The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Two reasons,” he replied, his tone flat and even. “One, divorce—a topic Henry’s only recently been forced to consider. Two, the baby she was carrying that wasn’t any of theirs, but which, if she’d borne it, would have been the next Glossup heir. They might not rank as high as either the Cynsters or the Ashfords, but the Glossups have been around almost as long—they’re an old and, in their way, distinguished house.”

  “But she wasn’t going to bear it—she was quite definite about that.”

  “You overheard her telling her mother that—how many others knew?”

  Portia spread her hands. “How many others knew she was having a baby at all?”

  “Only you, those she told, and those they might in turn have told.”

  Portia wrinkled her nose. “I told Lady O. And you.”

  “Precisely. And there’s always the servants—they overhear more than we think.”

  “And the household must have known Kitty and Henry were estranged.”

  “Which means it would have been obvious to all that any child Kitty was carrying was not—”

  When he stopped, Portia looked at him, then grimaced horrendously. “If the baby wasn’t a Glossup—and it most likely wasn’t—then that would have been bad enough, but what if it was indeed a Glossup?”

  “Worse, what if it wasn’t, but Kitty claimed it was?”

  “No—you forget. She didn’t want to carry the child.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten.” There was ice in his tone. “If she wanted to persuade the father—or someone who might have been the father, or even someone who could not possibly be the father—that it would be wise to help her abort the child . . .” He met Portia’s gaze. “What better way to persuade James, or Harold, or even Lord Netherfield to aid her than by claiming the baby was a Glossup, just not Henry’s.”

  Portia stared at him, her eyes growing round. “You mean . . . she’d tell James it was Harold’s, or Harold it was James’s, or Lord Netherfield either . . .”

  She put her hand to her chest and swallowed. “Good God!”

  “Exactly. And what if Henry found out?”

  She held his gaze, then looked away.

  After a moment, he went on, “And that’s not even considering the looming likelihood of divorce. For Harold and Catherine, and Lord Netherfield, too, the very concept is shocking, more than it is for us. For their generation, it’s an unthinkable scandal reflecting on all the family.

  “We know what Kitty was like, how she delighted in irritating people. We know that she went to the library to meet someone, but we don’t know whom or why. We don’t know what they discussed—what topic drove the murderer to silence her.”

  Portia said nothing, her understanding and agreement implicit. After a few minutes, she slipped her hand into his, leaned against his shoulder. Flicking free of her fingers, he lifted his arm and she wriggled closer as he gathered her in.

  She sighed. “Kitty was playing with fire on so many fronts, it’s hardly surprising she got burned.”

  Luncheon was a subdued affair. Lord Willoughby had informed them they would need to remain until the investigator from Bow Street arrived. Since that individual was expected later in the afternoon, many spent the hours after lunch making discreet arrangements to leave that evening.

  Aside from all else, most felt the Glossups should be left to deal with their loss in peace, without the distraction of houseguests; anything else was quite shockingly unthinkable.

  The investigator duly arrived—and promptly informed them that they would need to think again.

  A large man, heavily built but with an air of determined energy, Inspector Stokes had first spoken with Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield in the study before being conducted into the drawing room and introduced to the guests en masse.

  He inclined his head politely. Portia noticed his eyes, a steady slate grey, moving over each face as their names were said. When her turn came, she regally inclined her head, watched Stokes duly note Simon sitting on the arm of her chair, his arm on its back; then his gaze rose to Simon’s face, he acknowledged his name with a nod, and moved on.

  Despite all, her interest was piqued—not in Stokes the man, but Stokes the investigator. How was he going to unmask the murderer?

  “I take it, Mr. Stokes, that now you have met us, you have no objections to our departing?” Lady Calvin asked the question, the full weight of her status as an earl’s daughter echoing in her tone.

  Stokes didn’t blink. “I regret, ma’am, that until the murderer’s identified, or until I’ve investigated as far as I’m able, that I must request that you all”—his gaze swept the company—“remain at Glossup Hall.”

