The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Thrusting her irritation aside, she stopped beside him, inclined her head. “Thank you for your concern, but I really do wish to be left quite alone.”

His smile turned distinctly patronizing. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we really can’t allow that.” He didn’t move to take her arm, but turned to pace beside her.

Frowning, she found herself walking on while she debated her next move. She had to get rid of him—did she dare tell him that this was a planned trap, that she was the bait and he was interfering . . . that the murderer may very well, even now, be watching, closing in from behind?

The darkness of the pinetum rose on their right. The lake, black and still, lay to her left. Ambrose was on her right, between her and the gloom beneath the soaring trees. According to Charlie, they must have just passed Stokes. The temptation to glance back, to see if Henry was taking the bait and coming down the slope, pricked, but she resisted.

The path into the pinetum lay ahead; she racked her brains to think of a reason to send Ambrose back to the house that way . . .

“I have to admit, my dear, that I never thought you’d be as stupid as Kitty.”

The words, calm, perfectly even, jerked her back to the moment. She glanced at Ambrose. “What do you mean—as stupid as Kitty?”

“Why, that I hadn’t believed you to be one of those silly women who delights in playing one man against another. In treating men as if they’re puppets and you’re in control of their strings.”

He continued walking, looking down, not at her; his expression, what she could see of it, seemed pensive.

“That was,” he went on, in the same even, considered tone, “poor Kitty’s style to the last. She thought she had power.” His lips twisted wryly. “Who knows—she might have had some, but she never learned how to wield it properly.”

He finally glanced at Portia. “I’d thought you were different—certainly more intelligent.” He met her gaze, smiled. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

It was the smile that did it—that sent a wave of ice washing over her. Convinced her she was walking beside Kitty’s murderer, that it wasn’t Henry, or James . . .

“Aren’t you?” She halted. Managed a frown. She wasn’t walking another step closer to the path through the pinetum—leading into the darkness where no one could see. “If you didn’t come here to comment—impertinently—on my behavior, what, then, is your point?”

She swung around as she said it, planting herself before him—facing back along the path so she’d be able to see Stokes, but Ambrose, facing her, wouldn’t.

His smile remained. “That’s simple, my dear. My point is to silence you and leave Cynster to take the blame. He’s out walking, so are you. After that scene on the terrace . . .” His chilling smile deepened. “I couldn’t have scripted it better myself.”

He lifted his hands, until then clasped behind his back. She saw a curtain cord dangling from one, then he caught the swinging tassel, wound the cord between his hands—

She grabbed it. Locked both fists around the cord between his hands and hung on.

He swore. Tried to shake her loose, but couldn’t—couldn’t break her grip without letting go himself.

Behind him, she saw the burly shadow that was Stokes burst from the bushes and rush toward them.

Snarling, Ambrose released the curtain cord—throwing her off-balance. She staggered; he grabbed the trailing end of her silk shawl.

Swung about her, whipping it around her neck.

She didn’t think—didn’t have time. She got a hand inside the folds; in the instant before he wrenched them tight, she leaned back toward him, pushing the shawl simultaneously away, and slid down.

Out of the noose.

She ended crouched at Ambrose’s feet, hard by the lake’s edge. Stokes was thundering up. Ambrose was too close, standing, snarling over her, looping the shawl between his hands.

She flung herself sideways, into the lake.

The black waters closed over her—the banks were precipitous, there was nothing beneath her feet. But the water was cool, not icy; the long summer had warmed it. There was neither current nor waves to fight; it was easy to rise to the surface and swim.

As she did, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Ambrose’s stunned face—then he heard Stokes. Saw him. Realized . . .

Ambrose’s face contorted with fury—

She swam. Behind her, she heard a thud and an “oomph!” as Stokes collided with Ambrose. Kicking as well as her skirts allowed, she stroked away from the bank, then, at a safe distance, turned.

Charlie was rushing up to assist. Henry was lumbering down the path. Simon had been on his way to help the others but had stopped on the lake circuit at the point closest to her. He now stood at the lake’s edge. Watching. Poised to react . . .