Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8 (12 page)

I wouldn’t have thought of that, but I’m glad Richard did.

“I would prefer to discover his killer quickly,” Richard continued, “but I fear we don’t have all the resources here that we can normally call on. We have to resign ourselves to the possibility that we won’t have any success or that it will take longer.”

I could see the sense in that, but the thought of aiding a man to escape his sins galled me. Richard touched my forearm, and I looked up into his face. “I know,” he said softly. “It concerns me too. We will do all we can, if only for Crantock’s sake. He could have saved our lives. The family has lost a son, if he has a family at all.”

“Then I insist that we do our best to find out who did this.”

Richard nodded. “I agree.”

He paused before turning to Carier again. “I would prefer the merchant stayed here for the time being. Stop him from returning to the city. He could be in danger, since he too saw the man. And for the same reason, he could be useful to us.”

Carier nodded. “I will see to it, my lord. I agree it would be unwise for him to return to Lisbon on his own. The killer may not wish him to survive.”

The air seemed heavier from the knowledge. It wasn’t a sense of being persecuted because we had been persecuted in the past and might be so in the future.

Richard had made many enemies in his roistering years, when he’d moved heartlessly from one woman to another, and we had one enemy in particular. We had every reason to believe he was half a world away, but we needed to make sure. And for the burgeoning closeness between my husband and myself, this threat could not separate us now, not at this sensitive time.

We met Paul’s brother Joaquin in the drawing room before dinner. He rose to his feet when I entered the room. He was dressed fashionably, but not with the extravagance that Richard commanded.

Paul’s smooth tones introduced us formally, and as I made my curtsey, I studied his quiet air of command and smiling good looks. “Joaquin runs the estate vineyards,” Paul informed us.

“You have more than one?” Although Paul had mentioned it earlier, I hadn’t thought of winemaking as a major concern to the Aljubarrotta estate.

Joaquin gave an indulgent laugh. “My lady, it is a large source of income.” His accent was heavier than Paul’s, but then Paul had spent a great deal of time in England with his mother and grew up speaking both languages as his own. For one reason or another, Joaquin had not accompanied his brother. I had to admit, I found the accent more than somewhat attractive in a way that appealed to my sensual side. But I didn’t like the humouring tone of his laughter. I chose to ignore it, deciding that I would discover what manner of man he was before informing him that my question stemmed from not knowing rather than a lack of intelligence. “Portugal produces a number of excellent wines. You do not have
port
with your dinner?”

I couldn’t decide if his emphasis on the word indicated indulgence or an insulting assumption that my female intelligence couldn’t encompass the knowledge that wine didn’t just appear, like water, from a well. “My husband prefers it. It is a little heavy for my taste.”

I didn’t have to look at Richard to know he had accepted my decision not to correct Joaquin’s suppositions. “My wife prefers lighter wines. Paul was kind enough to send me a barrel of your finest port, and I have savoured it. My brother too sends his compliments.” His light, inconsequential, slightly singsong tone told me he had decided to follow my example—to let the man think what he would. We would not masquerade as something we were not, but there was no need to tell him more than he needed to know. We had almost unconsciously gone on alert. The news Carier had brought us had alarmed us both. Just yesterday morning we’d heard of the poor boy’s illness. Now he was dead, but not of what had ailed him.

Paul smiled and murmured his thanks. Unlike Joaquin, he knew something of our true natures. He watched us, his dark eyes wary.

“I would love to show you one of our vineyards, if you feel up to it. My brother says that you’ve been ill?” Joaquin asked.

“I feel much better now. I’m sure I could manage the journey.” We were here for the whole winter. I’d need something to do if I wasn’t to run a house and attend my usual duties. Or I’d go mad with enforced boredom.

“I hadn’t realised your brother worked in your vineyards,” Richard said, but he watched Joaquin rather than Paul as he made the comment.

