"If we were to judge by looks alone, at least half the party would qualify as suspects," Simon muttered, as he and Portia, having quit the breakfast parlor, stepped off the terrace onto the lawn.

"I think there's a certain amount of guilt doing the rounds." Many of the older ladies had broken their habit of breakfasting in their rooms and joined the rest of the company in the parlor. "If instead of trying to ignore her, and when they couldn't do that, trying to rein her in, if they'd talked to Kitty, tried to understand . . . she didn't seem to have a friend, a confidante, or anyone to advise her. If she had, maybe someone would know why she was killed. Or maybe she wouldn't have been killed at all."

He raised his brows, but forebore to comment. In his family and Portia's all the females from their earliest years were surrounded by strong women. He had difficulty imagining any other existence.

By unvoiced consent, he and Portia headed for the lake path-cool, soothing. Quiet. Calming.

"The ladies seem to think it's someone from outside, by which I infer they mean the gypsies." He glanced at her. "Do you know if any of them have reason to think it really might have been Arturo or Dennis?"

She shook her head. "It's simply the most unthreatening possibility. To imagine the murderer is someone they know, someone in whose company they've spent the last days . . . that's quite frightening."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was frightened, then he glanced at her face, and swallowed the words. She was too intelligent not to be. While he'd much rather protect her from all such feelings, he couldn't stop her from seeing, thinking, understanding.

Reluctantly, he accepted that between them it would always be so; if he was to deal with her as she was, that was something that wouldn't change. She might adjust a little to please him, but it was he who would have to change most-adjust his thinking and modify his reactions-to have any chance of meeting her at the altar.

"This is senseless!" They'd reached the spot before the summerhouse; leaving the path, Portia stalked to the summerhouse steps, swung her skirts around, and sat.

The sunshine washed over her; looking down at her, he wondered if she was still chilled, then he turned and sat beside her, close enough that she could, if she wished, lean against him.

Elbows on her knees, she cupped her chin in her palms and frowned out at the lake. "Which of the men could have killed Kitty?"

"You heard Willoughby-other than Charlie, who was with Lady O, and me, any of them." After a moment, he added, "As far as I know, that also applies to most of the ladies."

She turned her head and stared at him. "Winifred?"

"Drusilla?"

She grimaced. "Kitty was so short, it could have been either."

"Or even one of the others-how can we say?" Setting an elbow on the step behind, he leaned back, a little to the side so he could see her face. "Perhaps Kitty did something in London last Season to make one of them her sworn enemy?"

Portia frowned, then shook her head. "I didn't get any sense of that-of old and hidden emnity."

After a moment, he suggested, "Let's decide who it couldn't have been. Not the Hammond sisters-they're too short and I can't believe it of them. And I think Lucy Buckstead's in the same class."

"But not Mrs. Buckstead-she's large enough, and perhaps Kitty was planning on doing something that would damage Lucy's chances-she's the Bucksteads' only child, after all, and she has set her heart on James."

He inclined his head. "Mrs. Buckstead remains possible. Not probable, perhaps, but we can't cross her off our list."

"And for the same reason, Mr. Buckstead stays a suspect, too."

He glanced at Portia. "As far as I'm concerned, they're all suspects. Except me and Charlie."

She blinked at him. "What about Lord Netherfield?"

He held her gaze. Eventually said, "Until we know who it really is, I'm assuming it could be anyone-anyone still on our list."

Her lips thinned, then she opened them to argue- "No." She blinked at his tone; when she continued to stare, he felt forced to explain, "The murderer tried to kill you. Given it's you he now has his eye on, I'm not willing to take any chances." He felt his face harden as he added, in case she'd missed the point, "None. Not one."

She searched his eyes. He could almost see her thoughts whizzing behind her dark eyes, almost see the balance as she weighed his arguments against what she knew of his character, and all that flowed from it.

In the end, she inclined her head. "All right."

She looked back at the lake; he quietly exhaled.

"Not Lady O, and not Lady Hammond, either."

He considered, then acquiesced. "Agreed. Similarly, I think we can eliminate Mrs. Archer."

"But not Mr. Archer."

"He's something of a dark horse. I agree-we can't ignore him."

"If we follow your line, theoretically at least any of the Glossup men could be responsible."

He hesitated. "What do you think of Oswald?"

She frowned, then grimaced. "I honestly felt he avoided Kitty-I think because she saw him and treated him as a child."

