Free I Adored a Lord by Katharine Ashe Page B

I wouldna mind tossin’ dice for,” she whispered. “For all that he’s five-­an’-­forty, he’s a fine man. I do like guinea hair. ’Tis a shame the Ice Shrew’s already got him. She probably won him over wi’ that pretty face afore she revealed her heart o’ stone.”
    Ladies Penelope and Grace, both cut in Lady Whitebarrow’s cool image, followed their parents into the drawing room. Penelope paused beside Lord Vitor and the prince to modestly bat her golden lashes.
    â€œI’d like to pinch that one,” Lady Iona whispered. “The one wi’ the simper she leart from her mither.”
    Ravenna laughed. Lord Vitor’s attention turned to her and something hot and unwelcome wiggled through her belly.
    The footmen closed the doors.
    â€œI am devastated to dampen spirits so early in the festivities,” Prince Sebastiao said upon a slur that might have been affected lisp or overindulgence. At eleven o’clock in the morning, Ravenna hoped it was affectation. But he had the most wonderful accent when he spoke in English, soft over some words and uncomfortably broken over others. “Yet I fear I must announce a terrible tragedy: a death in the house.”
    The room fell quiet. A few murmurs of displeasure sounded and guests cast covert glances around the place.
    â€œWho was it, your highness?” Mr. Martin Anders finally asked, a dramatic gleam in his single visible eye; a curtain of dark hair entirely concealed the other.
    â€œAn Englishman by the name of Oliver Walsh. The trouble is,” the prince continued with a flip of a hand cuffed in military gold cording, “it seems he’s been murdered.”
    Lady Margaret gasped and the jewels hanging from her ears, wrists, and neck jangled. Mademoiselle Arielle Dijon’s slender hands covered her mouth. Dressed all in purple gown and cape, an ancient Italian bishop who had arrived just before the snow the previous day, crossed himself with weary holiness. His taking little niece, Miss Juliana Abraccia, followed suit, bowing her dark head piously and folding her gloved hands. Miss Ann Feathers’s round cheeks paled to Shetland white. Lady Iona’s bright eyes stared at the prince rather blankly.
    â€œGiven the snow that has entrapped us, and the fellow not a full day cold,” the prince said with remarkably theatrical panache, “we have concluded that the murderer must be one of us.”
    â€œGood God!”
    â€œ Mater Dei. ”
    â€œYour highness!”
    â€œThere’s nothing to be done for it, I’m afraid,” the prince said with a sorry shake of his head. “The local police will arrive shortly to interrogate each of you.”
    â€œYour highness.” The Earl of Whitebarrow stepped forward, thrusting out his square jaw. “This is an insult.”
    â€œTo us all,” Lord Case agreed, a gleam lighting his eyes as he looked at his brother.
    â€œI assume you will not question the noble families present,” Lord Whitebarrow said.
    â€œA servant must have done it, of course,” Lady Whitebarrow said, turning up her nose pointedly toward Lady Margaret and Sir Henry with their mousy daughter. “The servile class is never to be entirely trusted.”
    â€œMy Merton would not have done it,” Lord Prunesly commented abstractly, squinting through his spectacles. “Been with me for years.”
    â€œMost of your servants were together in the servants’ hall when the murder occurred,” Lord Vitor said. “As such they are largely accounted for and are now en route to the village. They will lodge there until the identity of the murderer is discovered.”
    â€œOur servants have gone?” Lady Penelope’s golden lashes popped wide. “Mama, you cannot allow this.”
    â€œSuch a pity,” Duchess McCall said, “for a lass to be beholden to servants for her beauty.” She cast a proud