Free Veil of Lies by Jeri Westerson Page B

stumbled before straightening. “That’s better. When you speak to me in this house, you will conduct yourself with more respect.”
    “In this house? The house you used to clean, you mean?”
    If it were possible for a human to expel flames, Philippa would have done so. Though she did not speak, her lips seemed to form the word “Adam!”
    After a pause she said tightly, “I do not care for your manners, Master Crispin.”
    “I’m not particularly impressed by yours.” He straightened his coat and slipped his thumbs into his belt.
    She darted a glance at Jack who remained mute and wide-eyed.
    “So,” she said, “you know who I am. Or rather, who I was.”
    “It is difficult to disguise that inflection. But you perform it well. You are like a mummer playing a part.”
    She turned her wedding ring on her finger. “Aye. It is a useful skill.”
    “So we need play no more games, Philippa.”
    She raised her chin. “So now you think you may call me by my Christian name?”
    Her accent thickened the more he jibed her. “It’s not so much the chambermaid, but the adulteress.”
    She stepped back to gaze at him, or perhaps to get a better swing. Her hand struck his cheek with such force that he teetered. He raised his hand to the welt and smiled. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
    Her small lips curved. “Now we understand each other.”
    Crispin continued to rub his cheek. “You have a strong hand, Madam.”
    “I’m no weakling. I worked hard in this house. I carried water. I did the heavy cleaning. I did more than my share. It was natural that I should catch the master’s eye, though I never dreamed it would go so far.”
    For the first time he noticed a servant in the far corner of the hall pretending to sweep a small square of the floor with a gorse broom. Crispin lowered his voice. “Shall we retire to the parlor?”
    She folded her arms over her breasts. “Why? I have no wish to talk with you. You made it clear you would have nought to do with me.”
    “This is a murder inquiry. If you’d rather speak to the sheriff…”
    The sparkle in her eye dimmed. Glancing at the servant, Philippa nodded and led Crispin and Jack down a gallery to a warm chamber. She sat in the one large, ornate chair and gestured for Crispin to sit in the smaller one beside it.
    Jack stood behind Crispin’s chair and wrung the hem of his tunic.
    “Can your servant serve the wine?”
    Crispin swiveled his gaze toward Jack. Amusement had not left his features since Philippa doled out her slap. “ Can you serve wine, Jack?”
    “Course I can!” Jack’s lower lip jutted forward and he narrowed his eyes at Philippa. He searched the room for the wine jug, and when he spied it, he stomped to the sideboard and sloppily poured two bowls. He eyed the silver before he offered a bowl to Crispin first. Crispin shook his head and nodded to the lady. Grumbling, Jack gave her the first bowl and Crispin the second. He retreated to the jug, no doubt wondering how he’d get himself a drink or slip the silver flagon under his cloak.
    Philippa drank and studied Crispin over the rim of her bowl.
    “So, you caught the master’s eye,” said Crispin.
    She nodded. “A body only hears about such in songs. But I caught his fancy, and before I knew it, I was mistress of this household.”
    “Did you love him?”
    The wine bowl paused at her lips. “A strange question. What does it matter?”
    Crispin shrugged. “It doesn’t. I merely wondered.”
    “And I wonder why you wonder.”
    “You forget.” He lowered his chin and ran his finger absently along the rim of the silver bowl. “I saw you at the Thistle.”
    She angled her head to stare into the fire. A wisp of hair escaped from her meticulous coif and posed along her neck in a sinuous wave. “There is so much you’ll never understand.”
    “Try me.”
    “We must talk about the cloth.”
    “Did Adam Becton hire you?”
    She added a drowsy smile to her features and settled her head