The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Her heart leapt. She halted, scanned the dark, waited . . .

“It’s only me. Sorry.”

Charlie. She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss, looked down, fussing with her shawl as if the fringe had caught and she’d stopped to untangle it. “You nearly scared me into hysterics!”

She’d whispered; he did, too.

“I’m keeping watch along this side, but it’s hell to get along here. I’m going to edge back toward the pinetum.”

She frowned. “Don’t forget the pine needles.”

“I won’t. Simon should be somewhere just past the summerhouse, and Stokes is near the path to the house, on the way to the pinetum.”

“Thank you.” Flicking out her fringe, she lifted her head and walked on.

Breathed deeply to calm her skittering nerves.

The breeze had dropped; the night itself seemed to have stilled, silent yet expectant, as if it, too, was waiting.

Reaching the space before the summerhouse, she paused, pretended to consider, but had no intention of going in. Inside, her faithful watchers couldn’t see her. Turning away, she continued on.

Pacing, as if thinking. She kept her head down, but watched her surrounds from under her lashes. Let her senses reach, search. They’d assumed the villain would try to strangle her—a gun was too noisy, too easy to trace, a knife would be far too messy.

She hadn’t really thought about who it was—which of the four suspects she expected to meet; as she walked and waited, she had time and reason enough to consider it. She didn’t want it to be Henry or James, yet . . . if, from all she knew, she’d had to make a choice and pick one of the four she would have picked James.

It was, in her mind, James she was expecting to meet.

He had the inner strength. The resolve. It was something she recognized both in him and in Simon.

James was, to her, the most likely possibility.

Desmond . . . he’d put up with Kitty’s interference for so long, had used avoidance of her as his tactic for literally years. She had difficulty seeing him suddenly in the grips of a murderous rage, murderous enough to kill.

As for Ambrose, she honestly couldn’t see him doing anything so rash. Tight-lipped—she’d heard Charlie mumble something about him being tight-arsed and couldn’t find it in her to disagree—he was so careful of his behavior, so calculating, so cold-bloodedly focused on his career, the idea of him falling into a murderous rage just because Kitty propositioned him in public . . . it was simply too much to believe.

James, then. Regardless of their feelings for him, she knew that, if it indeed proved to be so, Simon and Charlie would not try to shield him. They would find it incredibly painful, but they would hand him over to Stokes themselves. Their code of honor would demand it.

She understood that—indeed, better than most gentlemen. Her brother, Edward, a few years younger than Luc, was no longer spoken of. Many families had a rotten apple; they’d weeded theirs out; despite all, she could find it in her to hope the Glossups wouldn’t have to weather such a scandal.

The path up to the house lay just ahead. She’d nearly completed a circuit of the lake . . . and no one had arrived. Had she walked too fast? Or was the murderer lying in wait for her back up the path, in the shadows lining the route to the house?

Drawing level with the path, she looked up, scanning the shadows bordering the upward rise—and saw a man. He stood just below the lip of the rise, to one side, in the shadow of a large rhododendron. It was the dark foliage behind him that allowed her to see him well enough to be sure.

It was Henry.

She was shocked, surprised . . . looked down and kept walking as if she hadn’t seen him, while her mind raced.

Had it been he? Had he learned about Kitty’s pressuring James over her baby, as they’d surmised might have happened? Had that been the last straw?

She felt chilled, but kept walking. If it was Henry, she had to draw him down here—where she was safe. She kept walking, her skirts swaying about her as she steadily paced on, heading once more toward the pinetum, her nerves strained, her senses even more so, waiting, aching to hear the soft thud of a footstep behind her . . .

Ten feet ahead of her, a figure stepped smoothly out from one of the myriad minor paths between the bushes and waited, elegantly at ease, for her to join him.

Portia stared at Ambrose. Damn! He was going to ruin everything! He smiled as she approached; mind reeling, wits in a whirl, she struggled to find some means, some excuse, to send him packing.

“I heard your altercation with Cynster. While I can appreciate your need for solitude, you really shouldn’t be out walking alone.”

What was it about her that made every last gentleman think he needed to protect her?