Thea looked at her own collection. ‘I think I need a new box.’ She opened the lid again and lifted out some of the contents.
His husky laugh warmed her. ‘I’ll make one for you.’
‘Would you?’ The warmth spread, and she reached into the box again. Her fingers felt something small and hard, irregularly shaped, at the bottom. Curious she delved and drew it out—’Ohh …’
In her hand lay a small wooden bird, rather crudely carved, its beak open, wings half-spread. Richard had made it for her, and all these years it had lain forgotten in the box, the unheard song stilled. She had thought it left behind when she went to Yorkshire.
‘What have you got there?’
Blinking hard, she turned and held out the little bird on the palm of her hand.
For a moment he seemed not to understand. Then, ‘You’ve kept it all these years?’ There was an odd note in his voice.
Scarlet, she said, ‘I had forgotten all about it.’ Desperate to change the subject, she asked, ‘What … what are you making now?’
‘Something to hang over the cradle for my godson or goddaughter,’ he answered. ‘Max and Verity’s child. Tell me what you think.’
She went over to the table and a gasp of delight escaped her. Five gaily painted little wooden horses, in various attitudes, pranced there. A sixth, as yet unpainted was in his hand. ‘Not very exciting,’ he said. ‘I did think of dragons, but these pieces of wood insisted on being ponies. I’m just doing the finishing touches to this one before painting it.’
‘They are lovely,’ she said softly. ‘And I think your godchild will treasure them.’ She reached out and stroked the nose of one pony with her forefinger. ‘They’re like my box of clutter—one day your great-nephews and nieces will look at these and think of you.’ Perhaps even his great-great nephews and nieces. And so on until the children no longer knew anything about the man who had carved these dancing ponies so long ago. But they would know the toy had been made with love.
Just as she had remembered the wooden bird.
Very softly, she said, ‘I shall like to think of you making something like this for your own children one day, Richard.’
He went very still as her words fell into a deep silence within him.
Until a year ago he had assumed that one day he would marry. There was no reason not to, but marriage had never been compelling. He had been busy, satisfied with his life, and his role as Max’s steward. Indeed, that role was still his. But ever since Max’s marriage he had been increasingly aware that something was missing in his life, and that it was time to fill the void.
‘Thea—’ Unsure what he was going to say, only knowing that words were there, he reached for her hand.
The door opened without warning.
He slewed around in his chair.
‘Damn it, Myles! What the devil do you want now?’
Myles looked severely shaken. ‘Mr Richard—there … there is a magistrate in the front hall—’
There came a sharp gasp from Thea. Richard reached out and took her hand, enveloping it in his, shocked to feel her trembling.
‘A what?’ Surely Myles hadn’t said—
‘A magistrate, sir. Sir Giles Mason. From Bow Street. Requesting an interview with Miss Winslow.’ Myles swallowed. ‘I know her ladyship will not like it, but, sir, perhaps you—since her ladyship isn’t here?’
Her ladyship would probably have apoplexy when she found out, reflected Richard, but he couldn’t see any alternative. Thea’s hand, still lost in his, was trembling, although when he looked up at her, she appeared perfectly calm.
‘I’d better see him, I think,’ she said. Her voice was perfectly calm too. Turning to the butler, she continued, ‘Tell Sir Giles that I will see him in the dining—’
‘Show Sir Giles up, Myles,’ said Richard, cutting straight across Thea. He eyed her in flat-out challenge. ‘If you think for one moment that I am going to permit you to see a magistrate alone, you have some more thinking to do.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing,’ he interrupted. ‘Call me a coward, but I have no intention of admitting to Almeria that I let you face this alone!’
The door shut behind Myles.
‘Thea …’ he caught her other hand, holding them both in a gentle clasp ‘ … do you have any idea what this might be about?’
She shook her head, and her eyes met his unflinchingly, but a deep, slow blush mantled her cheeks … He swore mentally and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
‘I hope,’ he said grimly, ‘that you can lie a great deal more convincingly for Sir Giles’s benefit.’
Sir Giles was a tall, grizzled man with a slight stoop. In his late fifties, Richard judged. Shrewd green eyes looked over the top of half-moon spectacles and flickered down to a sheaf of papers he had produced from a small case.
Polite greetings over, he got straight down to business.
‘Miss Winslow, I am sure this must be a shock for you, and I am very glad that you have a responsible friend to support you in this. Painful though it must be for you, I must ask you some questions about your late, er, betrothed, Mr Nigel Lallerton.’
Shock jolted through Richard. He stole a sideways glance at Thea. There was not the least hint of surprise, manufactured or otherwise.
‘Yes, sir.’
Sir Giles looked at her closely. ‘That doesn’t surprise you?’
‘Your being here at all is a surprise, Sir Giles.’
The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘No doubt. Now—did anyone dislike Mr Lallerton? Have a quarrel with him?’
She hesitated, then said, ‘I am sure there were many, sir.’
‘Many?’
‘No one is universally popular,’ she said, her hands shifting restlessly in her lap, pleating her skirts.
Richard reached out and took possession of one hand; instantly the other lay utterly still.
‘Hmm. I meant,’ said Sir Giles, ‘was there anyone in particular who might have had a grudge against Mr Laller—?’
‘Would you mind informing Miss Winslow of the reason for these questions, Sir Giles?’ said Richard.
The older man’s mouth tightened. ‘We have received information, sir, that, far from dying in a shooting accident when his gun misfired, Mr Lallerton was murdered.’
‘Information? From whom?’ asked Richard.
‘As to that,’ said Sir Giles, ‘the information was anonymous.’ Richard froze, but said nothing. Sir Giles continued. ‘We have made some enquiries into the matter, and it would appear that further investigation is in order.’
‘You take notice of anonymous information?’
Sir Giles shrugged. ‘Information is information, sir. Naturally we would not hang a man on the basis of an anonymous submission, but as a starting point for investigation, it is perfectly normal. Now, Miss Winslow—on the subject of your betrothed’s popularity—did you know of anyone who might have wished him ill?’
‘I know of no one who wished him dead,’ said Thea in a low voice. She met his eyes squarely, her face pale.
‘I see. And your own feelings …’ Sir Giles shifted