Page 4 of Murder in Moonlight
Oh, but he was a handsome devil, tall and elegant and lean, with cheekbones to die for, eyes to drown in, and a mouth…
“Is it?” he asked mildly. “I can’t imagine you are remotely pleased to see me.”
“That rather depends on your discretion.”
“I am notoriously discreet. When I choose to be. Is it your plan to marry Mr. Randolph Winsom?”
“God, no,” she said.
“Then what the devil, Mrs. Silver, are you doing at Greenforth?”
“I was invited. You find me unworthy to mix with so respectable a family?”
“That might depend on whether or not there was ever a Mr. Goldrich.”
“I feel sure there must have been, though fortunately never married to me. But then, you know, there was never a Mr. Silver either. My titles are honorary. Like the cook’s.”
He blinked, as if he didn’t know cooks were always addressed as married women, whether single or not. “They’re likely to be different titles with no honor at all if you are discovered in my bedchamber.”
“While you could dine out on the story for years.”
Amusement lurked in his eyes. “You think to make me more exciting than I am?”
“That rather depends on whyyouare here at Greenforth.”
“I was invited, too.”
“Solomon Grey, the great shipping magnate, obscenely rich philanthropist, associate of dukes and friend of baronets. What the devil do you want with such small players as the Winsoms?”
“You exaggerate,” he said mildly. “Though again, I could ask you the same question.”
His eyes were steady, his body still. He had poise of the kind she had seen in fighters, in people confident of their own physical safety in any environment. She had seen it that foggy night in the alley. And yet his long, shapely hands were smooth and manicured, belying the hardness beneath. She reserved judgment about violent tendencies. She knew people who liked him, who thought he was a good man. She wasn’t sure she trusted her own judgment where he was concerned.
“I am not here to hurt anyone,” she said. “My change of name is simply explained—I would never have been invited with my own.”
His brow twitched, and for a moment, she thought he would question her further. She wondered how much to tell him, how much he would understand, if any.
He walked to the bed and picked up his coat, shrugging it on with easy grace. “I was about to explore the house. Perhaps you would care to join me?”
She watched him stroll toward her, lithe as a large cat and probably just as lethal. “Why?”
“Because I need to know my way around, and I would value your insight.”
She chose to step aside, and he reached beyond her to open the door. Though even as she moved out of his way, she wondered if he would have taken advantage of her closeness, or just taken flight. Most men could be divided into one category or the other.
For a moment, he blocked the open doorway, then stood aside for her to precede him. If he was protecting her reputation by making sure she would be unseen, it was so subtly done that she could not be certain. She sauntered out, moving unhurriedly along the passage to the stairs.
“The public rooms are all on the ground floor,” she told him as they descended the staircase. She pointed to the left of thefront door. “I believe that is the reception room where callers are asked to wait, and along that little passage next to it is the billiard room. Do you play billiards, Mr. Grey?”
“I have been known to.”
“Would you like a game?” She was teasing, but he answered without hesitation.
“Why not?”
However, the billiard room was already occupied by Ellen Winsom and one of the guests, a local entrepreneur called Ivor Davidson. They appeared to be enjoying a rather hilarious game. Ellen glanced up, and despite her recent confidences during tea, her smile died and her eyes held a hint of desperate doubt.
Davidson’s expression, on the other hand, was one of unalloyed pleasure. He was a young-ish man, too well aware of his own attractions. He straightened, letting one end of his cue slip to the floor, while his eyes devoured Constance. His gaze barely flickered dismissively in Grey’s direction.
