A Bride by Moonlight by Liz Carlyle

garden gate arched over with a climbing rose, now lush and sagging with white blossoms.
    Oddly on edge, Napier followed Miss Ashton’s trail back into the hall. The door opposite the parlor gave onto a formal withdrawing room hung with blue watered silk and a fine gilt pier glass. The furniture, however, he could not make out for it had been swaddled in holland cloth.
    He had guessed rightly, then. Miss Ashton was shutting up the house.
    Pondering this, Napier retraced his steps. Atop the marquetry writing desk he noticed an oval silver-framed miniature sitting alongside a pair of heavy crystal inkwells. He picked it up, and looked into the round, cerulean eyes of a young lady attired in a pink ball gown, the cut of which told him the portrait was far from recent.
    The lady was an undeniable beauty, with a fine, thin nose and full lips accented by a beauty mark set at one corner. Miss Elinor Colburne, he guessed, for the resemblance to her younger sister was unmistakable.
    And yet they looked little alike.
    It was very odd, thought Napier, turning it to the light. Elinor’s eyes were pretty but of a quite ordinary shade, while her hair was blonde. Elizabeth Ashton’s eyes were a rare blue-green and faintly almond-shaped, her skin pale as porcelain and her hair a dull chestnut.
    The only similarly, really, was in the shape of their faces; pure, perfect ovals, both of them, with firm, slanting cheekbones that spoke of blue-blooded elegance. And those mouths. Lush cupid’s bows with full, almost bee-stung bottom lips that made a man think of—
    “I see you’ve found Elinor’s picture.” The rattle of china sounded behind him.
    Jerked back to sanity, Napier put the miniature down a little awkwardly and turned to see that Miss Ashton had carried in a galleried tray, a massive silver affair set with a full coffee service that could not have been light.
    “I would gladly have helped you with that,” he said, looking at the tray.
    She lifted her cool gaze to his, faint distain on her face. “Really, Mr. Napier, have you somehow come away with the impression I’m frail?” she murmured, setting the tray on the table. “If so, you much mistake the matter.” Here, she tilted her head toward the desk. “Ellie was the delicate one.”
    Napier still held his hat, which she had neglected to take from him. “Frailty takes many forms, Miss Ashton,” he said quietly. “I see the gamut in my sort of work. But no, I do not doubt your abilities.”
    She settled into a chair. “Well. Do have a seat, Mr. Napier, and get on with your questions.”
    But he did not sit, and instead merely put down his hat. “Firstly,” he said, staring down at her, “I want you to admit precisely what happened in that dairy on—”
    Miss Ashton threw up her hand, palm out. “I have said, sir, all I mean to say on that score. You have my statement. Do you wish to review it or not?”
    “ Damn it ,” he said under his breath. “I want you to admit, Miss Ashton, that no one named Jack Coldwater came within an inch of Sir Wilfred’s estate that day. That is the truth, and all the rest of this is a rat’s nest of lies.”
    Miss Ashton merely widened her unusual eyes. “If he did not do it,” she said calmly, “then whom do you imagine shot Sir Wilfred? Was it Lazonby? Good luck with that prosecution. Lady Anisha? I confess, she doesn’t seem the violent type. But wait—perhaps you think it was I? If it was, then I have the right under law not to incriminate myself, and I’m not fool enough, Mr. Napier, to waive it.”
    “This is a waste of my time, is it not?” he said, frustrated by her demeanor. “You’ll tell me nothing; indeed, you’ve been well schooled by your friend Lazonby.”
    Stiff as a duchess, she rose again. “Oh, Lazonby is far from my friend, Mr. Napier,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust the man as far as I could throw him.”
    Napier gave a bark of laugher. “In that opinion, madam, we are agreed,” he said.