The sound released others from the grip of the revelations; they stirred, shifted. Charlie stood as if he could no longer remain seated, as if he longed to leave, to get away.
Lord Netherfield cleared his throat. He glanced at Stokes. “If I may . . . ?”
Stokes nodded.
His lordship looked at Ambrose. “You haven’t mentioned Dennis, the gypsy. Why did you kill the lad?”
Ambrose didn’t look up. “He saw me burning the coat. Then Stokes came and started questioning everyone.” He twisted his hands, then went on, “I didn’t mean to kill Kitty—I didn’t intend to. She drove me to it . . . it didn’t seem fair that killing her should ruin me. There was only Portia and the gypsy who could . . .” He stopped, then rushed on, a spoiled child e
xcusing himself, “It was them or me—it was my life!”
Lord Glossup rose, his well-bred features reflecting patent disgust. “Mr. Stokes, if you’ve heard all you need?”
Stokes straightened. “Indeed, sir. I’m sure we can . . .”
He and Lord Glossup discussed arrangements for holding Ambrose. The rest of the company dispersed.
All the ladies hesitated, then Lady O heaved herself to her feet. “Catherine, my dear, I think we should retire to the drawing room—tea would be most welcome. I daresay Drusilla will wish to retire immediately, but I believe the rest of us could do with a restorative.”
Portia rose; Simon laid a restraining hand on her arm. Lady O glanced back at them, saw, nodded. “Indeed—you should go up and take a bath, and get out of those wet clothes. Unhealthy to do otherwise—your brother won’t forgive me if I send you home with a chill.”
There was just enough emphasis in her words, just enough gleam in her old black eyes to tell them she was determined to send Portia home with something else.
Simon merely inclined his head, acknowledging her message. Lady O humphed and stumped off, the other ladies in her train, Lady Calvin supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead.
“Come on.” Taking Portia’s arm, he steered her toward the far doors, those closer to the main stairs.
Stokes intercepted them. “One last thing—I have to consider whether or not to lay charges against Miss Calvin.”
Both Simon and Portia looked back at Drusilla, sitting alone on the chaise now that the others had all departed. She was staring at her brother; he was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, his gaze fixed on his bound hands.
Portia shivered, and looked at Stokes. “What a dreadful thing jealousy can be.”
Stokes nodded, met her gaze. “She didn’t mean to harm anyone else. I accept she had no idea Ambrose was so murderously inclined.”
“I don’t think charges are necessary.” Portia lifted her head. “She’s brought censure enough down on her head—her life will not be easier because of what she’s done.”
Stokes nodded, looked to Simon.
He was far less inclined to be lenient, but was aware much of his reaction was because Portia had been the one most threatened. When he didn’t immediately speak, she glanced at him . . . he realized he had no choice. She would read him like a book if he gave rein to his impulses. He nodded curtly. “No charges. No point.”
She smiled slightly, then looked at Stokes.
The three of them exchanged glances, relieved, satisfied. Little needed to be put into words. Stokes was not of their class, yet they’d formed a friendship; they all recognized that.
Stokes cleared his throat, looked away. “I’ll be off at first light with Mr. Calvin. It’s best—lets people get back to their lives that much sooner.” He looked back at them. Put out his hand. “Thank you. I’d never have nabbed him if you and Mr. Hastings hadn’t helped.” They shook hands. “I hope . . .” Stokes colored slightly, but forced himself to go on, “the necessary charade didn’t do any real violence to your feelings.”
Simon glanced at Portia. She smiled at Stokes. “The revelations were quite interesting—I believe we’ll survive.”
She slanted a glance at him; feeling exposed, he fought to suppress a growl. Retook her arm. “There’s a bath awaiting you upstairs.”
With last smiles and farewells, they left Stokes.
James was waiting with Charlie in the hall.
“Thank you—both of you.” James beamed; he took Portia’s hands. “I haven’t heard it all yet, but even so—how very brave you’ve been.”
This time Simon didn’t suppress his growl. “For God’s sake!—the last thing I need is for that to go to her head.”