Alaric was the first to reach the alcove off the gallery, where he and Constance had arranged to meet to share their thoughts and observations.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked across to look out of the turret window. Spread out beneath him across the green sward of the croquet field, the rest of the company—virtually everyone including Mrs. Fitzherbert and Mrs. Cripps—were attempting to stoically get on with things by playing a tournament.
He scanned the heads, but as he’d hoped, Constance wasn’t there; presumably, she was on her way.
At the thought of her—as her image formed in his head—his mind returned to their last moments in the drawing room when, apparently without any awareness of committing any solecism, she’d spoken for him. She’d used the royal “we” as if he and she were…if not an acknowledged couple, then certainly a team.
Partners in the pursuit of justice.
He’d found the moment faintly amusing—and also distinctly revealing.
Discovering that the Amazon was inherently bossy had come as no surprise; what he had found odd was that he didn’t mind.
Not in the least.
As revelations went…
Quick footsteps sounded on the gallery floor, then Constance swept in. She was slightly breathless, and her cheeks were faintly flushed. “Mrs. Fitzherbert wanted chapter and verse as to where I was off to.” Constance frowned. “I think she’s feeling a touch guilty over the deaths—she’s nominally Percy’s hostess, after all—and is, in her way, attempting to shut the door after the horse has bolted, so to speak.”
She’d spoken as she crossed the room; she fetched up beside Alaric and looked out, too. “Did you learn anything at all useful over luncheon?”
He returned his gaze to the scene below. “Nothing.” He paused, then added, “While the ladies seem to be still chattering unreservedly, the men have become a touch more circumspect about what they say around me.”
“Around us.” She grimaced. “Hardly surprising, I suppose—none of them are idiots.”
After a moment, she went on, “The one thing I did notice was your friend, Percy. He seems to be becoming steadilymoremaudlin, not less as one would expect.” She cast Alaric one of her very direct looks. “Do you have any idea why?”
Partners. He and she were, indeed, partners—at least in this.Alaric grimaced. “I noticed, but no, I have no idea why Percy seems to be so…deeply affected. In terms of his usual resilience, I would definitely not cast this as normal.”
She stared down at the lawn for several seconds, then drew breath and said, “I know he’s your friend, and you don’t think he could be the murderer—”
“I still don’t think he is.”
“That wasn’t what I was about to suggest.” She met his gaze as he looked at her. “But could Percy have guessed who the murderer must be and be in a funk over that?”
Alaric frowned, then he looked back down at those on the lawn. He picked out Percy’s shining head. After a moment of consulting his instincts about Percy, he offered, “I don’t think he’s in a funk or anything like that. It’s something else. It’s as if the murder—and whether it’s Glynis’s murder, Rosa’s, or both, I can’t say—has affected him in some deep and fundamental way.” After a moment, he added, “Percy’s parents are alive, and so are all his siblings. I don’t think that, as an adult, he’s ever had to mourn the passing of someone near to him. That Glynis and Rosa were guests—in Glynis’s case, invited specially, and Rosa was an old friend…it’s possible he’s weighed down with emotion, a mix of shock, grief, and guilt combined, and he simply doesn’t know how to deal with it.”
“He seems to be struggling.” Constance’s gaze touched Alaric’s face. “Have you spoken to him about it?”
“No. I haven’t had the opportunity.” He set his jaw. “But if he continues this way, I will.”
They heard footsteps in the gallery, passing the entrance on the way to the head of the stairs.
Constance whirled. “That’s Pearl—my maid.”
She rushed out into the gallery and around toward the stairs.
Alaric followed on her heels.
The maid—Pearl—heard them, looked back, and relaxed. “There you are, Miss Constance. I was wondering where you might be.” The maid was about to go on, but then her gaze reached Alaric, and she paused.
Constance waved in his direction. “You can speak freely before Lord Carradale. What is it?”
The maid dragged her gaze back to her mistress’s face. “It’s Mrs. Macomber, miss. She’s awake and—thank the stars—lucid at last. But when I said I was going to fetch you, she grew querulous and said she didn’t think she was up to answering any questions.”
Constance’s face set. “Be that as it may, she will speak with me. We need to know what she knows, and we need to know urgently.”
Without further ado, she strode for Mrs. Macomber’s room. Alaric fell in alongside her. The maid, he noticed, hurried close behind.