"Hardly comfortable for his ego, but . . . unless there's something that would account for him being transformed into a murderous rage-and I honestly haven't seen any propensity for that in him-then he seems unlikely."

"Granted. What about Swanston-do we cross him off for the same reason?"

He frowned. "I don't think we can. He's Kitty's brother-there might have been some bone of contention in their past we know nothing of, and he's neither as easygoing nor as soft as Oswald. If Kitty had prodded too hard, Swanston could physically have done the deed. Whether he did . . . ?"

"Which brings us to Winifred." She paused, considering. Eventually said, "Do you really think she might have been angry enough over Kitty's poaching her suitors-even Desmond, even now-that she might have . . ."

He watched her face. "You know Winifred better than I-do you think she could have?"

For a long minute, she stared out at the dark waters of the lake, then glanced at him, grimaced. "Winifred will have to remain on the list."

"And Desmond is certainly on it, which, in fact, gives Winifred an even stronger motive."

Portia pulled a face, but didn't argue. "Ambrose is on the list, too, which means Lady Calvin and Drusilla must stay on as well."

After a moment, he asked, "Why Drusilla? I can understand Lady Calvin-she has a great deal invested in Ambrose's future, and although she's so reserved, he's very much the apple of her eye. But as I read things, Drusilla and Ambrose don't share even the weakest brother-sister bond."

"True. Nevertheless, Drusilla's reasons are twofold. One, of us all, she was the angriest at Kitty-Kitty had all the attributes Drusilla lacked, and still she wasn't content. I'm sure that rankled-Drusilla hadn't met Kitty before coming down here, so that's the only explanation I can see for her reaction."

"And her second reason?"

"Lady Calvin, of course. Not Ambrose, but the pain Lady Calvin would be forced to bear if Ambrose became involved in any scandal." She met his gaze. "Drusilla is utterly devoted to her mother."

He raised his brows, but now that she'd pointed it out . . . "That leaves us with the gypsies, or one of the servants."

Portia frowned. "I might not approve of Arturo slipping through the shrubbery at all hours, but I can't see any reason why he would bother to kill Kitty. If it was his child she was carrying . . ." She stopped. "Oh."

She looked at him. "Is that a motive do you think? That Kitty told him she was planning on getting rid of the baby . . . don't gypsies have a code or something about that?"

He held her gaze. "Most men have a code or something about that."

She colored. "Yes, of course-but you know what I mean."

"Indeed, but I think you're forgetting one thing."

She raised her brows.

"The timing. Kitty must have conceived in London, not down here. Arturo wasn't in London."

"Ah." Her face cleared. "Of course. So there's really no reason Arturo would have killed her."

"Not that I can see. And as for Dennis, even imagining an unrequited love, given he knew Arturo was consorting with Kitty, I can't see Dennis imagining himself in the running. Again, why kill her?"

"I talked to the maid about how the staff saw Kitty. The girl's a local and has lived here on the estate all her life. She knows everyone, and is old enough to scent any scandal between stairs. There wasn't even a hint she considered such a thing vaguely possible-in fact, she told me the maids were frightened the murderer was one of the gentlemen, and they'd been reassured by the housekeeper that it was sure to be the gypsies."

He snorted. "The gypsies. Always the most convenient scapegoats."

"Especially if they up stakes and leave." She paused, mused, "I wonder if the murderer, whoever he is, has thought of that?"

"I'd say he might be counting on it-the gypsies decamping in the dead of night would be his salvation."

They both sat staring out at the lake, watching the breeze send ripples across the glassy surface. Minutes passed, then Portia sighed.

"The Glossups. We've left all of them except Oswald, even Lady Glossup, on our list. Why do you think one of them would have killed Kitty? They'd put up with her for three or more years, and the Archers were staying. Why kill her-and especially why now? There would have to be a very good reason."

"Two reasons," he replied, his tone flat and even. "One, divorce-a topic Henry's only recently been forced to consider. Two, the baby she was carrying that wasn't any of theirs, but which, if she'd borne it, would have been the next Glossup heir. They might not rank as high as either the Cynsters or the Ashfords, but the Glossups have been around almost as long-they're an old and, in their way, distinguished house."

"But she wasn't going to bear it-she was quite definite about that."

"You overheard her telling her mother that-how many others knew?"

Portia spread her hands. "How many others knew she was having a baby at all?"

"Only you, those she told, and those they might in turn have told."

Portia wrinkled her nose. "I told Lady O. And you."

