The magnitude of the change in her life in the past hour left her giddy.

She looked around, forced herself to take slow, steadying breaths. She needed to calm her mind, find her usual even mood in which her intellect normally functioned so incisively.

Her gaze drifted along row upon regimented row of leather-bound spines; she started to circle the room. Forcing herself actually to focus, to note familiar volumes, to think of other things. To connect again with the world she normally inhabited.

She walked around one end of the rectangular room, passing the huge fireplace. The French doors facing the garden stood open; she paced along, admiring the busts set on pedestals between each set of doors, trying not to think of anything else, eventually once again reaching walls covered with shelves.

A desk stood at that end of the room, facing down its length to the main hearth. A smaller fireplace was set in the wall behind it. She glanced at it, her attention caught by the intricate detail of the mantelpiece-

Saw, just visible from where she stood, a small foot clad in a lady’s slipper, lying on the floor behind the desk.

The foot, of course, was attached to a leg.

“Good gracious!” She hurried to the desk and rounded it-

Halted, quivering. Stared.

Grabbed the edge of the desk. Slowly raised her hand to her throat.

She couldn’t drag her gaze from Kitty’s face, suffused, blotched, darkened tongue protruding, blue eyes blankly staring… or the silken cord wound tight about her neck, digging deep into the soft flesh…

“Simon?”

Her voice was far too weak. It took effort to force her lungs to work, to haul in huge breath. “Simon!”

A moment passed; she could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She felt too faint to let go of the desk, wondered if she’d have to go and look for help…

Footsteps pounded down the corridor, nearing.

The door burst open.

A heartbeat later, Simon was there, hands locking on her arms, eyes searching her face. He followed her gaze, looked, swore-then hauled her to him, away from the dreadful sight, interposing his body between her and the desk.

She locked her fingers in his coat and clung, shaking, buried her face in his shoulder.

“What is it?” Charlie stood in the doorway.

With his head, Simon indicated the area behind the desk. “Kitty…”

Simon held Portia close, aware of her trembling, of the shivers coursing her spine. Propriety be damned; he tightened his arms about her, locked her against him, against his warmth, lowered his head, brushed her temple with his jaw. “It’s all right.”

She gulped, clung even tighter; he felt her battle her reaction, and the shock. Eventually felt her spine stiffen even more. She lifted her head, but didn’t step back. Glanced toward the desk.

At Charlie, who’d looked behind the desk and now sat slumped against the front edge, white-faced, tugging at his cravat. He swore, then looked at Simon. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Portia answered, her voice wavering. “Her eyes…”

Simon looked at the door. No one else had arrived. He glanced at Charlie. “Go and find Blenkinsop. Shut the door on your way out. After you’ve sent Blenkinsop here, you’d better find Henry.”

Charlie blinked, then nodded. He got to his feet, drew in a huge breath, tugged his waistcoat down, then headed for the door.

Portia’s shivering was growing worse. The instant the door shut, Simon bent and swung her into his arms. She clutched his coat, but didn’t protest. He carried her to the chairs grouped before the main hearth, set her down in one.

“Wait here.” Visually quartering the room, he located the tantalus, crossed to it, poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. Returning to Portia, he hunkered down beside the chair. Searched her pale face. “Here. Drink this.”

She tried to take the glass from him, in the end had to use both hands. He helped her guide the tumbler to her lips, steadied it so she could sip.

He sat there and helped her drink; eventually, a trace of color returned to her cheeks, a hint of her customary strength returned to her dark eyes.

Easing back, he met them. “Wait here. I’m going to look around before chaos descends.”

She swallowed, but nodded.

He rose, swiftly crossed the room, stood and looked down at Kitty’s crumpled form. She lay on her back, hands high, level with her shoulders-as if she’d struggled to the very last with her murderer.

For the first time, he felt real pity for her; she might have been a social disaster, but that didn’t give anyone the right to end her life. There was anger, too, not far beneath his surface, but that was more complex, not solely on Kitty’s account; he reined it in, mentally cataloging all he could see.

The murderer had stood behind Kitty and strangled her with-he turned and checked-a curtain cord taken from the nearest French doors. Kitty had been the smallest woman present, only a little over five feet tall; it wouldn’t have been all that hard. He looked around the body, looked at her hands, but saw nothing unusual, except that her gown was not the one she’d worn to lunch. That had been a morning gown, relatively plain; this was prettier, a tea gown cut to showcase her voluptuous curves, yet still perfectly acceptable for a married lady.

