My hand doth not bear witness with my heart,
She saith, because I make no woeful lays,
To paint my living death and endless smart:
And so, for one that felt god Cupid's dart,
She thinks I lead and live too merry days.
---Sir Phillip Sidney, Must Love Lament

t was while the ladies were tucking into a luncheon of jellied chicken and asparagus béarnaise that the butler, Jackson, entered the dining room bearing a calling card on a silver salver. As usual, he affected the sort of mournful mien that a bloodhound might have envied.

“Begging your pardon, milady,” the old man said to Lady Evangeline St. Claire in his most funereal tones, “but the gentleman caller insisted that his business could not wait. I have taken the liberty of showing him into the study.”

Lina wiped her mouth with a napkin and took the card. “Sir Richard Somerset. I do not know the fellow. Do you, my dear?”

“No, his name doesn’t sound familiar to me,” confessed her partner, Rhiannon Moore.

“Well, we shall leave Sir Richard to cool his heels a little while. Jackson, if you will be so good as to fetch the ‘S’ volume of my Compendium?”

“At once, milady.”

Rhiannon took a sip of wine and signaled the footman to remove her plate. “What do you suppose Sir Richard wishes with us?”

“I have no idea,” Lina replied, shrugging, “and it is impossible to speculate. Ah, here is Jackson with my Compendium. Let us see if the Somerset family is represented.”

The Compendium was a multi-volume set of large books into which Lina pasted interesting articles from newspapers and periodicals, as well as hand-written notes on various items and persons and happenings that she deemed worth watching. Lina accepted the leather-bound book from Jackson and turned the pages while the footman finished clearing the table.

“Ah, here he is… Sir Richard Somerset,” Lina said, consulting the Compendium. “Not of the beau monde, my dear, but rather a parvenu, an upstart who made a fortune in trade after his business partner, Jonathon Cox, disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Mr. Cox took his habitual constitutional after dining at his club and was never seen again. Sir Richard – at the time, merely Mr. Somerset – inherited his partner’s share of the business. Quite a wealthy gentleman these days. Married to Minerva Somerset née Dalrymple of the Northumberland, Kent and Staffordshire Dalrymples – an old family with old money and a great many social connections.”

“Do you know Mrs. Somerset?” Rhiannon asked as the footman slid a plate with a portion of Cook’s excellent apricot iced jelly in front of her.

Lina shook her head and slapped the leather covers of the book closed. She declined a serving of jelly with a wave of her hand. Jackson, who had been discreetly hovering nearby, took the Compendium out of her lap and tottered out of the dining room.

“No, I have not had that pleasure,” Lina said, answering Rhiannon’s question, “although I believe her mother and mine are contemporaries and shared a London season when they were both girls.”

Jackson returned bearing the coffee service. Although she preferred tea, Rhiannon allowed the butler to pour her a tiny cup of the strong brew, which she adulterated with plenty of sugar and cream. Lina preferred her coffee in its natural state. After taking a sip, she declaimed theatrically, from Alexander Pope’s The Rape of the Lock:

“For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd,
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;
On shining altars of Japan they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China's earth receives the smoking tide:
At once they gratify their scent and taste,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.”

Rhiannon chuckled and continued quoting from the poem:

”Coffee, (which makes the politician wise,
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes)
Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain
New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain.”

“Well, Sir Richard is not a baron,” Lina said, draining her cup, “but a baronet, and as he is not a peer of the realm but a member of the gentry, his title cannot be inherited. Nevertheless, he must have urgent business here to attempt an interruption of our luncheon. Are you finished, my dear? Then let us repair to the study and satisfy our curiosity.”

Lina rose from the table and spent a few moment straightening the skirts of her leaf-green Liberty’s silk dress, made in the loose aesthetic style that she preferred. The color made her emerald eyes seem even darker. Once Rhiannon joined her, the two women went to the study to meet Sir Richard Somerset.

The gentleman, though beyond the first flush of youth, had aged very gracefully. He was still handsome as the Devil, with a charming smile and a smoldering look of appreciation in his dark eyes that spoke eloquently of past successes with the ladies. He first apologized for being so bold as to forgo convention and introduce himself. The pleasantries and requisite chit-chat dispensed with, he directed the conversation straight to business.

