She understood that—indeed, better than most gentlemen. Her brother, Edward, a few years younger than Luc, was no longer spoken of. Many families had a rotten apple; they’d weeded theirs out; despite all, she could find it in her to hope the Glossups wouldn’t have to weather such a scandal.
The path up to the house lay just ahead. She’d nearly completed a circuit of the lake . . . and no one had arrived. Had she walked too fast? Or was the murderer lying in wait for her back up the path, in the shadows lining the route to the house?
Drawing level with the path, she looked up, scanning the shadows bordering the upward rise—and saw a man. He stood just below the lip of the rise, to one side, in the shadow of a large rhododendron. It was the dark foliage behind him that allowed her to see him well enough to be sure.
It was Henry.
She was shocked, surprised . . . looked down and kept walking as if she hadn’t seen him, while her mind raced.
Had it been he? Had he learned about Kitty’s pressuring James over her baby, as they’d surmised might have happened? Had that been the last straw?
She felt chilled, but kept walking. If it was Henry, she had to draw him down here—where she was safe. She kept walking, her skirts swaying about her as she steadily paced on, heading once more toward the pinetum, her nerves strained, her senses even more so, waiting, aching to hear the soft thud of a footstep behind her . . .
Ten feet ahead of her, a figure stepped smoothly out from one of the myriad minor paths between the bushes and waited, elegantly at ease, for her to join him.
Portia stared at Ambrose. Damn! He was going to ruin everything! He smiled as she approached; mind reeling, wits in a whirl, she struggled to find some means, some excuse, to send him packing.
“I heard your altercation with Cynster. While I can appreciate your need for solitude, you really shouldn’t be out walking alone.”
What was it about her that made every last gentleman think he needed to protect her?
Thrusting her irritation aside, she stopped beside him, inclined her head. “Thank you for your concern, but I really do wish to be left quite alone.”
His smile turned distinctly patronizing. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we really can’t allow that.” He didn’t move to take her arm, but turned to pace beside her.
Frowning, she found herself walking on while she debated her next move. She had to get rid of him—did she dare tell him that this was a planned trap, that she was the bait and he was interfering . . . that the murderer may very well, even now, be watching, closing in from behind?
The darkness of the pinetum rose on their right. The lake, black and still, lay to her left. Ambrose was on her right, between her and the gloom beneath the soaring trees. According to Charlie, they must have just passed Stokes. The temptation to glance back, to see if Henry was taking the bait and coming down the slope, pricked, but she resisted.
The path into the pinetum lay ahead; she racked her brains to think of a reason to send Ambrose back to the house that way . . .
“I have to admit, my dear, that I never thought you’d be as stupid as Kitty.”
The words, calm, perfectly even, jerked her back to the moment. She glanced at Ambrose. “What do you mean—as stupid as Kitty?”
“Why, that I hadn’t believed you to be one of those silly women who delights in playing one man against another. In treating men as if they’re puppets and you’re in control of their strings.”
He continued walking, looking down, not at her; his expression, what she could see of it, seemed pensive.
“That was,” he went on, in the same even, considered tone, “poor Kitty’s style to the last. She thought she had power.” His lips twisted wryly. “Who knows—she might have had some, but she never learned how to wield it properly.”
He finally glanced at Portia. “I’d thought you were different—certainly more intelligent.” He met her gaze, smiled. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
It was the smile that did it—that sent a wave of ice washing over her. Convinced her she was walking beside Kitty’s murderer, that it wasn’t Henry, or James . . .
“Aren’t you?” She halted. Managed a frown. She wasn’t walking another step closer to the path through the pinetum—leading into the darkness where no one could see. “If you didn’t come here to comment—impertinently—on my behavior, what, then, is your point?”
She swung around as she said it, planting herself before him—facing back along the path so she’d be able to see Stokes, but Ambrose, facing her, wouldn’t.
His smile remained. “That’s simple, my dear. My point is to silence you and leave Cynster to take the blame. He’s out walking, so are you. After that scene on the terrace . . .” His chilling smile deepened. “I couldn’t have scripted it better myself.”
He lifted his hands, until then clasped behind his back. She saw a curtain cord dangling from one, then he caught the swinging tassel, wound the cord between his hands—
She grabbed it. Locked both fists around the cord between his hands and hung on.
He swore. Tried to shake her loose, but couldn’t—couldn’t break her grip without letting go himself.
Behind him, she saw the burly shadow that was Stokes burst from the bushes and rush toward them.
Snarling, Ambrose released the curtain cord—throwing her off-balance. She staggered; he grabbed the trailing end of her silk shawl.
Swung about her, whipping it around her neck.
She didn’t think—didn’t have time. She got a hand inside the folds; in the instant before he wrenched them tight, she leaned back toward him, pushing the shawl simultaneously away, and slid down.
Out of the noose.
She ended crouched at Ambrose’s feet, hard by the lake’s edge. Stokes was thundering up. Ambrose was too close, standing, snarling over her, looping the shawl between his hands.
She flung herself sideways, into the lake.
