Henry or James, his lordship’s grandsons. If the murderer was unmasked, there would be a scandal. Potentially a very damaging one. For someone, for some family.
Lord Netherfield eventually sighed. “You know, I can’t say I liked Kitty. Didn’t approve of her, of how she played fast and loose with Henry. She was a supremely silly and brazen chit, yet”-his lips twisted-“for all that, she didn’t deserve to be done in like that.”
He focused on them all. “I wouldn’t want her murderer to escape retribution. The poor woman deserves at least that.”
They all nodded. A pact had been made. They knew each other well enough to recognize all they held in common, a belief in justice, an instinctive reaction against those who flouted it. Together, they would work to unmask the murderer regardless of who it was.
“Well, then!” Lord Netherfield clapped his hands together, looked first at Portia, then Lady O. “Let’s head down to breakfast-and see who’s surprised to see Miss Ashford in the pink.”
They rose, shook out skirts, settled coats and cuffs, then headed downstairs to do battle.
13
Much good did it do them; there was so much nervousness about the breakfast table, some starting at every little thing, others sunk in abstraction, that it was impossible to point to any one response to Portia’s appearance as especially indicative.
Everyone was already pale; many looked wan, as if they’d slept poorly.
“If we were to judge by looks alone, at least half the party would qualify as suspects,” Simon muttered, as he and Portia, having quit the breakfast parlor, stepped off the terrace onto the lawn.
“I think there’s a certain amount of guilt doing the rounds.” Many of the older ladies had broken their habit of breakfasting in their rooms and joined the rest of the company in the parlor. “If instead of trying to ignore her, and when they couldn’t do that, trying to rein her in, if they’d talked to Kitty, tried to understand… she didn’t seem to have a friend, a confidante, or anyone to advise her. If she had, maybe someone would know why she was killed. Or maybe she wouldn’t have been killed at all.”
He raised his brows, but forebore to comment. In his family and Portia’s all the females from their earliest years were surrounded by strong women. He had difficulty imagining any other existence.
By unvoiced consent, he and Portia headed for the lake path-cool, soothing. Quiet. Calming.
“The ladies seem to think it’s someone from outside, by which I infer they mean the gypsies.” He glanced at her. “Do you know if any of them have reason to think it really might have been Arturo or Dennis?”
She shook her head. “It’s simply the most unthreatening possibility. To imagine the murderer is someone they know, someone in whose company they’ve spent the last days… that’s quite frightening.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was frightened, then he glanced at her face, and swallowed the words. She was too intelligent not to be. While he’d much rather protect her from all such feelings, he couldn’t stop her from seeing, thinking, understanding.
Reluctantly, he accepted that between them it would always be so; if he was to deal with her as she was, that was something that wouldn’t change. She might adjust a little to please him, but it was he who would have to change most-adjust his thinking and modify his reactions-to have any chance of meeting her at the altar.
“This is senseless!” They’d reached the spot before the summerhouse; leaving the path, Portia stalked to the summerhouse steps, swung her skirts around, and sat.
The sunshine washed over her; looking down at her, he wondered if she was still chilled, then he turned and sat beside her, close enough that she could, if she wished, lean against him.
Elbows on her knees, she cupped her chin in her palms and frowned out at the lake. “Which of the men could have killed Kitty?”
“You heard Willoughby-other than Charlie, who was with Lady O, and me, any of them.” After a moment, he added, “As far as I know, that also applies to most of the ladies.”
She turned her head and stared at him. “Winifred?”
“Drusilla?”
She grimaced. “Kitty was so short, it could have been either.”
“Or even one of the others-how can we say?” Setting an elbow on the step behind, he leaned back, a little to the side so he could see her face. “Perhaps Kitty did something in London last Season to make one of them her sworn enemy?”
Portia frowned, then shook her head. “I didn’t get any sense of that-of old and hidden emnity.”
After a moment, he suggested, “Let’s decide who it couldn’t have been. Not the Hammond sisters-they’re too short and I can’t believe it of them. And I think Lucy Buckstead’s in the same class.”
“But not Mrs. Buckstead-she’s large enough, and perhaps Kitty was planning on doing something that would damage Lucy’s chances-she’s the Bucksteads’ only child, after all, and she has set her heart on James.”
He inclined his head. “Mrs. Buckstead remains possible. Not probable, perhaps, but we can’t cross her off our list.”
“And for the same reason, Mr. Buckstead stays a suspect, too.”
He glanced at Portia. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re all suspects. Except me and Charlie.”
She blinked at him. “What about Lord Netherfield?”
He held her gaze. Eventually said, “Until we know who it really is, I’m assuming it could be anyone-anyone still on our list.”
Her lips thinned, then she opened them to argue-
“No.” She blinked at his tone; when she continued to stare, he felt forced to explain, “The murderer tried to kill you. Given it’s
She searched his eyes. He could almost see her thoughts whizzing behind her dark eyes, almost see the balance as she weighed his arguments against what she knew of his character, and all that flowed from it.
In the end, she inclined her head. “All right.”
She looked back at the lake; he quietly exhaled.
“Not Lady O, and not Lady Hammond, either.”
He considered, then acquiesced. “Agreed. Similarly, I think we can eliminate Mrs. Archer.”
“But not Mr. Archer.”
“He’s something of a dark horse. I agree-we can’t ignore him.”
“If we follow your line, theoretically at least any of the Glossup men could be responsible.”
He hesitated. “What do you think of Oswald?”
She frowned, then grimaced. “I honestly felt he avoided Kitty-I think because she saw him and treated him as a child.”
“Hardly comfortable for his ego, but… unless there’s something that would account for him being transformed into a murderous rage-and I honestly haven’t seen any propensity for that in him-then he seems unlikely.”
“Granted. What about Swanston-do we cross him off for the same reason?”
He frowned. “I don’t think we can. He’s Kitty’s brother-there might have been some bone of contention in their past we know nothing of, and he’s neither as easygoing nor as soft as Oswald. If Kitty had prodded too hard, Swanston could physically have done the deed. Whether he did…?”
“Which brings us to Winifred.” She paused, considering. Eventually said, “Do you really think she might have been angry enough over Kitty’s poaching her suitors-even Desmond, even now-that she might have…”
He watched her face. “You know Winifred better than I-do you think she could have?”
For a long minute, she stared out at the dark waters of the lake, then glanced at him, grimaced. “Winifred will have to remain on the list.”
“And Desmond is certainly on it, which, in fact, gives Winifred an even stronger motive.”
Portia pulled a face, but didn’t argue. “Ambrose is on the list, too, which means Lady Calvin and Drusilla must stay on as well.”
