Simon nodded. “Oh, yes. If you knew their past, you’d understand. James will do anything to protect Henry, because Henry spent half his life shielding James.”

“So what can we do?” Charlie asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“The only thing we can do,” Simon replied. “Help unmask the real murderer with all speed.”

It was late when Stokes, clearly weary, joined them.

“Dealing with gypsies is never easy.” He sank into one of the armchairs. “They always assume we’re about to haul them off.” He grimaced. “Can’t say I blame them, given how things used to be.”

“Given you haven’t hauled anyone off,” Simon said, “I take it you don’t think Arturo is guilty?”

“I can’t see it, myself.” Stokes looked across at him. “Can you?”

“No,” Simon acknowledged. “But everyone will suggest it, I’m sure.”

“Aye, they have, but it’s drawing a very long bow. I’ve no reason to suspect he-or that other one, the younger one… Dennis, that was it-did the deed.”

Portia leaned forward. “Have you any theories on who did?”

“Not as such.” Stokes relaxed back in the chair. “But I have some thoughts.”

He shared them; they, for their part, told him all they knew-all Kitty’s little snipes, all her recent barbs. While waiting for Stokes, they’d agreed to hold nothing back, trusting that the truth in Stokes’s hands would not harm the innocent. There was too much at stake to toe the line of polite reticence.

So they told him of all Portia had overheard, all they individually and collectively surmised of Kitty’s propensities for meddling in others’ lives.

Stokes was impressed-and impressive; he questioned them, truly listened, and tried to follow their explanations.

Eventually they reached a point where he had no more questions, but they’d yet to see even a glimmer of a conclusion. They all rose and walked back to the house, silently mulling all they’d touched on, as with a jigsaw trying to see a pattern prior to aligning the pieces.

Portia was still mulling, still deep in thought, when she slipped into Simon’s room an hour later.

Standing beside the bed, he looked up, then continued lighting the six candles in the candelabra he’d borrowed from one of the unused parlors.

He heard the door lock snib, heard Portia’s footsteps cross the floor.

Knew the instant she noticed.

She stopped, staring at the candelabra, now with all candles burning. Then she looked around-at the window, the heavy winter curtains normally tied back through the warmer months fully drawn, then at the bed, bathed in the golden glow thrown by two six-armed candelabra perched on the angled bedside tables, a seven-armed cousin on the tallboy against the corridor wall, and a five-armed one standing on the chest against the opposite wall.

“What…?” She looked at him across the warmly lit expanse.

He shook out the taper, adjusted the second six-armed candelabrum so its light fell on the massed pillows. Then he lifted his head. Met her gaze. “I want to see you, this time.”

She blushed. Not fierily but the wash of color was readily discernible under her alabaster skin.

He hid a wholly predatory smile. His gaze on her, gauging her reaction, he rounded the bed, walked to her side.

She was staring at the counterpane, a silky soft crimson sheening in the candlelight.

He reached for her, slid his hands around her slender form, and drew her into his arms. She came easily, but when she lifted her eyes to his, she was frowning.

“I’m not at all sure this is one of your better ideas.”

He ducked his head and kissed her, gently, persuasively.

“You’ll be able to see me, too.” He whispered the temptation across her lips, then took them again, made them-and her-cling.

Her body sank into his arms, his unreservedly, yet she drew back from the kiss, her hesitation clear in her eyes. He gathered her closer, molded her hips to his. “Trust me. You’ll enjoy it.”

He shifted suggestively against her.

Portia inwardly humphed, decided not to tell him that that was what she feared, that she would enjoy the wanton adventure, enjoy being drawn deeper and deeper into his web-one she knew he was deliberately weaving.

But she’d already accepted the challenge, decided on her path.

Holding his gaze, she slid her hands, until then braced between them, up, over his shoulders, twined her arms about his neck. Stretched up against him. “All right.” Just before their lips met, she hesitated. Long enough to feel the tension he reined back. Feel it build…

Her gaze on his lips, she murmured, deliberately sultry, “Show me, then.”

And offered her mouth.

He took-ravenously. Captured her senses, feasted on her, ripped her wits away.

Plunged them both straight into passion’s furnace, into the roaring flames of desire.