The black waters closed over her—the banks were precipitous, there was nothing beneath her feet. But the water was cool, not icy; the long summer had warmed it. There was neither current nor waves to fight; it was easy to rise to the surface and swim.
As she did, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Ambrose’s stunned face—then he heard Stokes. Saw him. Realized . . .
Ambrose’s face contorted with fury—
She swam. Behind her, she heard a thud and an “oomph!” as Stokes collided with Ambrose. Kicking as well as her skirts allowed, she stroked away from the bank, then, at a safe distance, turned.
Charlie was rushing up to assist. Henry was lumbering down the path. Simon had been on his way to help the others but had stopped on the lake circuit at the point closest to her. He now stood at the lake’s edge. Watching. Poised to react . . .
Reaching the fray, Charlie joined in, grappling to help Stokes hold his prey. Ambrose fought like a madman—wrenched free—
And jumped into the lake.
Her heart leaping again, Portia turned to swim away—saw Simon tense on the bank—
But he didn’t dive in.
Hearing splashing—too much splashing, surely?—she glanced back.
And realized, as all the others had, that Ambrose had assumed the lake was ornamental—not fathoms deep.
He couldn’t swim. Certainly not well enough.
Within a few strokes he was foundering.
She drifted, watching . . .
Stokes and Charlie stood on the bank, hands on hips, chests heaving, and watched as Ambrose, now panicked and thrashing wildly, sank.
He came up spluttering. “Help! I’m drowning, you bastards! Help me!”
It was Stokes who answered. “Why should we?”
“Because I’m drowning—I’ll die!”
“The way I see it, that might be best all around. Save us all a lot of bother.”
Startled, Portia looked at Stokes.
It wouldn’t do—they had to have Ambrose known as the murderer—
But Stokes knew his man.
Ambrose went down again, and came up screeching, “All right. All right! I did it. I strangled the little bitch!”
“That would be Mrs. Glossup, I take it?”
“Yes, dammit!” Ambrose was yelling at the top of his lungs. “Now get me out of here!”
Stokes looked at Charlie, then at Henry, who, stunned, had slowly come to join them. “You heard?”
Charlie nodded; when Henry realized Stokes had included him, he nodded, too.
“Right, then.” Stokes looked down at Ambrose. “I can’t swim either. How do we fetch him out?”
From the water, Portia raised her voice. “Use my shawl.” It was lying on the ground where Ambrose had dropped it. “Wind it and knot the fringes as well—it should reach him. It’s silk—if it’s not torn, it’ll hold.”
She waited, watching while they followed her instructions. Heard, from the bank a little way behind her the growled words, “Don’t you dare even think of going to his aid.”
For the first time in too many hours, she smiled.
Luckily, with rescue assured, Ambrose calmed enough to, very clumsily, keep his head above water until they flung the shawl out to him.
He lunged, grabbed the knotted fringe, and clung. The dunking and his resulting panic had drained all the fight from him. As they drew him, shaking, from the water, she turned and stroked to the nearer shore.
Where Simon stood waiting.
She couldn’t read his expression as he stood looking down at her. Relief and something more poured through her. Smiling—simply glad to be alive—she held up both hands. He grasped them, waited until she’d brought her feet against the rocky wall of the lake, then pulled her smoothly out, onto the bank.
Released her hands and caught her in his arms.
Yanked her close, locked her to him.
Ignoring her dripping state, he kissed her—hard, ruthless, ravishing, and desperate—kissed her witless.
Much better than being shaken witless.
When he finally consented to lift his head, she looked into his face, didn’t need her intellect to correctly interpret the tension holding him, to know that he had come very close to the edge of his control.
“I’m perfectly all right.” She spoke directly to what she knew to be his fear, the vulnerability he possessed, all because of her.
He humphed. The telltale tension eased only slightly. “As I remember it, the plan did not call for you to jump into the lake.”
His arms loosened; she pushed back. Stepped out of his arms as he reluctantly let her go. Lifted her hands to her shoulders and pressed down on her gown, following the line of her body to her hips and thighs, squeezing the water out and down, then grasping her skirts and wringing them.
“It seemed the most sensible way to go.” She kept her tone determinedly mild, as if they were discussing a hunt meet rather than her flight from a murderer.
“What if he’d been able to swim?” The aggravated growl was still tense and accusatory. “You didn’t know he couldn’t.”
She straightened, looked him in the eye. “I didn’t know about Ambrose, but I swim quite well.” She raised her brows fractionally, let a smile touch her lips. “And you swim even better.”
He held her gaze. She could feel him weighing what she’d said . . .
Suddenly realized. “You did know I could swim, didn’t you?”
His lips, until then a tight line, twisted, then he exhaled. “No.” His gaze locked with hers; he hesitated, then grudgingly added, “But I assumed you could or you wouldn’t have jumped in.”
She read his face, his eyes, then smiled delightedly as sudden joy infused her, rushed up through her. Left her feeling slightly giddy. She looked down, still smiling. “Precisely.” Linking her arm with his, she turned to see what the others were doing.
He continued to study her face. “What?”
