by KJ Charles
Pat couldn’t remember Bill offering a solution. “Mph?”
“Find out who did it, and have them confess before the police arrive.”
Pat sat up as if pulled by a string. “What?”
“Well, what else is there?” Fen asked reasonably. “If we’re mired in a police investigation, with journalists hanging round and so on, it will be awful. We can’t have your brother’s private affairs come out at all, Victoria might well be accused because of the knife, and Jimmy could be arrested because honestly he is the obvious suspect from about three different directions. And I don’t wish to be selfish, but it’s bad enough ending my third engagement at all, let alone while my fiancé is under investigation for murder. No, there’s no two ways about it. We need this cleared up right away before everyone’s dirty linen is washed in public.”
“So we’re going to clear it up?” Pat asked faintly. “You and me?”
“Why not? You’ve got more sense than anyone I know, and I can ask the most awful questions because people expect me to be silly. And we were together more or less every minute since we saw him going into the East Wing, so unlike everyone else, we didn’t do it, if you see what I mean.”
“It would be something if everyone else did do it.” Pat briefly pictured the guests and hosts of Rodington Court queueing up outside that first-floor room, knives in hand, and had to rub her eyes. “I’m not sure I know how to investigate a murder.”
“I’ve never done it before either, but there’s a first time for everything.” Fen took her hand. “I’m serious, Pat. Everyone else is afraid or untrusting, and hiding something. You and I are the only people with no—what’s the phrase? Motive, means, or opportunity.”
“Everyone had the means,” Pat pointed out. “Anyone could have taken that knife off the wall.”
“But whoever it was stabbed Haworth in the back at the table while he wrote, so it must have been someone he was intimate with, enough to pay them no attention while they stood behind him. He’d have looked round at someone who’d just come in, wouldn’t he?”
“They might have crept up on him, I suppose, but I think you’re right. He wasn’t writing, though. I didn’t see paper or a pen, and there were playing cards spilled over the desk.” She frowned. “The desk faced the wall so he wasn’t playing opposite anyone. I suppose he was playing Patience.”
“Why would he go to a room in the East Wing to play Patience? Everyone else was retreating to remote parts of the house to get away from him.”
“Maybe he wanted a private conversation,” Pat said. “Possibly with the chap he was blackmailing. Maybe he was playing Patience while he waited, or even while he talked to him. It’s the kind of discourtesy he’d show.”
“That’s it. He arranged a discussion with his victim, or perhaps it was the other way around. ‘I’ll get your money but we need to discuss terms.’ And then whoever it was took the knife off the wall and—ugh. But someone will have seen them, on their way to or from the East Wing, say. We’ll work it out.” She must have read Pat’s uncertainty in her face because she added, “We can certainly try, at least, and you never know, we might find it was a tramp after all. Please don’t fret, darling. Of course you’re worried about your brother, but we might be completely wrong, mightn’t we? We’ve no reason to suppose Haworth had any idea about him and Jimmy.”
“He was good at snouting out secrets, though” Pat said. “He noticed about Preston and Victoria. And he twice said things to me, which...well.”
“That remark about wooing a pretty girl? True. Although he obviously wasn’t that good, or he might have noticed the pretty girl wooing you.”
Pat felt her cheeks flame. “You were not. Were you?”
“Of course I was. Goodness, Pat.” She took Pat’s whisky glass, leaned over to put both on the bedside table, then turned back with a look that blended determination, uncertainty, and a definite glint of wickedness. “You do know I like you awfully, don’t you?”
“I don’t really know what that means.” Pat’s chest felt constricted. “That is—well, I don’t know where it gets us.”
“We’re here,” Fen said. “That’s a good start, isn’t it?”
Pat nodded. Fen leaned forward, and Pat met her mouth, tasting the whisky, feeling a sense of sudden urgency. She grasped Fen’s shoulder, felt a hand on her own hip, and found Fen’s soft lips devouring her own, open and greedy, a tongue touching hers, darting and stroking, shockingly intimate.
