pardon?"
"Excuse me, Miss Seaton. I didn't meant that I actually do want to kiss you," he said smoothly. "I was merely trying to establish the boundaries of permissible remarks."
"You have just exceeded them. Don't do it again." She spun on her heel and stalked out of the breakfast parlor. He certainly wasn't bland. But for the life of her, she wasn't sure what bothered her most: his outrageous comment about kissing her—or his claim that he had no desire to do any such thing.
* * *
With half an hour to spare before meeting with Sir Anthony, Kenneth went to his room. The maids had cleaned the place until it sparkled, and the footman had retrieved his baggage from the inn where he had spent the previous night. He guessed that most of the servants would prove to be satisfactory; they merely needed a firm hand.
It took only a few minutes to unpack his belongings. For some obscure reason, he had brought a portfolio of his drawings. He tucked it in the back of the wardrobe, safe from the eyes of servants. Then he drifted across the room, feeling as tired as if he had marched thirty miles. Deceit took energy.
He halted at the window and looked out at the small garden. Beyond were the houses and rooftops of Mayfair, the most fashionable neighborhood in the city that was the heartbeat of Britain. Though he had gone to school at Harrow, only a dozen miles away, he had never spent more than a few days at a time in London proper. At the age when he might have started to know the city's delights, he had left the country.
He wondered what this visit would bring. Somewhere nearby, Hermione, the widowed Lady Kimball, was living in comfort on the money plundered from her late husband. Kenneth hoped to God that their paths would not cross. Even after fifteen years, he would have trouble being civil to his stepmother.
Lord Bowden was also living nearby, and he wanted regular reports from his investigator. With a sigh, Kenneth settled down in the armchair to define his first impressions of Sir Anthony's household. This investigation was going to be an even uglier business than he had guessed. Though Sir Anthony might be volatile and sometimes arrogant, he was not unlikable. It was going be difficult to work daily with the man while trying to find evidence to destroy his life.
He reminded himself that if Seaton had murdered his wife, he deserved whatever happened to him. But was Sir Anthony capable of murder? Perhaps. He was an intense, forceful man, used to getting his own way. In a moment of rage, he might turn violent. A single angry shove when he and his wife were walking near a cliff could have had lethal consequences. That would send him to prison even if murder had not been his intent.
But how could such a crime be proved without witnesses? Kenneth must learn exactly what had been going on in the Seaton household at the time of Helen's death—not only the events, but the emotions.
He thought back to Rebecca Seaton's behavior when she had said her mother had died in a "horrible, stupid accident." Her reaction had seemed like more than simple sorrow. It implied that Bowden's suspicions might be justified. He wondered what she had meant when she said her father had not "been himself" since the death. Grief—or guilt?
Thinking of Rebecca Seaton made Kenneth wince. He never should have made that idiotic remark about kissing her. She had stalked away like an angry cat. But damn the woman, something about her attracted him intensely. It certainly wasn't love at first sight; he wasn't sure he even liked her. Nonetheless, her sharp edges and individuality were intriguing, which was why he'd spoken so imprudently. He had been away from civilized society too long. He must relearn manners.
Even though a couple of hours in the Seaton household had underlined the fact that his artistic skills were strictly amateur, he lifted a pencil and began idly sketching on a tablet. He'd always found drawing relaxing. Often it was useful for
"Excuse me, Miss Seaton. I didn't meant that I actually do want to kiss you," he said smoothly. "I was merely trying to establish the boundaries of permissible remarks."
"You have just exceeded them. Don't do it again." She spun on her heel and stalked out of the breakfast parlor. He certainly wasn't bland. But for the life of her, she wasn't sure what bothered her most: his outrageous comment about kissing her—or his claim that he had no desire to do any such thing.
* * *
With half an hour to spare before meeting with Sir Anthony, Kenneth went to his room. The maids had cleaned the place until it sparkled, and the footman had retrieved his baggage from the inn where he had spent the previous night. He guessed that most of the servants would prove to be satisfactory; they merely needed a firm hand.
It took only a few minutes to unpack his belongings. For some obscure reason, he had brought a portfolio of his drawings. He tucked it in the back of the wardrobe, safe from the eyes of servants. Then he drifted across the room, feeling as tired as if he had marched thirty miles. Deceit took energy.
He halted at the window and looked out at the small garden. Beyond were the houses and rooftops of Mayfair, the most fashionable neighborhood in the city that was the heartbeat of Britain. Though he had gone to school at Harrow, only a dozen miles away, he had never spent more than a few days at a time in London proper. At the age when he might have started to know the city's delights, he had left the country.
He wondered what this visit would bring. Somewhere nearby, Hermione, the widowed Lady Kimball, was living in comfort on the money plundered from her late husband. Kenneth hoped to God that their paths would not cross. Even after fifteen years, he would have trouble being civil to his stepmother.
Lord Bowden was also living nearby, and he wanted regular reports from his investigator. With a sigh, Kenneth settled down in the armchair to define his first impressions of Sir Anthony's household. This investigation was going to be an even uglier business than he had guessed. Though Sir Anthony might be volatile and sometimes arrogant, he was not unlikable. It was going be difficult to work daily with the man while trying to find evidence to destroy his life.
He reminded himself that if Seaton had murdered his wife, he deserved whatever happened to him. But was Sir Anthony capable of murder? Perhaps. He was an intense, forceful man, used to getting his own way. In a moment of rage, he might turn violent. A single angry shove when he and his wife were walking near a cliff could have had lethal consequences. That would send him to prison even if murder had not been his intent.
But how could such a crime be proved without witnesses? Kenneth must learn exactly what had been going on in the Seaton household at the time of Helen's death—not only the events, but the emotions.
He thought back to Rebecca Seaton's behavior when she had said her mother had died in a "horrible, stupid accident." Her reaction had seemed like more than simple sorrow. It implied that Bowden's suspicions might be justified. He wondered what she had meant when she said her father had not "been himself" since the death. Grief—or guilt?
Thinking of Rebecca Seaton made Kenneth wince. He never should have made that idiotic remark about kissing her. She had stalked away like an angry cat. But damn the woman, something about her attracted him intensely. It certainly wasn't love at first sight; he wasn't sure he even liked her. Nonetheless, her sharp edges and individuality were intriguing, which was why he'd spoken so imprudently. He had been away from civilized society too long. He must relearn manners.
Even though a couple of hours in the Seaton household had underlined the fact that his artistic skills were strictly amateur, he lifted a pencil and began idly sketching on a tablet. He'd always found drawing relaxing. Often it was useful for
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