Chapter Twenty-Two
You know,” Georgie said the following evening, “I never thought I’d say this, but thank goodness for a man who wanted to write a novel.”
“Excuse me,” Arthur objected, taking a sip of his ginger beer.
“I’m sorry,” Georgie said, “but have you ever read a man’s attempts to describe a woman’s inner life?
You can hardly blame me for preferring novels written by women.
” She allowed herself an eye roll. “But I think I’ll have to reconsider this stance, now that a man’s literary ambitions have led to the clearing of an innocent woman’s name. ”
“And also to a murder,” Lexington pointed out.
“I don’t think we can blame that on his dreams of literary glory,” Georgie said, shaking her head. “The obsession with tourism came before the attempt to write a novel.” She took a small sip of her whisky, then leaned back against the fabric of the booth.
It was fairly late; the various Murder Tourists who had descended upon the Shorn Sheep had been nearly impossible to be rid of that evening, hanging onto every single detail of Georgie, Arthur, and Sebastian’s explanations of the twisted plot of Mr. Penbaker that had gripped Buncombe-upon-Woolly for the past year.
“I can’t believe a distinctive key on a typewriter got him caught,” Miss de Vere had said with a disapproving sniff. “How amateur. A Detective Devotee would never.”
“Ahem,” Georgie said, extremely dryly. “I hope that a Detective Devotee would never commit a crime in the first place.”
“And yet, you thought just that, only two days ago,” Miss de Vere said, with a cheeky smile. “I’ve never been a red herring before!” She sighed a bit despondently. “London will seem so dull after this.”
“Won’t you have a wedding to plan?” Georgie asked, curious.
Miss de Vere and Miss Singh exchanged a look. “Well. No, actually.”
Georgie blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Miss de Vere said patiently, “that I haven’t got a fiancé.”
“But,” Georgie said. “But.”
“I come into my inheritance when I turn twenty-five next year,” she explained.
“I convinced a friend of mine to propose to me, because my parents were driving me mad. He was about to set off on a two-year trip to conduct field research in Peru. By the time he’s back and we call off the wedding, I’ll have my inheritance and be able to buy my own house.
” She looked vaguely smug as she explained all this.
“But why,” Georgie began, then trailed off when her gaze landed on Miss Singh. “Oh. I see.”
“It is helpful to have such a close friend who is a fellow Detective Devotee,” Miss Singh said innocently. “All our Murder Tourism seems just a harmless bit of holiday-making for two young ladies.” She blinked, wide-eyed.
Georgie was beginning to think she’d rather underestimated the Murder Tourists.
Now, however, she was alone with her friends—Arthur, and Lexington, and… Sebastian.
Friend didn’t feel like quite the right word to describe him.
Events had proceeded rapidly since yesterday afternoon; Miss Halifax had quite willingly produced the incriminating novel draft in question.
(“I only read the first two pages,” she’d confessed.
“It was dreadful. But apparently I should have stuck with it.”) Constable Lexington’s investigations at police headquarters had revealed that the false will in the second murder, the letter revealing Lady Tunbridge’s secret in the third, and the forged letter allegedly from Mrs. Marble had all been produced by Mr. Penbaker’s typewriter, with its distinctive “O.”
“But not the blackmail letters from the vicar?” Georgie asked, citing the first of the village’s murders.
Lexington had shaken his head. “No. It would seem that Penbaker had nothing to do with that.”
“I suppose it’s where he got the idea in the first place,” Georgie said thoughtfully. “Is this enough evidence to prove his guilt?”
“I don’t know how a trial would shake out, if he were still alive,” Lexington replied, “but combined with Mrs. Penbaker’s evidence about their missing arsenic, and her husband’s visit to the Marbles the night before the murder, it should certainly be enough to see Mrs. Marble released.
” He sighed. “This has been an utter shambles of an investigation from start to finish.” He was looking somewhat grim about the mouth; evidently, he’d had a conversation with Chief Constable Humphreys about Detective Inspector Harriday having leaked information to Miss Lettercross, only to be told that it was none of his concern.
He did not seem terribly enamored of his profession at the moment, for all that the day overall had been a success.
