Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery
Page 31
This caught his attention, and he paused in lifting his drink. “Is that so? What about?”
She giggled. “They were arguin’ about who had the more hopeless devotion.”
He stared at her. “Good God.”
Laughing with delight, she threw her arms around his neck, and clung—so, so happy that they could look back on all this, and laugh. Acton kissed her like he meant it, and the makeshift meal was instantly abandoned so they could retreat to the master’s chambers, Doyle beyond caring that the cook would no doubt make a full report of such goings-on to the staff.
Later, they lay entwined in the huge canopied bed, watching the firelight flicker on the wood wainscoting. “Your bed is better,” she declared running her fingers along the mattress. “Mine’s too soft.”
“Then you will have to stay here, for the interim.”
“Do you want some scotch, my friend? It’s deservin’ of it, you are.”
“Not yet; I cannot move.”
“Good one. My work here is done.”
“No it’s not; give me a few minutes.”
She giggled, and rolled over to place a kiss in the hollow of his throat. “Do your worst; I’ll still be the last one standin’.”
“We shall see.”
She giggled again, and decided to take advantage of his compliant mood. “When can I return to field work, then?”
He was amused, and propped an arm behind his head. “You’ve caught me in a weak moment, again. Do you know how much the church’s new heating system is going to cost?”
“Is it ridiculously expensive? We could break into the fungible assets—we won’t be needin’ them.”
“I’d prefer to leave them alone.”
She traced a finger on his chest. “Should Nellie run a raffle, then?”
“I was teasing you; I will pay for the heating system.”
Thoughtfully, she watched the moonlight spill through the diamond-leaded window panes—they hadn’t bothered to shut the drapes. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to bury the SOCO in the grave site next to my mother, since I’m to be buried here, with you.”
Gently, he closed his hand around hers, on his chest. “We can bring them all here to Trestles, if you’d like.”
She thought about this, and absently pulled on the hairs of his chest. “What if you marry again? Wife number two would just kick the lot of us back to London again.”
“I would never marry again.” It was true.
She smiled and kissed the back of his hand. “Whist, man—that’s crazy talk. A good way to get your pregnant wife shot at.”
“I won’t mention it to anyone else, then.”
She rolled onto her back, and nestled into his side. “You know, Michael, that if I was gone, I would be very unhappy to see you drink yourself to death. If I knew about it, that is.”
“I know. Let’s not test it.” He placed his hand on the small mound of her abdomen. His hands were so long that he could span her pelvis between his thumb and small finger.
“He’s quiet, tonight,” she said.
“What color were your mother’s eyes?”
“A pale sort of green.” Emotion closed her throat for a silent moment. “He’ll be tall, but not as tall as you. My fault.”
He was silent for a moment, and she could sense he’d been distracted by something she’d said—what? That Edward would have green eyes? That he wouldn’t be as tall?
“Tell me if you see him again.”
“I will.” Reminded, she added, “Harding’s bullet is lodged in one of the—whatever it’s called—the wood-carved decorations in the corners of the dinin’ room ceilin’.” She paused. “There’s a woodworker who’s very unhappy about it.”
Acton didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll have it removed, forthwith.”
She smiled. Well, then; as long as it’s ‘forthwith,’ and not ‘interim.’ I’d best get back to the vocabulary manual, else I’ll have no idea what you and Edward are talkin’ about.”
“Don’t change anything on my account.”
She hesitated, then decided she may as well bring it up, because she was not very good at keeping things from her husband—just look at the slip-up she’d just made about Solonik’s plot, as an excellent case in point. “Here’s the thing, Michael; there’s a portrait, hangin’ in the foyer. Some sort of ancestor, wearin’ lacy cuffs, and with a feather in his hat.”
Tracing her fingers with his own, Doyle’s husband accepted this rather disjointed change of topic. “Yes, I know the one.”
She swallowed. “Well, the man in the portrait seems to think you are some sort of imposter.”
There was a small pause. “I am not surprised,” he agreed in an even tone.
“Right then; I just wasn’t certain that you knew.” She waited a beat, then asked, “D’you want to tell me?”
“No.”
“Aye, then. You know it doesn’t matter a pin to me—faith, I’m the one who would never marry again; no one could hold a candle to you, my friend.”
He pulled her against him. “You say that now, but what if Williams is promoted to DCI?”
She laughed, which is what he’d intended, and the tension was broken. “Williams is hip deep in your doin’s, husband, and has his own alarmin’ moral philosophy.”
“Good man.”
“You’d best look lively, or you’ll lose Mathis to him.”
He rolled atop her, pinning her down. “Mathis is not mine to lose.”
Whilst he began to kiss her neck, she smiled and addressed the ceiling. “Let’s drive somewhere, now that the crisis has passed—we can tour about, like an ordinary mister and missus.”
“Brighton?”
“Brighton,” she agreed.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52