“Lady St. Claire,” Sir Richard said, hooking a thumb in the pocket of his gorgeous peacock-blue waistcoat, “I have heard from friends that you sometimes act in the capacity of a confidential inquiry agent.”

“That is correct,” Lina answered. “How may I assist you?” She sat on the settee, drawing Rhiannon down to sit beside her, while Sir Richard sat in the chair opposite.

“The matter is a delicate one,” Sir Richard said. “My son, Bertram, had gotten himself entangled with an actress, Charlotte Palmer. The affair is over; I’ve seen to that. However, Miss Palmer is armed with certain indiscreet letters written by Bertram, in which the boy foolishly promised to wed her. I want those letters.”

“And how much are you willing to pay Miss Palmer to get them?” Lina asked bluntly. He jerked in surprise, and she continued, “In my experience, Sir Richard, extortionists – even of the genteel variety – require their monetary demands to be met before they willingly surrender their advantages.”

Sir Richard smoothed his well-trimmed mustache. “It galls me to give that harpy a single shilling,” he said, shrugging broad shoulders. “I had hoped that you might… one hears tales, you know, at dinner parties and the like.”

“Oh?” Lina arched a dark brow. “Pray tell, what secrets has that barking dog, rumor, disclosed regarding my activities and proclivities?”

“That you occasionally utilize, shall we say, less-than-legal procedures should the case require taking measures beyond those deemed lawful by the police.” Sir Richard took a heavy silver case out of his jacket pocket, removed a cheroot and asked silent permission, which was given with a nod. Taking a paper spill from the vase on the mantelpiece, he leaned down to the fire, and then used the flaming spill to light his cheroot.

Rhiannon got up to pull back the heavy velvet curtains and open a window against the strong reek of smoke, which was a well-nigh suffocating mundungus.

“I use whatever methods are necessary in order to bring the case to a successful resolution, if such a thing is within the realm of possibility,” Lina said, her expression carefully neutral. “You ought to know that I am a private citizen, Sir Richard, not a police detective, and furthermore, the authorities frown upon extra-legal procedures.”

“Very well, let me be frank, milady. I wish to hire you to extract those letters from Charlotte Palmer’s possession by any means whatsoever, legal or illegal.” Sir Richard blew out a thick cloud of smoke and thrust the cheroot into the corner of his mouth. “She is asking for five thousand pounds – quite impossible, as you may imagine, and I reckon hiring you will be a cheaper and more effective means of stilling the woman’s ambition. Bertram is engaged to a perfectly respectable young heiress, and I don’t want the girl upset.”

Lina flushed. Rising to her feet, she turned a blazing emerald glare upon the man. “I do not approve of blackmail, sir. Less still do I approve of bullying males who, having tasted of the fruits offered by a woman, flinch upon receiving the bill.”

“My son was generous enough with the Palmer woman,” Sir Richard said. “Five thousand pounds is too much to pay for a reputation already tarnished by other lovers before she got her claws into Bertram. However, out of deference to your lady-like sensibilities, I am willing to pay five hundred pounds for the letters, not a penny more. That is, I feel, a more than adequate recompense for an actress who has likely found another victim.”

“And if she refuses?” Lina asked, twitching with impatience and the aftermath of ire.

Again, Sir Richard shrugged. “Then I shall know what to do,” he said, sneering. “I am not a man who can be easily crossed, Lady St. Claire. Charlotte Palmer will discover this fact to her sorrow if she attempts to take matters further than I am willing to indulge. I’m not one of your soft-hearted, deep pocketed, weak-blooded young dandies who haven’t an ounce of common sense. I came to my fortune the hard way, and I’m a harder man for it.”

Lina nodded, looking grim. “I shall certainly bear that in mind. And you ought to know, Sir Richard, that I am hardly soft-hearted or weak-blooded. Should anything untoward happen to Charlotte Palmer – I am well aware that acid thrown into the woman’s face is considered by some to be justice for her crime - I shall know who is to blame and act accordingly. Am I rightly understood?”

