The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

He flung himself at Portia, caught her, threw them both along the terrace, cushioning her fall, shielding her.

An urn from the roof crashed to the flags precisely where she’d been. With a sound like a cannon shot, it shattered.

One flying fragment struck his arm, raised to shelter her; pain stabbed, then was gone.

Silence—absolute—descended, shocking in contrast.

He looked up, realized the danger, quickly urged Portia to her feet.

Inside, someone screamed. Pandemonium followed; Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield appeared at the terrace doors.

One glance was enough to tell them what must have happened.

“Good Lord!” Lord Glossup strode out. “Are you all right, m’dear?”

Her fingers clenched tight in Simon’s coat, Portia managed a nod. Lord Glossup awkwardly patted her shoulder, then hurried on and down the steps. Striding onto the lawn, he turned and looked up at the roof.

“Can’t see anyone up there, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

From the drawing room door, Lord Netherfield beckoned. “Come inside.”

Simon glanced down at Portia, felt her straighten, stiffen her spine, then she stepped out of his arms and let him guide her to the door.

Inside, alarmed, her color high, Lady O scowled and thumped the rug with her cane. “What is the world coming to, I’d like to know?”

Blenkinsop opened the door and looked in. “Yes, my lord?”

Lord Netherfield waved. “Get Stokes. There’s been an attack on Miss Ashford.”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Calvin went deathly pale.

Mrs. Buckstead shifted to sit beside her and chafed her hands. “Now, now—Miss Ashford is here, and unharmed.”

Seated beside their mother on the chaise, the Hammond sisters burst into tears. Lady Hammond and Lucy Buckstead, both not much better, tried to comfort them. Mrs. Archer and Lady Glossup looked stunned and distressed.

Lord Netherfield looked at Blenkinsop as Lord Glossup returned. “On second thought, tell Stokes to come to the library. We’ll wait for him there.”

They did, but try though they might, there was nothing—no useful information—to be gained from the incident.

With Blenkinsop’s help, the staff pooled their knowledge and fixed the whereabouts of the four principal suspects. James and Desmond had left the drawing room, presumably for their rooms, Henry had been in the estate office, and Ambrose in the study writing letters. All had been alone; all could have done the deed.

Stokes and Lord Glossup went onto the roof; when they returned, Stokes confirmed that it was a simple enough matter to gain access, and any able-bodied man could have pushed the stone urn from its plinth.

“They’re heavy, but not fixed in place.” He looked at Simon; his frown grew blacker. “You’re bleeding.”

Simon glanced at his upper arm. The shard had torn his coat; the jagged edges were bloodstained. “Flesh wound. It’s stopped.”

Portia, in the chair beside him, leaned forward, grabbed his arm, and tugged him around so she could see. Stifling a sigh, he obliged, knowing if he didn’t she’d stand and come to look; she was so pale, he didn’t want her on her feet.

Sighting the wound, minor to his eyes, she paled even more. She looked at Stokes. “If there’s nothing more you need of us, I should like to retire.”

“Of course.” Stokes bowed. “If anything comes up, I can speak with you tomorrow.”

He caught Simon’s eye as both he and Portia stood.

Guessing Stokes was considering reiterating the obvious—that Portia should not be left alone at any time—Simon shook his head. She wasn’t going to be left alone; she didn’t need to be reminded why.

Cupping her elbow, he guided her out of the room, and on through the hall to the stairs. Drawing in a breath, she picked up her skirts and ascended without his assistance.