“Which brothel did you grace with your presence?”
“I’d rather not say as I wasn’t alone.”
“The entire reason for going to a brothel is not to be alone, is it not? Which one?”
Bishop shifted forward and placed his elbows on his desk. “I don’t see how my whereabouts has any bearing whatsoever on Mallard pressing charges against me either for striking him or sharing favors with his wife.”
“I’m not here for either of those reasons.”
“Then why the devil are you disturbing my day?”
“Bertram Mallard was murdered shortly before midnight Thursday night. Your dealings with him are cause for suspicion, especially as you were overheard to vow that you’d deliver him straightaway to hell.”
On Sunday afternoon Bishop sent word to Chastity Bowles to come to his residence at seven that evening if at all possible. If her husband intercepted his missive, then perhaps the man would begin to question his wife’s frequent absences and she might obtain the divorce she wanted. She arrived at seven on the dot, and Bishop cursed her husband for paying so little attention to her that she could meet with him on very little notice.
He was waiting in the foyer when she arrived, as always, dressed in a lovely evening gown, her silvering hair styled to perfection and adorned with a solitary ostrich feather. She was no doubt the most punctualwoman he’d ever met and possibly the most joyful, in spite of her unhappy marriage. Her smile was bright, her eyes aglow. He enjoyed her teasing manner immensely. They each possessed the ability to make the other laugh, although he suspected she’d send no giggles his way tonight.
“It was rather exciting receiving an unexpected missive from you,” she said gaily. “I quite like the notion of us meeting on a night that’s not usually ours.”
He was rather regretful that he was going to disappoint her, but before he could respond, she carried on. “Aren’t you ravishing?”
“That’s a term more aptly applied to women, I think,” he said with a grin.
“Nonsense. Besides, I suspect you grow weary of having the termhandsomethrown at you all the time.”
“Never.” Although truth be told, he’d never understood what it was about his dark features that appealed to women. They seemed a bit rough-hewn around the edges to him, or perhaps it was that he saw too much of his father in the jagged landscape of his face. “Let’s retire to the parlor, shall we?”
He offered his arm, and she stared at it as though unfamiliar with the appendage. “We’re not going straight to your bedchamber?”
“Not tonight. I have a matter to discuss with you.”
Her delicate brow furrowed, the light in her blue eyes seemed to dim. He’d never before truly noticed nor realized that blue eyes came in different shades. Hers were a cerulean, whereas Marguerite’s, if captured just right by light, could appear almost gray, like a storm cloud on the horizon, with a brighter sky simply waiting to make its appearance. The musing trainspeeding down a track he didn’t wish to travel came to a careening stop when Chastity finally placed her hand on his arm.
He led her into the parlor where two glasses of chardonnay—her preferred wine—were already waiting. After settling her on the sofa, he took the chair opposite her and waited while she took a swallow, two. Then she smiled. “You must have the finest wine cellar in all of England.”
“Only in London, I suspect. I’ve never seen the point in spending money on swill. When I was younger and not quite so flush, I would save up until I could afford one good bottle of wine rather than purchasing several bottles that didn’t measure up.”
“I’ve learned more about wine during our three months together than I did during the entirety of my life before that.”
He leaned forward. “That’s what I need to talk to you about, Chastity.”
“My enjoyment of wine?” she asked hopefully.
“No, our time together. I’m afraid we’re going to need to stop seeing each other.”
She smiled elatedly, not the reaction he’d anticipated. “You’ve fallen in love, haven’t you? With that very pretty maid, Daisy. I knew you fancied her.”
“What? No!” With his need to put distance between her and her preposterous words, he straightened so fast and flung himself back into the chair with such force that his wine sloshed over the rim of his glass. “No. No. I’m being investigated for murder.”
The sweet and amused laughter trilled out of her. “Oh, my Lord! Only you would see falling in love to be a worse outcome than hanging.”
He supposed his reaction did seem rather absurd. But love was the very last thing he needed or wanted. It would do nothing except muddle his life.
“I’m unlikely to hang. I didn’t do it, but the situation does complicate our arrangement. I hate to leave you in the lurch before your damned husband has taken any notice of your frequent absences, but my footman Tom has seen you enough times in my bedchamber that he could serve as a witness at least to your visits and where they led. I’d shared with you my suspicions regarding Daisy being a possible inquiry agent, and they were spot-on. She could also testify to your presence in my bedchamber. If you were to confess to coming here to your husband, raise his ire, then he might finally take matters in hand and seek a divorce.”
“Mmm.” She took another sip of her wine. Then another. “About my husband... I haven’t been entirely honest there. He died two months ago.”
Blinking, dumbfounded, Bishop stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
