"Did you know Lady Hawkridge cannot eat strawberries?"
"Yes, Mrs. Oliver."
"I did, Mrs. Oliver."
"Mrs. Pawley made that clear, Mrs. Oliver."
"And did you refill the jam pot or see anyone else do so?"
"No, Mrs. Oliver."
"I didn't, Mrs. Oliver."
"Absolutely not."
It went on and on, so long that Alexandra began to suffer from the headache, especially because all the denials weren't solving anything. When at long last everyone shuffled out, she breathed a sigh of relief.
"I must have done it," Tris said in a dull, resigned tone.
"Don't be ridiculous," she returned crossly, rubbing her temples. "One of them refilled the pot. I'm not surprised no one would own up to it and risk being dismissed."
Someone else had to have done it. She knew, deep in her bones, that a man as good as Tris couldn't do anything to harm her—or anyone else. Not even in his sleep.
Struggling for composure, she reached across the table to lay her hand over his. "You're only sleepwalking because you're anxious. You said that's when it happens, didn't you? It's a pattern. And I think there's another pattern at work here as well. You do things when you sleepwalk that you wish you could do while awake. Like make love to me"—she blushed—"or steal more sweets than you're entitled to."
It was a pretty theory, but Tristan wasn't convinced, let alone at all mollified. "You can argue that I went to the kitchen in the night for sweets. But your pattern theory doesn't explain why I would leave a gas line open."
"You didn't. Or at least, not on purpose. You got up—and perhaps dealt with the gaslight in some way since it had been left on—and took yourself downstairs to sleep in your study. I had angered you by questioning your staff when you didn't want me to, so you were separating yourself from me in the night."
Had he really wanted to get away from her that night? He hadn't thought so. But even if her concept of a pattern were valid, there was another way to explain everything: a pattern of mayhem in his sleep. Violence.
Murder.
He couldn't shake his growing suspicion of that terrifying possibility.
"It's the pressure," she said, her hand tightening over his. "As soon as we clear your name, you'll be fine. I'd wager you'll never sleepwalk again."
He looked at her for a long moment, searching her eyes while a strained silence stretched between them. His gaze dropped to the cameo she wore on a chain around her neck.
His cameo. She'd take it off someday. Maybe someday soon.
"I'd feel a lot less pressure if you'd call off this investigation," he said at last, pushing away from the table. "I'm going back to work."
FORTY-ONE
THERE WERE times in a woman's life when she wished she could confer with her sisters. Even though she already knew exactly what they would say.
Juliana, the peacemaker, would tell her to abide by her husband's wishes. "Your marriage ought to come first," she would say, and advise Alexandra to be the dutiful wife and put Tris's happiness and their relationship before her own wishes to right past wrongs.
Corinna, on the other hand—the rebel—would cheer on her efforts. "You're entitled to your convictions," she would say, and advise Alexandra to stand to her guns and let no man, not even her husband, sway her from doing what she thought right.
And Alexandra would be right back where she'd started. But at least she'd have some hugs and sympathy to bolster her. Here in this strange house, with Tris occupied most of the time, and no neighbors of her class and age willing to welcome her—a point Leticia had driven home yesterday—she was feeling rather lonely.
Still, the first part of her morning had proven quite productive. She and Mrs. Oliver had gone over the household budget, reviewed the cleaning and repair schedules, and discussed all the lower female servants. Everything seemed well in hand. She'd left their meeting convinced that Mrs. Oliver was a fine housekeeper indeed.
Afterward, she practiced on the harpsichord in the north drawing room for a while. It wasn't hard to play, but the double keyboard was difficult to get used to. In addition, the sound seemed thinner than a pianoforte's, and there seemed to be no way to play louder or softer. Although she wasn't a concert-quality pianist, she did enjoy putting some emotion into her pieces. But there were no pedals, and no matter how she hit the keys—tentatively or with much force—the resulting notes sounded the same. She wearied of it rather quickly.
Next she considered visiting in the village, but she wanted to take Peggy along to introduce her to everyone, and she'd prefer to have Peggy here, talking to the rest of the staff and compiling the list. The villagers would be there to meet tomorrow. Pursuing her investigation was much more important. Her attempts to convince Tris he wasn't guilty seemed to be futile, but he would never be happy as long as he believed he might be dangerous. She had even more reason to continue her efforts now.
Yet she knew those efforts were harming their relationship, and she hated that. She wanted to fix it. To that end, she decided to peek into the study and see if he wanted to join her for luncheon.
But he wasn't there. Disappointed, she sat at his desk, idly straightening piles of papers and stacks of journals. He had told her he had business that might take him away for a while. It would have been nice, though, if he'd sought her out to let her know he was leaving.
She shrugged philosophically, turning the chair to gaze out the study's windows. Quite obviously, she still hadn't scaled that wall Tris had built, and she'd probably doubled the height with her own actions.
The study was in the back of the house, and through the windows the gardens beckoned—colorful formal
