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Charlie blinked, then nodded. He got to his feet, drew in a huge breath, tugged his waistcoat down, then headed for the door.
Portia’s shivering was growing worse. The instant the door shut, Simon bent and swung her into his arms. She clutched his coat, but didn’t protest. He carried her to the chairs grouped before the main hearth, set her down in one.
“Wait here.” Visually quartering the room, he located the tantalus, crossed to it, poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. Returning to Portia, he hunkered down beside the chair. Searched her pale face. “Here. Drink this.”
She tried to take the glass from him, in the end had to use both hands. He helped her guide the tumbler to her lips, steadied it so she could sip.
He sat there and helped her drink; eventually, a trace of color returned to her cheeks, a hint of her customary strength returned to her dark eyes.
Easing back, he met them. “Wait here. I’m going to look around before chaos descends.”
She swallowed, but nodded.
He rose, swiftly crossed the room, stood and looked down at Kitty’s crumpled form. She lay on her back, hands high, level with her shoulders—as if she’d struggled to the very last with her murderer.
For the first time, he felt real pity for her; she might have been a social disaster, but that didn’t give anyone the right to end her life. There was anger, too, not far beneath his surface, but that was more complex, not solely on Kitty’s account; he reined it in, mentally cataloging all he could see.
The murderer had stood behind Kitty and strangled her with—he turned and checked—a curtain cord taken from the nearest French doors. Kitty had been the smallest woman present, only a little over five feet tall; it wouldn’t have been all that hard. He looked around the body, looked at her hands, but saw nothing unusual, except that her gown was not the one she’d worn to lunch. That had been a morning gown, relatively plain; this was prettier, a tea gown cut to showcase her voluptuous curves, yet still perfectly acceptable for a married lady.
He looked at the desk, but there was nothing out of place, no half-finished letter, no scratches on the blotter; the pens lay neatly in their tray, the inkstand closed.
Not that he imagined Kitty had repaired to the library to write letters.
Returning to Portia, he shook his head in answer to her questioning look. “No clues.”
He took the glass she held out to him. It was still half-full. He drained it in one gulp, grateful for the warmth the brandy sent spreading through him. He’d been on edge before, thinking of the possible ramifications of his and Portia’s discussion. Now this.
He dragged in a breath and looked down at her.
She looked up, met his eyes.
A moment passed, then she raised a hand, held it up.
He closed his hand about it, felt her fingers lock tight.
She looked toward the door; it burst open—Henry and Blenkinsop rushed in, Ambrose and a footman on their heels.
The following hours ranked among the most ghastly Simon could recall. Shock was far too mild a word to describe how Kitty’s death struck them all. Everyone was stunned, unable to take it in. Despite all that had been going on under their noses throughout the past days, no one had dreamed it would end like this.
“I might at times have thought of strangling her,” James said. “I never dreamed anyone would.”
But someone had.
Of the ladies, most were distraught. Even Lady O; she forgot to lean heavily on her cane, and forgot entirely to thump it on the floor. Drusilla was the most composed, yet even she shook, paled, and sank into a chair when she heard. In death, Kitty garnered far more sympathy than she ever had in life.
Among the men, once the first shock wore off, confusion was the most prevalent emotion. That, and increasing concern over what was to come, how the situation would develop.
Simon’s attention, his awareness, remained fixed on Portia. Hours later, she was still in shock, racked by occasional shivers. Her eyes were huge, her hands still clammy. He wanted to sweep her up, take her away, far away, but that simply wasn’t possible.
Lord Willoughby, the local magistrate, had been sent for; he arrived and, after saying the right things and viewing the body, still sprawled behind the library desk, he repaired to Lord Glossup’s study. After talking to each of the gentlemen in turn, he summoned Portia to tell him her tale.
Simon accompanied her as if by right. She didn’t ask him, he didn’t ask her, but since taking his hand in the library, she’d released it only when absolutely necessary. Ensconced in an armchair by a hastily lit fire in the study, with him sitting beside her on the chair’s arm, she haltingly recounted the details of her gruesome discovery.
Lord Willoughby, pince-nez perched on his nose, took notes. “So you weren’t in the library for more than, shall we say five minutes, before you found Mrs. Glossup?”
Portia thought, then nodded.