The Perfect Lover (43 page)

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.

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.