Free Her Beguiling Butler by Cerise DeLand Page B

lopsided grin. “You have an open heart.”
    For you I do. “What qualifications must such an investigator possess?”
    “One who remembers details. One who solves puzzles.”
    She smiled at him. “Fascinating. How did you come by these skills?”
    “A childhood spent alone allows one to dream and concentrate on any interest.”
    She fingered the fall of the collar of his black greatcoat. “And what were your interests?”
    “I was very sickly. So my interests were sedentary. Bugs and plants. I collected them all. My mother loved each one and my father hated them. Said they were subjects for a female.”
    Detecting his bitterness, she squeezed his hand in sympathy. “As if there are divisions in the realms of the universe. Ridiculous. A person should be permitted to study whatever thrills him or her. Ants. Lilies. Rocks. Romances.”
    He draped his arm around her shoulders. “Your views are those of a revolutionary.”
    “Do you dislike me for them?” she teased without fear of his answer.
    “Admiration is more the word, my pet.” He pulled her close to kiss her temple. “Now you must tell me what your passions were as a girl.”
    She made a face. “I adored my brother’s toy soldiers and played battles with him. I commanded the French forces. Always. Jerome insisted I lose. But I won. Often. He was graceful about it.” She picked at the fur throw over her lap, envisioning Jerome’s delight at moving his men about the nursery room carpet. “I sometimes wonder if his boyhood games induced him to go to the wars.”
    “Soldiering is far from a game. Sad that far too many think it a time for camaraderie, instead of the gory business it is.”
    “Jerome wanted to be a hero. Wanted to impress my father with his exploits. He died trying.” She inhaled and cast off her gloom. “Enough of that. It’s over. What I must tell you is that I too know a bit about plants.”
    Finnley’s brows shot up. “Do you? I never heard that.”
    Had he spoken with someone about her? The way he said that implied he had. “Oh, I see. My servants talk about me, do they? Well, it happens, I know. But yes, I do know the value of oregano and lemon grass. Even nightshade.”
    “That last is poisonous,” he said with some gravity.
    “Yes, indeed. Did you know a few plants grew in the back garden?”
    “Is that so?” he asked, his gaze on the opposite seat, but his eyes blank. “When?”
    She examined him closely. “Mrs. Sweeting told me last autumn. Took me out to the patch and pointed it out. What’s wrong? Why do you frown?”
    His gaze traveled to hers. “Sweeting told you about it?”
    And when she confirmed it, he added, “It seems odd for it to grow in London.”
    “A tough weed to survive the close air, eh?” she asked.
    “Did Mrs. Sweeting say when she first noticed the plants?”
    “No. I didn’t ask her.” Should I have?
    “Why did she tell you about them?” he asked her.
    This question made her frown. He was very interested in the plant. Why? “I was in the kitchen one afternoon, talking about a particularly bitter tea she’d brewed for me that morning. I hated it and wanted her to discard it. She and I began to talk about my husband’s illness leading to his death. A rambling conversation. Nothing more. Then Mrs. Sweeting recalled how Lord Ranford had been confused and short of breath for weeks before he passed on. He’d suffered headaches too.”
    “Did he really?”
    “Yes, indeed. Made me wonder about the surgeon’s declaration of his cause of death. Heart congestion seems less to do with the head than the body, you see.”
    Finnley agreed.
    “And then there was the fact that Ranford’s valet fled the next day like a thief in the night. I wondered about that.” She had disliked the persnickety little man who never gave her the time of day without a sniff and upturned nose. “I was happy to have him gone though. He disliked me. He disliked the first Lady Ranford, too. Anyone close to Ranford