d agreed to, knowing what he would do next, she still felt shocked when he bodily swung her to the windows and, her arm locked in an unforgiving grip, walked to the terrace doors.
Taking her with him.
She had to go—it was that or be openly dragged. Or lose her footing and fall. She’d never been physically compelled in her life; the sensation—her helplessness—was enough to send her temper into orbit. She could feel her cheeks flame.
He opened the doors and propelled her outside, marched her ruthlessly along until they were beyond the drawing room windows.
Not, quite, out of earshot.
They’d agreed that once they’d set the stage, they couldn’t afford not to play out the scene, not perform according to the script.
She finally succeeded in dragging in a breath. “How dare you?” Out of sight of the others, she halted, struggled.
He released her, but she sensed the momentary hesitation—the fractional pause while he forced his fingers to let her go.
She faced him, glared, searched his eyes—saw he was as close to truly losing his temper as she was to losing hers.
“Don’t you dare upbraid me.” She took a step back—remembered their rehearsed script. Lifted her chin. “I’m not yours to dictate to—I don’t belong to you.”
She hadn’t thought his expression could get harder, but it did.
He stepped toward her, closing the distance. His eyes were shards of blue flint, his gaze sharp enough to slice. “And what of me?” The suppressed fury in his voice vibrated through her. “Am I some toy you enjoy and then blithely toss away? Some lapdog you tease with your favors, then kick aside when you grow bored?”
Staring into his eyes, she abruptly wavered her resolve. Her heart wrenched as she realized he was voicing real fears—that the pretense, for him, echoed a reality he was supremely vulnerable to . . .
The urge—the need—to reassure him nearly flattened her. She had to call on every ounce of her will to hold his gaze, lift her head until her spine ached, and lash back at him. “It’s not my fault you misread things—that your never-faltering masculine ego couldn’t believe I wasn’t fascinated to blindness with you.” Her voice rose, contemptuous and defiant. “I never promised you anything.”
“Hah!” His laugh was harsh and hollow. “You and your promises.”
Simon looked at her, deliberately let his gaze travel down, then insolently back up to her face. His lip curled. “You’re nothing but a high-bred cocktease.”
Her eyes blazed. She slapped him.
Even though he’d intended to goad her into it, it still shocked. Stung.
“You’re nothing but an insensitive clod.” Her voice wavered with genuine passion; her breasts swelled as she drew breath. “Why I bothered with you . . . I can’t believe I wasted my time! I never want to see you or speak to—”
“If we never exchange another word in this lifetime, it will still be too soon for me.”
She held his gaze. Between them, around them, temper—both his and hers—swirled, touching but not investing, coloring but not truly driving. They were still acting, but . . .
Dragging in a shaky breath, she drew herself up and looked down her nose at him. “I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t wish to set eyes on you again—not ever!”
He felt his jaw clench. “That’s one thing I’ll be happy to promise.” He ground out the words, capped them with, “If you’ll do the same?”
“That will be a pleasure. Good-bye!”
She spun on her heel and stormed off down the terrace. The tempo of her steps echoed, a clear indication of h
er state.
He hauled in a breath, held it—desperately fought the urge to follow her. Knew the moon cast his shadow back along the terrace, that anyone watching from the drawing room would know she’d gone off alone—that he wasn’t following her.
She reached the lawns and headed straight for the lake path.
Swinging around, he strode back up the terrace, past the drawing room doors, ajar as he’d left them; without a glance to left or right, he headed for the stables.
Prayed he’d have time to circle around and join her before the murderer did.
Portia strode rapidly across the lawn and on toward the lake. She’d imagined doing so eagerly if anxiously; the tumult of emotions roiling inside her made it easy to appear overset.
Cocktease? That hadn’t been in the script they’d rehearsed. Nor had her slapping him. He’d done it deliberately; she could, perhaps, understand why, but she wasn’t going to forgive him easily. In the heat of the moment, the accusation had hurt.
She could feel her cheeks still flaming; as she walked, she put her hands to her face, trying to cool the burning.
Tried, desperately, to get her mind back on track—to focus on why she was here, why they’d had to stage that horrible fight.
Stokes had pointed out that the murderer would only approach her if he thought she was alone—alone in a suitable environment in which he could murder her and escape undetected. No one would readily believe she’d be witless enough to go wandering in the gardens alone in the gathering twilight—not unless she had a damned good reason.
Even more, no one would believe Simon would allow her to do so—not unless he had a damned good reason. Not unless, as Charlie had remarked, something cataclysmic had happened to stop him watching over her.
Apparently his habit, one admittedly he’d never concealed, had been widely noted.
Until Charlie had mentioned it, she’d never really thought of how Simon’s behavior must have, over all the years, appeared to others . . .
Wondered how, knowing what she now did, she’d managed to be so blind.
Remembered with a start that she should keep her eyes peeled for the murderer. If they’d succeeded, he’d be on his way down to find her.
Her liking for the lake path was, so Stokes and Charlie had averred, also well-known, but they’d chosen that venue for other reasons; the path was completely visible all the way around—easy for Stokes and Charlie to hide here and there and watch over her. Simon would join them, of course, but to avoid scuppering their plan, he had to go all the way to the stables before circling back.
Blenkinsop was also on watch, the only other person in their confidence. Simon had wished to seed the gardens with footmen, standing like statues in the shadows; only the argument that the murderer was bound to come across one while following Portia, and thus get the wind up and after all their hard work not appear, had changed his mind.
But Blenkinsop was trustworthy and, like all good servants, next to invisible. He’d keep watch from the house and follow whichever gentleman set out for the lake.
She reached the edge of the main lawn and headed down the first slope toward the lake. Raising her head, she scanned the skies, drew in a breath.