Lexington’s professional woes aside, however, they were all in a somewhat celebratory mood that evening—Harry had produced a bottle of particularly fine whisky that he saved for special occasions, and they were now sipping their drinks in the cozy glow of the fire, the atmosphere affectionate and relaxed.
“I’m rather going to miss this,” Sebastian said, leaning back in his seat in the booth next to Georgie. He was even more handsome by firelight, his hair gleaming like a new coin. He’d loosened the top couple of buttons of his collared shirt, and Georgie could see the golden column of his throat.
She swallowed—and then, like a dash of cold water, his words belatedly registered.
“You’re… leaving tomorrow, then.” She tried to play off this observation as light and casual, but didn’t think she’d remotely managed it.
If the way everyone else was suddenly looking into their drink was any indication, she definitely hadn’t.
“I’ve a bit of business to attend to in London,” Sebastian said, and then, before he—or Georgie—could say anything else, Arthur added, “Speaking of London.”
“You’ve accepted the position with The Times?” Georgie guessed.
“I have,” Arthur agreed. “I’ll start next month. Should give me time to sort out a flat. And… other arrangements.” He stole a glance at Lexington.
“Well,” Georgie said, draining the last of her whisky with a bit of a grimace and standing. “That’s lovely. But it’s been a long day, and I think I’d like to get to bed.”
Sebastian was on his feet immediately. “I’ll walk you.”
Georgie waved him off. “I’ll be fine. You should stay here—no reason for you to come home early, too.”
“Georgie—”
“I have my bicycle,” she said curtly. “I don’t think you can keep up.”
And then, before anyone could offer any further objections—or even much in the way of a goodbye—she was gone, out the front door and down the steps to where her bicycle leaned against the front gate, waiting for her.
“Georgie.”
Sebastian’s voice was quiet, but it startled her nonetheless; she hadn’t heard his footsteps. She turned and found him a half dozen feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.
“I told you I didn’t need an escort home,” she said, the words sounding more clipped than she’d intended. “You’re leaving tomorrow, anyway—it’s not as though I need you to walk with me.”
“I wanted to speak to you about that, actually,” he said, his voice still quiet, more serious than she’d ever heard it.
And, suddenly, she was gripped by a desperate desire to avoid whatever conversation he was about to attempt with her.
She didn’t want to hear his pretty words about how much he “appreciated their time together,” or something along those lines.
She didn’t want to think about the feeling of his mouth on hers, or of how the muscles of his bare back had felt beneath her hands, or of how peculiarly safe she had felt tucked in his arms with her back pressed to his chest. And, somehow, most of all, she didn’t want to think of the moment last night—after they’d returned home, triumphant from the success of their meeting with Miss Halifax, and they were having celebratory cocktails with Papa and Abigail—when, as they sat next to each other on the sofa, listening to Abigail discuss her plans for the new desserts she was going to introduce at the Scrumptious Scone, Sebastian had reached his hand over, just enough to hook his little finger around Georgie’s.
And she’d thought, in that moment, that she had never felt less alone.
“I don’t think there’s anything to discuss,” she said now, keeping her tone brisk. “You’re going home tomorrow—I know you’re fond of me, but once you’re back in London, I’m sure you’ll have moved on to someone new before twenty-four hours have passed. Soon, I’ll be nothing but a happy memory.”
“Is that what you think of me?” he asked.
His voice was still low and quiet, and he took a couple of steps toward her as he spoke.
“After the past week of working together, of talking, of—after the other night, do you still think of me as someone who cares for nothing except luring every woman I meet into bed?”
She reached out a hand, then yanked it back just as quickly. It was best not to touch him now. “Do you think I would have gone to bed with you if I thought that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and there was the slightest bit of uncertainty in his voice, completely alien in this man who always seemed so self-assured, so unbothered.
“You told me afterward—you said that you’d done that.
Before. Which I don’t care about,” he added hurriedly, seeing the no-doubt-dangerous look that crossed her face at that.
“Of course I don’t—I’d be a raging hypocrite if I did.
I don’t care what you’ve done in your past, or with whom.
But… well, I’m starting to wonder if you care. About me, and my past.”
“You prattle on to anyone who will listen about your romantic exploits, all your conquests in town. It took me days to realize that it was just—”
“Just what?” he asked, more quietly still.