Chapter 3
Cynthia looked up in surprise as Helena Blair walked into her parlour.
The woman’s pet, a fox named Hamlet, peered at her from behind Helena’s sea foam green skirt.
Both fox and female had hair the colour of a dying sun: burnt umber, copper, a hint of crimson.
Cynthia was momentarily distracted from her disastrous situation by the play of sunlight in such gloriously rich colour.
But why is Helena here?
Clio’s cousin had rejected any overture Cynthia made of friendship.
Her blatant refusal to accept invitations to tea parties, salons, garden parties, or countless outings to Gunter’s and Rotten Row with Clio and Ellie during the summer season had stung most acutely.
Knowing how close Clio was to her cousin and sister, Cynthia had wanted to create an intimate friendship among the four women.
They were family now, after all. But Helena stubbornly refused.
Cynthia was no glutton for punishment. She had stopped reaching out only to have her hand of friendship slapped away. Yet the confounding woman chose this day to finally cross Cynthia’s threshold.
Bewildering.
Before she could enquire as to Helena’s presence, Clio stepped through the door. The well of emotions Cynthia had been valiantly trying to contain escaped in a flood as she stood and rushed to her friend.
Clio embraced her as dear Sir Robin rubbed his sleek head over Cynthia’s cheek. Tears fell in a waterfall. A horrifying display of weakness, but one she couldn’t help.
‘We’ll sort this all out, Cynthia. I promise.
’ Clio’s murmured words brought a measure of comfort, and after a few moments, Cynthia regained her composure.
Pulling a lace handkerchief from where she had tucked it in her sleeve, she wiped her eyes and attempted a wobbly smile.
Clio led her back to the settee where she had been sitting.
‘Thomas, could you have someone bring us fresh tea?’ Clio asked her husband, who quickly rang the bell.
‘I’m being remiss in my duties.’ She was usually an excellent hostess who never forgot to ensure her guests had refreshments.
Cynthia’s thoughts wouldn’t align themselves in any semblance of order.
Which wasn’t like her at all. She was calm.
Cool. The consummate lady of the house. Not some dithering idiot.
‘She needs brandy, not tea.’ Helena’s sharp words cut through the haze of Cynthia’s scattered thoughts.
‘I most certainly do not.’ It wasn’t even noon yet, though the stormy sky outside made it feel much later.
You most certainly do.
Turning her head sharply at the new voice, she looked for another member of their party, but it was just the five of them.
Alarm shot through her like a lightning bolt.
Because the voice did not belong to any person in the room, yet it rang in her ear as clear as a bell. Snarky with the hint of a lisp.
Hamlet, the fox, licked his chops in the same manner a man might smooth his moustache. Which was absurd. Yet she wasn’t imagining the sparkle of intelligence in his golden eyes.
I’m hearing voices. Dear God. I’m losing my mind.
Before she could process the possibility, Helena’s gaze narrowed on her.
She was certain the cold woman could see through Cynthia’s perfectly styled hair, her expertly tailored morning gown the exact colour of a ripe apricot, the fine layer of pearl powder her maid brushed over her cheeks, the glittering rope of amber beads draped around her neck.
Helena dismantled all the details making Cynthia a lady of consequence in the beau monde.
She peeled back the layers hiding Cynthia’s soul beneath the expertly coiffed image of respectability.
But what did she see under the disguise?
Cynthia wasn’t sure herself who lived beneath her carefully constructed costume.
Helena pressed her lips into a firm line. Cynthia absently noted their shape was quite beautiful, even compressed as they were in an expression of frustration.
What is frustrating you, Helena? Am I not measuring up? Good.
For someone who had always striven to exceed expectations, it felt wildly freeing to flout them this once.
‘Why is Miss Blair here?’ Cynthia looked at Superintendent MacDougal, who stood stiffly, his discomfort on full display.
The poor man had never been at ease in her home.
The one time he accepted her many invitations to dinner, her husband had made it clear he did not enjoy entertaining someone as lowly as a Scottish soldier.
Even as he ascended the ranks from bobby to constable all the way to the heights of Superintendent of Scotland Yard, MacDougal couldn’t attain the title of Lord, and Hubert refused to acknowledge anyone without pedigree.
Superintendent MacDougal didn’t answer Cynthia. Instead, he looked to Clio with his brows raised in an unspoken question.
Clio shook her head in tight movements.
