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You should see her with a knife...
‘But if she saw something of the confrontation that had Norwood killed she might be keeping silent out of loyalty to her workers. Or—and this is what really does concern us—one of the neighbouring families might have been involved. She is very close to the MacFarlanes, is she not?’
‘This sounds like a complete farrago of nonsense,’ Gray said crisply. ‘It isn’t even making bricks without straw. You haven’t got the clay or the water either. All you have is a brave young man being killed fighting for his country, a grieving sister, reports of a mysterious Frenchman in the area and a dead riding officer who might have been killed at any point upstream from where he was found. And, frankly, from what I’ve heard of his activities, it was more likely a furious father or vengeful husband than an agent for the French. The local port producers of English and Scottish extraction have—and had—everything to gain from an Allied victory and nothing at all to gain from a French one.’
‘How so? The French had a substantial war chest for bribery.’
‘Do you think the French, victorious, would encourage the production of port? Britain is the biggest market and always has been, Portugal is England’s oldest ally. The French would ruin the industry.’
‘A good point. And I had heard rumours about Norwood’s womanising,’ Appleton admitted.
‘More than womanising. He was not above using force to get what he wanted.’ That was true as far as Gabrielle was concerned, so even if Norwood had never forced another unwilling woman Gray was quite happy to give the impression that he was.
The other man’s expression showed his distaste. ‘Disgraceful. How did you know?’ He narrowed his eyes as the obvious thought stuck him. Gray could have kicked himself for elaborating. ‘Not Miss Frost, surely?’
‘Certainly not. Local young women,’ Gray said. ‘Don’t ask me how I know, I was told in confidence.’
‘Then this could have nothing to do with the Frosts.’ It was not quite a question.
‘Upon my honour.’ Gray spoke without having to think about it, then braced himself for the self-loathing. He had just pledged his honour in a lie to a gentleman, to a fellow officer. But there was not a twinge. His conscience, his precious honour, were both silent.
Because I love her and I trust her and that was the right thing to do.
‘I think you are chasing a wild goose with this,’ he added.
‘I suspect you are correct,’ Appleton said with a sigh. ‘It felt as though I had a glimpse of something—the tail feathers of the proverbial goose vanishing around the corner, more like! Now I know about Norwood’s activities I have to agree. That is a much more likely explanation of his murder than a spy among the British port producers. They are all too ready with their knives in Portugal—just like the Spanish. And if the murder is unconnected with the French, then the rest is just too vague to trouble further with. Let’s open another bottle and drink to new beginnings.’
Chapter Nineteen
Two hours later, taking care how he placed his feet, Gray made his somewhat unsteady way home. Occasionally he prodded his conscience, much as he might a sore tooth, to see if it had woken up and was preparing to give him hell for lying on his honour. Not a twinge.
‘It is all about trust,’ he informed an unresponsive lamp post. ‘I trust her. I just need her to trust me. And why should she? She’s an intelligent woman with no reason to believe that once I’d got a ring on her finger I’d behave any differently from any other man.’
The lamp post offered no counterargument to this depressing statement, so Gray wandered on through the dark streets, in and out of the pools of light cast by the lanterns outside the smart town houses he passed. He was aware that he was a trifle bosky, but not so far gone that he did not keep a firm grip on his cane and an eye on the shadows, alert for trouble. The wealthier the district the richer the spoils for any footpad brave enough to try for a victim there.
‘It’s empistosýni... That’s what it is,’ he informed the startled footman who opened the door to him.
‘My lord?’
‘Trustfulness
. That’s what we need.’ So what was he doing thinking in Greek? That damned Alexander the Great again. Definitely drunk. Most definitely time to go to bed and dream of knots.
* * *
‘The Terringtons’ ball is always an event,’ Aunt Henrietta said, ten days later. ‘You cannot miss it.’
‘A ball before the Season starts?’ Gaby asked. ‘Surely no one is holding balls in early November.’
‘Augusta Terrington noticed how many people are up in town at this time of year and decided that a ball held now would stand out far more than one held when absolutely everyone was doing the same thing. And now people come early just to be in London in the hope of an invitation.’
‘So what is so special about it, other than being so early?’
‘Augusta transforms the ballroom with a different theme every year and guests are asked to dress accordingly. There are never any half measures—last year the theme was The Frozen North and even the footmen were wearing white from head to toe, their hair powdered with silver dust.’
‘So what is the theme this year, Stepmama?’ Lord Welford roused himself from the pose of languid boredom that he appeared to think made him appear a sophisticated man about town. ‘One needs time to find the perfect costume.’
‘It is still a secret,’ Aunt Henrietta said, leaning forward and lowering her voice as though they were in the middle of Almack’s and not in her own drawing room with only the three of them present. ‘But my abigail heard from Lady Fortune’s woman, who is walking out with one of the Terrington footmen that it is something to do with the Ottoman Empire because the staff are all being fitted with baggy trousers in silk and the footmen are going to be wearing embroidered waistcoats over bare chests!’
