Free Sheri Cobb South by In Milady's Chamber Page A

longing for her childhood home in the West Country. “You realize, do you not, that I am the most likely suspect? It is no secret that Frederick and I were not upon the best of terms.”
    “Nonsense! If that in itself were a motive for murder, half the ton would be gallows-bait, and the other half would be dead.”
    “I daresay you are right, and Bow Street Runners interrupt me at breakfast merely for the pleasure of my company,” suggested Lady Fieldhurst with gentle irony.
    “No, but they would, if they knew how fetching you looked in black—rather fragile and innocent. If you must stand trial, my dear, take care to wear black. No jury in the land would convict you.”
    The soft sound of the door opening on well-oiled hinges made Lady Fieldhurst look around. Thomas, his expression one of well-trained impassivity, stood with one hand on the doorknob. Pickett, apparently finished with his interrogations below stairs, stood framed in the doorway, twisting the brim of his shallow-crowned hat in his hands.
    “I—I beg your pardon, your ladyship,” he stammered, glancing at the footman for assistance, but finding none. “I was just coming to take leave of you. I didn’t realize you had guests.”
    “Think nothing of it, Mr. Pickett. Lady Dunnington is quite like one of the family.”
    “When one considers her nearest and dearest, one can hardly be flattered by the comparison,” put in Lady Dunnington. “Still, I shall strive to accept the encomium in the spirit in which it was no doubt intended.”
    “Pray hush, Emily! You will give Mr. Pickett the oddest notion of the company I keep!”
    Pickett hastily denied having any such thoughts in his head and imparted the additional information that, should her ladyship have further need of him, she had only to send to Bow Street for him. Having delivered himself of this communication, he made his bow and betook himself from the room.
    The door had scarcely closed behind him when Lady Dunnington gave vent to the peal of laughter held in check since Pickett first appeared in the doorway. “That is your Runner? I was not aware that Bow Street was in the habit of employing babes in arms! Still, I daresay he will do you no harm—although I question his ability to do you much good, either.”
    * * * *
    Thomas, being thrust all unprepared into the rôle of butler, had yet to acquire several of those sterling qualities which had made the absent Rogers so indispensable to the Fieldhursts’ comfort, chief among these being an exquisite sense of timing. As a result of this lack, he was both a bit early in opening the drawing room door and a bit late in closing it.
    Pickett, therefore, both entered and exited the room to the accompaniment of Lady Dunnington’s candid impressions of him, both personally and professionally—neither of which was flattering, and both of which cut a bit too close to the bone. He was forced to concede the lady’s point where the former was concerned, as he could do nothing about his years or lack thereof; however, he took umbrage with the latter. Not only was he persuaded of his ability to do the viscountess a great deal of good, but that morning’s interview with the magistrate had left him convinced that he was the only one who might do so.
    Granted, things looked awkward for her ladyship, but she was not the only one who might stand to profit from the viscount’s death. Nor, for that matter, was her would-be lover, Lord Rupert Latham, although Pickett felt no such chivalric tendencies where his lordship was concerned. There was, for example, Mr. George Bertram, heir presumptive to the title, whose wife appeared eager to assume her new status. Mr. Bertram himself had been more restrained, but the fact that he did not flaunt his ambitions did not necessarily mean they did not exist. Or had he perhaps murdered his cousin in order to please his wife? Mrs. Bertram hardly struck Pickett as the sort who might drive a man to murder for love of her, but