Cocktease? That hadn’t been in the script they’d rehearsed. Nor had her slapping him. He’d done it deliberately; she could, perhaps, understand why, but she wasn’t going to forgive him easily. In the heat of the moment, the accusation had hurt.

She could feel her cheeks still flaming; as she walked, she put her hands to her face, trying to cool the burning.

Tried, desperately, to get her mind back on track-to focus on why she was here, why they’d had to stage that horrible fight.

Stokes had pointed out that the murderer would only approach her if he thought she was alone-alone in a suitable environment in which he could murder her and escape undetected. No one would readily believe she’d be witless enough to go wandering in the gardens alone in the gathering twilight-not unless she had a damned good reason.

Even more, no one would believe Simon would allow her to do so-not unless he had a damned good reason. Not unless, as Charlie had remarked, something cataclysmic had happened to stop him watching over her.

Apparently his habit, one admittedly he’d never concealed, had been widely noted.

Until Charlie had mentioned it, she’d never really thought of how Simon’s behavior must have, over all the years, appeared to others…

Wondered how, knowing what she now did, she’d managed to be so blind.

Remembered with a start that she should keep her eyes peeled for the murderer. If they’d succeeded, he’d be on his way down to find her.

Her liking for the lake path was, so Stokes and Charlie had averred, also well-known, but they’d chosen that venue for other reasons; the path was completely visible all the way around-easy for Stokes and Charlie to hide here and there and watch over her. Simon would join them, of course, but to avoid scuppering their plan, he had to go all the way to the stables before circling back.

Blenkinsop was also on watch, the only other person in their confidence. Simon had wished to seed the gardens with footmen, standing like statues in the shadows; only the argument that the murderer was bound to come across one while following Portia, and thus get the wind up and after all their hard work not appear, had changed his mind.

But Blenkinsop was trustworthy and, like all good servants, next to invisible. He’d keep watch from the house and follow whichever gentleman set out for the lake.

She reached the edge of the main lawn and headed down the first slope toward the lake. Raising her head, she scanned the skies, drew in a breath.

The weather was the only thing that, thus far, had not gone their way. Clouds had blown up, ragged and dark, not quite preempting the sunset but deepening the twilight.

She strode along as if furiously angry, not inwardly calmly expectant as she’d expected to be, but with her nerves jumping, twitching at every sound. The emotions stirred by their argument had yet to settle; roused, uncertain, they left her uneasy.

They’d presumed that, walking quickly, she’d easily reach the lake before the murderer… she hoped they hadn’t overlooked some minor detail-like the murderer’s having already been out, strolling the gardens and thus being much closer-

The bushes just ahead of her rustled. She stopped, quivering…

A man stepped out.

She was so surprised she didn’t scream.

A hand rising to her lips, she squeaked. Then dragged in a breath-

Recognized the man. Saw the startled expression on his face.

Arturo held up both hands placatingly and backed away two steps. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Portia exhaled through her teeth. Frowned. “What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low. “Mrs. Glossup’s dead-you know that.”

He wasn’t intimidated; he frowned back. “I came to see Rosie.”

“Rosie?”

“The maid. We are… good friends.”

She blinked. “You… before… you weren’t coming up here to see Mrs. Glossup?”

His lip curled. “That putain? What would I want with her?”

“Oh.” She shuffled her thoughts, reorganized her conclusions.

Noticed Arturo was still frowning at her.

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head. “You’d better be off.” She waved him away.

He frowned harder. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. There’s a murderer here-you should know that.”

The last thing she needed, another overprotective male.

He took a step toward her.

She lifted her head higher, narrowed her eyes. “Go!” She pointed imperiously down the narrow path he’d been following. “If you don’t, I’ll scream and tell everyone you’re the murderer.”

He debated whether to call her bluff, then grudgingly stepped away. “You are a very aggressive female.”

“It comes from dealing with very aggressive males!”

The acid response settled the matter; with a last frown, Arturo went, melting into the bushes, his footsteps cushioned by the grassed path.