“You are, madam. I like the way you state yourself and your intentions without coyness or falsity. Plain dealing is the way I do business.” Sir Richard took a last puff and tossed the stub of his cheroot into the fire. “Act as my representative in this matter and I’m certain that Charlotte Palmer need not fear retribution of any kind.” He checked his pocket watch. “I must fly, for I’ve an urgent appointment at my club. Contact me at any time, but particularly when you have possession of the letters.”

Jackson was summoned to show Sir Richard Somerset out of the house.

When the man had gone, Lina fixed herself a whisky-and-soda. “Well, that was an unpleasant interview with an unpleasant fellow,” she said.

“Poor Charlotte Palmer,” Rhiannon murmured. “She’s an actress, he said.”

“Yes, although her name is unknown to me. Miss Palmer is therefore not one of the stage’s foremost divas. I must send a note of inquiry to a theatrical agent of my acquaintance; Sidney will be able to tell us the latest gossip regarding our erstwhile blackmailer.” Lina took a large sip of whisky and grimaced. “One would think that the son of a businessman such as Sir Richard would have had more sense than to write incriminating billet doux to a mistress.”

“Do you think that she’d be so bold as to try and break up Mr. Somerset’s engagement to his respectable heiress?”

“No, but Miss Palmer is most certainly threatening a breach of promise civil suit, and I am certain that Sir Richard wishes to avoid adverse publicity.” Lina finished her drink and put the empty cut-crystal glass on a table. “It is early days yet, my dear. Let us find out what we can regarding Charlotte Palmer before we confront the lady in her lair.”

That was not to be. The same morning that Lina received a letter from the theatrical agent Sidney Graves in answer to her query, she also received an urgent summons asking her to come at once to Sir Richard Somerset’s home in South Kensington. She and Rhiannon donned jackets and hats and gloves, and eschewing breakfast – much to Cook’s outrage – they set out at once via Lina’s private carriage for Somerset House.

The place was magnificent, a newly-built brick edifice crafted to seem as if it had simply sprung full-grown from the earth, as the goddess Athena from the brow of Zeus. The surrounding gardens were no less marvelous. As their carriage rolled up the crushed stone drive to the front of the house, Lina noted the presences of police constables prowling around the grounds in an attempt to appear busy.

“A Scotland Yard inspector must be… ah, my dear, there he is!” Lina nodded at the paunchy figure of Inspector Harold Valentine standing on the front steps. The man was flanked by a pair of stone lions. Above the doorway was inscribed the Latin phrase audaces fortuna iuvat – Fortune favors the bold. It was obviously the Somerset motto and, as far as Lina was concerned, suited the man she had met.

“Milady, what brings you to Kensington so early on a Sunday morn?” Valentine asked, automatically moving to help Lina and Rhiannon out of the carriage.

“I received a message to attend an emergency meeting here,” Lina replied.

“I see.” Valentine’s storm-gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Would you care to tell me how you’ve involved in the matter?”

“Until I know what the matter is…” Lina’s voice trailed off suggestively.

Valentine sighed and shifted his feet. “Sir Richard Somerset has been murdered,” he said. “Shot with an arrow through the heart.”

Although Lina was taken aback, she schooled her expression to show nothing of her shock. “Has he indeed? Then I suppose it was his son, Bertram, who sent me the note urging me to come to Somerset House post haste.”

“I couldn’t say, milady,” Valentine replied.

Before the Scotland Yard inspector could speak further, a tall, thin young man burst out of the door and descended upon Lina. The newcomer’s manner was suggestive of a lost lamb who has, after enduring many horrors in the night, at last found his shepherd.

“Lady St. Claire!” he babbled, wringing Lina’s gloved hand. His gooseberry-pale eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. “I am ever so glad that you’ve come! We’re all at sixes and sevenses, you know, on account of what’s happened to Father. Please, you must tell these awful policemen that Charlotte isn’t responsible. She couldn’t be! The most delightful, gentle creature… wouldn’t hurt a fly…”

Lina exerted considerable strength to wrench her hand out of the young man’s grip. “Might you be Mr. Bertram Somerset?”

“Yes, yes!” he nodded. “Do come in! This is some dreadful mistake, I know it…”

“In a moment, Mr. Somerset. Kindly permit me to have a few words with Inspector Valentine first, then Miss Moore and myself will be happy to join you in the house.”

