‘Edmund, what on earth are you doing?’
‘I’ve had an extremely upsetting day,’ said Edmund. ‘Police statements and that wretched Trixie Smith’s murder. Poor woman,’ he added conscientiously. ‘And so I just thought a little human warmth might—And you said you were footloose and fancy-free.’ This came out in a slightly injured-sounding voice.
‘Yes, but we’re cousins!’ said Lucy, backing away from him. ‘I can’t—I mean, not with you I can’t! It’s – it’s very nearly creepy!’
Creepy. She would pay for that one day, the bitch. Edmund turned away as if he had lost interest, but he was having to beat down a strong desire to grab her and force her against him. And then? Back into the sitting-room, to that deep comfortable sofa before the fire? Or into her bedroom, which he had never seen…? An image of Lucy, her hair rippling against white sheets, rose up tauntingly, but he only said, in an offhand voice, ‘We’re quite distant cousins as a matter of fact. William Fane was my real uncle – he was my father’s brother – and Deborah only became my aunt when she and William were married. So you and I aren’t actually related at all, Lucy. But we’ll forget it. It was only an idea I had for a moment.’ Your loss, my dear, said his tone. ‘I hope there’s semi-skimmed milk to go with that coffee,’ said Edmund. ‘I only ever drink semi-skimmed milk these days.’
After Edmund had gone, Lucy washed up the dishes, her mind churning.
That had been a very odd encounter. But she must surely have jumped to a wrong conclusion. ‘Oh, Lucy, you’re such a romantic under that tough fa?ade,’ Edmund had said, and his tone had been that of someone deliberately injecting a caress into his voice. A seductive caress. And then, in the kitchen, he had forced that embrace, and that had been the most un-Edmund thing of all, in fact Lucy had found it slightly sinister.
But there was nothing sinister about Edmund, just as there was nothing come-hitherish about him. She must have misread the whole thing. And he had spent most of his afternoon tussling with the police about being at Ashwood with Trixie Smith – yes, he had said something about wanting some human warmth after an upsetting day. He had probably been agonizing about Lucretia being splashed all over the Sunday newspapers because of this murder, as well; Edmund, of all the family, had always hated anything to do with Lucretia. Poor old Edmund, thought Lucy determinedly.
But it was still odd that he had so readily driven all the way to Ashwood that day to meet Trixie Smith. Not because of the distance, or because of the disruption it must have made to his carefully ordered life…
Because of Crispin.
It was rather a pity that Lucy had not responded to his approach, although there might be other opportunities. As Edmund drove out of London, he smiled in the driving mirror as he considered this possibility. And at least it had knocked her away from talking or thinking about Crispin, which had been the real aim. (Or had it? Be honest, Edmund. Yes, of course, it had!)