Say You Will(43)
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.
“None of that, Lady Jacs.” Fran gave her an admonishing look. “We all have faults. He tried to be the best he could be.”
Sipping, Rosalind wondered how generous Fran would be if Reginald had actually left everything to his mistress.
Her mother gave Fran a sardonic look. “Next you’ll tell us he loved us all in his own fashion.”