"Precisely. And there's always the servants-they overhear more than we think."

"And the household must have known Kitty and Henry were estranged."

"Which means it would have been obvious to all that any child Kitty was carrying was not-"

When he stopped, Portia looked at him, then grimaced horrendously. "If the baby wasn't a Glossup-and it most likely wasn't-then that would have been bad enough, but what if it was indeed a Glossup?"

"Worse, what if it wasn't, but Kitty claimed it was?"

"No-you forget. She didn't want to carry the child."

"I hadn't forgotten." There was ice in his tone. "If she wanted to persuade the father-or someone who might have been the father, or even someone who could not possibly be the father-that it would be wise to help her abort the child . . ." He met Portia's gaze. "What better way to persuade James, or Harold, or even Lord Netherfield to aid her than by claiming the baby was a Glossup, just not Henry's."

Portia stared at him, her eyes growing round. "You mean . . . she'd tell James it was Harold's, or Harold it was James's, or Lord Netherfield either . . ."

She put her hand to her chest and swallowed. "Good God!"

"Exactly. And what if Henry found out?"

She held his gaze, then looked away.

After a moment, he went on, "And that's not even considering the looming likelihood of divorce. For Harold and Catherine, and Lord Netherfield, too, the very concept is shocking, more than it is for us. For their generation, it's an unthinkable scandal reflecting on all the family.

"We know what Kitty was like, how she delighted in irritating people. We know that she went to the library to meet someone, but we don't know whom or why. We don't know what they discussed-what topic drove the murderer to silence her."

Portia said nothing, her understanding and agreement implicit. After a few minutes, she slipped her hand into his, leaned against his shoulder. Flicking free of her fingers, he lifted his arm and she wriggled closer as he gathered her in.

She sighed. "Kitty was playing with fire on so many fronts, it's hardly surprising she got burned."

Luncheon was a subdued affair. Lord Willoughby had informed them they would need to remain until the investigator from Bow Street arrived. Since that individual was expected later in the afternoon, many spent the hours after lunch making discreet arrangements to leave that evening.

Aside from all else, most felt the Glossups should be left to deal with their loss in peace, without the distraction of houseguests; anything else was quite shockingly unthinkable.

The investigator duly arrived-and promptly informed them that they would need to think again.

A large man, heavily built but with an air of determined energy, Inspector Stokes had first spoken with Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield in the study before being conducted into the drawing room and introduced to the guests en masse.

He inclined his head politely. Portia noticed his eyes, a steady slate grey, moving over each face as their names were said. When her turn came, she regally inclined her head, watched Stokes duly note Simon sitting on the arm of her chair, his arm on its back; then his gaze rose to Simon's face, he acknowledged his name with a nod, and moved on.

Despite all, her interest was piqued-not in Stokes the man, but Stokes the investigator. How was he going to unmask the murderer?

"I take it, Mr. Stokes, that now you have met us, you have no objections to our departing?" Lady Calvin asked the question, the full weight of her status as an earl's daughter echoing in her tone.

Stokes didn't blink. "I regret, ma'am, that until the murderer's identified, or until I've investigated as far as I'm able, that I must request that you all"-his gaze swept the company-"remain at Glossup Hall."

Lady Calvin colored. "But that's preposterous!"

"Indeed, sir." Lady Hammond fluffed her shawl. "I'm sure you mean well, but it's quite out of the question-"

"Unfortunately, ma'am, it's the law."

There was not an ounce of anything anyone could take exception to in Stokes's tone, nor yet any comfort they could draw from it.

He inclined his head in something resembling a bow. "I regret, ma'am, but it's quite essential."

Lord Glossup huffed. "Standard procedures and all that, I understand. No point quibbling-and really, there's no reason the party can't continue, except for . . . well, yes, except for that."

Portia was sitting across from the Archers. Mrs. Archer appeared still in shock; it was questionable whether she'd taken anything in since being told her younger daughter had been strangled. Mr. Archer, however, was pale but determined; he sat at his wife's side, a hand on her arm. At Stokes's words, a glimmer of pain had crossed his features; now he cleared his throat, and said, "I would take it kindly if we could all assist Mr. Stokes in whatever way we can. The sooner he finds Kitty's murderer, the better it will be for us all."

There was nothing to be heard in his voice beyond a father's grief, controlled yet unflaggingly genuine. Naturally, his appeal was met by quiet murmurs and assurances that yes, of course, put like that . . .