Page 11 of Edge of Whispers

Figuratively speaking.

My gaze skittered around and landed on the plastic tablecloth. Ah. Yes. Something to do. I grabbed the package, ripped open the wrapping and headed for the living room.

Knightly followed me, mug in hand, still sipping in that leisurely way of his. I’d long since nervously gulped down all of my own tea. He watched as I unfolded the tablecloth and shook it out. The stink of new, raw plastic overwhelmed even the scent of the funeral flowers. I positioned it carefully over Lucia’s intaglio writing table.

“It’s none of my business,” Knightly said. “But why on earth are you covering that beautiful thing with that godawful plastic?”

“Camouflage,” I said. “In case the burglars come back. My sister and I will take the smaller pieces of fine art home with us, for lack of a better plan, but none of us has a place for this table. Did Lucia tell you the table’s history?”

“Yes, actually. She told me the SS officers used it during the Nazi occupation. That they used her father’s palace for their headquarters.”

I was startled. Lucia had not usually been so forthcoming about her family history. “Yes. The Nazi officers were the ones who made the graffiti,” I said, tracing some of the brutal scratches carved into the delicately carved tangle of flowers.

“Bastards. But now that’s part of its fascination. It’s a piece of living history.”

“Lucia’s father was a count, you know? The Conte de Luca. So Lucia was technically a countess, even though she lived over half her life here in New York.”

It felt good to talk about Lucia. Like a pressure valve releasing steam.

“I’m not surprised,” Knightly said. “She looked the part. She was a class act.”

I blinked back fresh tears and shook the tablecloth into place with an angry jerk. “Yes, she was.” I positioned the jade plant in the center. “There. Who would guess?”

“Looks butt-ugly,” he said judiciously.

“That’s what I was going for,” I said. “Thanks.”

Knightly laid his hand gently on the table, as if he were stroking a living thing. “I’d love to study it someday. Figure out how the guy did it.”

“Did what?”

“How he made something that’s still intact and still beautiful after four hundred years of use, plus the vandalism and abuse,” he said. “That’s real talent. I’d love to learn from it.” He turned away, taking his mug back into the kitchen.

My eyes fell on Lucia’s shelf of photos as I gazed after him, and a thought occurred to me. I waited until he reappeared in the doorway.

“How did you know who I was, outside the house?” I asked.

That subtle smile lit his eyes again. “Lucia showed me pictures,” he admitted. “She told me about you three. She bragged you up, actually. She was very proud.”

A dark suspicion dawned in my mind. “Bragged me up?” I repeated. “Oh, no. What do you mean? What did she tell you?”

“That you work too hard,” he said. “That you let everyone take advantage of you. That you live in a tiny Manhattan apartment surrounded by motorcycle gangs, crackheads, meth heads, and the criminally insane. That you come across as bossy and managing, but you’d give the shirt off your back to a stranger in need?—”

I winced. “Oh, no. I see exactly where this is going.”

“And that you’re not married. She said you’d be here for her birthday. She wanted to introduce us.”

“Oh, God.” I felt myself turn a hot red. Lucia, for fuck’s sake. Really?

Lucia would never have done this to me if this guy was taken. And a swift glance at Knightly’s left hand confirmed that he wore no ring.

Of course, he intercepted the glance. His smile deepened, and my mortification deepened with it. “I’m so sorry,” I babbled. “You being put on the spot, I mean. Lucia just couldn’t stand it that I’m single.”

“That was my impression, too. But I will admit, it is strange.”

I covered my hot cheeks with my hands. “What’s strange?”

“That you’re single. You’re not at all what I expected.”

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