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“May I show them out, ma’am?” he asked.
Their gazes met. Seeing the helpless wrath in her eyes, he gave her a faint nod of reassurance.
“Yes, John,” she said in a low voice.
It was a measure of Reina’s severe distress that she had forgotten to call him Pembroke in front of the others. But oh, how he loved hearing his name on her lips.
John went to the front door and held it open in a show of courtesy. “Gentlemen.”
After the two men had crossed the threshold, he stepped outside with them and closed the door. In the next moment, he grabbed York’s cravat knot, twisted it tight, and shoved him against the side of an archway with a meaty thud.
Staring into the man’s bulging eyes, John said with vicious sincerity, “Listen well, you preening shitpile. I don’t give a slippery fuck about all your legal arse-trumpeting. You’re going to return to the Kingsleys and convince them to drop this matter. If I ever hear a word about it, you’ll wake up one night to find me standing at the foot of your bed, right before I take a knife to you. I won’t stop carving pieces off you until you beg for death. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the lawyer gasped.
“Yes, Mr. Pembroke,” John prompted.
“Yes . . . Mr. Pembroke . . .”
He glanced at Bracknell, who had frozen in place. “What about you?”
“I understand too, Mr. Pembroke.”
John released York’s cravat knot and watched the pair bolt toward the carriage. He continued to stand there, his hard gaze fixed on the vehicle until it disappeared from view.
The momentary satisfaction was instantly extinguished as he entered the house and saw Inspector Grindal standing alone in the entrance hall.
“Miss Martin went to the library, I believe, with the other servants,” Grindal said. His expression was impossible to interpret. “They were all intent on giving her their support and affection.”
John dropped his head and relaxed most of his weight on one leg. Not much point in maintaining good posture now. The inspector had just watched the household devolve into chaos. Any chance of earning a decent report was long gone.
All was silent but for the longcase clock in the hall, a slim tower of polished mahogany, brass, and beveled glass. Its spendthrift pendulum allowed precious seconds to pour out instead of rationing them. It would make months and years slip by too damn quickly, this clock in Reina Martin’s house.
“You all set a great store by her,” Grindal remarked.
“She’s the center of our world,” John heard himself reply gruffly.
The inspector turned a slow circle to view the entrance hall. It was clean, swept, waxed, serene. A small vase of spring flowers occupied the demilune table. Alan lay on the carpeted bottom step of the main staircase, swishing a friendly tail.
“Will you want to carry out interviews with any of the servants, sir?” John brought himself to ask. “Or view the household records?”
“No, Mr. Pembroke. I’ve already reached a conclusion.”
Of course.
“Sir,” John said desperately, “I would like to explain . . . what you saw just now . . .” How the hell could he defend the disaster that had just unfolded before the inspector’s eyes?
“No need to explain, Pembroke.” Another moment of rumination before Grindal said, “I saw a family.”
“What?” John asked dazedly.
“My hat and coat, please.”
The words didn’t fully register at first. Moving like an automaton, John went to the under-stairs cloakroom and returned to the inspector. He helped him with the coat.
“Inform Miss Martin,” Grindal said as he slid his arms into the sleeves, “that I will be submitting a report on the excellent performance of her ticket-of-leave staff. I came here looking not for perfection but rather signs of progress—which I’ve seen in abundance.” He paused before adding thoughtfully, “The difference between what I read in the Millbank records and what I saw today . . . it’s quite extraordinary. I will include in the report that in my opinion, this situation appears to be appropriate for the rearing of a child.”
“Thank you, sir,” John managed to say.