“A very efficient manager,” Paul remarked. “He has increased production and the quality of the wines in the five years since I put him wholly in charge.”

I sensed an air of tension between the brothers, nothing like the friendly rivalry Richard sometimes engaged in with Gervase, but something darker. Joaquin glanced at Paul and smiled an instant later, but in that instant, a world of eloquence passed between them. I knew Richard had noticed too. But many brothers did have some tension. Not all were as close as Richard and his twin.

“Won’t Mr. Barber be joining us tonight?” I didn’t think they would deny a guest the family dining table, but the structure of society might be more rigid than we were used to at home. Still, it rankled that he might be refused a good dinner and conversation. He had done us a service by bringing the news about poor Crantock. If he was a friend of Gervase’s, they’d probably shared a few meals together.

Paul assuaged my concerns. “He sent word that he regretted he could not join us. He says he has a cold and would not like to transmit the illness. I thought it enough to keep him away. After all, didn’t the boy have a fever?”

I appreciated his thoughtfulness. “I see. I hope he is comfortable.”

Lizzie smiled. “I have done my best to assure it. I sent him a meal to his room with our best wishes.”

We went in to dinner, and Lizzie showed pleasure at my delight. The room had an intricate design of a vine and grapes twining around the ceiling and picked out with appropriate colours. The paintings were of the house and its various aspects, and the large, arched windows were uncovered.

“It’s the winter dining room,” she told us. “The summer room has a wall of glass windows that can be drawn back on fine evenings. I love it, but the evenings are too chilly now to eat in the open air.”

“We shall have to return one summer,” I assured her, although I didn’t know if the heat would agree with me. I had spent some of a hot summer in Rome on our honeymoon, and I’d found myself overcome, even though I was assured that it wasn’t the warmest summer they had endured in recent years. Indeed, the weather showed some alarming instability of late, giving us sunny days when we should have had cold, and the spring had come late to England. At least it gave people a polite way of starting a conversation, but I have to admit I rarely discussed the weather. Recently I’d had much more to talk about.

Lizzie apologised for the uneven numbers. “But since Joaquin arrived after we did, I had no time to invite anyone.”

“I didn’t even think of it,” I assured her, although I knew Richard would. His notions of formality came from his innate breeding, whereas mine were imposed.

They served us a light, refreshing meal consisting of two courses with half a dozen removes each, limited but delicious. Lizzie had included a few more substantial dishes, probably for the delectation of my husband and Paul. Despite his sometimes delicate appearance, my husband was a considerable trencherman. I could only assume that any avoirdupois he was in danger of gaining, he’d worried and exercised away.

I enjoyed what I ate, and Richard made sure I had sufficient. He would have helped me to more, but I waved my hand in a laughing gesture. “I really can’t eat more. It was absolutely lovely. You have an excellent cook, Lizzie.”

“Cooks.” She glanced at her husband. “We entertain here from time to time. I have two here at present.”

“Thank you for the lemon cream. It was quite wonderful,” I said.

Lizzie smiled. “It was always one of our favourites.” She glanced at her husband. “We used to badger Mrs. Hoarty’s cook for it because we loved it so much. She did the best lemon cream in Devonshire.”

“I did indeed. And Richard knows my preference for it.” It was good to have my appetite returned, and I’d eaten a good amount of the dish. “But you didn’t have any tonight.”

“I ate more of the delicious beef. I left no room for sweet stuff. Paul knows I love lemon cream, and it was kind of him to ensure it was made tonight. It will keep for a day and I may have some tomorrow.” Lizzie’s smile broadened, and she let out a genuine laugh, not a polite society tinkling of bells. “Who would have thought this could have happened?” Without thinking, she reached out her hand and her husband took it. “One thing makes it all possible.”

I knew what she meant—love.

Paul kissed her hand. “I can’t take credit for something I didn’t order.”

