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She was shivering, her arms around her chest, her chemise clinging to her skin like a frog’s tongue to dinner. But was he here to kill her? She’d shown her hand. Colonel Andrews had said that Eddie hit Mr. Wattlesbrook in the face. That showed an inclination for violence toward the man. Did they have some history? If Eddie had killed him and dumped his car, Eddie now knew that she knew, and that she knew that he knew that she knew too. There was a lot of knowing going on. But then why not just kill her at the pond and bury her there as well?
“No … I’ll … I’ll do it. You can go.”
Eddie made a noise of exasperation and closed the space between them. Should she call for help? Why was she hesitating? Scream already!
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled sharply, but the scream lodged frozen and useless in her chest. His cold fingers lifted her wet hair from her neck and placed it over her shoulder. She clenched her jaw, anticipating his hands circling her neck, tightening, trapping her breath in with the unscreamed scream till everything turned dark as midnight.
Except his hands left her neck. She felt light tugging on her back, and in moments her corset was loose on her chest, held up by her arms alone. His hands dropped away. She opened her eyes.
“That was fast,” she said, still not turning around. She spoke softly, her heart beating so hard it shook the breath out of her. “You must have practice.”
“One of the many duties of a gentleman. Now I will leave you to your mysterious womanliness.”
And he left.
He hadn’t killed her. Just a few moments before she’d been sure he was going to kill her. And she’d submitted her corset lacings to him without a plan of escape or attack. Because he was Eddie. And she was nice. Wow, that’s an eye-opener.
Since she was still alive and breathing, she took a bath. There wasn’t a lock on her bathroom door either.
She submerged her head under the warm water and saw again the car, sunken like a child’s toy in a goldfish bowl. If Mr. Wattlesbrook, inebriated on fine sherry, drove the wrong way in the dark till he found water gushing in the car windows, he would either drown in the car or flee. He certainly wouldn’t remove the keys and lock the doors.
She dressed for dinner sans corset—since she only had the one and it was sopping—and hoped no one would notice. Would a drowned BMW be enough evidence to merit calling the police? Perhaps, but she still had no idea who’d done it, and that was the whole point of a whodunit, after all. Besides, she felt compelled to figure this out, exactly in the way she hadn’t figured out James. She needed a direction to point her finger, but rifling through everyone’s personal belongings to look for a bloodstained dagger might not be exactly Regency appropriate.
She came out of her room just as Miss Gardenside emerged from hers.
“Good evening, Charlotte,” she said without a trace of worry.
Just how could Miss Gardenside immerse herself so completely in a different character? And what had happened to that dreadful consumption?
Charlotte smiled uneasily and hurried ahead, taking the stairs alone. Coming up was Mrs. Wattlesbrook. She barely acknowledged Charlotte. Her eyes were hooded, as if she hadn’t slept well for days. Gnawed by guilt? She recalled the glimmer of a smile on the woman’s face when Charlotte had claimed her fictional husband had died a painful and tragic death.
Charlotte leapt down the last three steps and entered the dining room. The maids continued preparing for dinner, their glances taking her in. Suspiciously? Charlotte tried not to make eye contact. Neville approached, his thin arms behind his back.
“May I be of service?”
She was too freaked out to attempt a casual inquiry. “Neville, how many servants are employed here?”
“Let me see … kitchen, maids, stables, gardeners—seventeen all told.”
Seventeen!
“They all live on the property? Do any of them come and go?”
“They return home to visit family. However, all seventeen remain here for the duration of our guests’ stays.”
She nodded. She didn’t know what else to ask except, Hey, are any of your staff potential murderers?
“Forgive me for the observation, Mrs. Cordial, but you are curious. It reminds me of what happened to the cat.”
Charlotte swallowed. Was that a warning from a man so infatuated with his mistress he’d kill for her? Or from a butler who wished her gone from
his tidy dining room?
She scurried out, shutting the doors behind her.
The usual six were in the drawing room, and all their faces turned to her as she entered. Her heart stuck to her ribs, too frightened to beat. Someone in here was probably a murderer. Did they suspect what she knew? Or were they staring because they noticed she wasn’t wearing a corset?
“I propose a game,” she said. “I’ve been inspired by the colonel’s mystery. Let’s say …” She cleared her throat, starting to lose her nerve. “Let’s say there’s been a murder in the house, and one of us is guilty. The victim could be, oh … Mr. Wattlesbrook,” she said casually, “since he hasn’t returned.”
