The housekeeper’s cheeks reddened. She turned and nearly slammed her shoulder into Thomas as she opened the door, stalked through, and shut it loudly behind her.
‘Well done, Miss Blair.’ Thomas walked slowly back to the table, staying on the opposite side. ‘You’ve completely disarmed her. She’ll tell us all her secrets now.’ He let sarcasm sharpen each syllable.
‘She is lying.’ Clio stood, brushing her hand down her distractingly well-tailored outfit. No woman should look so bloody enticing in a man’s dress shirt and fitted waistcoat. Nor should her scent of bergamot and rosemary fill his head with thoughts of bodies twining together in the dark shadows of an old forest. And yet, it did. She was both wild creature and refined lady, and Thomas couldn’t stop imagining how easy it would be to flick open the buttons of her high collar and reveal her throat. Inhale her essence. Press his lips just there, at the hollow of her neck where her pulse beat to an ancient rhythm.
Shocking thoughts. She was too young. Too innocent. Too much his best friend’s bloody niece. And possibly a witch.
‘Are you even paying attention?’ Anger made her golden eyes spark.
No. He was letting his mind conjure images of her naked flesh. But he could hardly admit that. He cleared his throat and organised his thoughts back into some semblance of order. ‘What evidence do you have of her lies?’
‘None yet. But you know I’m right.’
That is neither here nor there.
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Today has been a waste. Wehave uncovered no new evidence. We have no new avenues of inquiry to find the viscountess. We have nothing.’
Clio pushed back the chair, knocking his cane from where it balanced against the scarred wooden table and stepped over it as she approached him. She pointed her finger at him like a small dagger. ‘Then you really weren’t paying attention. We know Viscountess Beachley had a contentious relationship with her housekeeper. We also know she had a change of heart towards her husband the day of his death. We know Mrs Coggins was the last person to see either of them alive, and she served them tea. The last drink Viscount Beachley ever consumed before he died – of poisoning – was given to him by his housekeeper. And we know Mrs Coggins is lying about something.’
‘If you think she is lying, then how can we trust any of her testimony? How do we even know Lord Beachley and his wife had a friendly afternoon tea together?’
Clio’s smile created a stir in Thomas’ chest. ‘Because she isn’t the only person we spoke with today, or have you forgotten? The butler mentioned that he went to Lord Beachley’s study at ten past three to deliver a letter, but he wasn’t there. The footman informed him he was in Lady Beachley’s sitting room, which he noted was quite odd. Your new maid, Miss Sanders, remembered complimenting Lady Beachley on her dress that day. The viscountess told her it was one of Lord Beachley’s favourites and she was wearing it especially for him. And the cook remembers making lemon tarts. A treat she rarely made for Lady Beachley as the woman hated citrus, but one that the viscountess specifically requested for afternoon tea because it was her husband’s favourite.’
‘And how does this prove the housekeeper killed Viscount Beachley?’
‘I never said she killed him. I said she was lying. And shecouldhave murdered him. She had the opportunity and the means. Whatremains to be discovered is whether she had a motive. Unlike some, I like to keep my mind open toallpossibilities.’
‘Are you accusing me of having a closed mind, Miss Blair?’
Her eyes swept from the top of his head to his feet. A strange sensation washed through him. The only women who had been so bold with their gaze on his person were courtesans whom he paid. Yet it was disdain, not lust, he read in her face. ‘I’m accusing you of missing the details, Grey. Details that will lead us to the killer.’ Turning, she led the way out the door, down the servants’ corridor, and outside to the mews. She glanced up to a dreary sky. ‘Rain is coming.’
As if conjured by her words, a fat drop landed on his jacket. He adjusted his coat, buttoning it against the angry weather. ‘Did you bring your cabriolet?’ There were no carriages waiting in the mews save his own.
She began walking to the front of the house and the street beyond. ‘I don’t live far from here. Good day to you, Grey.’
Catching her arm, he turned her before thinking better of it. She froze, her pupils blowing wide as a jolt of electricity jumped from her body to his. The energy shot up his arm like a lightning bolt. He dropped his hand.
‘Damn static electricity,’ she muttered.
He clenched his hand in a fist, his fingers tingling with the intensity of whatever had passed between them. ‘My sister wanted me to enquire about your availability two nights hence for supper. She has news from the duchess.’
‘Oh. Yes. Well.’ Clio looked at the pathway leading to the gate that would take her to the street beyond and freedom. She turned back to him, tapping her hand against her skirt. He could imagine her impatience to escape. ‘I believe I am free that evening.’
He nodded. ‘I shall come for you at seven.’
His words must have caught her off guard. She took a half-stepback and swallowed. A thrill ran through him to have taken her by surprise. He doubted many men had achieved such a feat. ‘I don’t need an escort, Grey. I’m quite able to transport myself to your sister’s.’
Unsteadying the woman was becoming a new obsession for Grey. Which was hardly flattering of his character. But it was not an easy task. Knowing he could accomplish something most people could not brought him a small measure of pride, which was more than he’d felt in quite some time.
Taking her hand, to test if another bolt of lightning would strike between them, he wasn’t disappointed by a pleasant hum zinging along his nerves. He bowed over her hand, resisting the urge to lift her gloved fingers to his lips. ‘Miss Blair, would you allow me the honour of escorting you to my sister’s house for dinner?’ He straightened to his full height, tightening his grip. As she tilted her chin, sunlight broke free from the clouds, bathing her in brightness. Her bottom lip was fuller than her top. She had a single freckle just beneath her left ear. Her right incisor was ever so slightly crooked.
And she didn’t think he noticed details.
He had put her in a difficult position. She could refuse, but it would be uncommonly rude. Not that the woman seemed to care overmuch about social niceties, but it would also mean the idea of riding with him in his carriage bothered her. And he was willing to wager she wouldn’t admit such weakness.
Pulling her hand free, dark clouds once more covered the sun. She dismissed him with a single blink. ‘No, thank you.’
Damnation! I’ve never been a lucky gambler.
