boughs? It’s not even a good likeness.”
“Devil take the likeness! I don’t even know you, ma’am, and I resent being pictured with you in this filthy thing. You must go—No, you can write the newspaper at once, demanding they recant.”
“What, after you walked past that platoon of journalists on the street outside? Or were you so burning with righteous indignation that you did not notice the ragtag group out there with sharpened pencils? Shall I parade down to Fleet Street and sob to an editor that I don’t count any large gentlemen among my associates, or did you mean the one I had tea with this afternoon?”
Kimbrough ran his hand through his hair. “Blast!”
Marisol felt no sympathy for his chagrin. “Indeed. Not only would I be made to look more a fool than any cartoon could ever do, but I would destroy whatever credibility I possess at this moment. I cannot begin to imagine what Mr. Dimm would be thinking, after I told him we had never met. I thank you for casting doubts upon my honor, sirrah!”
“Honor? What would a Pendenning know about honor?”
The duchess was very much afraid that if she did have a pistol right then, she would use it. Eyes narrowed to slits, voice low and harsh, she told him again to get out. “For you are the rudest man of my acquaintance, and having been intimately acquainted with Arvid Pendenning, that is saying a great deal.”
“I suppose that last was uncalled for,” he conceded, pointedly eyeing the chair she had not offered. She still did not, so he paced to the mantel and examined a Ming dog there, while Marisol held her breath that the clumsy oaf would not drop the priceless porcelain. “So what are you doing about this bumblebroth?” he finally turned and asked.
“I am not confessing to Arvid’s murder, if that is your aim, no matter how it might suit you, my lord earl. Instead I am assisting Mr. Dimm to the best of my ability and opening my house to him both here and in Berkshire, so he might follow
all
his leads.”
Her emphasis on the
all
left Carlinn in no doubt that the duchess considered him the prime suspect in Berkshire. He swore under his breath as he stomped back and forth in front of Marisol’s couch until she was growing seasick. ’Twould be useless to ask him to desist, she felt. If he wouldn’t obey a direct order to leave, he wasn’t likely to care about her queasiness. Either the lunatic would exhaust himself with that furious pacing—Lord knew she was growing tired watching—or he’d wear a hole in her lovely Oriental carpet, or she’d cast up her accounts. Marisol was wondering which was likely to come first when he muttered, “Botheration. This is getting me nowhere.” He came to a stop across from her and impatiently asked, “Duchess, who controls the Pendenning lands now? Is it you? That caper-merchant Boynton? The solicitors?”
With great satisfaction at his frustration, Marisol was able to reply that she honestly did not know how things were left. “But knowing Arvid, they will be as awkward as possible. You shall just have to wait on the reading of the will with the rest of us, and on the birth of my child, I should suppose. You might join your prayers for a girl to Boynton’s, for I am sure he’ll sell off every unentailed parcel to finance his gambling.”
Then Marisol clamped a hand over her mouth. In her anger at this addlepated bumpkin, she’d forgotten he could be a murderer. If that acreage meant so much to Kimbrough that he’d kill Arvid over it, what was another tiny life? Especially after she’d practically promised that Boynton would be easier to deal with. She put her other hand on her stomach.
Carlinn didn’t miss the protective gesture, nor the fear in her eyes, and he cursed again. He was furious that a pregnant woman was afraid of him, even more furious that she’d believe him a killer. “Dash it, ma’am,” he shouted, “I do not murder innocent women and children. I did not even murder your
“Devil take the likeness! I don’t even know you, ma’am, and I resent being pictured with you in this filthy thing. You must go—No, you can write the newspaper at once, demanding they recant.”
“What, after you walked past that platoon of journalists on the street outside? Or were you so burning with righteous indignation that you did not notice the ragtag group out there with sharpened pencils? Shall I parade down to Fleet Street and sob to an editor that I don’t count any large gentlemen among my associates, or did you mean the one I had tea with this afternoon?”
Kimbrough ran his hand through his hair. “Blast!”
Marisol felt no sympathy for his chagrin. “Indeed. Not only would I be made to look more a fool than any cartoon could ever do, but I would destroy whatever credibility I possess at this moment. I cannot begin to imagine what Mr. Dimm would be thinking, after I told him we had never met. I thank you for casting doubts upon my honor, sirrah!”
“Honor? What would a Pendenning know about honor?”
The duchess was very much afraid that if she did have a pistol right then, she would use it. Eyes narrowed to slits, voice low and harsh, she told him again to get out. “For you are the rudest man of my acquaintance, and having been intimately acquainted with Arvid Pendenning, that is saying a great deal.”
“I suppose that last was uncalled for,” he conceded, pointedly eyeing the chair she had not offered. She still did not, so he paced to the mantel and examined a Ming dog there, while Marisol held her breath that the clumsy oaf would not drop the priceless porcelain. “So what are you doing about this bumblebroth?” he finally turned and asked.
“I am not confessing to Arvid’s murder, if that is your aim, no matter how it might suit you, my lord earl. Instead I am assisting Mr. Dimm to the best of my ability and opening my house to him both here and in Berkshire, so he might follow
all
his leads.”
Her emphasis on the
all
left Carlinn in no doubt that the duchess considered him the prime suspect in Berkshire. He swore under his breath as he stomped back and forth in front of Marisol’s couch until she was growing seasick. ’Twould be useless to ask him to desist, she felt. If he wouldn’t obey a direct order to leave, he wasn’t likely to care about her queasiness. Either the lunatic would exhaust himself with that furious pacing—Lord knew she was growing tired watching—or he’d wear a hole in her lovely Oriental carpet, or she’d cast up her accounts. Marisol was wondering which was likely to come first when he muttered, “Botheration. This is getting me nowhere.” He came to a stop across from her and impatiently asked, “Duchess, who controls the Pendenning lands now? Is it you? That caper-merchant Boynton? The solicitors?”
With great satisfaction at his frustration, Marisol was able to reply that she honestly did not know how things were left. “But knowing Arvid, they will be as awkward as possible. You shall just have to wait on the reading of the will with the rest of us, and on the birth of my child, I should suppose. You might join your prayers for a girl to Boynton’s, for I am sure he’ll sell off every unentailed parcel to finance his gambling.”
Then Marisol clamped a hand over her mouth. In her anger at this addlepated bumpkin, she’d forgotten he could be a murderer. If that acreage meant so much to Kimbrough that he’d kill Arvid over it, what was another tiny life? Especially after she’d practically promised that Boynton would be easier to deal with. She put her other hand on her stomach.
Carlinn didn’t miss the protective gesture, nor the fear in her eyes, and he cursed again. He was furious that a pregnant woman was afraid of him, even more furious that she’d believe him a killer. “Dash it, ma’am,” he shouted, “I do not murder innocent women and children. I did not even murder your
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