Authors: Kate Perry
Two nights later, Rosalind sat in the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand when Beatrice breezed in followed by Viola. “I picked her up on the way, but I thought I’d wait to explain it to her until we got here so Portia could hear, too.”
Rosalind winced as she poured an additional two glasses of wine. “Portia’s been avoiding me. I’m not sure she’ll be willing to listen.”
“Listen to what?” came a soft response from the doorway.
She glanced up warily. Portia hovered in the doorway. Her eyes and nose were red, a stark contrast against the paleness of her face. But her mouth was set in a resolute line.
“Wine?” Rosalind offered tentatively, as a truce.
“Yes, please.” She sat on a stool at the counter. “Listen to what? And shouldn’t Imogen and Titania be here?”
“Imogen is still on set and couldn’t leave, though she said they were wrapping it up soon. God knows where Titania is.” Bea turned to Viola. “Have you heard from her?”
Vi sipped her wine as she pulled up another seat. “I haven’t, not since before Father died. Do you think she knows?”
Bea grimaced. “I left her a message to call me, but she hasn’t.”
They all exchanged worried glances.
“Is it normal for her to disappear like this?” Rosalind asked.
All of them replied with a resounding, “Yes.”
“She marches to her own beat.” Beatrice smiled before becoming all business again. “The copy of Father’s will is missing, and I asked Rosalind to look for it in my absence.”
“I haven’t found it, and I’ve been over every logical inch of this house,” Rosalind interjected.
Portia gasped. “That’s why you’ve been so intent on going through his things. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.”
“We were afraid he left everything to his mistress,” Rosalind said. She didn’t think she needed to say that they didn’t think they could trust her.
Portia gasped. “He wouldn’t.” She glanced at Bea. “Would he?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” Bea leaned against the counter. “If someone else finds the will before we do, Mother could be in big trouble.”
“How is that?” Viola asked, stretching out her glass for a refill.
“Father’s lawyer hinted that the will had been changed, with a new beneficiary, and if he sold the ancestral home, nothing is sacred.”
Rosalind glanced at Portia, who took Viola’s glass and had a large swig before handing it back.
Viola shook her head. “Could he have been that bitter against Mother that he gave it all away?”
“And against us, too,” Portia chimed in softly.
“Barrows thinks so,” Bea said.
Rosalind pushed her glass to Portia, who accepted it with a small smile.
“Shouldn’t Mother be here, too?” Vi asked.
Bea nodded. “I considered that, but not in light of the journal Rosalind found.”
When they all looked at her, she said, “I found a note on his calendar that’s leading me to believe he hid the will at her house.”
She didn’t have to explain who “her” was. They were all quiet, processing that thought. Bea finally broke the silence, saying, “The only thing is I can’t see him trusting a woman with anything.”
“And yet you think he’s trusting her with the bulk of his inheritance,” Viola pointed out.
“Bloody hell, you’re right.” Bea began to pace, cursing their father with a few choice words that made Portia wince.
“There’s only one thing to do,” Viola said calmly when Bea stopped her tirade. “We need to break into her house.”
Rosalind gaped at her sister. She expected Bea and Portia to point out the insanity of the suggestion, but Bea just looked introspective and Portia said, “Count me in.”
“Wait a minute,” Rosalind said, holding her hand out. “We can’t break into a dead person’s house.”
“Why not?” Portia asked. “She won’t care.”
“But she has two children who might.” She shook her head. “What if there’s someone living there? What if her children are staying there?”
“I’ll have it checked out,” Bea said, pulling out her phone and tapping into it.
“No, you—”
“Rosalind”—Bea glanced up—”do I need to remind you that Mother’s future is at stake here. Where is she going to live if she has no money?”
“Where am I going to live?” Portia said absently, as if the thought suddenly occurred to her.
Viola put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re always welcome to stay with us.”
“That’s because you want an in-house babysitter for your daughter.” But Portia leaned into the hug and laid her head on Vi’s shoulder.
Rosalind shook her head. “I can’t believe you guys are considering breaking into someone’s home.”