“Oh, very well! But Charlotte is most upset and so is Mother and Jenny, and the servants are in an uproar, and I’ve no idea what’s to be done!”

Lina gazed at him and felt almost sorry for Bertram Somerset, who was a quivering bundle of nerves that might suffer a collapse at any time. She patted him on the shoulder, steered him towards the open doorway and said, not unkindly, “Mr. Somerset, go inside and have a cup of tea, or… yes, perhaps a brandy might be more efficacious. My companion and I will join you shortly.”

“Will you? Thank you, Lady St. Claire. Thank you.” Somerset stumbled back into the house.

Valentine quirked an eyebrow at the retreating young man’s back. “A definite rabbit, milady, as opposed to the wolf that was his father.”

“Indeed. So what has happened here?”

“Minerva Somerset is the chair-mistress of the Alborium Toxophily Society; that’s a group of amateur archers in her social circle who meet weekly for practice shooting,” Valentine said. “The Alborium Society recently scored a victory over rival toxophilists, the Viburnums, headed by Mrs. Somerset’s sister, Lady Florence DeBurgh.”

“Married to Lord Inglemarch,” Lina supplied. “Go on, Harry.”

“At any rate,” Valentine continued, “last evening, Mrs. Somerset hosted a victory dinner for the Alborium members. After dinner, the attendants were gathered in the drawing room for coffee. At some point in the evening, after midnight and before one o’clock in the morning, Sir Richard Somerset disappeared. His body was discovered by his wife.”

“When was the discovery made?”

“Some time after midnight, according to Mrs. Somerset,” Valentine said. He peered at Rhiannon. “And how are you faring, Miss Moore?”

“Quite well, Inspector Valentine,” Rhiannon answered, giving him a smile. She liked the inspector, and he always treated her with a grave and sincere sort of courtesy.

“We had better go and speak to Mrs. Somerset,” Lina said, taking Rhiannon’s arm. “If you will excuse us, Harry.”

“So long as you don’t interfere in an official investigation, milady,” he replied, inclining his head.

Lina snorted and escorted Rhiannon into the house.

Minerva Somerset was a plump and pretty matron of indeterminate age. Her slightly graying hair was dressed in little ringlets; her fingers flashed with jewels. She regarded Lina with a somewhat jaundiced expression. “I cannot imagine what Richard was about, asking you to interfere in my darling Bertram’s affairs.”

“Do you refer to Mr. Somerset’s affair with the actress Charlotte Palmer?” Lina asked. “It was my understanding that Miss Palmer was blackmailing your husband using indiscreet letters sent to her by your son in which he recklessly promised marriage.”

Minerva waved a hand through the air, gemstones striking sparks in the early morning light. “The merest trifle, the indiscretion of a naïve, unworldly young man.”

“The breach of promise suit,” Lina prompted.

“An annoyance, to be sure, but not worth murder.”

“Mrs. Somerset, under what circumstances did you discover your husband’s body?” Rhiannon asked, knowing that Lina would want to know the answer to the question. She had come prepared to take notes, and jotted down everything said in a little mother-of-pearl notebook that she kept in her pocket for the purpose.

“It was around one o’clock in the morning. I had gone to the dining room to speak with our butler, Truemay, as I had found his after-dinner coffee to be an inadequate offering and wished to call him to account at once, while the matter was still fresh in my mind. As I spoke to Truemay, I glanced outside and saw my husband’s body in the garden, at the foot of the statue of Eros. It was obvious from the body’s position that Richard was beyond the aid of mortal man, therefore I instructed Truemay to send for the police without delay.”

Minerva turned in her seat at a noise from the doorway of the parlor, where she had deigned to meet with Lina and Rhiannon. “Ah, dear Bertram, do join us… although that creature with you may remain in the servant’s hall, if she must remain at all.”

Bertram came into the parlor, followed by a woman who sported hennaed hair and a daring décolleté. “Mother, you know that Charlotte isn’t a servant…”

“Well, she certainly doesn’t belong here!” Minerva said tartly. “Let her stay with those of her own class. How dare a female of low birth and dubious occupation pollute the atmosphere of the upper halls!”

Charlotte Palmer turned to go and halted in her tracks when Lina said, “Miss Palmer, may I have a word with you?”