He looked at the desk, but there was nothing out of place, no half-finished letter, no scratches on the blotter; the pens lay neatly in their tray, the inkstand closed.

Not that he imagined Kitty had repaired to the library to write letters.

Returning to Portia, he shook his head in answer to her questioning look. “No clues.”

He took the glass she held out to him. It was still half-full. He drained it in one gulp, grateful for the warmth the brandy sent spreading through him. He’d been on edge before, thinking of the possible ramifications of his and Portia’s discussion. Now this.

He dragged in a breath and looked down at her.

She looked up, met his eyes.

A moment passed, then she raised a hand, held it up.

He closed his hand about it, felt her fingers lock tight.

She looked toward the door; it burst open-Henry and Blenkinsop rushed in, Ambrose and a footman on their heels.

The following hours ranked among the most ghastly Simon could recall. Shock was far too mild a word to describe how Kitty’s death struck them all. Everyone was stunned, unable to take it in. Despite all that had been going on under their noses throughout the past days, no one had dreamed it would end like this.

“I might at times have thought of strangling her,” James said. “I never dreamed anyone would.”

But someone had.

Of the ladies, most were distraught. Even Lady O; she forgot to lean heavily on her cane, and forgot entirely to thump it on the floor. Drusilla was the most composed, yet even she shook, paled, and sank into a chair when she heard. In death, Kitty garnered far more sympathy than she ever had in life.

Among the men, once the first shock wore off, confusion was the most prevalent emotion. That, and increasing concern over what was to come, how the situation would develop.

Simon’s attention, his awareness, remained fixed on Portia. Hours later, she was still in shock, racked by occasional shivers. Her eyes were huge, her hands still clammy. He wanted to sweep her up, take her away, far away, but that simply wasn’t possible.

Lord Willoughby, the local magistrate, had been sent for; he arrived and, after saying the right things and viewing the body, still sprawled behind the library desk, he repaired to Lord Glossup’s study. After talking to each of the gentlemen in turn, he summoned Portia to tell him her tale.

Simon accompanied her as if by right. She didn’t ask him, he didn’t ask her, but since taking his hand in the library, she’d released it only when absolutely necessary. Ensconced in an armchair by a hastily lit fire in the study, with him sitting beside her on the chair’s arm, she haltingly recounted the details of her gruesome discovery.

Lord Willoughby, pince-nez perched on his nose, took notes. “So you weren’t in the library for more than, shall we say five minutes, before you found Mrs. Glossup?”

Portia thought, then nodded.

“And you didn’t see, or hear, anyone leaving the room, either when you entered the front hall or when you entered the library-is that right?”

She nodded again.

“No one at all?”

Simon stirred, but Willoughby was only doing his job, and as gently as he could. He was an elderly, fatherly sort, but his gaze was sharp; he seemed to realize Portia’s lack of response wasn’t because she was hiding something.

She cleared her throat. “No one.”

“I understand the terrace doors were open. Did you look out?”

“No. I didn’t even go up to the doors-just walked past.”

Willoughby smiled encouragingly. “And then you saw her, and called for Mr. Cynster. You didn’t touch anything?”

Portia shook her head. Willoughby turned to Simon.

“I didn’t see anything-I did look, but there seemed to be nothing unusual in any way, nothing out of place.”

Willoughby nodded and made another note. “Well, then. I believe I needn’t trouble you further.” He smiled gently and rose.

Portia, her hand still in Simon’s, rose, too. “What will happen now?”

Willoughby glanced at Simon, then back at her. “I’m afraid I must summon one of the gentlemen from Bow Street. I’ll send my report off tonight. With luck, an officer will be here by tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled again, this time reassuringly. “They are a great deal better than they used to be, my dear, and in such a case…” He shrugged.

“What do you mean-such a case?”

Again Willoughby glanced at Simon, then grimaced. “Unfortunately, it appears that other than Mr. Cynster here, and Mr. Hastings, none of the gentlemen can account for the time during which Mrs. Glossup was killed. Of course, there are gypsies in the neighborhood, but these days, it’s best to follow proper procedures.”