“Is this a particular habit of yours, Miss Caulfield?”
“What?”
“Bestowing your admiration upon men who press unwanted attentions upon you. If it is, I should advise you to alter that practice at once. Not all men are as honorable as I or as clumsy as Anders.”
“It is not a habit. I have only done it once.”
His lips hinted at a smile.
“Mr. Anders, of course,” she said.
He looked toward the door. “Monsieur Brazil!”
“Oui, my lord?”
“Bring me Romeo’s poison now so that I might mix it into my nightcap.”
“Oui, my lord.”
Ravenna laughed. Lord Vitor offered her a one-sided grin and she tried not to notice that he was even handsomer than usual when he smiled.
Monsieur Sepic appeared before them. “Bonsoir, monseigneur. Mademoiselle.” He affected a charming bow to each of them. His cheeks were rosy with wine and general infatuation. He pointed a single finger upward and ticked it back and forth. “Tsk-tsk, monseigneur et mademoiselle,” he said with a delighted frown. “I have heard of your petit enquête and I do not approve of it. You must cease these detections that you are doing without my approval and leave the murdering to the police.”
Ravenna pinned her lips together.
“Me comprenez-vous? Do you understand?”
“Perhaps better than yourself, sir,” Lord Vitor said with a lazy smile.
“Monsieur Sepic, I am certain the other guests are eager to know your assessment of the handwriting samples,” she said. “What did you discover?”
He shook his head with little twitches. “Rien. I found no duplicates. But I suspected this. A murderer would seek to disguise his hand, non?”
“I suppose,” Ravenna said, wishing she could pluck the page from his pocket and study it herself. “But have you all of the evidence? Perhaps you have missed something else.”
“Non. Impossible.”
Frustration bubbled in her. “Perhaps we have collected evidence that you do not have yet. If so, we will gladly share it with you.”
“What is this—this evidence?” He scoffed. “You can know nothing that I and my deputy have not already uncovered.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
She glanced at Lord Vitor. He was not smiling, but the crease in his cheek was pronounced.
“What about the ring?” she said.
The mayor’s eyes went blank. “The ring?”
“Mr. Walsh’s ring. Did you examine it?”
“The ring? Ah, the ring.” He nodded. “I examined it thoroughly, mademoiselle.”
“Then you must have noted the wound on one of the guests’ eyes that corresponds perfectly to the ridge on Mr. Walsh’s ring?” She twisted her lips. “But, upon consideration, I don’t believe that wound has anything to do with the murder. It is merely a coincidence. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The mayor’s back stiffened. “But of course, mademoiselle. I have considered all.” He frowned at Lord Vitor. “Monseigneur, you must not allow a woman to imagine for herself the notions of rationality which are beyond the nature of her sex. It is unlawful. Furthermore, it is immoral.” He pivoted upon his heel and returned to the others at the tea table.
Ravenna bit her lip.
“Miss Caulfield, do you imagine for yourself notions of rationality beyond the nature of your sex?” Lord Vitor said.
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Excellent.”
RAVENNA AWOKE TO the pale sunlight of early morning. Turning onto her side, she remembered the evening and her pleasure in it, and she ached with the delicious fullness that happiness always gave her, the giddy delight that ran through her from toes to fingertips. She hadn’t known such happiness in months. Until last night.
Dragging the bolster to her, she wrapped her arms around it and pressed her face into the linen. For the briefest moment she allowed herself to imagine it was Vitor Courtenay.
The shock of heat that went through her tore a gasp from her mouth.
She thrust away the bolster, sat up, and pushed hair from her face. Her heartbeats pounded, as though she had raced with Beast across the breadth of the south field. Staring at the bolster, she set her fingertips upon her cheeks, then recoiled from the heat there. She could not quite breathe. If she were medically examining herself, she would diagnose a spastic fever.
She climbed from the bed and dressed, but she could not shake off the hot agitation. Still light-headed, she left her bedchamber and from an open door along the corridor heard a banshee’s scream.
Chapter 13
The Rationality of Female Nature
What in the hell was the purpose of retiring at midnight when a man was to be awoken at two o’clock, three o’clock, five o’clock, and dawn? Vitor pressed his palms into the mattress, forced his shoulders off the bed, and craned his neck to peer at the mongrel perched on its haunches a foot away from his face.
It whined again.
Vitor scrubbed a palm over his face and stared into its plaintive eyes. “You cannot possibly require another outing.”
The whine redoubled.
Vitor dropped his brow to the mattress and groaned. A man had servants for this sort of thing, for God’s sake. Damn his valet for agreeing to remain in the village.
A thought jarred him. Men did have servants for this sort of thing. Sir Beverley Clark did, certainly. In an instant, with no effort whatsoever, Vitor imagined Ravenna entering his bedchamber haloed in morning sunlight, removing the dog from his bed and magically placating it, then taking its place beside him.
He buried his face in his hands, and his groan of frustration halted the dog’s whine.
Elsewhere in the castle, a woman screamed.
Vitor was out his bedchamber door before he entirely pulled on breeches and shirt. His only need was haste, his only thought Ravenna. Bolting down the gallery, he snatched a sword from the wall and scaled the stairs to the ladies’ bedchambers.
Standing in gray light, wearing nightclothes, a cluster of women peered through an open door. Miss Abraccia turned her head toward him and her eyes went wide.
He moved through the women into the chamber. Miss Feathers lay prone upon her bed, her eyes wide and glassy, a tangle of white fabric soaked in red about her. Ravenna sat at the end of the bed, her hand on Miss Feathers’s ankle.
“It is wine,” she said. “No one is harmed.”
Miss Feathers’s eyes closed and a great convulsive sob shook her.
Vitor lowered the sword.
“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Ravenna said. Her gaze slipped over his open collar, then skittered away. “What an impressive weapon that is.” Dusky rose crept into her cheeks.
He set down the rapier and moved forward. “It was the first thing that came to hand.”
“A pot of bleach would be more welcome.” She avoided looking at him now.
“What has happened?”
Miss Feathers sobbed quietly. “I beg your pardon for screaming.” Another sob. “It is nothing.”
Nothing had his heartbeats slowing from their frantic pace. The night before, after he’d poured a bottle of brandy down Sepic’s throat, the mayor had finally produced the page of writing samples. At least five bore some resemblance to Walsh’s note. He’d spent considerable time in the monastery’s scriptorium, and he could analyze this evidence well enough; the lightness of stroke and curvature of the letters pointed to a female scribe.
The scream from the ladies’ wing of the castle had turned his blood to ice. But she was safe. He could now breathe again.