“Let’s go to bed,” Fen whispered, the breath warm on Pat’s wettened lips. “I want to hold you.”
“Can we? That is—” She didn’t want to say it wasn’t right, but she couldn’t forget what was going on outside this room. There’s a dead man in the East Wing. A murder. A hanging to come.
We’re alive.
“We’re alive,” Fen said, as if she’d read Pat’s mind. “I’m sorry for Haworth, but— No, actually, I’m not. I’m tired of him. He made too many people miserable, I don’t see why he should do it any more, and I want to be with you. That’s important. Please?”
Pat nodded, breathless. Fen brushed a kiss over her lips. “Thank you.”
They undressed each other mostly in silence, with gentle strokes and touches rather than the giggling excitement of the previous night. This time, though, Fen took off her combinations instead of leaving them on to be worked around. Pat could barely breathe at the sight of pale skin, unrestrained breasts, soft belly, the dark hair that formed a tangled triangle over her mound. Fen had left her hair up as she undressed; she removed the pins now as Pat watched dry-mouthed, and glinting brown hair spilled over her pale, naked shoulders.
“You’re so beautiful,” Pat whispered. “I’m not sure how anyone can be so beautiful.”
She felt a tiny bit self-conscious shedding her own combinations. Fen had made her feelings clear last night, but one night didn’t change a lifetime of being plain and practical, no matter what the eye of the beholder might see. All the same, she stepped out of the heap of muslin and stood unclothed under Fen’s gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” Fen said softly, stepping forward. She traced a finger down Pat’s arm. “Diana the huntress, strong and lean and...sparse? That’s not the word, but you know what I mean. Like the countryside around here. Bare and beautiful.”
“Whereas you’re more of a lush landscape.” Pat stroked the side of one heavy breast, heard Fen inhale. “I prefer curves.”
“Then we’re both lucky, aren’t we?” Fen caught her hand. “Come to bed.”
The sheets were cool against Pat’s skin. Fen gave a little squeak as she lay down, and Pat winced. “Shh. No squealing. The last thing we need is someone rushing in here thinking there’s another murder going on.”
“I shall be quiet as a mouse,” Fen promised her. “Despite all provocation. I hope you’re planning to offer provocation?”
“Lots of it.” Pat shifted to lie half over her, and felt Fen move a warm thigh so that their legs were entwined. She rubbed up against Fen’s hip, feeling the pleasure build at her centre as Fen pressed back against her, and angled her head so their mouths met again. Kissing, clutching, pushing urgently against one another, the join of Fen’s legs wet against her thigh. A moan rose in Pat’s throat and she had to clamp her lips shut against the urge to cry out.
She moved instead, pulling away to prop herself on her elbows. Fen looked up. “Mmm?”
“Mmm,” Pat agreed, and crawled backwards down the bed to settle herself between Fen’s legs.
“Mmm.”
Even Fen’s private hair was different, Pat reflected, as she stroked with an exploratory finger. Pat’s was fairish and thin, Fen’s far bushier, the hairs thick though still silky, a dark brown with hints of red in the candlelight. She parted the curls, clumping with damp, to reveal Fen’s sex, and wished to goodness she knew what a sophisticated woman might call those parts. The carelessly-speaking men back home said cunny, which always made her think of rabbits, but with Fen ly
ing before her, thighs parted, somehow it didn’t seem so inappropriate. Maybe one just had to get used to it.
She slid her finger up and down, parting the folds of pink flesh. Fen was breathing hard, restraining her usual volubility. Pat wished she could squeal. She let her fingertip rest a second over Fen’s opening, then pushed it in.
Fen gave a tiny gasp. She was impossibly smooth and hot and slick against Pat’s skin. She slid her finger in further, astonished at herself and Fen and this glorious dream, saw Fen’s thigh muscles twitch.
She’d come down here for a reason. Pat kept her finger where it was, leaned in to the curly hair, and kissed Fen’s cunny.
“Oh.” That was a pant. “Yes please.”
Hair in the way. Pat parted the curls with her free hand, then carefully licked at the little nub of pleasure, and Fen went rigid. “Oh!”
