could engage in licentious behavior without fear of consequences.
What had she been thinking?
“What is it, Jennings?” she asked the footman, whose ears were red, though from cold or embarrassment she couldn’t say.
“Begging your pardon, Lady Katherine.” He bowed. “But Lord Valentine asked me to fetch the inspector. There’s been another murder.”
“Good God, not at the house?” Kate put a hand to her throat and would have gone running from the folly if Eversham hadn’t stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Who and where, lad?”
“It was in the village, sir.” Jennings swallowed. “Mr. Green was stabbed, and they said it was something terrible to behold. Please, sir, Lord Valentine says you must come at once.”
Their search through Philbrick’s belongings forgotten, Kate and Eversham took up the lanterns inside the folly and followed Jennings out from the marble building, to under the darkening afternoon skies.
Chapter Twelve
When they reached the house, it was to find a grim-faced Valentine, surrounded by the rest of the houseguests in the drawing room.
“I thought you were supposed to be keeping us safe,” Barton said as soon as Eversham entered the room. He would have bypassed the group altogether, but he needed to speak to Lord Valentine and this was where the footman, Jennings, had brought him.
He’d very carefully stopped himself from looking at Katherine once they’d entered the house. He was frustrated at his own lack of self-control when it came to her, and as he had a job to do—as Barton had pointed out—he needed to remain focused no matter how delicious a distraction she was.
Yet she hadn’t entered the drawing room with him and that felt wrong, no matter how much he might tell himself it was as things should be.
“I’ve been conducting an investigation, Barton,” he said to the American, who stood beside his daughter’s chair, patting her hand in what Eversham supposed was meant to be a comforting gesture. However, it looked as if giving reassurances wasn’t an activity with which the man had a great deal of practice.
“We were just at Mr. Green’s shop this morning.” Miss Barton’s pallid complexion was turning even whiter with nerves. “Do you think the killer was there, too, Inspector?”
The room’s inhabitants all began talking at once, and Eversham took the opportunity to speak with Lord Valentine. “What do you know?” he asked the nobleman in a low voice. “How did you learn of it?”
Gesturing for Eversham to follow him, Valentine led him out of the room and into a small antechamber, which appeared to be a parlor of some sort.
“The local constable came about an hour ago looking for you.” He looked angry. “Green was a good man. I’ve known him since he moved to the village to set up his shop. That’s two good men this monster has killed in this locale now. I want you to catch this villain, Eversham.”
“That’s what I intend to do.” Eversham didn’t remind Valentine that he’d already gone up against this killer before and failed to catch him. That knowledge hung between them like a dank fog of disappointment. “And with every move he makes, he’s giving more clues to his identity.”
“Did you find anything in the folly that might help?” Valentine asked.
Eversham felt his face heat but managed to maintain an even tone. “No. Nothing.”
“I’ve had the carriage brought around for you.” Valentine rubbed a finger between his brows in fatigue. “The constable is already waiting inside.”
With a nod of thanks, Eversham made his way back downstairs.
* * *
Her face burning with embarrassment, Kate parted from Eversham and hurried upstairs. Valentine had instructed Jennings to bring them both, but she could hardly go into a roomful of people looking as if she’d had a man’s fingers running through her hair. And she had little doubt that’s exactly what it looked like.
The wind was up, but it wasn’t quite that good at loosening a well-placed hairpin.
She’d thought to have a quick word with Eversham before she headed to her rooms, but as soon as they entered the house, it was as if the passionate, warm man who’d held her in the folly had been replaced with an ice sculpture.
Of course, she could hardly expect him to say tender things when someone had been murdered, but he might have said something.
Not for the first time, she castigated herself for giving in so easily to the temptation to see what his kiss would taste like. She knew better than most how complicated such activities could make things. Her previous liaisons