“We’re not considering it.” Bea flashed a wolfish grin, sticking her hand out in the middle. “We’re doing it.”
Viola and Portia immediately put their hands in, and then they all looked at her, waiting.
She heaved a sigh. What the hell—Nick would bail her out if she got arrested. Hopefully.
Chapter Eighteen
The night was unusually perfect for December in London. A fingernail moon. Crisp air. Lights from houses around them. The whisper of a frigid breeze through the trees.
Secluded.
Dark.
Mount Street Gardens was his new favorite place. With Rosalind straddling his lap, Nick even forgot how cold the park bench was. He forgot everything except the feel of her in his hands.
“I feel like a bad schoolgirl,” she said, snuggling up into him. “I never made out in any park before, much less one abutting the family house.”
He slid his hands inside the back of her pants, under her panties and over her silky skin. “Do I get to be the older guy who leads you astray?”
“Definitely.” She sat up, the devil in her eyes. “Maybe I should have worn a little plaid skirt tonight.”
He pictured her in it and felt himself swell in his pants. “Would you have knickers under said skirt?”
“Of course not.” She lifted her head and gave him an incredulous look. “What sort of bad girl do you take me for?”
He grinned. “If you were truly a bad girl, your pants would be undone.”
She reached between them and undid the top button and zipper. “Done.”
“You’re an obliging girl,” he said as he reached deeper down behind her. His fingers flirted with her intimate folds.
“You haven’t seen obliging yet.” She reached behind her back and tugged her bra off. “The benefits of strapless,” she said as she dropped it on the bench next to them.
He withdrew a hand and palmed her unfettered breast through her soft sweater.
“I like this.” She arched into his touch, dropping her head back. “I think I was born to be a bad girl.”
“You were born to be mine,” he said before he could check himself.
She opened her eyes, spearing him with their bright clarity. “You like bad girls?”
“I like you.” He slipped his hand under her sweater, coming in contact with her bare breast. He ran his palm over the hard tip as his other hand reached further under her, until it curled far enough to sink into her wetness.
“You’re convincing.” She sighed as she rode his hand. “But I think you’re just after sex.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just sex’ with you.” He rolled her nipple between his fingers, delicately at first, knowing she loved that. “And we’re in the common gardens behind your house.”
She looked around. “You think someone could come out and discover us?”
“I don’t know whether I should be horrified or praise the Lord that you sound intrigued by that prospect.”
“Maybe just enjoy the moment.”
“That I can do.” He withdrew his hand from the back of her pants and brought it around to the front, his thumb rubbing the spot that drove her mindless.
She dropped her head back, her hips rolling against his hand. “Did I mention that this is really exciting?”
“No, but I noticed you liked it.” He lifted her sweater to bare one breast, pale in the faint moonlight. He lowered his head, arching her up at the same time to lick its raspberry-tipped peak.
She moaned, none too softly.
“Shh,” he whispered against her curves. “You don’t want to get caught, do you?”
“No, not before.” She planted her hands on his thighs and bent back.
He looked at her, writhing in his lap, glorious in the night shadows. Her eyes were closed, but her lips parted in passion, her hair flowing loosely behind her.
He wanted her with a sharp need that overrode all common sense. He took her nipple in his mouth again, letting it pop out so he could see it glisten in the faint moonlight. “I’m going to make you come here, Rosalind, in the shadow of your family’s house, while all the people around us are inside, getting ready for bed.”
She moaned, gripping him harder with both her hands and her thighs.
His finger slid back and forth against her, an erotic friction that made him want to strip her pants off and dive into her.
But now wasn’t the time for him—this was all about her. He focused his touch on the spot that made her scream.
“Next time,” she panted, her eyes still closed, “I’ll wear the skirt.”
“Deal.” He focused his touch.
“Nick,” she gasped, her head falling forward. She grabbed his shoulders and muffled her cries of ecstasy against his neck.
She slumped against him, her body shuddering with the aftermath of her pleasure. He held her close, breathing her in. He could hold her like this forever.
