His amusement deepening, although he did his best to hide it, Richard replied, “It was that or have him stab me in the chest. I chose the less damaging option.”
“You could have let him run. He would have been caught.”
Richard sobered. “I couldn’t let him get away, not after what he did to Regina.” He paused, then added, “What he was planning was beyond despicable.”
Rosalind met his gaze, then sighed. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you.” She looked at the bandage. “You’re as healthy as a horse, and I expect that will heal with no lasting damage.”
Smiling gently, Richard reached for her. “I expect so, too.” He drew her into his arms and looked into her lavender-blue eyes. “But truth be told, it’s rather nice to have you fussing.”
She primmed her lips, then, still holding his gaze, ventured, “I’ve heard that reacting as I did to you being wounded…says something. About how I feel.”
Richard readily nodded. “I’ve heard the same.” As she leaned against him, and something inside him purred with pleasure, he said, “I suspect that means we really should get married.”
Smiling up at him, she arched a brow. “And not just dance around the subject?”
“Exactly. I feel we’ve discussed the possibilities sufficiently. We’ve already agreed we suit.” Looking into her eyes, he arched his brows back. “So, when do you think we should tie the knot?”
“After today?” Rosalind’s lips firmed. “As soon as possible.”
Richard laughed. “I agree.” Smoothly, he tightened his arms about her and bent his head, and she stretched upward, and he found her lips with his.
The kiss commenced innocently enough but quickly evolved into a deeper, hungrier pleasure.
Both knew what they wanted and could now have, and together, they set out to explore their new landscape.
Much later, when they emerged from the conservatory and joined the rest of the company for luncheon, Rosalind’s lips were rosy red, and her eyes were sparkling, and Richard’s cat-who-had-found-the-cream-jug smile spoke volumes.
The necessary denouement occurred later that day.
Immediately on returning to the house, the investigators repaired to the cellar storeroom, hoping to inveigle Leith into filling in the gaps in his story. Initially, Leith—more correctly, plain Frederick Armstrong—resisted all Stokes’s and Barnaby’s invitations to provide further details of what had occurred. Even when confronted with his late uncle’s will, he simply set his lips and refused to say a word.
Then, Penelope lit on the strategy of filling in those details herself in increasingly outlandish fashion, and ultimately recognizing the unvoiced threat—that her inventions would henceforth shape the world’s view of him—and accepting theutter futility of maintaining his silence, Frederick gritted his teeth and started to correct her.
Fact by fact, Penelope teased and extracted the complete story from him.
Eventually, armed with what they believed was a solid understanding of all that had occurred and knowing that attempting to leave the Grange without sharing the relevant parts of that understanding with all those present would cause an uproar, they decided on what they would reveal and what they wouldn’t, then requested that everyone gather in the drawing room. Penelope asked Gearing to serve the company afternoon tea, if for no other reason than to give people something to do with their hands during what was likely to prove a lengthy dissertation.
Barnaby suggested that Gearing and Grimshaw attend as well so that later, they would be able to report to the staff.
Finally, the three investigators stood in the hall outside the closed drawing room doors. From inside the room, they could hear the hum of polite conversation spiced with excitement mixed with relief. The oppressive uncertainty that had afflicted the company since Monday had lifted, and all tension had dissipated, leaving everyone, for the moment, relaxed and rather eager to hear what had actually gone on.
Barnaby looked at Penelope. “Ready?”
She met his gaze. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Right, then.” Stokes opened the door and waved her in.
With a firm and deliberate tread, Penelope walked into the room and proceeded at the same steady pace all the way down the long chamber, and Barnaby and Stokes followed.
Gearing closed the door behind them, and Penelope went straight to the large fireplace, halted, and turned to face the assembled company.
Barnaby took up a position on her right, and Stokes flanked her on her left. They were there to assist with the later details, but Penelope was the arch-storyteller, and she would lead them in telling the tale.
Agog, the company had set their cups on their saucers and shifted to get an unobstructed view.
Her expression mild, Penelope swept the company with her gaze. The matrons filled the sofas and nearer armchairs, while the older gentlemen and the young ladies were seated on straight-backed chairs arranged in a large, elongated oval with, by design, the fireplace at one end being the focal point for the company. The younger gentlemen stood in clusters around the chairs, their gazes as fixed as any on the investigators.
Penelope noted the avid interest in every eye. In a clear voice, she commenced, “I’m here to tell you a story, one that could be described as a perfect illustration of the curse of ill-gotten gains.”
