Not pushing would, in reality, be a small price to pay, but it was proving harder than he’d thought. His focus on her was so all-absorbing that the temptation to stretch out a leg and brush her ankle with his boot was well-nigh overwhelming.
While he polished off the last of his sausages and eggs, he reminded himself that, her current uncharacteristic unresponsiveness notwithstanding, the interaction between them had been going well. The connection between them continued to grow and strengthen, or so he thought.
But what does she think?
How did she view what had developed—was still developing—between them?
Did she see a future for them yet? Or for her, had the novelty worn off?
He was staring at his empty plate and contemplating those questions when Rory appeared in the doorway.
One look at the groom’s face was enough to tell them all that he was the bearer of portentous news.
Adriana swiveled to face the doorway. “What is it?”
His eyes alight, Rory stepped into the dining room. “Well, first off, you don’t need to hurry. Only just come down to breakfast, our man has.” He looked at Nicholas. “Young Gillies, Jed, and Mike are still there, keeping watch, but we thought I should come and report that we’ve learned the man’s name.”
“You have?” came from several throats.
“How?” Dickie asked.
“Well, Young Gillies got along well with Quilley before, so he slipped in and asked Quilley who the gent was. Made out like he’d seen him before somewhere, and Quilley obliged and told Young Gillies the man was a Mr. Wesley Kirkwood.”
“What?”
Along with everyone else, Nicholas looked at Viola.
She’d paled to a remarkable degree, and her hand shook as she set down her knife. She stared, horrified, at Rory, then swallowed and asked, “Wesley Kirkwood—you’re sure that was the name?”
Rory bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what Quilley told Young Gillies.”
Phillip reached out and closed his hand about Viola’s. When she looked at him, still plainly stunned, he gently asked, “Who is Wesley Kirkwood?”
Viola blinked, then swallowed and said, “He’s a cousin of Styles. He was here for the funeral and came to the house for the wake. Before that, I hadn’t seen him for years. Oh—” She broke off, pressed her fingers to her lips, and turned shocked eyes to Nicholas, Adriana, and Dickie. A second later, she lowered her hand. “Wesley called about a month ago. He said he was traveling north and begged room for the night, and of course, I agreed.”
Viola’s featured hardened as did her gaze. “He was late down to breakfast the next morning. I’d been up and about downstairs for some time. He said he’d slept late, but”—she looked at Phillip—“he must have searched my room and taken the letters then.”
Various comments colored the air.
Viola’s expression was outraged. “I thought his visit odd at the time, but from Styles, I’d understood that the family considered Wesley a law unto himself.”
“If he’s acting as the agent of a blackmailer…” Nicholas broke off and frowned. “But it sounds as if Wesley was the one who stole the letters.”
Adriana was also frowning. “How did this Kirkwood know about the letters? Or at least, know there was a possibility they might exist?”
Phillip grimaced and gently squeezed Viola’s hand. “No matter how careful one is, there are always rumors.” He met Viola’s eyes. “Kirkwood must have guessed he might find something…useful in an incriminating way in your bedroom.”
Adriana fixed Viola with a questioning gaze. “What can you tell us of Wesley Kirkwood?”
Viola readily replied, “My understanding is that he leads the life of a bachelor gentleman, knocking about London.” She shrugged. “He’s in his latter thirties and, apparently, has funds enough. When he called, he was dressed well, and as far as I’ve ever heard, he’s never asked anyone in the family for money.”
Nicholas asked, “When he called, either after the funeral or more recently, did he make any comment that could have suggested he resented you inheriting the estate and all your husband owned?”
Viola clearly thought back, but eventually, she shook her head. “No. I can’t remember him ever mentioning anything to do with the estate or funds.”
“Have you ever got the impression that he was particularly interested in horses?” Nicholas asked.
“He drove himself when he visited, but other than that, I’ve never heard anything to suggest he was any more horse-mad than Styles.” She met Nicholas’s eyes and weakly smiled. “Which is to say not at all. Unlike you”—she glanced at the three Sommervilles, including them—“all of you, to Styles and, I feel certain, to Wesley as well, horses are merely a means of conveyance, nothing more.”
