Free Glass Houses by Stella Cameron Page A

and—”
    “Yes, I do want to talk to her,” Winston interrupted. “Bring me the phone.”
    “Are you diddling that mousy little woman?” Kitty asked.
    “For God’s sake, Kitty. Miss FitzDurham? No. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
    “Bring me the phone, Rupert,” Winnie ordered.
    Kitty laughed and snorted, “I’m not worried. I’m never worried. Whoever is Winnie talking about?”
    Rupert couldn’t think what she meant. “What?”
    “Oh, you can tell me. Ever so quietly. Whisper. Who’s he who is never mentioned? Surely not—well, you know who?”
    “Your ears are too good for your health,” Rupert told her. “You’ve got the right man. And he’s dead now—which means he absolutely never gets mentioned again.”
    Winston slipped low enough in his chair for his heels to touch the carpet. “Fool,” he mouthed. “Bloody fool.”
    “Dead?” Kitty said, but not as if she expected an answer. “Oh, Rupert, don’t tell me what happened. It’s better if I don’t know. I don’t care anyway. Give Winnie the phone, there’s a good little lapdog. I’ll expect Vince to have something for me.”
    There came a time to give it up where Kitty was concerned. He hauled on the long telephone cord and thrust the receiver at Winston who put it to his ear as if he expected worms to crawl inside his head. “Yes?” he said, sweating profusely now.
    He listened without speaking for a minute or more, apparently unaware that his specs were sliding down his nose. Silently he held the receiver out to Rupert, who heard the line buzz and hung up.
    “Bitch,” Winston said. “Might as well give her some money to shut her up. She’ll only keep pestering you if you don’t.” Da rn it. Rupert didn’t have to ask what Kitty had told his partner. In the throes of—well, in the throes of being quite grateful to her , he’d told Kitty some of the personal bits, including Winston’s personal bits. She’d probably just informed him of what she knew. This was going to make it tougher to get some proof of Winston’s escapades.
    A long, thin, supple body covered with gray fur slipped across the floor behind Winston’s chair. Rupert was almost moved by pity to make a dash and head off Soames. Almost.
    The gray fur turned silver in the light. Soames’s tiny, needle-sharp claws sunk into costly Genoa velvet and he rippled up the side of the chair. While Winston gazed morosely at his flaccid hands where they rested in his lap, Soames flowed behind his head and delved his darling, wet little nose into the ear Kitty had so recently assaulted.
    Winston jumped. He jumped, and stiffened. His eyes stretched wide open. “Rupert?” he whispered. “Rupert?”
    The torturer was tortured and very nicely, too. “Isn’t that sweet,” Rupert said. “I’ve always told you Soames likes you.” It was bloody amazing the way lugubrious—a good word, that—the way lumbering, lugubrious old Winnie whipped his sueded twinkle toes onto the chair and stood on the seat. Soames slithered around Winnie’s neck like a snug fur collar.
    Winston turned deep puce. He squealed, and danced, and flapped his arms—and his jowls.
    Another sound reached Rupert. Choking. Flaming hell, if he didn’t watch out, Winston would drop dead, which might be brilliant if Rupert didn’t still need him. “It’s okay. Hold on. Oh, dear me. Come to Daddy, Soames, you’re frightening Winston.” He grabbed the ferret and stuffed him into an ivory birdcage. “It’s all right now. He's gone, old friend. I’ve taken him away.” With his arms still outstretched, and his legs pressed together, Winston held his pose, but the color gradually faded from his face. His eyes regained focus and he seemed, slowly, to become aware of where he was. Without a word, he lowered his arms and climbed down. He removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his damp handkerchief, flipped his head as if tossing back luxuriant hair, and reseated himself.
    Rupert