The Questioning Miss Quinton. Kasey Michaels
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a lecture.
But then, just as she was about to head for her work-basket that stood in the corner and the mending that awaited her there, she brought herself up short, and a small smile lit her features. “And who’s going to run tattling to him, Miss Quinton, if you do take to your bed—Saint Peter? You are your own mistress now, my dear,” she reminded herself, a bit of a lilt coloring her voice. “You have longed for this day, dreamed about it for years, and now—through no fault of your own—it is here. You are free, Victoria Quinton, free to do whatever you will!”
Pivoting smartly on the heels of her sensible black kid half boots, she exited the small drawing room in a near skip, heading for the staircase.
It was perhaps only a small act of rebellion after so many years of doing only what she was told, but it was to set a precedent for the future.
CHAPTER FOUR
PATRICK HALTED on the threshold of the club’s sedately decorated main salon and looked about for Pierre Standish, finally locating his quarry sitting alone and looking very much at his ease near one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the busy street below.
Sherbourne did not take himself immediately to that side of the room. Instead he spent several minutes wandering about in a seemingly aimless fashion, passing the time of day with some of his friends, although declining to sit and take refreshment with any of them.
He even took the time to place a wager with Lord Alvanley on the outcome of a mill that was to be held in the countryside later that week, before eventually arriving at his planned destination and sliding into a facing wing chair, a jaunty greeting on his smiling lips.
“Tsk, tsk. That took you precisely three minutes longer than it should have, my darling Patrick, although, in general, it was rather well done,” Standish drawled amicably before returning his large gold watch to his pocket and looking up at Sherbourne for the first time.
“I beg your pardon, Pierre?” Patrick questioned, keeping a carefully blank look on his face as he adjusted his coattails before crossing his legs at the knee, allowing one elegantly fashioned Hessian to dangle.
“Yes, I believe you should,” Standish answered smoothly as he motioned to a servant who was hovering nearby to fetch another glass for his lordship. “I recall that I have urged you to find an interest, my darling, but I fear your future does not lie in cloak-and-dagger machinations.”
Patrick shook his head in admiration, admitting defeat. “How did you know I was looking for you particularly? I thought I was being quite smooth, actually.”
Pierre took up the glass the servant had brought and poured some rich-looking red liquid into it from a decanter before handing the glass to Wickford. “I could, I suppose, say I have visited a wizened old gypsy in Europe who—because of some heroic service I rendered her—has given me the gift of foretelling events, causing you to look at me in awe, but honesty prevents me. Actually, dearest, I was at home when you called this morning but—how shall I say this without being indiscreet?— I was considerably engaged at the time.”
Taking a small sip of his wine, Patrick leaned back in his chair and quipped mischievously, “My deepest apologies. I can only pray that I didn’t interrupt at a critical moment? Some indiscretions have so little understanding of the link between concentration and performance.”
Pierre’s dark eyes twinkled slightly in his otherwise emotionless face. “I have amazing powers of concentration, thankfully. Besides, Patrick, you know I have always made it a point never to disappoint a lady.”
Patrick acknowledged his understanding with a slight nod of his head, knowing better than to dwell on the subject. Besides, he had not sought out Standish merely to spend a few pleasant minutes enjoying the verbal sparring that helped pass the time between noon and an evening’s entertainment. “Speaking of ladies, Pierre—”
“Not I, my dear, at least not literally,” Standish said, a smile still lurking in his eyes.
Patrick chose to ignore this last statement, knowing that Pierre could keep a conversation jogging along in this lighthearted vein forever, without once saying anything to the point. He had met with his friend for a reason, and it was time the two of them got down to serious business. “There’s something I think you should know, Pierre. Miss Quinton believes her father knew his murderer,” he announced baldly, watching his friend closely for any reaction.
Pierre did not so much as blink. “How utterly amazing. I am, of course, astonished,” he said in a tone that totally belied his statement.
“As usual, my friend, you react by not reacting. Perhaps a bit more information is required.” Leaning forward a bit so that he could speak without fear of being overheard, he went on confidingly, “Does the fact that this same Miss Victoria Quinton considers you and me to be her prime suspects pique your interest in the slightest?”
“Are we, by God?” Standish responded, raising his dark brows a fraction. “I begin to believe you have awakened a slight curiosity on my part—perhaps even the faint glimmerings of interest. Perhaps you will oblige me by beginning with how you have come upon this charming little tidbit of information.”
Patrick leaned back in the chair once again, satisfied at last with his friend’s response. “The lady in question told me herself the day of the funeral, not that she wanted to, you understand.”
“It’s that pretty face, Patrick,” Pierre interrupted, an earnest expression on his dark face. “I’ve noticed before the devastating way you have with the ladies. I imagine you’ve heard quite a few things over the years. Have you ever thought of writing your memoirs?”
“It was not my pretty face that did it, but her own satisfaction with her deductions that had her flinging her outlandish theory at my feet like a gauntlet,” Sherbourne corrected testily. “Lord, man, at first she attacked me like a hound on a blood scent, trying, I believe, to frighten me into confessing.”
“Quite the little Trojan, hmmm?”
“Quite the little idiot,” Patrick amended. “She’s taken it into her head to solve the mystery of the Professor’s murder, you see, and believes the answer might lie somewhere in the papers I’ve inherited.”
“And your thoughts on the subject?” Standish prodded, reaching for his wineglass.
Patrick smiled slightly, shaking his head. “I think the lady in question is a bit queer in her attic. Quinton was killed by a burglar; everybody knows that.”
“Do they?” The question held no inflection, hinted of no hidden curiosity. It was just as if Standish, like Miss Quinton, had thrown out a suggestion, and now was waiting to see if his friend was going to pick it up.
Patrick slowly twirled the glass in his hand by its slender stem, watching the small bit of wine swirl around the bottom in a tight whirlpool as he considered Pierre’s question. At last he raised his head a fraction, staring intently into the other man’s eyes.
“Yes, darling?” Standish purred.
“Victoria Quinton may have the disposition of a cursed warthog—and a face to match—but she’s sharp as needles, Pierre. Much as it pains me to admit it, I can’t simply dismiss her assertions as daughterly grief. It’s—it’s as if she considers what she’s doing as some sort of duty. Do you know, Pierre, I don’t think she loved Quinton—or even liked him.”
“Quennel Quinton was many things as I recall, but I know I did not find him to be especially lovable. Perhaps I have underestimated our little drab. She must have some intelligence,” Pierre put in thoughtfully.
Patrick nodded in agreement. “A dedicated bluestocking, I’d say, which is why I cannot comfort myself by believing her theory to be some romantic bag of moonshine she’s embraced merely in order to lend some sparkle to her humdrum existence. She’s just not that sort of female.”
Pierre directed a long, dispassionate stare at the man facing him before speaking