Read Online Firelight by Kristen Callihan - Free Book Online Page B

haven’t you sent him packing?” Even as he spoke, it occurred to Archer that Gilroy was too proficient a servant to let just anyone in at an ungodly hour. “Who is it, Gilroy?” he asked with growing dread.
    The man held himself correctly erect. “Inspector Winston Lane with the Criminal Investigation Department.”

Chapter Seven
     

     
    M iranda’s hand glided over the crystal stoppers. Firelight caught in the prisms, sending little rainbows scattering over her skin and upon the bottles. A drink would settle her nerves, then perhaps she could sleep without thinking of masked men, or a certain voice as decadent as dark chocolate. She stopped at the simplest decanter, an elegant thing shaped like a teardrop. Around its neck was a silver plaque engraved with the word “Bourbon.” American whiskey. She remembered vaguely hearing her father mention tasting it once long ago.
    Out of all the decanters, this one had the least liquor left in it. Archer’s favorite, if she had to guess. The stopper came loose with a harmonious ring and released the smoky sweet notes of the liquor.
    She poured herself a measure, relaxing at the sound of the decanter letting its treasure loose in a soft glug-glug-glug , and the crackle of the ash—not coal—fire within the grate behind her. No wonder men coveted the simple ritual of having a drink and kept such things away from women. To the victor always went the spoils.
    Caramel and smoke and heat, the bourbon burned a slow delicious path down her throat. Miranda closed her eyes in pleasure. And then snapped to attention as she heard Archer’s voice join with that of another man’s out in the hall. Footsteps sounded, heading her way, and she tensed.
    Her stomach turned at the notion of facing Archer so soon.
    “Let us talk in here, Inspector.”
    Inspector?
    “As you wish, my lord.”
    Alarm lifted the hairs at her nape. She knew that voice. It was Winston Lane, newly appointed inspector for England’s Criminal Investigations Department. Winston Lane, her eldest sister Poppy’s very dear husband and Miranda’s very dear brother-in-law. She most certainly did not want to face Winston and Archer with her hair down and wearing a ratty old dressing gown, or explain why she felt the need to partake in a man’s drink in the middle of the night.
    With a wild look around, she considered her options. The door handle turned, and Miranda made her choice. Not a very good choice, she conceded as she all but dove behind the large chinoiserie screen in the corner. She was now trapped like a mouse.
    From the cracks between the screens, she saw slices of her brother-in-law’s face: pale and thin with a long mustache the color of straw embracing his upper lip. His hair, of the same color, was carefully swept back. He had not taken off his tweed overcoat but held his bowler in his hand. Once in the room, he set the hat down upon a small table by one of the armchairs. A bit of boldness on Winston’s part as it was an obvious sign that this visit would not be easily rushed.
    Miranda tensed and slipped farther into the corner as Winston slowly surveyed the room. He did as she had done, inspecting its contents, looking for clues to what might lie inside the infamous Lord Archer’s head.
    Then the man himself moved into view. Though Winston inclined his head toward him, Archer was looking at the bar, she realized in cold horror. She could almost feel his eyes upon her discarded glass, still half-full.
    “Inspector Lane,” he said finally, turning so that only his arm was visible from her hiding spot. “What unfortunate news do you have for me?”
    “Lord Archer, I do apologize for the late hour. However, I thought it best to come when I did. I fear by morning my presence here would bring an even greater inconvenience.”
    For everyone would note it, and tongues would wag.
    “Whom should I thank for such a courtesy?” Archer asked dryly.
    Winston took a step closer to Archer. “Forgive me, but