Sir Robin squawked at something behind the desk.
Clio looked away from Helena, rising on her toes to see her raven. ‘Sir Robin, come away from there!’
In a flapping of feathers, he flew up and landed on his familiar’s shoulder. Something glittered in his beak. Clio held out her hand.
‘Naughty bird! We don’t borrow. Remember? What have you found?’
Blinking an obsidian eye at his mistress, he dutifully dropped the object into Clio’s palm. A locket, rubies glinting in the centre with a golden snake wrapped around it, was marred by a crusted splattering of blood. The jewellery was far too expensive to belong to anyone but the lady of the house.
‘Blast,’ Clio muttered.
Helena raised a copper brow at her cousin. ‘It would seem the facts are leading us to Lady Burrows.’ She strode forward and plucked the jewellery from her cousin’s open hand.
‘Murderer!’ Sir Robin ruffled his feathers at Hamlet, who yipped his reply.
‘Indeed,’ Helena agreed.
‘We don’t know this is hers. Her husband was notoriously unfaithful. Perhaps this belongs to one of his paramours.’
‘There is only one way to find out.’ Turning, Helena led the way to Lady Burrows’ front parlour, her fox faithfully slinking along at her heel.
3
Cynthia looked up in surprise as Helena Blair walked into her parlour. The woman’s pet, a fox named Hamlet, peered at her from behind Helena’s sea foam green skirt. Both fox and female had hair the colour of a dying sun: burnt umber, copper, a hint of crimson. Cynthia was momentarily distracted from her disastrous situation by the play of sunlight in such gloriously rich colour.
But why is Helena here?
Clio’s cousin had rejected any overture Cynthia made of friendship. Her blatant refusal to accept invitations to tea parties, salons, garden parties, or countless outings to Gunter’s and Rotten Row with Clio and Ellie during the summer season had stung most acutely. Knowing how close Clio was to her cousin and sister, Cynthia had wanted to create an intimate friendship among the four women. They were family now, after all. But Helena stubbornly refused.
Cynthia was no glutton for punishment. She had stopped reaching out only to have her hand of friendship slapped away. Yet the confounding woman chose this day to finally cross Cynthia’s threshold.
Bewildering.
Before she could enquire as to Helena’s presence, Clio stepped through the door. The well of emotions Cynthia had been valiantly trying to contain escaped in a flood as she stood and rushed to her friend.
Clio embraced her as dear Sir Robin rubbed his sleek head over Cynthia’s cheek. Tears fell in a waterfall. A horrifying display of weakness, but one she couldn’t help.
‘We’ll sort this all out, Cynthia. I promise.’ Clio’s murmured words brought a measure of comfort, and after a few moments, Cynthia regained her composure. Pulling a lace handkerchief from where she had tucked it in her sleeve, she wiped her eyes and attempted a wobbly smile. Clio led her back to the settee where she had been sitting.
‘Thomas, could you have someone bring us fresh tea?’ Clio asked her husband, who quickly rang the bell.
‘I’m being remiss in my duties.’ She was usually an excellent hostess who never forgot to ensure her guests had refreshments. Cynthia’s thoughts wouldn’t align themselves in any semblance of order. Which wasn’t like her at all. She was calm. Cool. The consummate lady of the house. Not some dithering idiot.
‘She needs brandy, not tea.’ Helena’s sharp words cut through the haze of Cynthia’s scattered thoughts.
‘I most certainly do not.’ It wasn’t even noon yet, though the stormy sky outside made it feel much later.
You most certainly do.
Turning her head sharply at the new voice, she looked for another member of their party, but it was just the five of them. Alarm shot through her like a lightning bolt. Because the voice did not belong to any person in the room, yet it rang in her ear as clear as a bell. Snarky with the hint of a lisp.
Hamlet, the fox, licked his chops in the same manner a man might smooth his moustache. Which was absurd. Yet she wasn’t imagining the sparkle of intelligence in his golden eyes.
I’m hearing voices. Dear God. I’m losing my mind.
Before she could process the possibility, Helena’s gaze narrowed on her. She was certain the cold woman could see through Cynthia’s perfectly styled hair, her expertly tailored morning gown the exact colour of a ripe apricot, the fine layer of pearl powder her maid brushed over her cheeks, the glittering rope of amber beads draped around her neck. Helena dismantled all the details making Cynthia a lady of consequence in the beau monde. She peeled back the layers hiding Cynthia’s soul beneath the expertly coiffed image of respectability. But what did she see under the disguise? Cynthia wasn’t sure herself who lived beneath her carefully constructed costume.
Helena pressed her lips into a firm line. Cynthia absently noted their shape was quite beautiful, even compressed as they were in an expression of frustration.
