Page 64 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Sloane was not the boy she had loved. But she had the uneasy feeling that she was falling in love with the man he’d become.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

NOW THAT THINGS felt slightly more settled—at least Asquith had relented and promised to send him that list of names—Sloane was finding it harder and harder to ignore the tension that had been brewing inside him ever since he had suggested that Annabeth stay with him at his house. It had been a ridiculous, foolish idea. How much more temptation could he really take before he did something he could not take back? But even now, Sloane knew that if he had it to do over, he would do exactly the same thing. He wanted Annabeth with him even more than he feared his dwindling control over his emotions.

After Sloane had instructed the driver to take them to Lord and Lady Edgerton’s, Annabeth leaned closer to him, her soft perfume filling his head with libidinous thoughts.

Damn, but it was hard to not yield to the impulse to kiss her, to woo her, to hold her in his arms. It had been difficult enough when she was young and naive, but somehow it was even more difficult to act the gentleman with the woman.

She was even more lovely than she had been then, her form more enticingly rounded, her face refined to sharper beauty. And there was a sense of experience that was written on her features now. He worried that much of that experience had been pain—and surely the lion’s share had been inflicted by him. But it made him want even more to protect her so she would never have to know such pain again. He shouldn’t even allow the thought of himself as her protector. He was more likely to be her downfall.

Or perhaps time had not changed her so much and instead he had forgotten exactly how she looked back then, his memory attempting to assuage his pain? He had carried a miniature of her—admittedly stolen from her father’s study, but that had seemed very minor compared to all his other sins—but he had not needed the reminder of her to call up her image in his mind. He could remember each line and curve of her face, the full underlip and the dimple that sprang up at one corner of her mouth.

Finally, taking pity on himself, he had stored the little painting away at the bottom of his trunk, and over the years he had thought of her less, ached for her less. He had ceased wishing that he had not done what he had to do. He had covered up that tender spot with steel, worn away his boyish emotions with reality.

Sloane wished to God he had not entangled his life with Annabeth’s again, but he knew he would not have given up this time with her for anything. It was hellish wanting her all the time, but it was a hell he relished. He was, in short, a fool.

WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Annabeth’s mother’s home, they found that Martha was not there. It was Lord Edgerton who greeted them.

“Welcome,” he said, though the glance he shot at Sloane was anything but friendly. “Please, sit down. It’s not often that you call on us, Annabeth. It’s so good to see you.”

“Thank you.” Annabeth tried to think of some polite way of saying that they wanted to talk to her mother and not him.

Sloane was not so careful of the niceties. “Miss Winfield was hoping to ask her mother a few questions. Do you know when Lady Edgerton will return?”

“She’s out shopping, so...” Edgerton gave them a thin smile and a shrug of the shoulders. “Is there anything I could help you with? I believe I can say without contradiction that my wife shares everything with me.”

“Mother had said she would show me the boxes that my father gave her.”

“Those boxes again?” His tone was a mixture of condescension and amusement. “Why this sudden interest in a few little boxes? I suspect that Martha has thrown them away.”

“I certainly hope not,” Annabeth said. “She said that she had some of them. In particular, I am looking for Papa’s traveling writing desk.”

“They’re important.” Sloane looked at Annabeth a little questioningly, and she nodded. Her stepfather was correct in saying that her mother shared everything with him; Lord Edgerton would know anything they told Martha soon enough.

“We’ve been to Mr. Winfield’s workshop,” Sloane went on. “The place where he died.”

“That seems a bit morbid, but what does it have to do with these boxes?”

“My father was murdered,” Annabeth said bluntly, annoyed at the man’s supercilious attitude.

“What?” Edgerton’s eyebrows shot up, and he stiffened in his chair. “Murdered? What nonsense. He died in a fall. It was an accident. Everyone knows that.”

“That is what everyone assumed,” Sloane stated. “No one actually saw him fall.”

“That doesn’t mean that he was murdered,” Edgerton protested. “I cannot imagine why you are spreading such nonsense.”

“We are not spreading it. You are the only person we have told. And it isn’t nonsense or idle conjecture. We looked at the staircase from which he fell. A board had been purposely loosened, nails taken out, so that it would unbalance Winfield and cause him to grab the banister for support. But the railing had been neatly sawn through on either side so that he would fall when he leaned against it.”

“Sawn through?” Lord Edgerton pushed up out of his chair. “You’re mistaken. I am certain that you are wrong.”

“I’m not,” Sloane returned flatly. “I know sabotage when I see it. Someone intended him to fall.”

“But someone would have seen that it had been sawn.”

“His distraught valet, who discovered him lying on the floor? His grieving widow or daughter? I doubt anyone really looked at the railing.”

Edgerton frowned. “I suppose...but it seems so unlikely. Why would anyone murder Winfield?”