The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

“And you didn’t see, or hear, anyone leaving the room, either when you entered the front hall or when you entered the library—is that right?”

She nodded again.

“No one at all?”

Simon stirred, but Willoughby was only doing his job, and as gently as he could. He was an elderly, fatherly sort, but his gaze was sharp; he seemed to realize Portia’s lack of response wasn’t because she was hiding something.

She cleared her throat. “No one.”

“I understand the terrace doors were open. Did you look out?”

“No. I didn’t even go up to the doors—just walked past.”

Willoughby smiled encouragingly. “And then you saw her, and called for Mr. Cynster. You didn’t touch anything?”

Portia shook her head. Willoughby turned to Simon.

“I didn’t see anything—I did look, but there seemed to be nothing unusual in any way, nothing out of place.”

Willoughby nodded and made another note. “Well, then. I believe I needn’t trouble you further.” He smiled gently and rose.

Portia, her hand still in Simon’s, rose, too. “What will happen now?”

Willoughby glanced at Simon, then back at her. “I’m afraid I must summon one of the gentlemen from Bow Street. I’ll send my report off tonight. With luck, an officer will be here by tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled again, this time reassuringly. “They are a great deal better than they used to be, my dear, and in such a case . . .” He shrugged.

“What do you mean—such a case?”

Again Willoughby glanced at Simon, then grimaced. “Unfortunately, it appears that other than Mr. Cynster here, and Mr. Hastings, none of the gentlemen can account for the time during which Mrs. Glossup was killed. Of course, there are gypsies in the neighborhood, but these days, it’s best to follow proper procedures.”

Portia stared at him; Simon could read her thoughts with ease. She wanted the murderer caught, whoever he was.

Simon turned to Willoughby, and with a nod, he led Portia out.

Willoughby spoke to Lord Glossup, then took his leave.

Dinner, a cold collation, was served early. Everyone retired to their rooms before the sun set.

Sitting on the window seat, arms folded on the sill, chin propped upon them, Portia watched the golden light of the sun slowly fade from the sky.

And thought of Kitty. The Kitty—the many Kittys—she’d glimpsed in recent days. She’d been beautiful, capable of vivacity, of being pleasant and charming, but she’d also been vindictive, shallow, knowingly hurtful to others. Demanding—that, perhaps, had been her greatest crime, perhaps her ultimate folly. She’d demanded that life, all life around her, center on her and her alone.

In all the time Portia had watched, she’d never seen Kitty truly think of anyone else.

A shiver racked her. One point she couldn’t get out of her head. Kitty had trusted someone—she’d gone to meet someone in the library, a place to whi

ch she never would have gone for any other purpose. She’d changed her gown; the expectation that had fired her through lunch returned to Portia’s mind.

Kitty had trusted unwisely. And fatally.

But there was more than one way in which to lose your life.

She paused, mentally halted, testing to see if she was yet ready to set Kitty’s death aside and move on to the questions facing her. The evolving, emotionally escalating questions affecting her future, her life, and Simon’s—the lives they had to live regardless of Kitty’s demise.

She’d always known there were deaths that, if a lady wasn’t careful, she might find herself living. How long she’d known the notion applied to her . . . she honestly couldn’t remember. Perhaps, at base, deep down inside, that had been the reason she’d so determinedly eschewed men—and marriage—for so long.

Marriage, for her, was always going to be a risk, hence her search for the right husband, one who would provide all she required, and allow her to manage him, dictate their interaction, and otherwise go her own way. Her temper would never let her live within a relationship that sought to confine her; she would either break it, or it would break her.

And now here she was, facing the prospect of marriage to a man more than strong enough to bend her to his will. A man she didn’t have it in her to break, but who, if she gave him her hand, could break her if he wished.