Suddenly her head popped up, almost knocking against his chin. “Is it your turn?”
He grinned. “Is it?”
“We could do another sort of role play.” She eased back enough so she could run both her hands over the prominent bulge in his pants. “Do you have lawyery scenarios you want to play out?”
He stilled.
“Like if I were a thief.” She cleared her throat, almost as if she was uncomfortable.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, how would you feel if I broke into a place and was caught?”
“Did I catch you, and do I have handcuffs?”
“No, you’re the solicitor who handles my case.”
He frowned, guilt overtaking him. Damn Summer. “I don’t want to be a solicitor.”
Rosalind stopped touching him. “Because you don’t approve of what I’ve done?”
He shook his head confused. “What have you done?”
“Broken into someone’s home.” She sat back, her hands retreating to her hips. “We’re role playing.”
“I don’t want to role play.” He wound his arms around her, trying to close the sudden distance between them. “I like you the way you are.”
“I know.” She pushed his chest back. “But what if I got caught stealing something? As a solicitor, what would you do?”
He had no idea—he wasn’t a solicitor.
She sighed and dropped her forehead against his. “We’re thinking of breaking into my father’s mistress’s house.”
“
What?
” He shook his head. “You can’t do that.”
“We think she might have had his will.”
He shook his head. He didn’t believe Tabitha had the will—she’d have told him—but more than that, there were pictures of him and Summer all over Tabitha’s house. He couldn’t let Rosalind see them.
Carefully, he said, “I’m not your lawyer, but I need to advise you that breaking into someone’s home is a bad idea.”
“Even if she’s dead?”
“Even then.”
Rosalind pursed her lips.
He sighed. “You aren’t really going to do it, are you?”
“Of course not.” She shook her head as though he were ridiculous for believing it was a possibility.
“Rosalind”—he tipped her chin up to look her in the eye—”it’d be a very bad idea.”
“No kidding.” She smiled and slipped her arms around his neck. “You should distract me so I forget about it.”
“Gladly.” He set to doing the best job of distracting that he could, wondering how long he could really hold her off.
The door to the Summerhill house creaked as Rosalind opened it. Fortunately the house was too big to disturb anyone—she was sure her mother, Fran, and Portia were all in bed. She waved over her shoulder to Nick, who waited to make sure she got in.
She started up the massive stairs to her room when she heard the
tink
of glassware. Was someone downstairs? She leaned over the bannister and saw a light seeping out from the bottom of the door to the drawing room.
Portia was probably the one up, but Rosalind went to investigate regardless.
She pressed her ear against the door to listen a moment before she knocked lightly.
“Well, stop hovering and come in, lamb,” Fran ordered from the other side.
Smiling, she pushed open the door. But her smile dissolved with shock when she saw Fran and Jacqueline lounging with snifters of brown liquor in their hands. Fran wore a high-necked robe, tied tightly in the front, with thick slippers on her feet.
Her mother had on a silk robe with matching silk pajamas underneath. Her mules were discarded on the floor and her feet were propped on the table in front of her. With her honey hair cascading over her shoulders, she looked more like another older sister than her mum.
Rosalind looked back and forth between them, not understanding the scene. Since when did they hang out like friends? Her mother had always treated Fran like a servant. A beloved servant, but a servant nonetheless. “What’s going on?”
“A nightcap.” Fran held up her glass. “Fancy one, Rosie?”
She glanced between them. “You guys are up drinking?”
“Your father’s cognac.” Her mother gestured to the sideboard. “Pour yourself a bit and join us.”
She looked back and forth between them, feeling a strange vibe, as Bijou would have said. “I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Don’t be silly, lamb.” Fran waved her hand. “Sit with us and enjoy. A rare treat, it is, having this to drink.”
Right, because her father hardly ever brought out the hundred-year-old cognac his grandfather had stockpiled for anyone other than his cronies. Rosalind helped herself, inhaling the spicy, golden scent before going to sit on the settee next to her mother. “Are we celebrating something I should know about?”
“A death is a certain sort of celebration, isn’t it?” her mother said thoughtfully.