Joaquin gave a shame-faced smile. I liked him better with a smile. A pity he didn’t do it more often. “I have to take credit for ordering it. I know it’s a favourite of Lizzie’s. I did mention it to the cook this morning, when she said she had an overabundance of cream today.”

Before I could speak, Richard chipped in. “A kind thought.”

I shrugged, felt the edge of my fichu slip a little and resisted an impulse to hitch it up. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have hesitated to do so. Neither would I have worn such a delicate, almost transparent fichu with such ease nor had the confidence to state my opinion in such company.

“I have rarely seen such beauty in the same room.” Joaquin lifted his glass and toasted us.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, a familiar sensation, but I hadn’t felt it recently. It surprised me, but I strove to show nothing of it. I was out of practice at accepting extravagant compliments as if they were my due, but I did find Joaquin’s compliments and solicitude a little…too much.

So I smiled. I thought Richard would suspect anyone who came close to me, especially recalling the events of last year, but I also knew he would feel easier in his mind if I allowed him to study Joaquin. I decided on some mild flirtation.

“I’m equally amazed to find Portugal so full of such good-looking men.” Not that I’d seen too many as yet, but it didn’t hurt to flatter. A lot could be discerned by relaxing a person, letting him feel at his ease, or even superior.

Joaquin gazed at me through lowered lids, his dark eyes glinting through the seductive veiling of his lashes. I had no doubt it was deliberate, but some men flirted as much as they breathed, and the instinct was just as natural. I wouldn’t hold it against him. What Richard would do remained to be seen. He wasn’t a jealous husband, because of his trust in me, but I had no doubt that if he felt threatened, he would reassert his claim on me. It might even do him good, give him a push back to sharing my bed.

It wouldn’t do any harm. The only thing that would do that would be adultery, and I would never, ever consider such a course. To see me flirting might even amuse him, and God knew I was out of practice.

“You live here, sir?” I asked him. An innocuous enough question to give him an opening.

“No, my lady. I have a house not far from here, and another in the south, nearer to our other main vineyard. Charming residences. Nothing like the houses my brother owns, of course, but that’s how it should be.” He paused. “His two years’…superiority brought great riches.” He paused before the fourth word, as if searching his vocabulary. A delightful affectation. I suspected he knew it.

“I have a brother who is older than me, but not by a great deal.” I leaned back so the footman could remove my now-empty plate. The servants efficiently stripped the table of the remaining plates, flatware and the centrepiece, leaving us with the glasses and our wine. At this stage, Lizzie and I should have left the gentlemen to discourse and enjoy their port, which would be a considerable pleasure, from Richard's comments about the sample he and Gervase had received. But I was as yet disinclined to do so. I wanted to know more about Joaquin.

At one point he smiled and toasted me. “Who can doubt that a clever woman can’t twist a man around her smallest digit?”

Finger
, I nearly corrected him but stopped myself. It wouldn’t have been polite. “Many women cannot. Many do not wish to.”

“Oh, every woman has a little of the flirt in her. Do you not agree?”

If I disagreed, it would mean I had to provide examples, which would appear churlish. So I smiled and nodded. “You may have something in that, sir, but not every woman is adept at the art.”

“Art?” He raised a black brow.

Richard took a hand in the conversation. “There is much to be learned, many skills that enhance the mere human exchange to that of an art.” He lifted my fan and flicked it open with a sharp snap. “If a woman knows how to deploy this, it can be as effective a weapon as a sword—or a pen.”

Laughter rippled around the table, but it wasn’t of the natural kind. Richard handed my fan back to me and, without thinking, I twisted my wrist to flutter it before my face.

“See?” Richard said. “My lady knows that the mere lifting of the hairs at her temple, the stirring of the curls at her nape, makes a man think about touching it—” He snapped off his words abruptly, but the rest of his sentiments hung in the air.
Kissing it.
“Many women know how to flirt without prompting. Others see their mothers do it and copy them. Some will deliberately set out to learn. And a man cannot know the difference.”