Cynthia had attended enough balls to know when things were being said with nary a word spoken. Whatever Clio and the superintendent were communicating was doubtless linked to her husband, and she was not in the mood for subterfuge. ‘What is going on?’
Thomas came and sat on the other side of Cynthia, his gaze also fixed on Clio. ‘Nothing remains?’ he asked his wife, completely ignoring Cynthia’s question.
‘Not even a hint.’ Clio spoke cryptically.
‘Will someone tell me what in blazes you are talking about?’
Magic.
Cynthia swung her gaze, trying to track the mystery voice.
She stalled on Helena’s fox, who sat primly, wrapping his fluffy tail around his body like a stole.
He really was a most unusual pet. Quite wild, and unaccountably beautiful.
Much like the annoying woman reaching down to pet between his large, pointed ears.
Helena glanced down at Hamlet before spearing Cynthia with another one of her piercing looks.
‘Nothing remains!’ Sir Robin fluffed his feathers and bobbed his head up and down in what seemed to be an affirmation. Cynthia could hardly guess what he was affirming. Or perhaps she was too terrified to try.
‘I think Helena is right. This calls for brandy.’ Clio gripped Cynthia’s cold hand with her warm one and squeezed.
The butler opened the door and entered. Hodges had recovered admirably from his initial shock and kept his face impassive as he looked to her for instructions.
‘We’ll need brandy, good sir,’ Helena spoke to him with quiet authority. Seeing someone else order her staff about snapped the tenuous hold Cynthia had on her temper.
This was Cynthia’s house. Her butler. Her dead husband, and by God, her brandy. If anyone was going to be ordering people about, it was going to be Cynthia!
‘Hodges, have Cook make a tray of sandwiches.’ She looked at Superintendent MacDougal, then her brother. ‘Something substantial, I think. Tea would not go amiss, lemonade, and some of the seedcake, please.’
‘Of course, madame. And the, err, brandy?’
Cynthia rolled her eyes. ‘Yes. Fine. Brandy as well, if you must. Thank you.’
The butler bowed, his cheeks flushing slightly as he shut the door behind him.
‘Now, will someone please tell me what the bloody hell is going on here?’ Her language was hardly proper, but then, neither was finding her husband in a pool of his own blood.
Or hearing voices. Or drinking brandy before dinner, so it should hardly signify if she used a few words better suited to labourers than ladies.
‘Before we answer that question, perhaps you can answer one for me.’ Helena’s grey eyes were disconcertingly vivid for a colour that should have been nondescript. Neither blue nor green, they hovered somewhere in between, a swirling sea with silver-tipped waves.
Cynthia was tempted to refuse, but her rebellion only went so far.
After all, she was still a lady, raised to conduct herself with the utmost comportment in every situation.
Even this one. Though she doubted the teachers at her finishing school ever imagined Cynthia navigating hostess duties for a murder investigation.
‘Fine. What would you like to know? Whether there will be watercress sandwiches? If I have cream and sugar for the tea? Please, ask away. I’m breathless with anticipation.’
Helena pulled something out of a clever pocket sewn into her silk skirts.
The cut of her day dress was the same as every other Cynthia had seen Helena wear, yet it set off her trim waist, high breasts, and long limbs.
Which was neither here nor there and not something Cynthia cared about.
It was just habit to notice other women’s style choices, that was all.
Critiquing fashion at a murder scene. Highly improper.
‘I was wondering if you might know who this belongs to.’ Helena held a golden locket swinging on a delicate chain. As she stepped closer, she averted her gaze, keeping her eyes on the sparkling jewel.
Fear clutched Cynthia once more. She didn’t need a looking glass to know her skin had paled. She knew very well who owned that necklace.
She did.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘In your husband’s study. Covered in his blood.’
Her chest tightened and the air seemed to disappear.
I think you’re going to need that glass of brandy now.
The fox padded over to Cynthia and rested his copper head on her lap in an unspoken and rather remarkable act of comfort.
Helena tried very hard to keep the panic at bay.
She never panicked. Except for the one time Hamlet ate something nasty and became very ill.
Thank goodness Aunt Rowan’s healing magic extended to animals.
Even with her aunt’s impressive skills, it had been touch-and-go for a few days, causing all manner of rough seas in the calm waters of Helena’s soul.
A terrible time she vowed never to repeat.
But that same breathless anxiety set in the moment Helena reached out with her powers to read Cynthia’s thoughts and heard… nothing.