The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Reaching the fray, Charlie joined in, grappling to help Stokes hold his prey. Ambrose fought like a madman—wrenched free—

And jumped into the lake.

Her heart leaping again, Portia turned to swim away—saw Simon tense on the bank—

But he didn’t dive in.

Hearing splashing—too much splashing, surely?—she glanced back.

And realized, as all the others had, that Ambrose had assumed the lake was ornamental—not fathoms deep.

He couldn’t swim. Certainly not well enough.

Within a few strokes he was foundering.

She drifted, watching . . .

Stokes and Charlie stood on the bank, hands on hips, chests heaving, and watched as Ambrose, now panicked and thrashing wildly, sank.

He came up spluttering. “Help! I’m drowning, you bastards! Help me!”

It was Stokes who answered. “Why should we?”

“Because I’m drowning—I’ll die!”

“The way I see it, that might be best all around. Save us all a lot of bother.”

Startled, Portia looked at Stokes.

It wouldn’t do—they had to have Ambrose known as the murderer—

But Stokes knew his man.

Ambrose went down again, and came up screeching, “All right. All right! I did it. I strangled the little bitch!”

“That would be Mrs. Glossup, I take it?”

“Yes, dammit!” Ambrose was yelling at the top of his lungs. “Now get me out of here!”

Stokes looked at Charlie, then at Henry, who, stunned, had slowly come to join them. “You heard?”

Charlie nodded; when Henry realized Stokes had included him, he nodded, too.

“Right, then.” Stokes looked down at Ambrose. “I can’t swim either. How do we fetch him out?”

From the water, Portia raised her voice. “Use my shawl.” It was lying on the ground where Ambrose had dropped it. “Wind it and knot the fringes as well—it should reach him. It’s silk—if it’s not torn, it’ll hold.”

She waited, watching while they followed her instructions. Heard, from the bank a little way behind her the growled words, “Don’t you dare even think of going to his aid.”

For the first time in too many hours, she smiled.

Luckily, with rescue assured, Ambrose calmed enough to, very clumsily, keep his head above water until they flung the shawl out to him.

He lunged, grabbed the knotted fringe, and clung. The dunking and his resulting panic had drained all the fight from him. As they drew him, shaking, from the water, she turned and stroked to the nearer shore.

Where Simon stood waiting.

She couldn’t read his expression as he stood looking down at her. Relief and something more poured through her. Smiling—simply glad to be alive—she held up both hands. He grasped them, waited until she’d brought her feet against the rocky wall of the lake, then pulled her smoothly out, onto the bank.