“Shh,” Pat breathed against her.
Fen mumbled something under her breath. Her hand came down to Pat’s head, and Pat leaned in and ran her tongue up the length of her cunny, then over the nub again, and then set to work. It felt so animal to be licking like this, or at least natural. Unfettered, unrestrained, without concern for any rules except the one that said Fen should have whatever she wanted. The taste of Fen filled her mouth. Her hand was clamped in Pat’s hair, her hips rocking to push her cunny against Pat’s tongue, and Pat lavished her with all the adoration she could, with finger and tongue and free hand kneading her perfect, plump buttock, until Fen gave a shrill gasp and Pat felt her muscles, inside and out, contract violently. She couldn’t help a tiny moan herself, muffled by Fen’s skin, as Fen thrashed and clutched her hair, and finally sagged back onto the mattress with a shuddering sigh.
Pat carefully withdrew her hand, wiped her mouth, and crawled up the bed to lie by her. Fen’s lips were bee-stung, dark red, her eyelids heavy. She looked wanton, thoroughly pleasured, utterly irresistible. Her dark nipples were peaked too. Pat captured a breast with a hand and ran a thumb very lightly over the tight point. Fen squeaked, and snuggled up into her arms.
“You look wonderful,” Pat said. “That was right?”
“It was outstanding,” Fen said. “And considering that was, what, only your second time of trying, do you know what that tells us?”
“No?”
“I’m a better teacher than you.”
She looked so delightfully smug that Pat was forced to kiss her before pointing out, “Or I’m an apter pupil.”
“Pish tosh.” She ran a hand down Pat’s back, over her bottom. “Goodness, that was lovely. I hope you appreciate my restraint. Left to myself, I should have made enough noise to wake the dead.”
“Thank God you didn’t.”
Fen gave her a raised eyebrow that would have suited a dowager duchess. Pat clapped a hand to her mouth. “I meant, thank God you didn’t make noise. Not—”
“Yes, but we wouldn’t have wanted that either, in fairness.” She pushed Pat gently on to her back. “Your turn to be very, very quiet indeed. Do you think you can manage it?”
“Of course.”
Fen’s eyes glittered like diamonds in the candlelight. “Would you care to put a wager on that?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
At nine o’clock that night, Pat would have been surprised to hear that she’d sleep a wink. As it was, she passed out somewhere past midnight, Fen curled against her like a cat and purring with satiated pleasure, and was startled to open her eyes to light. Not a lot of light, because the rain was still coming down in sheets outside, but at least it was normal rain, not yesterday’s driving torrents. It would pass soon.
It would pass, and the police would come.
There was a tap on the door which, Pat realised, was what had woken her. She swung her feet out of bed, realising she was naked and, frankly, a bit sticky. She donned Fen’s dressing gown, unlocked the door, and let Travers in.
“Good morning, Miss Merton.” The maid came bearing tea. She put the tray down, casting a reproachful but affectionate look at Fen, still apparently asleep. “Shall I light the fire?”
“No need, I think. It’s not cold, just wet. Thank you very much.” Pat took the proffered cup. “Did you sleep well?”
“As much as might be expected, thank you, miss, what with murderers roaming the house.”
That was fair, but unanswerable. Pat got back on the bed to be out of the way while Travers went about her work. “What are they saying in the servants’ hall?”
Travers pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t wish to gossip, miss.”
“Oh, yes you would,” Fen said from under the covers. “You always know everything. You knew Mrs. Mapesborough was going to leave her husband before she did herself. Cough up.”
“That’s not ladylike, Miss Fen,” Travers said severely. “And if I had happened to hear talk, I shouldn’t dream of repeating it.”
Fen sat up. “What are they saying? Stop fiddling with my hairbrush, pour us both some tea, and tell me at once.”
Pat, slightly startled at Fen’s high-handed tone, was about to point out that she already had tea, but Travers was already pouring out two more cups. She handed one to her mistress, added an extra spoon of sugar to the other, and settled on the end of the bed with it. “Well. For a start, nobody’s sorry to see the back of that man.”
