TheleastKincaid could do was spare a bit of attention. Especially since his parting words from the night before had kept her up tossing and turning until Evie had thrown a pillow at her head and demanded that she either fall asleep or go find another room.
If I were to ever kiss you, I would not need to ask permission.
How could he say that to her, and then pretend the next day as if she didn’t exist? How could he knock a duke flat on his backside for the crime of simplytouchingher, and then greet her the next morning as if they were perfect strangers?
“I am glad to see you are well, Miss Thorncroft. Here are twenty thousand pages of busywork I need you to do. Please proceed with all haste, and disregard the occasional glare in your direction as I am suffering from gastrointestinal upset.”
Or something to that effect.
Waiting for the last client to leave (a husband who wanted his mistress followed as he suspected she was guilty of taking up with another lover, never mind that he was guilty of doing exactly what he was accusing his mistress of), Joanna dumped the pile of meaningless receipts off her lap and stood up, stretching her arms high above her head to work the stiffness from her muscles.
Honestly, did Kincaidreallyneed to know what he’d paid for a slab of beef two years ago? Half of the papers would make excellent kindling, and the other half would fare perfectly fine in the bottom of a bin somewhere.
The floorboards creaked as she crossed the room and poured herself a cup of coffee. She’d made the dark brew herself, and was pleased to note it was neither cold nor strong enough to knock a grown man off his feet. After grinding the beans she had added a spoonful of burned sugar for sweetness, a trick her grandmother had taught her. The result was a coffee that was actually palatable, unlike the black swamp water Kincaid had tried to serve her.
Stirring in some thick, white cream, she blew across the top of the ceramic mug, took a sip, and then proceeded to walk straight up to his desk.
“It was the wife,” she announced in no uncertain terms. Placing her coffee on a book so as not to stain the wood finish, she crossed her arms and stared directly at Kincaid’s bent head. He was jotting down notes in that journal of his, and made no indication that he heard her. “Lady Chamberlain killed her husband.”
Kincaid’s pen paused for a split second. “It was not the wife.”
Joanna pursed her lips. “I think it was.”
He resumed writing. Then on a loud, exasperated sigh, he dropped his pen. “Why do you think it’s the wife?”
“Because it’salwaysthe wife.” She uncrossed her arms and reached for her coffee. “If Lady Chamberlain didn’t do it herself, she hired the person who did. You said he was poisoned?”
“That is the working theory, yes. Oleander, perhaps, as his last twelve hours on earth were reportedly not very…pleasant.” Kincaid removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The coroner should be able to confirm when the exam is complete.”
Joanna nodded. “Most definitely the wife. If I was going to murder my husband, that’s how I would do it.”
Kincaid’s brows snapped together. “Why the devil would you murder your husband?”
“The usual reasons, I suppose,” she said with a shrug.
“The usual—Miss Thorncroft,” he said in a strangled voice.
She blinked at him. “Yes?”
“Youdorealize you’ve just admitted to plotting murder.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m not even married yet.”
An odd flicker of emotion passed across Kincaid’s countenance. He leaned forward onto his desk and clasped his hands together. “Still, I would caution you to consider the potential impact of your words before you speak them.Andto be careful about making accusations you’ve no evidence with which to confirm.”
There was a lock of rich mahogany dangling just above his right eye. Joanna’s fingers itched to comb it back from his face, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
Too bad.
There were some people who desperately needed affection, and Kincaid was one of them. He was all sharp lines and defensive angles, but with the right touch—hertouch—some of those peaks could be softened.
If I were to ever kiss you, I would not need to ask permission.
“I shall take your advice under consideration.” She sipped her coffee. “As long as you take mine and investigate Lady Chamberlain. A woman scorned is a powerful entity.”
“Do you speak from experience, Miss Thorncroft?” Kincaid asked, his serious gaze intent on her face and every nuanced expression that inadvertently flitted across it.
It was an experience in and of itself, she found, to be gazed upon with such ferocity. As a tall woman with bright red hair, Joanna was accustomed to men staringather. But they never staredintoher.