The weather was the only thing that, thus far, had not gone their way. Clouds had blown up, ragged and dark, not quite preempting the sunset but deepening the twilight.
She strode along as if furiously angry, not inwardly calmly expectant as she’d expected to be, but with her nerves jumping, twitching at every sound. The emotions stirred by their argument had yet to settle; roused, uncertain, they left her uneasy.
They’d presumed that, walking quickly, she’d easily reach the lake before the murderer . . . she hoped they hadn’t overlooked some minor detail—like the murderer’s having already been out, strolling the gardens and thus being much closer—
The bushes just ahead of her rustled. She stopped, quivering . . .
A man stepped out.
She was so surprised she didn’t scream.
A hand rising to her lips, she squeaked. Then dragged in a breath—
Recognized the man. Saw the startled expression on his face.
Arturo held up both hands placatingly and backed away two steps. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Portia exhaled through her teeth. Frowned. “What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low. “Mrs. Glossup’s dead—you know that.”
He wasn’t intimidated; he frowned back. “I came to see Rosie.”
“Rosie?”
“The maid. We are . . . good friends.”
She blinked. “You . . . before . . . you weren’t coming up here to see Mrs. Glossup?”
His lip curled. “That putain? What would I want with her?”
“Oh.” She shuffled her thoughts, reorganized her conclusions.
Noticed Arturo was still frowning at her.
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head. “You’d better be off.” She waved him away.
He frowned harder. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. There’s a murderer here—you should know that.”
The last thing she needed, another overprotective male.
He took a step toward her.
She lifted her head higher, narrowed her eyes. “Go!” She pointed imperiously down the narrow path he’d been following. “If you don’t, I’ll scream and tell everyone you’re the murderer.”
He debated whether to call her bluff, then grudgingly stepped away. “You are a very aggressive female.”
“It comes from dealing with very aggressive males!”
The acid response settled the matter; with a last frown, Arturo went, melting into the bushes, his footsteps cushioned by the grassed path.
Silence closed in, like a cloak falling about her. With a quick breath, she headed on, as fast as she could. The shadows seemed to have grown darker, denser. She jumped, her heart in her mouth, at one—only to realize it truly was just a shadow.
Pulse pounding, she finally reached the crest beyond which the path ran down to the lake. Pausing to catch her breath, she looked down at the water, ink black, silent, and still.
She listened, strained her ears, but all she could hear was the faint murmuring of leaves. The breeze wasn’t strong enough to disturb the lake; the surface lay like obsidian glass, smooth but not reflective.
There was no true light left; as she went down the slope, she wished she’d worn a brighter color—yellow or bright blue. Her dark green silk would blend into the shadows; only her face, her bare arms and shoulders, her upper chest, would show.
Glancing down, she let the fine Norwich silk shawl she’d draped about her shoulders slide down to her elbows. No need to conceal more of her than necessary. Reaching the lake, she turned away from the summerhouse and followed the circling path.
Her nerves were tensed, tight, poised to react to an attack. Both Stokes and Charlie were concealed nearby; given the minutes she’d spent with Arturo, Simon would be close, too.
Simply thinking it was comforting. She walked along, still brisk, but gradually slackening her pace, as she naturally would as the supposed fury that had propelled her this far slowly dissipated.
She’d passed the path to the pinetum but was still some way from the summerhouse when the bushes lining the path rustled.
Her heart leapt. She halted, scanned the dark, waited . . .
“It’s only me. Sorry.”
Charlie. She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss, looked down, fussing with her shawl as if the fringe had caught and she’d stopped to untangle it. “You nearly scared me into hysterics!”
She’d whispered; he did, too.
“I’m keeping watch along this side, but it’s hell to get along here. I’m going to edge back toward the pinetum.”
She frowned. “Don’t forget the pine needles.”
“I won’t. Simon should be somewhere just past the summerhouse, and Stokes is near the path to the house, on the way to the pinetum.”
“Thank you.” Flicking out her fringe, she lifted her head and walked on.
Breathed deeply to calm her skittering nerves.
The breeze had dropped; the night itself seemed to have stilled, silent yet expectant, as if it, too, was waiting.
Reaching the space before the summerhouse, she paused, pretended to consider, but had no intention of going in. Inside, her faithful watchers couldn’t see her. Turning away, she continued on.
Pacing, as if thinking. She kept her head down, but watched her surrounds from under her lashes. Let her senses reach, search. They’d assumed the villain would try to strangle her—a gun was too noisy, too easy to trace, a knife would be far too messy.
She hadn’t really thought about who it was—which of the four suspects she expected to meet; as she walked and waited, she had time and reason enough to consider it. She didn’t want it to be Henry or James, yet . . . if, from all she knew, she’d had to make a choice and pick one of the four she would have picked James.
It was, in her mind, James she was expecting to meet.
He had the inner strength. The resolve. It was something she recognized both in him and in Simon.
James was, to her, the most likely possibility.
Desmond . . . he’d put up with Kitty’s interference for so long, had used avoidance of her as his tactic for literally years. She had difficulty seeing him suddenly in the grips of a murderous rage, murderous enough to kill.
As for Ambrose, she honestly couldn’t see him doing anything so rash. Tight-lipped—she’d heard Charlie mumble something about him being tight-arsed and couldn’t find it in her to disagree—he was so careful of his behavior, so calculating, so cold-bloodedly focused on his career, the idea of him falling into a murderous rage just because Kitty propositioned him in public . . . it was simply too much to believe.
James, then. Regardless of their feelings for him, she knew that, if it indeed proved to be so, Simon and Charlie would not try to shield him. They would find it incredibly painful, but they would hand him over to Stokes themselves. Their code of honor would demand it.