Read Online A Suspicious Affair by Bárbara Metzger - Free Book Online
Authors: Bárbara Metzger
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husband! I cannot say I am sorry someone else did, but the fact is that I did not.”
“How do I know that? You come in here in a rant and expect me to change public opinion. You follow no form of social conduct I’ve ever heard of. How do I know what you are capable of?”
“And how do I know you didn’t kill the bounder yourself over some trinket or other?” he retorted.
“Trinket?” Marisol shrieked, pushed past her endurance. “You think I would kill my own husband over a pearl necklace or something? Was Lady Armbruster a trinket? Is my child’s welfare a trinket?” she yelled, pushing mightily to get her ungainly body out of the cushions so she could be more on a level with this hulking clunch. Max ran to hide under the couch.
Seeing her struggle, Kimbrough naturally offered her his assistance. She put her right hand in his and said “Thank you” when she’d attained her footing. Then she hauled back with that same right hand and slapped him across the face so hard even the powerful earl reeled back. Or perhaps it was the surprise.
“My husband lies dead upstairs,” the duchess was crying, “his mistress next door. I have been accused of murder by an odd little man in a red vest. My maid has given notice, and I am fat. But you…you are the worst of the lot!” She sank back to the sofa, her face in her hands, sobbing. “And now I have struck a man to whom I’ve never even been introduced!”
The earl held out his handkerchief and tried to speak past the dust of contrition in his throat. “Carlinn Kimbrough, ma’am, at your, ah, service.”
*
Jeremiah Dimm wished he’d stayed in the dining room searching out more fallen pastries. He could have heard the whole conversation from there, so loud were these two, and without having to put his ear to any door. Then again, that red handprint on the stiff-rumped earl’s cheek, even outlined by the tiny keyhole, sure warmed the cockles of the Runner’s heart. Didn’t help the case none, a’ course, Dimm realized, but salute
that,
you sanctimonious prig!
Chapter Six
Arvid had been an indifferent traveler, restless, uncomfortable, impatient of delays. His child looked to follow in Arvid’s unsettled path. No matter the finest sprung carriage, the slowest pace, the most careful avoidance of ruts in the road, the baby made Marisol’s journey a misery, the same as Arvid would have done. At least the baby didn’t get nasty and belligerent; neither did Arvid, for once, bouncing along in his ornately carved casket in the special funeral carriage up ahead. Boynton traveled next in his own coach with his valet and a mountain of valises, and the baggage wagon came after, with Mr. Dimm crammed between wardrobe trunks, delicacies from the London markets, household items from her own old home that the duchess did not wish to leave behind, and all the trappings she’d been gathering for the arrival of her child.
Dimm’s daughter rode in the spacious crested carriage with Marisol and her aunt, thank goodness, for Sarah turned out to be a marvel with biscuits and peppermints and distracting chatter about her own large family and Ned Turner, the soldiering husband she wrote to every day.
Aunt Tess managed to sleep for most of the journey, her knitting fallen in her lap. Marisol was green with envy…or something. She was also jealous of her brother, who had chosen to ride alongside, or ahead, or on short cross-country excursions. That was the first thing she was going to do after the baby, Marisol vowed, ride with the wind down tree-shaded lanes, taking her jumps flying. The baby protested the flying part, too, so she sighed and pictured quiet strolls through the castle’s rose gardens. Of course, that was in the spring, and who knew where any of them would be when the flowers bloomed? Except Arvid, of course.
Gardens, flowers, country rides, fresh air. It took Marisol a day and a night to recover from the journey before she could recall why she’d been
“How do I know that? You come in here in a rant and expect me to change public opinion. You follow no form of social conduct I’ve ever heard of. How do I know what you are capable of?”
“And how do I know you didn’t kill the bounder yourself over some trinket or other?” he retorted.
“Trinket?” Marisol shrieked, pushed past her endurance. “You think I would kill my own husband over a pearl necklace or something? Was Lady Armbruster a trinket? Is my child’s welfare a trinket?” she yelled, pushing mightily to get her ungainly body out of the cushions so she could be more on a level with this hulking clunch. Max ran to hide under the couch.
Seeing her struggle, Kimbrough naturally offered her his assistance. She put her right hand in his and said “Thank you” when she’d attained her footing. Then she hauled back with that same right hand and slapped him across the face so hard even the powerful earl reeled back. Or perhaps it was the surprise.
“My husband lies dead upstairs,” the duchess was crying, “his mistress next door. I have been accused of murder by an odd little man in a red vest. My maid has given notice, and I am fat. But you…you are the worst of the lot!” She sank back to the sofa, her face in her hands, sobbing. “And now I have struck a man to whom I’ve never even been introduced!”
The earl held out his handkerchief and tried to speak past the dust of contrition in his throat. “Carlinn Kimbrough, ma’am, at your, ah, service.”
*
Jeremiah Dimm wished he’d stayed in the dining room searching out more fallen pastries. He could have heard the whole conversation from there, so loud were these two, and without having to put his ear to any door. Then again, that red handprint on the stiff-rumped earl’s cheek, even outlined by the tiny keyhole, sure warmed the cockles of the Runner’s heart. Didn’t help the case none, a’ course, Dimm realized, but salute
that,
you sanctimonious prig!
Chapter Six
Arvid had been an indifferent traveler, restless, uncomfortable, impatient of delays. His child looked to follow in Arvid’s unsettled path. No matter the finest sprung carriage, the slowest pace, the most careful avoidance of ruts in the road, the baby made Marisol’s journey a misery, the same as Arvid would have done. At least the baby didn’t get nasty and belligerent; neither did Arvid, for once, bouncing along in his ornately carved casket in the special funeral carriage up ahead. Boynton traveled next in his own coach with his valet and a mountain of valises, and the baggage wagon came after, with Mr. Dimm crammed between wardrobe trunks, delicacies from the London markets, household items from her own old home that the duchess did not wish to leave behind, and all the trappings she’d been gathering for the arrival of her child.
Dimm’s daughter rode in the spacious crested carriage with Marisol and her aunt, thank goodness, for Sarah turned out to be a marvel with biscuits and peppermints and distracting chatter about her own large family and Ned Turner, the soldiering husband she wrote to every day.
Aunt Tess managed to sleep for most of the journey, her knitting fallen in her lap. Marisol was green with envy…or something. She was also jealous of her brother, who had chosen to ride alongside, or ahead, or on short cross-country excursions. That was the first thing she was going to do after the baby, Marisol vowed, ride with the wind down tree-shaded lanes, taking her jumps flying. The baby protested the flying part, too, so she sighed and pictured quiet strolls through the castle’s rose gardens. Of course, that was in the spring, and who knew where any of them would be when the flowers bloomed? Except Arvid, of course.
Gardens, flowers, country rides, fresh air. It took Marisol a day and a night to recover from the journey before she could recall why she’d been
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