The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

They related to Stokes the tale of the adder found in Portia’s bed which, by sheer luck, she’d not attempted to lie in having fallen asleep in a chair instead. Stokes accepted the explanation without a blink; Portia exchanged a glance with Simon, relieved.

“Good God! The blackguard!” It was the first Charlie had heard of the adder. He looked at Portia. “I can’t believe you didn’t retire with a fit of the vapors.”

“Yes, well,” Lord Netherfield said. “That’s what the blackguard wants, don’t you see?”

“Indeed.” Stokes’s eyes gleamed. “It means there’s something—something that will give the murderer away.” He looked at Portia, frowned. “Something he thinks you know.”

Portia shook her head. “I’ve thought and thought, and there’s nothing I’ve forgotten, I swear.”

Deep in the house, the dinner gong clanged. It was the second summons, calling them to the table; they’d already ignored the earlier warning that it was time to go and dress. Tonight, they weren’t standing on ceremony; filling Stokes in had seemed far more important than donning silks and retying cravats.

Stokes shut his notebook. “Clearly, the villain, whoever he is, doesn’t realize that.”

“Didn’t realize, maybe, but now I’ve spoken to you and yet still you don’t know his identity, presumably he’ll let be.” Portia spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know.”

They all rose.

“That’s as may be.” Stokes exchanged a meaningful glance with Simon as they headed for the door. “But the villain might well think you’ll remember the vital point later. If it was important enough for him to try to kill you once, there’s no reason he won’t try again.”

“I say!” Charlie stared at Stokes, then looked at Portia. “We’ll need to guard you.”

Portia halted. “That’s hardly nec—”

“Day and night.” Stokes nodded gravely; he was quite patently sincere.

Lady O thumped the floor. “She can sleep on a trestle in my room.” She grimaced at Portia. “Daresay even you would think twice before getting between the sheets where once you’d seen a serpent.”

Portia managed not to shudder. Glanced instead—pointedly—at Simon; if she was sleeping in Lady O’s room . . .

He met her gaze directly; his face was set. “Day and night.” He glanced at Charlie. “You and I should be able to handle the days.”

Stunned—not a little irritated by being thus disposed of, like an item to be handed one to the other—Portia opened her lips to protest . . . realized every face was turned her way, all set, al

l determined. Realized she’d never win.

“Oh, all right!” Flinging her hands in the air, she stepped to the door. Lord Netherfield opened it for her and offered her his arm.

She took it, heard him chuckle as he led her out.

He patted her hand. “Very wise, m’dear. That was one battle you couldn’t hope to win.”

She managed not to humph. Head high, she swept down the corridor and into the dining room.

Simon followed more slowly, Lady O on his arm. Stokes and Charlie came behind. At the door to the dining room, Stokes took his leave of them, charging Simon with telling the company he’d resume his questions on the morrow before retiring to the servants’ hall.

Charlie headed in to find his seat. Simon steered Lady O through the door.

Pausing on the threshold, ostensibly to rearrange her shawl, she chuckled evilly. “Don’t look so glum. I can’t see across the room—how will I know if she’s there or not?”

Under cover of retaking his arm, she poked him in the ribs. “And I’m a horribly heavy sleeper . . . no use at all in the guardian stakes, now I think on it.”

Simon managed not to gape—he’d long known she was an incorrigible matchmaker, just plain incorrigible most of the time, yet the idea that she might actually aid him, actively support his pursuit of Portia . . .

She allowed him to help her into her seat, then dismissed him with a wave. As he headed down the table to the empty place beside Portia, pulled out the chair, paused to look down on her dark head, presently set at an angle that from experience he could interpret quite well, then sat, he reflected that having Lady O as an ally was not a bad thing.

Especially now. Aside from all else, Lady O was pragmatic to a fault; she could be counted on to insist Portia behave sensibly. Safely.

Shaking out his napkin, he glanced briefly at Portia’s haughty face, then allowed the footman to serve him. He—they—might not be out of the woods yet, but he felt more positive than at any time since Portia had learned of his true goal.