Lily Lang by The Last Time We Met Page B

she had a streak of flour running across her face. Every now and then she raised a hand to her face, brushing aside a loose strand of hair. She laughed as she explained something to Monsieur Leblanc, who looked deeply intrigued.
    When the pastries were safely in the oven, Jason made his presence known.
    “Miss Thornwood,” he said. “If I may speak to you for a moment. In private?”
    She whirled around, looking startled. “Mr. Blakewell!” she said. Her face flushed faintly, and she wiped her floury hands on her apron. “Yes, of course, sir.”
    She removed the apron, revealing the same prim gray gown she had worn yesterday.
    He scowled at her. “I explicitly asked Madame Beaumont to make you a variety of gowns,” he said. “Have they not yet been delivered?”
    “I only permitted Madame Beaumont to fit me for one dress, thank you,” she said. “This is perfectly sufficient.”
    He frowned, but said nothing. When they had reached his study, Jason shut the door behind them and took his place behind his desk. If he was to be alone with her, it seemed safer to have a large slab of oak between them.
    “One of my men has returned from Hertfordshire,” he said.
    She leaned forward eagerly, and the light fell full across her face. In the two days since she had been at Blakewell’s, she already looked far healthier than she had that first night. Her skin glowed; the hair slipping from its knot was lustrous.
    “Yes?” she asked. “What did he say? Did he see my brother?”
    “I asked Martin to return as soon as their investigations in Hertfordshire were complete so he could give me his report first,” said Jason. “The rest of men, who were to escort your brother to Buckinghamshire, have not yet returned.”
    “Yes, of course, I understand,” said Miranda, though she gave a small sigh and her gaze dropped to the hands folded in her lap.
    “Apparently,” said Jason, “your aunt is giving it about that your brother is volatile and dangerous, liable to murder someone at the drop of a hat. She has all of Hertfordshire and several of the surrounding counties up in arms about the matter.”
    Miranda looked up at him, her dark eyes flashing.
    “Nonsense,” she said. “William is not in the least volatile or dangerous. I told you he was provoked the night he accidentally killed Uncle William.”
    Jason regarded her for another long moment.
    “Then perhaps you had better explain to me again,” he said, “why William hit your uncle with that poker.”
    He watched as she hesitated, obviously deciding whether or not to tell him the truth.
    “Miranda,” he said. “You have asked me to help you. I have agreed to do so. But in order to help you, I have to know what happened. I have to have the facts. What happened the night William struck your uncle?”
    She hesitated a moment longer. Then she set her mouth into a firm line.
    “Very well,” she said. “You want to know what happened. I will tell you. The night William hit my uncle with that poker, the odious man tried to ravish me.”
    Rage, sudden, hot and blinding, swept through him. A red haze obscured his vision. He wanted to kill the man who had hurt her; if Clarence Thornwood was still alive, he would find the man and break his neck.
    He beat back the sudden savage emotion.
    Somewhere across the table from him, Miranda still spoke, evidently unaware of his fury.
    “William walked in and saw him. Uncle Clarence was very inebriated and not very steady on his feet. I would have been able to get away even if William hadn’t intervened. I certainly wish he had not intervened. It is true Uncle Clarence would still be alive, but then my brother would not be a murderer, and I would not have needed to come here and bother you with our troubles.”
    Jason, who had himself under control again, nodded.
    “Yes, of course,” he said. “If William had not struck your uncle, you would never have come here.”
    “It cannot be convenient for you to have a lady on the