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Suddenly her lungs did fine imitations of rabid dogs, snarling and snapping at her. MUST HAVE AIR, they said. Her eyeballs hurt, the cold pressure of the water unbearable. She released her held breath in a flurry of bubbles and beat her way to the surface.
Charlotte came up with a shudder and a gasp. She swam lamely to the side and hoisted herself onto the grassy bank.
“You’re trembling,” said Eddie, putting his coat around her shoulders.
“Colder than I thought,” she said, even though it was exactly as cold as an English pond in midsummer should be. But she was definitely trembling. There was a BMW sitting on the bottom of the pond. And that’s a heavy, expensive piece of scenery to dump underwater. And there was no logical reason Colonel Andrews would have put it there as part of his little Gothic mystery. And that meant someone else had for other reasons. And the only reason she could think of was—
“Let me take you inside,” said Eddie.
“Body,” she said.
“What?”
“I … yes, inside. Please.”
The only reason to dump a car in a pond was to hide it, since the owner wouldn’t be driving it home. Because the owner was dead. And stashed in the trunk. Surely the guards at the gate, under Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s orders, wouldn’t allow any car through to disrupt the Regency ambience—any car besides the master’s, that is. His would have been the only car on the premises that night, the only one to leave those tracks in the mud. Mr. Wattlesbrook was in the trunk of his car at the bottom of the pond, and the murderer was likely someone at Pembrook Park. Someone who’d been on-site to kill him, leave his body in the secret room, dump it out the window after the game of Bloody Murder, get it to the car, and drive the car into the pond to conceal the dirty deed.
She was barely aware that she was wearing Eddie’s black jacket. His arm went around her as they walked back. Neville was dusting the dinner gong in the front hall. He looked over Charlotte in her chemise drippiness.
“Mrs. Cordial fell off her horse and into the watering trough,” Eddie said. “It can happen, you know.”
“Quite, sir,” said Neville. He eyeballed Charlotte’s dry dress hanging over Eddie’s arm, perhaps wondering why Charlotte had undressed before falling into a trough.
Eddie winked at him and walked Charlotte to her room.
“Do you require any further assistance?” Eddie asked.
“Thanks, I’m just going to get out of these clothes and bathe off the pond scum.”
“Are you going to ring for your maid?”
“No. I’d rather not have to explain why I’m soaked.”
“I could help with the laces,” he said.
She laughed and wagged her finger. Sly dog, such a womanizer, even though I’m his sister—ew, is that creepy?
But his expression was serious.
“Well …” she said, considering his offer. A corset was hard enough to take off without help, maybe impossible when wet.
He entered the room and shut the door behind him, the click like an alarm bell.
Charlotte backed away, her fingers and toes tingling with adrenaline. Why had he shut the door? He knew. About Mr. Wattlesbrook. And the car in the pond. And the only way he would know was if—
“Shy, dear sister? I promise not to look.” He kept coming forward.
“Why did I want to swim in that pond today?” she demanded of him.
“Because you are half mad?” he said with a smile, innocent dimples showing.
“You know why, Eddie, don’t you?” She backed into the window, and her fingers searched for the latch. If she screamed, would someone hear?
He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot fathom the complexities of your thoughts. I gave up understanding women long ago. Charlotte, you are the only woman I dare comprehend, and right now even you have left me leagues behind.”
“I have?”
“Speaking of behind, turn yours toward me so I can undo you. I don’t like how you are shivering.”