“Was he a nuisance to the maids?” Fen asked.
“Not that anybody said. He wasn’t liked, to say the least of it, but I don’t think he made himself unpleasant to the staff in a particular way. Almost the other. Too friendly, when nobody wants a gentleman being friendly.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Not like that.” Travers waved a hand, groping for meaning. “Insinuating, is what Mr. Keynes’s gentleman called him. Sneaking and prying with a smile on his face.”
“He was trying to butter up the staff to get information?” Pat demanded.
“Just repeating what I’ve heard, Miss Merton.”
“Oh, don’t be stiff,” Fen told her. “Pat’s one of us. Is that what he was doing? Because you may as well know, he was a blackmailer.”
Pat opened her mouth to protest that wild indiscretion, and took a mouthful of tea to prevent herself. Putting Travers’ back up would be a tactical error of horrendous proportions.
“Was he now? Doesn’t surprise me,” Travers said with a sniff. “Everyone says he was a brute to the family.”
“Is it a loyal house?” Fen asked.
“Very, miss. Lady Anna has always been difficult, as I hear, but, but the Earl and Countess and Mr. Yoxall, well, nobody wants to see ill come to them. Or Miss Singh, either. She’s getting on very well with Mr. Keynes,” Travers added, superbly casual.
“So well that they’re getting married,” Fen said, trumping that with a hint of smugness.
“I wish them very happy, I’m sure. A nice gentleman, by all accounts and his man is a decent fellow. Good man, good master, that’s what I say.”
“What about Mr. Haworth’s man?”
“Doesn’t have one. Lost everything in the crash. That’s why they’re hanging on the Earl’s sleeve, not but what he’s felt the pinch too.”
Fen nodded. “So, what about yesterday? Did anyone see anything in the East Wing?”
“Now, why would you ask that? What are you up to, Miss Fen?”
“Asking questions.”
The maid pursed her lips. “Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Somebody killed Mr. Haworth, and I’d like to know who. Otherwise the police will ask a lot of impertinent questions, and it will be awful because, you know, one might well have done all sorts of things that one wouldn’t want to discuss with the world.” Travers raised a meaningful brow but didn’t comment. “And it might not even be clear who did it, and what then? What if whoever did it gets away with it and the rest of us are suspected forever?”
“I doubt anyone will think it was you, Miss Fen,” Travers said. “As for what anyone saw, I couldn’t say. All the gentry were moving
round and about yesterday, cluttering up the place as usual.”
“Could you find out?” Fen asked. “Who went to the East Wing, and when? Really, Travers, it’s important. I want to know where I stand.”
“Stand indeed. Lounging in bed till all hours, more like.” Travers rose on that snub. “I dare say there’ll be plenty of people ready to gossip instead of doing their duty.”
Fen beamed at her. “Thank you. The movements of staff and the gentry, please, between—what time would you say, Pat?”
“We saw Haworth going into the East Wing at half past eleven. The dagger was missed at two o’clock, but the family and guests were at lunch from one, and of course Haworth wasn’t there. I think it must have happened between half past eleven and one o’clock.”
Travers nodded briskly. “I see, miss. I suppose I ought to look for cuffs, too.”
“Sorry?”
“Shirt cuffs. I understand Mr. Haworth was stabbed, and I dare say that would be a messy business.”
Pat’s mouth opened. She cast a look at Fen, who beamed smugly back. “I rely on Travers, Pat, you’ve no idea. Yes, of course shirt cuffs. What a good thought.”
“It wasn’t very messy,” Pat temporised. “There wasn’t much blood at all. I suppose it would still have...” She sought for a word. “Sprayed.”
“Small spots would be all the easier to miss. I’ll see what I can do.” Travers topped up the teacups, gathered up the tray, and disappeared. Pat said, “Good heavens.”
“She’s marvellous,” Fen said. “I’d say she was wasted as a maid, but she’s awfully good at that, too. Come on, let’s get dressed.”