  Lady Calvin colored. “But that’s preposterous!”

  “Indeed, sir.” Lady Hammond fluffed her shawl. “I’m sure you mean well, but it’s quite out of the question—”

  “Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the law.”

  There was not an ounce of anything anyone could take exception to in Stokes’s tone, nor yet any comfort they could draw from it.

  He inclined his head in something resembling a bow. “I regret, ma’am, but it’s quite essential.”

  Lord Glossup huffed. “Standard procedures and all that, I understand. No point quibbling—and really, there’s no reason the party can’t continue, except for . . . well, yes, except for that.”

  Portia was sitting across from the Archers. Mrs. Archer appeared still in shock; it was questionable whether she’d taken anything in since being told her younger daughter had been strangled. Mr. Archer, however, was pale but determined; he sat at his wife’s side, a hand on her arm. At Stokes’s words, a glimmer of pain had crossed his features; now he cleared his throat, and said, “I would take it kindly if we could all assist Mr. Stokes in whatever way we can. The sooner he finds Kitty’s murderer, the better it will be for us all.”

  There was nothing to be heard in his voice beyond a father’s grief, controlled yet unflaggingly genuine. Naturally, his appeal was met by quiet murmurs and assurances that yes, of course, put like that . . .

  Stokes hid it well, but he was relieved. He waited until the murmurs died, then said, “I understand Miss Ashford, Mr. Cynster, and Mr. Hastings were the first to see the body.” His gaze swung to Portia and Simon; she nodded slightly. “If I could speak with you three first . . . ?”

  No real question, of course; the three of them rose and followed Stokes and Lord Glossup to the door.

  “You can use the estate office—I told them to clear the rubbish.”

  “Actually.” Stokes halted by the door. “I would much prefer to use the library. I believe that’s where the body was found?”

  Lord Glossup frowned, but nodded. “Aye.”

  “Then it’s unlikely your guests will be keen to spend time there. It would expedite my questioning if I can establish specific points at the scene, so to speak.”

  Lord Glossup had to agree. Portia went through the door Stokes held open and led the way to the library; she exchanged a glance with Simon as he opened the library door, was sure he, too, felt Stokes’s request had rather more reason than that.

  Whatever it was, it felt undeniably strange to reenter the room where she’d discovered Kitty’s body. Had it only been just over twenty-four hours ago? It felt more like days.

  They all paused just inside the door; Stokes closed it, then waved them to the armchairs gathered before the fireplace, at the opposite end of the room from the desk.

  Portia sat on the chaise, Simon sat beside her. Charlie took one armchair. Stokes considered them, then sat in the other armchair, facing them. Portia wondered if he was sensitive enough to read the arrangement; it was indeed him against the three of them, at least until they decided if they would trust him.

  He drew a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “Miss Ashford, if you could start by describing exactly what happened from the p
oint where you entered the front hall yesterday afternoon.” He looked up at her. “You were with Mr. Cynster, I understand?”

  Portia inclined her head. “We’d been walking in the pinetum.”

  He glanced at a sheet he’d unfolded and laid on his knee. “So you’d gone out together through the front door?”

  “No. We’d left from the terrace after lunch, and circled around via the lake path, and so on to the pinetum.”

  He followed the route on what was clearly a sketch of the house and grounds. “I see. So you entered the front hall from the forecourt. What happened then?”

  Step by step, he led her through the moments, leading her to describe her movements remarkably accurately.

  “Why did you wander around the room like that? Were you looking for a book?”

  “No.” Portia hesitated, then, with a fleeting glance at Simon, explained, “After my discussion with Mr. Cynster I was somewhat overset. I came in here to think and circled the room to calm down.”

  Stokes blinked. His gaze shifted to Simon; faint puzzlement showed in his eyes. Neither of them exhibited the slightest sign of any tension between them—quite the opposite.

  She took pity on him. “Mr. Cynster and I have known each other since childhood—we frequently upset each other.”

