Free Murder and Misdeeds by Joan Smith

word to use. It was his gray eyes, as cold as ice crystals, that caused it.
    His bow was not quite as graceful as Prance’s. “Countess, Sir Reginald,” he said, strolling in. “Delighted to see you. No need to ask why you have condescended to call on me, after all these years, Countess. Let me assure you I do not have Miss Enderton sequestered in the attic, nor her body concealed in a hogshead of wine in the cellar. Yes, I did offer for her last Christmas. I was ... mildly disappointed at her refusal. The Hall required a new roof, but an obliging aunt died and that took care of that. Now, what would you have to drink? I have a decent claret ... but that is a boy’s drink, eh, Prance? Brandy for you and me. I think for Lady deCoventry ...” He stopped and examined her a moment. “No, you have outgrown Madeira since my last glimpse of you. Sherry, perhaps?”
    “Sherry, thank you,” she said.
    While he poured the drinks and passed them, Corinne was busy subjecting the saloon to a thorough visual search.
    Blackmore’s lips twitched as he handed her the wine. “Do feel free to take a peek behind the sofa, Lady deCoventry,” he said, smiling coolly. “She would not really fit in that little escritoire you have been ogling.”
    “I have been admiring it,” she said, trying to match his sangfroid. “French, I think?”
    “Italian, actually. My using the French name confused you, perhaps. I don’t know the Italian word for a desk. It is Quattrocento, in any case.”
    “Scrivan ì a, I believe is the word in Italian,” Prance informed him. “But Quattrocento? Cinquecento, surely, Baron?” Blackmore shrugged his shoulders. “A lovely thing, in any case. Bellissimo!” Prance said, smiling at it. “One would not have thought it would suit so well in a Tudor saloon.”
    Blackmore wafted his hand around the walls. “Flemish paintings, some Italian and some French furnishings, Oriental carpets, and a good old Kent chest to anchor it all. I refer, of course, to Kent the cabinetmaker, not the county.”
    “Ç a va sans dire,” Prance said. “It takes a good eye to succeed with the eclectic style,” he added, nodding his head in approval.
    Blackmore’s lips twitched in amusement. “I cannot take credit for the accumulation, but only the current arrangement,” he said. “Each generation adds what it feels is best.”
    “Then this excellent taste must be hereditary,” Prance said, with a bow of his head.
    Blackmore returned the bow with a perfectly straight face, but Corinne noticed his steely eyes were laughing. “I have my heart set on upgrading the family china,” he said. “A set designed with the family crest by Wedgewood, perhaps. I am working on a design.”
    “I should adore to see it,” Prance said at once. “I do hope it will have some black in it, to honor your title. I envisage a creamy background, with black and gold—yes, definitely gold. Griffins would be nice.”
    “Unfortunately, the family crest features lions,” Blackmore said.
    “As does my own, Baron. Three lions passant, gold on sable.”
    “Perhaps you will give me the benefit of your experience, Sir Reginald.”
    “I was hoping you would ask!” Prance was so pleased, he was purring.
    It was the baron’s turn to bow his head. “I have more than enough furnishings. There are some quite decent pieces in the house, but scattered about the two dozen bedrooms. And believe it or not, a mural by Angelica Kauffmann in the attic, of all places.”
    Prance leaned so far forward he nearly fell off the sofa.
    “No!” he exclaimed in rapture. “But I adore Angelica! Which period?”
    “It is done in the Italian style, probably after her visit to Italy. I would love to know how it comes to be there. An affair with one of my ancestors, perhaps. You must come upstairs to see it, Sir Reginald.”
    He turned a mischievous eye to Corinne. “Do join us, milady. You shall have a tour of the whole house. That will give you an opportunity