Too hastily.
“Something is afoot,” Rhys insisted. “Tell me what it is.”
“Nothing is afoot.”
“You never did have a face for cards. I can tell when you’re guilty, old chap.”
It was true. Of all vices, Richford was notoriously bad at anything that involved not revealing his thoughts to his opponents. Which also made his evasiveness all the more suspect and concerning.
“Nothing is afoot. I am merely here in my capacity as one of the leaders of the club, given that two of our members were not able to attend because of women and weddings and other such bloody rot.”
“Christ, don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with someone,” he guessed.
It was the only explanation that made sense. The brooding, the disappearances, the mysterious blonde woman.
“In love?” Richford choked, sputtering, a telltale red creeping along his cheekbones and up his throat. “Of course not. Don’t be daft.”
“You don’t dally, you’ve been chasing about a blonde, and you’re acting damned odd. But I’m to believe that nothing is amiss?”
“Yes, that is what you are to believe, Whit. Because that is what I bloody well told you.”
“I know that is what you told me, but I also happen to know it’s a lie. What I don’t know is why you’re so intent upon deceiving me.”
And he didn’t particularly like it either. The six friends had a pact, an understanding. They were the brothers each had never had. And they didn’t deceive one another.
Richford scowled. “You’re not my goddamned mother, Whit. Leave well enough alone.”
“That rather stings,” he admitted. “Fair enough. If you don’t want to tell me?—”
“I don’t,” Richford interrupted.
“—then I shall simply have to bide my time and discover what is going on myself,” he finished with a triumphant air.
Because they both knew he would. Rhys was nothing if not determined. He didn’t like secrets, and he didn’t like lies. His hideous childhood had been rife with both. And there was something Richford was keeping from him.
“Don’t pry where you aren’t wanted,” Richford said. “You may not like what you find.”
That was rather cryptic.
Rhys frowned at his friend. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I don’t want you interfering in my affairs,” his friend growled. “If there was something I wished to tell you, I would have done so by now.”
With that curt rejoinder, Richford stepped around him and stalked away.
Rhys stared after his departing back until he turned a corner, wondering just what his friend was hiding.
As she hadthe previous two nights, Miranda returned to her bedroom tired but pleased with how her creations had emerged from their ice caves. Her feet ached, her back was equally sore, but she was eager to hear how the guests had enjoyed theGlace à la Dudleyshe had prepared. She’d been especially happy with the presentation of the roses on the tops of her molds.
And like the night before, when she entered her room, Miranda was startled to find someone awaiting her. This time, it was an expectant Green, with a clawfoot tub prepared with steaming water at the center of the room.
“Mrs. Loveless,” Green greeted.
For a moment, Miranda wondered whom the lady’s maid was speaking to. Weary as she was from her exertions in the kitchens, she even briefly glanced over her shoulder. Until she recalled that Green didn’t know her true name, and she turned back to the servant with a guilty start.
“You’ve prepared a bath,” she said, her aching muscles all but clamoring for her to dip into that hot water and soak.
“As you requested, ma’am,” Green said, arranging an assortment of soaps and shampoos on a low table which had been laid by the tub, along with some towels and stoppered glass bottles.