A desire they both let rage-his hands roved her body, powerfully possessive, every touch flagrantly evocative; she speared her fingers through his hair and clung, urging him on-then he reined the fire in. Held it back, seething, simmering, waiting to erupt. Shifted, and trapped her against the bed, his legs outside hers.

Broke from the kiss, waited, head bowed to hers until she lifted her heavy lids.

He trapped her gaze. “Tonight, we are not going to rush.”

The words were deep, gravelly-dictatorial. Fearless, she held his gaze, arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware we had previously.”

Consideration flashed behind his eyes, then he murmured, “I’ve a proposition. Let’s see how slow we can go.”

She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. Nevertheless she lightly shrugged. “If you wish.”

He bent his head. “I wish.”

He took her mouth again in a long, slow, achingly pleasurable, disturbingly arousing kiss. She was long past resisting in even a token way, long past trying to hold on to her wits, or her will. She let both slide as he drew her ever deeper into mesmerizing delight.

Didn’t even think of the revealing light as he unbuttoned her gown, eased it off her shoulders, then, when she obligingly freed her arms, peeled it down until it fell slack about her waist. With his lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, artfully promising, she barely registered the tugs as he unraveled the ribbon ties of her chemise.

But then he drew back from the kiss, looked down, and drew the fine silk down, exposing her breasts.

To him, to his sight, to the burning blue of his eyes.

The look on his face made her lungs lock; he raised a hand, ran the backs of his fingers from her collarbone down over the upper swell of one breast, then turned his hand and cupped the firm weight, a conqueror assessing an offered prize. Then he closed his hand. And sanity rocked.

She couldn’t breathe, could only watch, caught, trapped, ruthlessly held by a sensual spell as he visually feasted, examining, caressing, fondling-unhurriedly, almost languidly.

Then he flicked her a glance from under his lashes, caught her gaze, then shifted before her and slowly bent his head. Set his lips to one tightly puckered nipple, sucked lightly. At her indrawn breath, he released her, traced and kissed, licked, savored… eventually moved to her other breast while his fingers closed over the heated peak and continued its torture.

Until he returned, opened his mouth and drew it in. Suckled fiercely. Fingers spasming on his skull, clenching tight, she cried out, let her head arch back as she held him to her, spine lightly bowed.

Tried to focus on the pattern of the tapestry lining the bed’s canopy. Couldn’t.

Closed her eyes as he suckled again, wondered how long her legs would hold her.

As if he’d heard the thought, his hands slid down, around, and gripped her bottom, hard, possessively.

On a gasp, she forced her lids up, looked down, watched him feast. He caught her gaze, watched her watching as he rolled one aching nipple over his tongue, then rasped it.

She shuddered and closed her eyes again.

Felt him straighten-let her hands slide down to his chest as his fingers slowly unclenched and released her; she opened her eyes regardless of the effort.

She had to see this-his face as he eased her gown and chemise down, as he pushed the fabric over the swell of her hips, then down until, with a soft swoosh, both garments fell to pool on the floor.

He stepped back a fraction, but his eyes didn’t follow the material; they stopped, locked, on the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

She tried to imagine what he was thinking; couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure, looking at the hard-edged planes of his face, that he was thinking at all.

Then his hands, which had risen to her waist, feathered down, thumbs tracing the slight curve of her stomach, down to the crease between thigh and torso. Head rising, he stepped closer-something she glimpsed in his face made her breath catch. She braced her hands on his chest; held him back.

“No-your clothes.” Their gazes locked; she licked her lips. “I get to see you, too.”

“Oh, you will.” His hands closed about her waist and he bent his head to kiss her. “But not yet. We’re not rushing, tonight. We’ve time to savor it all-each step, each experience.”

He invested the last word with enough promise to distract her, to let him capture her lips, her mouth, then her wits, and send them spinning.

He drew her against him and her breathing fractured. He was still fully dressed; her skin came alive, prickling with awareness as the fabric of his coat and trousers brushed, then pressed against her, increasingly as he gathered her closer, blatantly molding her soft curves to his hard frame, to the rigid column of his erection, emphasizing the fact she was naked and he still clothed.

That she was in his power. His to do with as he pleased.