Silence closed in, like a cloak falling about her. With a quick breath, she headed on, as fast as she could. The shadows seemed to have grown darker, denser. She jumped, her heart in her mouth, at one-only to realize it truly was just a shadow.

Pulse pounding, she finally reached the crest beyond which the path ran down to the lake. Pausing to catch her breath, she looked down at the water, ink black, silent, and still.

She listened, strained her ears, but all she could hear was the faint murmuring of leaves. The breeze wasn’t strong enough to disturb the lake; the surface lay like obsidian glass, smooth but not reflective.

There was no true light left; as she went down the slope, she wished she’d worn a brighter color-yellow or bright blue. Her dark green silk would blend into the shadows; only her face, her bare arms and shoulders, her upper chest, would show.

Glancing down, she let the fine Norwich silk shawl she’d draped about her shoulders slide down to her elbows. No need to conceal more of her than necessary. Reaching the lake, she turned away from the summerhouse and followed the circling path.

Her nerves were tensed, tight, poised to react to an attack. Both Stokes and Charlie were concealed nearby; given the minutes she’d spent with Arturo, Simon would be close, too.

Simply thinking it was comforting. She walked along, still brisk, but gradually slackening her pace, as she naturally would as the supposed fury that had propelled her this far slowly dissipated.

She’d passed the path to the pinetum but was still some way from the summerhouse when the bushes lining the path rustled.

Her heart leapt. She halted, scanned the dark, waited…

“It’s only me. Sorry.”

Charlie. She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss, looked down, fussing with her shawl as if the fringe had caught and she’d stopped to untangle it. “You nearly scared me into hysterics!”

She’d whispered; he did, too.

“I’m keeping watch along this side, but it’s hell to get along here. I’m going to edge back toward the pinetum.”

She frowned. “Don’t forget the pine needles.”

“I won’t. Simon should be somewhere just past the summerhouse, and Stokes is near the path to the house, on the way to the pinetum.”

“Thank you.” Flicking out her fringe, she lifted her head and walked on.

Breathed deeply to calm her skittering nerves.

The breeze had dropped; the night itself seemed to have stilled, silent yet expectant, as if it, too, was waiting.

Reaching the space before the summerhouse, she paused, pretended to consider, but had no intention of going in. Inside, her faithful watchers couldn’t see her. Turning away, she continued on.

Pacing, as if thinking. She kept her head down, but watched her surrounds from under her lashes. Let her senses reach, search. They’d assumed the villain would try to strangle her-a gun was too noisy, too easy to trace, a knife would be far too messy.

She hadn’t really thought about who it was-which of the four suspects she expected to meet; as she walked and waited, she had time and reason enough to consider it. She didn’t want it to be Henry or James, yet… if, from all she knew, she’d had to make a choice and pick one of the four, she would have picked James.

It was, in her mind, James she was expecting to meet.

He had the inner strength. The resolve. It was something she recognized both in him and in Simon.

James was, to her, the most likely possibility.

Desmond… he’d put up with Kitty’s interference for so long, had used avoidance of her as his tactic for literally years. She had difficulty seeing him suddenly in the grips of a murderous rage, murderous enough to kill.

As for Ambrose, she honestly couldn’t see him doing anything so rash. Tight-lipped-she’d heard Charlie mumble something about him being tight-arsed and couldn’t find it in her to disagree-he was so careful of his behavior, so calculating, so cold-bloodedly focused on his career, the idea of him falling into a murderous rage just because Kitty propositioned him in public… it was simply too much to believe.

James, then. Regardless of their feelings for him, she knew that, if it indeed proved to be so, Simon and Charlie would not try to shield him. They would find it incredibly painful, but they would hand him over to Stokes themselves. Their code of honor would demand it.

She understood that-indeed, better than most gentlemen. Her brother, Edward, a few years younger than Luc, was no longer spoken of. Many families had a rotten apple; they’d weeded theirs out; despite all, she could find it in her to hope the Glossups wouldn’t have to weather such a scandal.

The path up to the house lay just ahead. She’d nearly completed a circuit of the lake… and no one had arrived. Had she walked too fast? Or was the murderer lying in wait for her back up the path, in the shadows lining the route to the house?