Page 12 of Merry Lover

Griz nodded. “So the assignation had to be here at our front door. Why? There is no reason unless someone, presumably Sebastian Cartaret, thought the object of his love still lived here. One of Mrs. Westley’s household. A maid?”

“An unlikely object of such romantic behavior. If he loved her, he’d set her up in a discreet house somewhere, not secretly bring Christmas roses to an assignation two nights before Christmas.”

“She doesn’t have to be a lover,” Griz objected. “What if his illegitimate daughter worked for Mrs. Westley? He is reputed to be a bon viveur.”

“He is also reputed to be generous. Would such a man leave his daughter in domestic service and consider a bunch of flowers at Christmas enough acknowledgment?”

“Probably not,” Griz admitted. “Though perhaps she is stubbornly independent. Perhaps he only just discovered her existence.” She took another sip of brandy and glanced up at him. “Or perhaps his lover is not the maid, but Mrs. Westley.”

“She could have killed him to keep her husband from finding out. Or because he was abandoning her.”

“Or perhapsMr.Westley found out and came in her place,” Griz said, sitting up. “Snatched the flowers meant for his wife and killed him, somehow.”

“And when he told his wife, she brought the flower as her last gift.” Dragan examined his brandy, then drank it thoughtfully. “Other people’s emotions are hard to judge. Everyone has secrets.” His gaze came back to rest on her. “Perhaps we should eat.”

They went to the kitchen together to reheat the casserole Cook had left for them and to feed Vicky. There, they opened a bottle of wine, and Dragan told her all about his railway journey to Edinburgh and some of the new ideas he had learned from the lectures he had attended and his discussions with the professors there.

Since there was no one to object, they ate dinner in the kitchen where it was warm and kept talking, catching up on a month apart that letters had not been able to fully account for. Then, hand in hand, they walked back toward the drawing room, and Griz, her heart beating faster, began to think of all the other things letters couldn’t make up for. Surely it was bedtime?

Perhaps Dragan was thinking the same, for his thumb caressed her palm, and even in the candlelight she could see that particular glow about the eyes that made her go weak at the knees in anticipation.

A knock battered against the door, making her jump visibly.

Dragan swore beneath his breath and dropped her hand. “Wait here,” he murmured and strode toward the door. Griz curled her fingers around the heavy lamp on the hall table and followed him.

Dragan opened the door, paused, then drew it wider and stood back.

Inspector Harris walked in. “Merry Christmas,” he said mildly. “Glad to see you home, Tizsa.”

The relationship between Dragan and the inspector was complicated—mainly by their original meeting when Dragan had been arrested for murder. Since then, a mutual, if reluctant, respect had grown, and to Dragan, Harris was a friend. To Inspector Harris, however, she suspected they were both incomprehensible—a foreign revolutionary refugee married to a duke’s daughter who could not leave criminal puzzles alone.

“Merry Christmas to you,” Dragan replied while Griz set down the lamp. “And I’m very glad to be home. I hope this is a social call.”

“Why?” Harris demanded.

“Because I hate to think of you working so late on Christmas Eve. Your wife will miss you.”

“Let me take your coat and hat,” Griz offered.

“No, I can’t stay. I’m on my way home,” the inspector said gruffly.

“Have a quick glass of brandy with us, then.” Dragan ushered him into the drawing room.

While Dragan went to pour the brandy, Harris caught Grizelda’s eye and raised his brow interrogatively. For a moment, she was baffled by the silent question and then both amused and annoyed together. And very slightly touched.

“I have told Dragan all about the body at the door,” she said gravely. How could he have thought otherwise? And yet, she had wanted to solve the mystery before Dragan came home because she had imagined his suspicion. It all seemed silly, now. Everything got off-kilter now when Dragan was not near. “Do you have news?”

“Thank you.” Inspector Harris accepted the glass from Dragan.

They all Merry Christmas-ed again and sipped while the iInspector glanced around the room, taking in the decorations that had made their appearance since he was last here. His gaze lingered on the vase of Christmas roses.

“Our doctor performed the autopsy very quickly,” Harris said bluntly. “Mr. Cartaret had an enlarged heart.”

“He died of natural causes,” Dragan said.

“His family was not aware of it, but the doctor thinks Cartaret himself must have been. His death will have been sudden and quick. You don’t seem surprised to hear his name, my lady.”

“I did peek at one of his cards while I was waiting for you,” she said brazenly. “But it didn’t help at the time. I know a little more about him now.”

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