Pulling his own watch out, Grey flicked open the gold cover plate and turned it so Clio could see the big hand sitting smugly on five minutes past ten. ‘London Time would disagree.’
Every Londoner knew standardising their watches to the railway time was the most accurate measure. Clio hadn’t calibrated her watch in several weeks. Damn him for winning this round.
‘All good things come to those who wait… Isn’t that how the saying goes?’ She tipped her chin up, refusing to admit her defeat.
‘Where is your bird?’ Grey’s sharp gaze moved from her shoulder down her body before quickly resettling on her face.
Clio tried to reconcile the hard features of present Grey with her vision of him in the past. That version of Grey had been vulnerable and hurting, instigating a wild need within Clio to protect him from whatever future pain awaited. This man only provoked her ire.
‘Sir Robin isn’t really a morning person. Er. Bird. And since youdidn’t give me any influence over our meeting time, I thought it best to leave him to his perch.’
Grey’s grunt gave her no inclination as to his opinion on the matter. But neither did she care. ‘Shall we?’ He pushed open the iron gate with his cane. The plaintive squeal of metal on metal rang mournfully off the cobblestones.
Clio was careful to avoid touching Grey as she moved past him and along the path leading up to Viscount Beachley’s stone stairs, but she couldn’t escape his enticing scent. Soap. Starch. Spice. Both comforting and disconcerting. A wicked combination.
Physical contact had always increased the intensity of her power. Holding something the dead person treasured, touching the furniture, floor, and walls of where they died. It all helped to focus and increase the flow of power coursing through her, intensifying her connection with the deceased. She couldn’t imagine what touching Grey might do, but she guessed it wouldn’t be good. Best to make sure she stayed well away from him until she could determine why his memories kept invading her mind. Memories that contradicted her opinions most inconveniently.
What she knew of Grey’s past came from newspaper articles, scandal magazines, and whispers of ancient gossip from nearly a decade ago. Those sources described the man as a rakehell who callously abandoned his young and beautiful wife. Nothing like the taciturn gentleman in front of her. Nor did they accurately depict the Grey she saw in his memories. Nothing added up. Clio felt the need to pick at the mystery until it unwound. An inclination she resolutely ignored.
She made her way around the side of the house to the mews. The servants’ entrance would be at the back of the residence. She pulled her thoughts together, banishing her incessant curiosity about Grey to the dark recesses of her mind so she could focus instead on what mattered: finding Viscount Beachley’s killer.
Gravel crunched behind her, alerting Clio that Grey was following her. The heat of his gaze burned the back of her neck, and she stiffened her shoulders. When she reached the small overhang of the doorway boasting a small entrance and hallway to the underbelly of Viscount Beachley’s home, Clio knocked sharply. Grey stood directly behind her. If she leaned back even a little, her shoulders would bump against his chest.
The door swung open, and a maid, young enough to still be in the schoolroom, stepped back, her eyes widening to round saucers.
‘Hello. May we please speak with the butler?’ As the head of domestic staff, he would be the person to arrange interviews.
‘Mr Chatham, I believe.’ The now-familiar growl of Grey’s voice was becoming a problem. It vibrated down her spine. Clio’s belly clenched.
It’s nothing. I’m merely hungry.
She should have eaten breakfast, but there simply wasn’t time. Thanks to Grey’s ridiculous schedule. One more reason to hate the man.
After several seconds of stammering, the girl scurried away, and they waited another fifteen minutes on the stoop before the butler arrived.
The tall man was thin as a reed and stood straighter than a ruler. Grey produced a letter. From the messy penmanship, Clio could only assume it was some kind of directive from Uncle Lachlan. Whatever he wrote worked a treat as the butler’s stuffy attitude melted away. He quickly ushered them down the shadowy corridor, through a small office, and into a much larger room with cupboards on three walls, and a long table running down the centre. Clio guessed this was where the staff took their meals.
Freshly baked bread, spiced meat, and something sugary wafted from under a swinging door. The kitchen must be on the other side.Comforting sounds of cheerful voices, banging pots, and crackling wood confirmed her suspicions.
‘If you will stay here, I shall gather the remaining staff and send them to you one at a time. Will that suffice?’ The butler spoke to Grey, then glanced at Clio. ‘Does your, er, secretary need any supplies? Pen? Parchment?’
Grey’s smile only fanned the flames of Clio’s indignation.
‘I am not his secretary. And I require nothing more than my own wits. If you would take a seat, we shall start with you. As the head of the household, I’m sure you are privy to all manner of information.’ Clio knew her tone would do no favours in lowering the butler’s defences, but it couldn’t be helped. The arch look Grey bestowed upon her intensified the flames licking away her patience.
The butler slowly sat, his spine fairly creaking as he folded himself into the chair. He gave a stilted report of what he remembered from the night Viscount Beachley was murdered. As Grey stood to dismiss him, his information as helpful as spitting on an inferno, Clio cleared her throat.
‘How would you describe your relationship with the housekeeper?’
Grey sat down again, twisting to look at her. Though they weren’t touching, she could sense the tension in his body. He didn’t like her asking the questions.
Too bad. I don’t like you sitting next to me smelling of clean linen, frost, and Christmas. Of all the ridiculous scents!
‘Mrs Coggins?’ the butler asked.
Clio stretched her mouth into a friendly smile. ‘You no doubt work closely with her. Both heads of your department. Would you say Mrs Coggins enjoyed her position here? That she got along with the staff and Viscount Beachley? That she worked well with his wife?’
The thin man stretched his neck and tugged at his collar. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with Viscount Beachley’s murder.’
