Page 268 of From Rakes to Riches

She’d been categorically opposed to the idea of the supernatural in almost every respect.

Until now.

Certainly Jenkins didn’t carry such an aura of malice.

Even though she’d made him cross.

“Oi!” He stormed into the room after her, his expression morphing from one of surprise to suspicion. “The detective inspector isn’t but a moment away, so don’t you dare touch anything.”

“I know better than to disturb a murder scene,” Mercy announced with a droll sniff.

“What makes you reckon she was murdered?” he asked, eyeing her with rank skepticism. “The lady could have very well died in her sleep. You know something you’re not telling?”

Despite her distress and remorse, Mercy felt a surge of relish at being able to finally trot her extensive knowledge on the matters of murder in the presence of an arrogant dolt.

“Prepare your notepad, dear Constable, and I shall elucidate.” She pinned her hands behind her back in a regimental posture. One her brilliant brothers-in-law often adopted when lecturing her about being more judicious.

Not that such homilies were effectual in her case.

But the men in her family appeared especially important and erudite while standing thusly, and even thoughshe didn’t usually listen, it was certain that most people who were unacquainted with their soft hearts and darkest secrets would be inclined to do so.

“Do you see the slight edema there at her neck?” She motioned to the open throat of Mathilde’s high-necked gown, where the once-porcelain skin was now tinged a blue-grey. “This suggests asphyxiation, but there are no ligature marks, nor is there bruising.” She bent closer, inspecting the wound. “But a distressing bit of an interruption in the cords of her muscle, just there, leads me to believe that when your coroner arrives, he’ll find that her neck has been quite broken.”

Mercy exhaled a shaking breath, grasping onto her composure with both hands. If this dullard could keep his wits about him when faced with such a tragedy, then she was equally determined to.

“She wouldn’t have died instantly.” Her throat rasped over traitorous emotion. “Likely, she’d have been paralyzed, but able to talk and scream until the pressure crushed her trachea.” Her fingers reached for her own neck in sympathy, her bones heavy with guilt and her heart surging with an ardent vow to retaliate.“Her name was Mathilde Archambeau. That’s A-R-C-H—” She glanced over at Jenkins. “Why are you not writing this down?”

“Because we know exactly who this woman is,” said a stolid voice from the doorway. “And we have already surmised who is responsible for her death.”

Mercy whirled to find an average, if incredibly sturdy, man in a billycock hat and matching grey morning suit. He strode into the solarium with his coat lackadaisically draped over one arm. A square chin framed a nose that could have been unflatteringly likened to a potato. Eyes spaced too close together gleamed with improper interest as he conducted a thorough and disrespectful examination of Mercy’s person.

He was at least fifteen years her senior and wore a wedding band on his left finger.

Marriage didn’t stop men from ogling her, Mercy had found. Most possessed a weakness for a young slim woman with pale ringlets and a passably attractive face.

That was all they saw when they looked at her with the same desire she witnessed now. Her smooth, unblemished youth. Her diminutive shape and sparkling blue eyes.

She could disarm just about anyone with her winsome charms.

Until she opened her mouth.

Then their desire melted into anything from dismay to disgust.

As Mercy’s father often said, she’d make a perfect wife, if only someone could relieve her of her wits and her willfulness.

Or at least her tongue.

Her charms, as it happened, were only skin-deep.

Ah well, c’est la vie.

Fingers the size of breakfast sausages curled around her gloved hands as the newcomer bowed over her knuckles. “I’m Detective Inspector Martin Trout, at your service, Miss...”

Trout. A more apropos surname was never given.

“You know who did this?” Mercy plucked her hand away, blithely stepping around his subtle press for an introduction. “You know who murdered Mathilde?”

“That’s a relief. I was beginning to think it washer.”Constable Jenkins gestured toward Mercy, his brass buttons catching on the afternoon light streaming in through the windows from the back gardens.

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