The bushes just ahead of her rustled. She stopped, quivering . . .
A man stepped out.
She was so surprised she didn’t scream.
A hand rising to her lips, she squeaked. Then dragged in a breath—
Recognized the man. Saw the startled expression on his face.
Arturo held up both hands placatingly and backed away two steps. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Portia exhaled through her teeth. Frowned. “What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low. “Mrs. Glossup’s dead—you know that.”
He wasn’t intimidated; he frowned back. “I came to see Rosie.”
“Rosie?”
“The maid. We are . . . good friends.”
She blinked. “You . . . before . . . you weren’t coming up here to see Mrs. Glossup?”
His lip curled. “That putain? What would I want with her?”
“Oh.” She shuffled her thoughts, reorganized her conclusions.
Noticed Arturo was still frowning at her.
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head. “You’d better be off.” She waved him away.
He frowned harder. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. There’s a murderer here—you should know that.”
The last thing she needed, another overprotective male.
He took a step toward her.
She lifted her head higher, narrowed her eyes. “Go!” She pointed imperiously down the narrow path he’d been following. “If you don’t, I’ll scream and tell everyone you’re the murderer.”
He debated whether to call her bluff, then grudgingly stepped away. “You are a very aggressive female.”
“It comes from dealing with very aggressive males!”
The acid response settled the matter; with a last frown, Arturo went, melting into the bushes, his footsteps cushioned by the grassed path.
Silence closed in, like a cloak falling about her. With a quick breath, she headed on, as fast as she could. The shadows seemed to have grown darker, denser. She jumped, her heart in her mouth, at one—only to realize it truly was just a shadow.
Pulse pounding, she finally reached the crest beyond which the path ran down to the lake. Pausing to catch her breath, she looked down at the water, ink black, silent, and still.
She listened, strained her ears, but all she could hear was the faint murmuring of leaves. The breeze wasn’t strong enough to disturb the lake; the surface lay like obsidian glass, smooth but not reflective.
There was no true light left; as she went down the slope, she wished she’d worn a brighter color—yellow or bright blue. Her dark green silk would blend into the shadows; only her face, her bare arms and shoulders, her upper chest, would show.
Glancing down, she let the fine Norwich silk shawl she’d draped about her shoulders slide down to her elbows. No need to conceal more of her than necessary. Reaching the lake, she turned away from the summerhouse and followed the circling path.
Her nerves were tensed, tight, poised to react to an attack. Both Stokes and Charlie were concealed nearby; given the minutes she’d spent with Arturo, Simon would be close, too.
Simply thinking it was comforting. She walked along, still brisk, but gradually slackening her pace, as she naturally would as the supposed fury that had propelled her this far slowly dissipated.
She’d passed the path to the pinetum but was still some way from the summerhouse when the bushes lining the path rustled.