She glanced back, met his eyes. Smiled gently. “Later.” Once she’d fully savored the moment, and found the words to tell him how much she appreciated his restraint. He’d stood at the lake’s edge, ready to step in and protect her, but, given she’d been able to do so, he’d held back and let her save herself. He hadn’t treated her as a helpless female; he hadn’t smothered her in his protectiveness. He’d behaved as if she were a partner, one with skills and talents somewhat different from his own yet perfectly capable of dealing with the moment.
He’d have stepped in the instant she needed him—but he’d resisted the temptation to step in before.
A future together really would work—with time, with familiarity, his overprotectiveness would become a more rational, considered response. One that considered her and her wishes, not just his.
Hope filled her, buoyed her with a joy totally divorced from their recent activities.
But those activities were still unfolding. Blenkinsop had joined the group in the shadow of the pinetum. Now he and Stokes turned, Ambrose supported between them. They marched him along the path, passing Simon and Portia at the bottom of the upward slope. His hands bound with her sodden shawl, Ambrose was still shaking; he didn’t even glance their way.
Charlie and Henry followed close behind, Charlie explaining all they’d been doing.
Henry halted beside her and took her hands in his. “Charlie hasn’t yet told me all, but I understand, my dear, that we owe you a great deal.”
She colored. “Nonsense—we all had a hand.”
“Not nonsense at all—without you and your bravery, they couldn’t have pulled it off.” Henry’s eyes had shifted to Simon’s face. A glance passed between them, deep with masculine meaning. “And you, Simon.” Henry reached out and clapped his shoulder.
Then glanced at her gown, suddenly became aware that she was clad in only two layers of silk, both drenched.
He coughed, looked away—up at the house. “Charlie and I will go on ahead, but you should hurry inside and change. Not wise to stand around in wet clothes, even in summer.”
Charlie grinned at Portia, nodded to Simon. “We got him!” His transparent happiness that all was now well, that they’d succeeded in rescuing James, Henry, and Desmond, too, was infectious.
They both smiled. Henry and Charlie walked on; they fell in behind, walking slowly up the rise.
As they crested it, the breeze sprang up, and sent cool fingers sliding down her skin. She shivered.
Simon halted. He shrugged out of his coat and swirled it around her, draping it over her shoulders. She smiled, grateful, even in the balminess of the night, for the caress of heat—his heat—lingering in the silk lining. Holding the coat closed, she met his eyes. “Thank you.”
He humphed. “It’ll do for the moment.”
He retook her hand. She went to walk on but he didn’t move, held her back. The others were well ahead.
She glanced at him, brows rising.
Looking at the others, he drew in a breath. “What happened on the terrace—what I said. I apologize. I didn’t mean . . .” He waved, as if to wipe the scene from their minds, glanced fleetingly at her, then away.
She stepped across him, raised her free hand to his face, and turned it to hers.
Reluctantly, he let her.
Until, in the fading light, she could read his eyes, until she could sense, as if it were stated, the vulnerability he sought, as always, to hide. To excuse.
She understood that much at least. At last. And was touched beyond measure.
“It won’t ever happen. Believe me.” She would never take from him, then turn from him, never love, then leave him.
His face, hard, set, didn’t soften. “Is it possible to promise such a thing?”
She held his gaze. “Between you and me—yes.”
He read her eyes in turn, saw her sincerity; his chest swelled. She felt the change i
n the tension holding him, the swift return of his possessiveness, the sinking of his protectiveness.
His arm locked around her; he drew her close.
“Wait.” She pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t rush.”
His brows rose—she could hear the incredulous “Rush?” in his mind.
She eased back in his arms. “We need to end what we’ve started—we need to hear what truly happened and put Ambrose and the murders behind us. Then we can talk about”—she drew breath, finally said the crucial word—”us.”
He held her gaze, then grimaced and released her. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”
He took her hand; together, they climbed the lawns to the house.
It was as grim a scene as he’d foreseen; there was relief but no triumph. In rescuing the Glossups, and to some extent the Archers in that Desmond had been invited at their behest, they’d shifted the weight of opprobium to the Calvins. To the continuing distress of everyone.
Simon ushered Portia into the library through the terrace doors. The scene that met their eyes was, very likely, Stokes’s worst nightmare; they exchanged glances, but knew it was beyond their ability to remedy.
The ladies had rebelled. They’d realized something was going on and had come sweeping into the library; now they’d been told the bare facts—that it was Ambrose who had killed Kitty—they’d all slumped into chairs and sofas, and refused to depart.
Literally everyone was there, even two footmen. The only one with any connection to the drama not present was Arturo; studying the shocked and, in some instances, disbelieving faces, imagining the angst to come, Simon suspected the gypsy would be eternally grateful to have been spared the ordeal.
So would he. He glanced at Portia, from the set of her features accepted that she would not consent to go upstairs and change before she’d learned the answers she didn’t yet know. Fetching the admiral’s chair from behind the big desk, he wheeled it down the room, set it beside the end of the chaise where Lady O sat, and handed Portia into it.
Lady O cast a glance at her sodden attire. “No doubt that, too, will be explained?”