  Stokes looked back at her. “Ah.” He met her gaze; she saw a glimmer of respect—he’d realized she’d followed his thoughts well enough to answer the question he hadn’t yet posed. He looked down at his notebook. “Very well. So you continued on around the room . . .”

  She continued her story. When she came to the point of Simon’s rushing in, Stokes stopped her, and switched his interrogation to Simon.

  It was easier to appreciate Stokes’s art when it wasn’t directed at her. She watched and listened as he drew a highly detailed and factual account from Simon, then turned his attention to Charlie; Stokes was really very good. All three of them had come prepared to tell him all, yet there remained a reticence, a barrier over which they would speak, but not cross; Stokes was not of their class, not of their world.

  They’d all entered the room reserving judgment. She exchanged a glance with Simon, noted Charlie’s more relaxed pose; both of them were revising their opinions of “the gentleman from Bow Street.”

  He’d be fighting an uphill battle if they didn’t reach over that barrier and help him understand what had truly been going on, what concerns drove the various members of the house party, what tangled webs Kitty had been weaving before she’d come to grief.

  Stokes himself was intelligent enough to know it. Clever enough, now he had their measure, to openly acknowledge it. He’d taken them to the point where others had rushed in and Kitty’s death had become more widely known. Setting aside his map, he looked up, let his gaze linger, then gravely asked, “Is there anything you can tell me—any fact you know, any reason at all you can even imagine—that might have led one of the guests here, or the staff, or even one of the gypsies, to kill Mrs. Glossup?”

  When they didn’t immediately react, he straightened in the chair. “Is there anyone at all you suspect?”

  Portia glanced at Simon; so did Charlie. Simon met her gaze, read her decision, checked with Charlie, who almost imperceptibly nodded, then looked at Stokes. “Do you have a list of the guests?”

  At the end of an hour, Stokes ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the network of notes he’d made around Kitty’s name. “Was the damned woman looking to get herself strangled?”

  “If you’d known her, you’d understand.” Meeting Portia’s gaze, Simon continued, “She seemed incapable of seeing how her actions were affecting others—she didn’t think of others’ reactions at all.”

  “This is not going to be easy.” Stokes sighed, waved his notebook. “I’m usually searching for motive, but here we’ve motives aplenty, opportunity for all the household to have done the deed, and precious little to tell us which of them actually did.”

  He searched their faces again. “And you’re sure no one has given the slightest sign since—”

  The library door opened; Stokes swung around, a frown gathering, then he saw who it was; his expression blanked as he rose to his feet.

  As did the others as Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield, looking like a pair of aged conspirators, carefully shut the door, then—as silently as two largish people using canes could—swept across the room to join them.

  Stokes tried to assert his authority. “My lord, ma’am—if you don’t mind, I really need to—”

  “Oh, posh!” Lady O declared. “They’re not going to play mum just because we’re here.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “We came to make sure they told you all.” Leaning on her cane, Lady O fixed Stokes with her best basilisk stare. “Have they told you about the serpent?”

  “Serpent?” Stokes’s face was a study in impassivity; he shot a glance at Simon and Portia, clearly hoping they’d rescue him . . .

  When they didn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowed; he looked back at Lady O. “What serpent?”

  Simon sighed. “We hadn’t got that far yet.”

  Naturally, there was no getting rid of Lady O after that. They all sat again, Simon relinquishing his seat on the chaise to Lady O and Lord Netherfield and taking up a stance by the hearth.

  They related to Stokes the tale of the adder found in Portia’s bed which, by sheer luck, she’d not attempted to lie in having fallen asleep in a chair instead. Stokes accepted the explanation without a blink; Portia exchanged a glance with Simon, relieved.

  “Good God! The blackguard!” It was the first Charlie had heard of the adder. He looked at Portia. “I can’t believe you didn’t retire with a fit of the vapors.”

  “Yes, well,” Lord Netherfield said. “That’s what the blackguard wants, don’t you see?”

