tendril of steam from her cup.
“Marco,” answered Kate. “He said a few things that opened my eyes to the fact that I’ve been looking only at myself lately.”
“That is an unfair observation—”
A pelter of steps in the corridor cut off Charlotte’s reply. One of the tweenies screamed.
“Good Lord.” Kate shot out of her seat. “I wonder what’s wrong?”
Before she could move for the door, her maid flung it open and announced the answer.
“Someone has been murdered!”
• • •
Reining his lathered stallion to a walk, Marco blew out his own breath and watched the heated vapor dissolve in the breeze. An early-morning gallop through the estate’s vast meadows had put him in a slightly better frame of mind. Sweat loosened his muscles, helping to dispel the tautness of his mood.
“Carpe diem, Nero,” he murmured, patting his mount’s glistening neck.
The horse snorted.
“Si, I know you would prefer to fly hell for leather over the moors, but we have a job to do.” A job that was getting harder and harder to concentrate on.
Not that it mattered much, he thought with a grimace. In this case, Lynsley’s concerns seemed unwarranted. He had learned nothing of interest to report. Still, he was determined to remain alert and observant.
Perhaps it would keep his mind off Kate Woodbridge. Of all the guests, she was the dangerous one.
Dio Madre, the casual flirtations had been meant as a game. A distraction, a devil-may-care bit of teasing. But some perverse imp of Satan had turned the red-hot pitchfork and stuck it back in his own arse.
Marco gritted his teeth as the burn twisted through his gut. Damn. He had thought himself impervious to this sort of feeling. Emotional attachments were only asking for trouble. For pain.
What he needed was an assignment that called for dodging blades and bullets. Physical threats he could handle. This mental duel was leaving him cut to shreds.
Perhaps Lynsley was right—perhaps he was losing his edge.
A shout from near the stables roused him from such mordant reveries. Marco looked up to see one of the footmen pelting down the path from the manor house.
Spurring to a canter, he quickly covered the short distance and dismounted. “What’s the trouble?” he asked, handing the reins to one of the stableboys.
“Murder, sir!” replied the lad, his eyes wide with excitement. “One of the gentry morts was found dead. Jem is to fetch the coroner right away. And the magistrate.”
Murder?
The lad must have it garbled. Marco spotted the head groom and called him over. “I hear there has been a death in the manor house.”
“Murder, sir,” echoed the man. “Ain’t never had such a scandal here. The duke will be most unhappy.”
Not to speak of the victim. As he peeled off his riding gloves, Marco asked, “Any idea who?”
“No, sir. John the footman just said there’s a gent’s body in the conservatory with a fancy silver knife sticking out of his heart.”
Slapping the leather softly against his palm, Marco drew his brows together. Like it or not, the duke was about to find his name once again caught up in a swirl of scandal.
And so was his granddaughter.
“Please calm yourself, Alice. There is no need for histrionics,” ordered Kate. “I am sure there must be some mistake, and you are only frightening the poor girls by shouting such rumors.”
“Trust me, there’s no mistake, Miss Kate,” replied Alice, once she had caught her breath. “I saw the body myself, and helped Simpson cover the poor soul with a sheet when the parlormaids panicked.”
Kate’s legs went a little wobbly and she sat back down rather quickly. “Who?” she managed to ask.
“That foreign military gent,” answered her maid.
“Colonel Von Seilig?” she gasped.
“Aye, I think that’s the name Simpson mentioned. He is—was—a sturdy fellow, with blond hair and a scar on his left cheek. His body was found in the conservatory.”
“How terrible,” exclaimed Charlotte. “But as to murder, surely that’s impossible. It must be a tragic accident.”
“Not unless he stuck a knife in his own heart,” replied Alice.
“My God,” whispered Kate.
“Aye, but that’s not the worst of it,” said her maid grimly. “The blade in question is yours, Miss Kate. That’s why I rushed here to tell you.”
“Mine!” Kate suddenly felt light-headed, as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. “But that can’t be.”
“I’m afraid there is little doubt,” said Alice. “What do you think the odds are that someone else here owns a silver-handled knife set with Persian turquoise?”
“High enough that we can dismiss the possibility,” answered Charlotte. Ever