“I remember . . . what made you stop?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.
“I don’t know.” She considered, added, “I don’t think he does either.”
Charlie looked at her; when she merely looked back, he frowned. “We’re going to have to think of something . . . we don’t have time to coach you. You don’t think you could, well, copy Kitty? Poetic justice and all that—using her wiles to trap her killer.”
The notion definitely held appeal. “I could try—like charades. I could pretend to be her.”
“Yes. Like that.”
She looked at Charlie, and smiled. Delightedly. As if he were a sought-after edition of some esoteric text she’d been searching for for years and had at last found—something she had every expectation of thoroughly enjoying.
The sudden wariness that flared in his eyes had her laughing.
“Oh, stop! You know it’s all a sham.” Her smile even more real, she linked her arm in his and leaned close, then cast a glance back, over her shoulder—to Simon, lounging on the terrace, frowning if not scowling at them.
Her smile started to slip; she quickly reinforced it and, determinedly brazen, returned her attention to Charlie. Unintentionally, she’d done just the right thing—played the right Kitty move. She could imagine how it had looked to the others seated or strolling, taking the early-afternoon air on the terrace.
Charlie drew breath, patted her hand. “Right, then—did I tell you about Lord Carnegie and his greys?”
He did his part, told her ridiculous tale after tale, making it easier for her to laugh, giggle, and lean heavily on his arm, to paint herself as, if not quite of Kitty’s ilk, certainly as a flirt determined to make Simon jealous.
Creating a rift between them.
Stokes had done his part, too, exercised his authority as far as he was able and gained them two days—today and tomorrow—in which to lure the murderer forth. Told they could depart on the day after tomorrow, the house party had started to relax; the matter of the falling urn had been, with Lord Netherfield’s and Lord Glossup’s connivance, passed off as an accident.
Their lordships, however, were not privy to their desperate plan; other than the three of them and Stokes, no one was. As Stokes had rightly said, the fewer who knew, the more realistic it would seem. “It” being their attempt to lead the murderer to believe that, by tomorrow evening, Simon would have stopped watching over Portia.
“The murderer will prefer to deal with you now, here, if he can,” Stokes had said. “What we have to do is create an opportunity that will seem believeable, and too good to pass up.”
They’d agreed, and so here she was, flirting—attempting to flirt—with Charlie.
“Come on.” Still smiling, she tugged him toward the path to the temple. “I’m sure Kitty would have inveigled you away if she could.”
“Probably.” Charlie allowed himself to be persuaded.
As they neared the path’s entrance, Portia glanced back at the tall figure on the terrace. Turning back to Charlie, she met a surprisingly sharp glance.
“Just as well they’re all at a distance—you drop your mask the instant you look at him. You’re going to have to do better if we’re to have any hope of convincing this blighter you and Simon have fallen out.”
She went to freeze him with a glance, caught his eye, and dissolved into spurious giggles, hanging heavily on his arm. “You are so droll!”
Charlie sniffed. “Yes, well, no need to overdo things either. We’re supposed to be believable.”
Portia grinned, fleetingly genuine; head rising, she swept down the path, walking close—as close as she would with Simon, her arm locked with Charlie’s.
Once they were out of sight of the terrace, he grasped the moments to instruct her in how to openly encourage gentlemen such as he.
“A good trick is to hang on our every word—keep your eyes wide. As if every word we say ranks with . . .” He gestured.
“Ovid?”
He blinked. “I was thinking along the lines of Byron or Shelley, but if you’ve a penchant for Ovid . . .” He frowned. “Does Simon know what strange tastes you have?”
She laughed, playfully tapped his arm as if they were teasing. But her eyes flashed. They’d reached the temple; grabbing his hand, she towed him up the steps. “Come and look at the view.”
They crossed the marble floor to the far side, and stood looking out over the distant valley.
Charlie stood close, just behind her shoulder. After a moment, he bent his head and murmured, “You know, I’ve never been able to understand it—God knows, you’re quite attractive enough, but . . . now for pity’s sake don’t rip up at me—the notion of taking liberties with you scares me witless.”