“I am hardly in a position to object,” Charlotte murmured.

“I say, Charlie, don’t let anyone bully you!” Bertram cried.

“It’s all right, Bertie.”

“Oh, Lord, Bertram, get away from that woman!” Minerva squirmed on the couch and cast a supplicating look at a willowy, horse-faced girl in pink satin who sat in a chair opposite. “Jenny, can you not take your fiancée in hand?”

Jenny – Lady Jane Fanshaw, daughter of the Earl of Moncrieve – gave Somerset a withering glance and said to Minerva, “Far be it from me to prevent Bertie from making a ass of himself over a common tart.” She sniffed and elevated her nose in clear dismissal while Bertram Somerset’s bulging gaze traveled from his mother to his fiancée and back to his former lover Charlotte in a clear agony of indecisiveness.

“Pray excuse us, Mrs. Somerset. Thank you for your time.” Breaking the dead-lock, Lina rose to her feet and urged Charlotte out of the parlor and down the corridor. Rhiannon remained at her partner’s side, moving in a rustle of ivory taffeta skirts. As they walked, Lina introduced herself and Rhiannon to Charlotte Palmer.

“Now, Miss Palmer, perhaps you’d care to explain your relationship with Sir Richard and Bertram Somerset. I have been told that the police believe you may be involved in Sir Richard’s death. Tell me everything and I shall attempt to help you,” Lina said, staring down at Charlotte. The actress’ brave front dissolved without further prompting.

“Oh, Lady St. Claire! What am I to do? The police think I’m responsible for killing Richard but it isn’t true! I hated him but I would never have done him harm,” Charlotte said, her voice cracking. Lina drew the woman into a small room – a linen closet – and Rhiannon shut the door behind them after taking a candle from a hall table and lighting it with a lucifer. The air inside the closet was redolent with lavender and Charlotte Palmer’s desperation.

“Why five thousand pounds? Did you really suppose a self-made man, a noveau riche like Sir Richard, would pay a king’s ransom to hush up his son’s indiscretion?” Rhiannon asked, moved to pity by the actress’ tear-stained countenance.

“Not Bertram’s but Richard’s,” Charlotte sniffled, accepting the handkerchief that Rhiannon offered. “Before I met dear sweet Bertie, I was involved with Sir Richard himself. He was the one who introduced me to his son. It is my belief that he hoped a love affair would improve Bertie’s confidence. Believe me, I do love Bertie. He’s kind and gentle, a truly beautiful soul. He had no idea, of course, that Sir Richard was my former protector, and I never told him. I had letters from Bertie, true, but as far as I was concerned, the more valuable billet doux were from Richard himself.”

“And when you learned of Bertram’s engagement with Lady Jane Fanshaw…?”

“I lost my temper. The arrangement is not of Bertie’s choosing. Richard is selling Bertie off like a stallion at Tattersall’s, trading the heir to his fortune for the social respectability and connections that the daughter of an Earl can bring. I thought that if I made an impossible demand of Richard, he might at least be willing to negotiate.” Charlotte mopped her face with the handkerchief. “All I wanted was a little pension and a promise from Richard not to interfere if Bertie continued to see me after his marriage.”

“Adultery is…” Lina began, and was interrupted by Charlotte, who tossed her head and said with a gleam of defiance in her hazel eyes, “Expected of a wealthy gentleman, and you won’t hear too many wives complain so long as their husbands are discreet.”

“How did you come here to the house?” Lina asked, shifting the topic of the conversation to matters of less troublesome morality.

Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “Bertie sent me a note telling me that his mother had forbidden him from seeing me anymore. I needed to see him, and Richard, too. Mrs. Somerset is somewhat manic on the subject of infidelity, which is why I thought Richard might give me what I wanted rather than risk exposure. He holds the purse strings, but Mrs. Somerset’s connections among the beau monde are very important to him and his business. When Richard and I were together, he was quite frantic lest someone see us and inform his wife. I had the feeling that she had made it plain, in the early days of their marriage, that infidelity would not be tolerated. Mrs. Somerset is a woman used to having her own way.

“At any rate, I wanted to try to make Richard see reason. He’s the sort of man who doesn’t take one seriously unless one is holding an advantage, which those damnable letters gave me. I also wanted an opportunity to speak to Bertie. He doesn’t understand that he’s his own man. He doesn’t need Mama or Papa to make decisions for him.”