  “Indeed.” Stokes’s eyes gleamed. “It means there’s something—something that will give the murderer away.” He looked at Portia, frowned. “Something he thinks you know.”

  Portia shook her head. “I’ve thought and thought, and there’s nothing I’ve forgotten, I swear.”

  Deep in the house, the dinner gong clanged. It was the second summons, calling them to the table; they’d already ignored the earlier warning that it was time to go and dress. Tonight, they weren’t standing on ceremony; filling Stokes in had seemed far more important than donning silks and retying cravats.

  Stokes shut his notebook. “Clearly, the villain, whoever he is, doesn’t realize that.”

  “Didn’t realize, maybe, but now I’ve spoken to you and yet still you don’t know his identity, presumably he’ll let be.” Portia spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  They all rose.

  “That’s as may be.” Stokes exchanged a meaningful glance with Simon as they headed for the door. “But the villain might well think you’ll remember the vital point later. If it was important enough for him to try to kill you once, there’s no reason he won’t try again.”

  “I say!” Charlie stared at Stokes, then looked at Portia. “We’ll need to guard you.”

  Portia halted. “That’s hardly nec—”

  “Day and night.” Stokes nodded gravely; he was quite patently sincere.

  Lady O thumped the floor. “She can sleep on a trestle in my room.” She grimaced at Portia. “Daresay even you would think twice before getting between the sheets where once you’d seen a serpent.”

  Portia managed not to shudder. Glanced instead—pointedly—at Simon; if she was sleeping in Lady O’s room . . .

  He met her gaze directly; his face was set. “Day and night.” He glanced at Charlie. “You and I should be able to handle the days.”

  Stunned—not a little irritated by being thus disposed of, like an item to be handed one to the other—Portia opened her lips to protest . . . realized every face was turned her way, all set, al
l determined. Realized she’d never win.

  “Oh, all right!” Flinging her hands in the air, she stepped to the door. Lord Netherfield opened it for her and offered her his arm.

  She took it, heard him chuckle as he led her out.

  He patted her hand. “Very wise, m’dear. That was one battle you couldn’t hope to win.”

  She managed not to humph. Head high, she swept down the corridor and into the dining room.

  Simon followed more slowly, Lady O on his arm. Stokes and Charlie came behind. At the door to the dining room, Stokes took his leave of them, charging Simon with telling the company he’d resume his questions on the morrow before retiring to the servants’ hall.

  Charlie headed in to find his seat. Simon steered Lady O through the door.

  Pausing on the threshold, ostensibly to rearrange her shawl, she chuckled evilly. “Don’t look so glum. I can’t see across the room—how will I know if she’s there or not?”

  Under cover of retaking his arm, she poked him in the ribs. “And I’m a horribly heavy sleeper . . . no use at all in the guardian stakes, now I think on it.”

  Simon managed not to gape—he’d long known she was an incorrigible matchmaker, just plain incorrigible most of the time, yet the idea that she might actually aid him, actively support his pursuit of Portia . . .

  She allowed him to help her into her seat, then dismissed him with a wave. As he headed down the table to the empty place beside Portia, pulled out the chair, paused to look down on her dark head, presently set at an angle that from experience he could interpret quite well, then sat, he reflected that having Lady O as an ally was not a bad thing.

  Especially now. Aside from all else, Lady O was pragmatic to a fault; she could be counted on to insist Portia behave sensibly. Safely.

  Shaking out his napkin, he glanced briefly at Portia’s haughty face, then allowed the footman to serve him. He—they—might not be out of the woods yet, but he felt more positive than at any time since Portia had learned of his true goal.

  By consensus, the tone of the house party was consciously and deliberately altered. As Portia sat sipping tea in the drawing room, she couldn’t help but note that Kitty wouldn’t have approved. The atmosphere was akin to that of a large family gathering, but without any attendant gaiety; those present were comfortable with each other and seemed to have dropped their masks, as if deeming themselves excused by the circumstances from maintaining the usual social facades.