“S-soft?” she stuttered, damn her voice, and she gazed up into Lucas’s face.
Leaning his muscular frame against her chair, he reached across and snatched a piece of toast from the rack. “Apparently, you called Stone and I soft?”
“D-did I?” She coughed delicately, bringing a serviette to her lips.
“It appears so.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Quaggy.”
She couldn’t help a smirk. “Please tell me it’s a word?”
“Seems it is.”
“Hah! I thought I’d read it somewhere, but Benedict is always so positive he’s right.”
“What I want to know is in what context you were calling us boggy and soft.”
“I couldn’t possibly say. Woman’s prerogative and all that.” She smiled smugly.
“Hmm. I will find out. I always find out the truth eventually.”
That sentence caused Rosalind’s grin to falter. Yes, he probably did, and that worried her. “What are your plans for today?” she asked, leaning forward to pour herself another cup of tea.
He must have sensed her withdrawal and took himself away to stand by the fireplace.
It seemed such a dichotomy: the tall, broad man with the life-roughened face standing next to the pristine marble nymphs that adorned either side of the surround. She’d told Benedict they were silly, but he’d replied that nymphs were of the mode and now Rosalind had to look at their scantily clad bodies every breakfast.
“I’m to call first thing at the Lamberts’ to ask them about this mysterious man Bridget was seen with. I’ll be back early afternoon, when I hope to speak with Stone and yourself, see if you can shed any light on a few things, and then I have a meeting, probably a long one, with Sir Hector.”
Nodding, she absently dumped three spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. At least she had the morning to prepare herself as she’d seen Lucas’s questioning first-hand and it wasn’t always pleasant.
Sipping from the bone china cup and wondering why it was far too sweet, she scowled. It was as if he didn’t remember last night, as if it had never happened.
Instantly, she felt guilty: he did have murders to investigate and couldn’t spend his time dallying with her. It was just, when in his company, she felt so…contented.
“By the way,” he called out.
Rosalind groaned – not another man that said those words as he left the room; she would have to cultivate the habit.
“We will begin our riding lessons tomorrow. On the hour of ten, sharp.”
Warmth curled up her body. He did remember…
A dank scotch mist engulfed Lucas as he made his way back from the Lamberts’, the type that at first seemed soft and gentle but then permeated every drop of clothing until all of a sudden, you were drenched. At least the horse was able and sure-footed as Lucas gently nudged the animal right at the fork in the track. The best thing about staying at Stonebridge, apart from the obvious, was the steady supply of prime horses.
The Lamberts had been easy to talk to. They couldn’t wait to tell him all – if only everybody was like that. Yes, they were a little nosy and, dare he say, happy to be part of the investigation, but they were also helpful and open.
They’d seen Bridget kissing a man only a few days before her death. Unfortunately, they hadn’t seen him clearly, so the description was rather lacking. He was dark-haired, but that only precluded a few people and anyway, he hadn’t necessarily been the killer.
The horse chose that moment to shake its head violently, coating Lucas in a fine spray.
Despite the three capes on his greatcoat, he could feel the cold drizzle slowly seeping into his jacket beneath. He hunched his shoulders and flicked the reins, speeding the animal along.
The investigation was proving difficult.
The murderer had, since Miss Risley’s death, had plenty of time to dispose of any blood-stained clothes. Most people could not remember their whereabouts when Bridget had been murdered, but a few had seen Miss Risley walking to the village early that day; she had never bought her ribbons.