Lina rubbed her chin. “Are you familiar with the use of bow and arrow?”

“My father was a gamekeeper as well as a poacher,” Charlotte said with a bitter laugh, “which is how my family came to live in London after he was let go from Lord Valery’s estate for poaching his Lordship’s deer. I am no expert but I suppose that I could fit arrow to bow well enough to be accurate at short range. There’s no point in hiding my past, milady; the police will find out soon enough, if they don’t know already.”

“And they will consider you a chief suspect?” Lina asked.

“Naturally. I am a crow among swans, milady. The rest of the guests were titled and wealthy. I am a woman of uncertain means and dubious reputation. Even if I should be proved innocent in the end, an arrest will be enough to ruin my career and my livelihood.”

“Did you ever threaten Sir Richard?”

“I was angry. I may have said something… I don’t know.”

Rhiannon stifled a sneeze. The scent of lavender in the small room was almost overwhelming. “What happened last evening, Miss Palmer?”

“When the play was over – I have a small role in a West End production of The Rose of Amiens - I received a message from Richard. It was a nasty, insulting note filled with threats,” Charlotte said. “He was being quite horrid; Richard had an ugly side that roused when he was thwarted. Some of the things he wrote made me very angry, including the news that he had hired a detective whose sole purpose was to make my life a misery unless I entirely gave up any expectations I may have had.

“I came to Somerset House to confront him. Richard was a dark man with dark appetites and I feared his temper. Nevertheless, I hoped that here, in his own home – and surrounded by guests, as I found out – he would not make a scene. Alas, I never had the chance to see him. By the time I arrived in a hired cab, it was around midnight and Richard was nowhere to be found. Bertie was terrified that his mother or his fiancée might take umbrage at my presence, so he bade me remain hidden in the library. That was before Mrs. Somerset discovered Richard’s body and the police were fetched.”

“Are there any witnesses to your sojourn in the library?”

“No.”

Rhiannon suddenly remembered something that Minerva Somerset had said. She tugged Lina’s sleeve to gain her partner’s attention, and asked Charlotte, “Did you see Mrs. Somerset when you arrived?”

“I don’t…” Charlotte hesitated. “No, I don’t recall seeing Mrs. Somerset but the house was full of people and Bertie hurried me straight into the library.”

“Did you see the dining room?” Rhiannon asked, earning an odd glance from both Lina and Charlotte.

“Yes, Bertie took me through the dining room as it was empty of all save servants.”

“And were you able to see quite well in the room? The gas jets were lit and so on?”

Charlotte’s confusion was clear but she replied, “Yes. The illumination was quite bright, as servants were still cleaning the room.”

Understanding bloomed on Lina’s face. She gave Rhiannon a proud grin and said to Charlotte, “Miss Palmer, I believe that you have nothing to fear from the police.”

The door opened and Inspector Harry Valentine stood there, scowling. “I beg to differ, milady,” he said. “Miss Palmer, if you’ll come with me to Scotland Yard, I have some questions to ask of you.”

“Harry, do not arrest Miss Palmer, I beg you,” Lina said. “It would be a mistake.”

“Is that so, milady?” Valentine crossed his arms and regarded the tall, dark-haired woman with speculation in his storm-gray eyes. “I’m listening.”

Lina said, “What sort of arrow was used to kill Sir Richard? It is my understanding that each toxophilist’s arrow is unique in regards to color and fletching, in order to distinguish it from that of another archer.”

“The arrow used belonged to the Honorable William Yates, the younger son of the Duke of Godolphin,” Valentine replied, “but we’ve already established that young William couldn’t have killed Sir Richard, as he was caught by the butler in flagrante delicto with Mrs. Somerset’s maid. According to Truemay, Yates was drunk as a boiled owl and incapable of either rising to his feet or rising to the occasion.” The inspector chuckled. “Everyone’s bows and quivers were stacked in the mud room. It would have been easy for the killer to slip through the mud room, pick up a weapon, and nip straight out to the garden.”

“Do you recall Mrs. Somerset’s statement?” Rhiannon asked. “About finding her husband’s body in the garden.”

