“It suits me.” The whole house was not his, but he assumed she knew that since she had climbed the stairs to his front door. His apartment occupied the third level, which gave him good air and fine prospects of the street and nearby St. James’s Square.
The coffee arrived. He waited while Brigsby served her. His manservant said nothing, but a worried little frown expressed how irregular Brigsby found the situation. On a few occasions he had served women breakfast, but they had stayed the night. Apparently, Brigsby found that more acceptable than a woman arriving before calling hours.
Chase waited until the door closed again. “Why are you here?”To kiss you again. To apologize for throwing you out. To tear off this brown dress and beg you to take me.He could fantasize, but he knew better than to hope.
“You left before explaining.”
“You want an explanation? Fine. You are a lovely woman. I am a man. I wanted to kiss you. You seemed agreeable. So I did, and you allowed it. Until you didn’t. There is no other explanation than that.”
She just looked at him. He looked back. The silence stretched.
“Not an explanation aboutthat,” she said with exasperation.
“Too bad. I wouldn’t mind talking about it. I have a few questions of my own.”
“Before you—that is, just as you were about to—I mentioned that you thought I killed the duke and you said you would explain all, later. Only you didn’t.”
“I pride myself on knowing when it is time to leave a party.”
“I understand. Truly. You could hardly—but I want to hear the explanation, so I came here.”
She must want to hear it badly if she tracked him down and arrived at nine o’clock. Fool that he was, that flattered him. Only now he did have to offer some explanation that appeased her, or at least satisfied her curiosity. Since she appeared so earnest and attentive, he found himself wanting to give her an explanation that put himself in a very good light.
“You are merely one person of a long list of people with excellent motives where he is concerned.”
“A list that includes you,” she reminded him.
“I know it was not me, so for my purposes that does not signify.”
“Have you concluded I did not do it, if it was even done?”
Tempted though he was to lie, he would not with her. “I did not conclude that at all. I merely considered it unlikely. I am counting on the evidence—”
“Oh, tosh. Evidence.” She pressed forward against the table. “Do you think I did it? Do you? What does your inner sense tell you?”
“I do not rely on any sense other than my mind in these matters.”
“You are so objective?”
“I must be. One’s inner sense, as you put it, is influenced by . . . emotions and . . . other things.” Intent, direct gazes. Light that reflected intelligence in a woman’s eyes. Desire to possess.
He had learned the hard way to judge important matters without passion or prejudice. Long before he met Minerva and found himself wanting her, intuition had betrayed him badly. Using his inner sense had made him horribly wrong once.
She stood. “I suppose I can’t blame you too much, what with your refusal to simplyknowthe truth, instead of requiring hard proof. Unfortunately, it is difficult to prove one did not do something. I have no choice but to continue to see you as dangerous to me.”
In other words, no more kisses. “Do I get to ask my questions now? About last night?”
“No.” She began making motions of departure, but stopped. “What is that?” She pointed at the portfolio. “I could not help but see my name on the top page when I arrived.”
“It holds my notes on this inquiry.”
She cocked her head. “You make notes to yourself?”
“I do. Mostly lists of matters to address and things to inquire about and information acquired. I do it for all my inquiries.”
“Lists?” She laughed. “We have spoken of a list of suspects, and who is on it. Are you saying therereallyis a list?”
“There is.”