“She said that she was in the dining room. She looked out of the window and saw Sir Richard’s body. What of it? Seems straightforward to me,” Valentine said.

“At one o’clock in the morning, Harry,” Lina said insistently.

Valentine frowned, blonde brows drawing together over the bridge of his nose. “Milady, are you trying to make a point?”

“The dining room was well lit,” Rhiannon said. “The garden was not. The night was dark. Under those circumstances, it would be virtually impossible to see anyone or anything in the garden from the house. The only thing one would see in looking out of the window would be a reflection of one’s self in the glass panes.”

Valentine gaped at her a moment, then his mouth settled into a grim line. “Mrs. Somerset lied about that,” he said. “I wonder what other tales she may have told?” He spun about on his heel and stomped away in the direction of the parlor, presumably to further interrogate the dead man’s wife.

Charlotte’s eyes went wide in amazement. “Mrs. Somerset killed Richard?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Lina said with a shrug. “It seems likely. She must have found out that Sir Richard had an affair with you, Miss Palmer. A wife always knows, although she may pretend to ignorance for the sake of domestic tranquility. Seeing you at the house must have confirmed her worst suspicions. Killing her husband was the impulsive act of a jealous woman driven to violence by Sir Richard’s infidelity. It would have been easy for her to lure Sir Richard to the garden under some pretext, slipping out through the mud room and taking a handy weapon with her. As chair-mistress of the toxophily society, Mrs. Somerset must be a decent shot with bow and arrow. She might have gotten away with the crime, too, had it not been for that lie about seeing her husband’s body from the house.”

“Murder will out,” Rhiannon said.

“Charlie!” Bertram Somerset appeared, his gooseberry-pale gaze fastened hungrily on Charlotte’s face. “Darling! Are you all right?”

“Yes, Bertie,” Charlotte replied, moving easily into the scrawny man’s embrace. “I am very well, indeed.” She guided him down the corridor, talking softly while Somerset made contented noises and occasional wordless exclamations.

Rhiannon looked at Lina. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” she quoted.

“As always, the Bard of Avon is apt in his observations of human nature. Bertie has lost a Papa and a Mama – and presumably, a fiancée as well, as I do not think he will marry Lady Jane now – but he has gained an affectionate and loving companion, as well as his freedom and the fortune necessary to ease his passage through life. In that, we may suppose Mr. Bertram Somerset to be the most fortunate of men.” Lina took Rhiannon into her arms, blew out the candle and kicked the door shut.

In the gloom, smothered by the smells of lavender, candle wax and Lina’s own delicious personal scent, Rhiannon murmured, “And I am the most fortunate of women, for I have you, love.” Her head was spinning. She clung to Lina’s warm, firm body and buried her face in the bosom of the woman’s dress, the slippery silk cooling her flushed cheeks.

“My heart, mind, body and soul are yours,” Lina confirmed, tightening her arms around Rhiannon, hands splayed on her back, cupping her shoulder bones.

Their lips met in a kiss that was, at first, sweet rather than seductive. After a moment, Rhiannon tilted her head at an angle and deepened the kiss, sliding a hand into Lina’s hair to hold the other woman still while she suckled on the hot wet velvety tongue that invaded her mouth. She was hungry for her lover’s taste, well-nigh starved for it. Rhiannon savored the silent moans bubbling up from Lina’s throat as she made love to that perfect mouth.

Both women were so lost in the kiss that they failed to notice the door opening and revealing a maid’s white face before it slammed closed.

Lina broke away, panting harshly. She controlled herself until she was breathing normally, but her grip on Rhiannon’s biceps did not slacken one wit. “Shall I tell our carriage driver to take the scenic route home, my dear?” she asked.

Words caught on Rhiannon’s tongue, ensnared by desire. She nodded instead and found herself being tugged out of the closet, down the corridor, and out the door of Somerset House without further ado, in such haste that her feet scarcely touched the ground.

Lina pushed her into the waiting carriage and clambered inside, settling her body atop Rhiannon and pressing her down into the plush seats. The wheels crunched on the gravel drive as Henry set the horses in motion. Lina purred, “Where were we?”

Rhiannon proved more than happy to show her.

THE END

<~~~~~Return to the Library