A Most Novel Revenge by Ashley Weaver

Desmond stammered. “You wouldn’t answer the door.”
    â€œI was trying to sleep. You know I was ill last night. I took some sleeping tablets.”
    â€œAre you … are you feeling better?”
    â€œYes, Desmond,” she answered with a sigh. “It was likely only something I ate. I’m much better now.”
    â€œCan I get you anything?”
    â€œThank you, no.”
    â€œWell, let me come in and sit with you.”
    â€œNo,” she said sharply. Then her tone softened. “Don’t worry about me. Run along and enjoy your morning. I’ll need you to type for me later.”
    She looked at me then, and I was caught by something in her gaze. “You’ll take care of dear Desmond, won’t you?”
    â€œI … certainly,” I replied.
    â€œThank you for looking in on me,” she said. She reached out and patted his cheek.
    â€œYou’re such a dear, my sweet Desmond,” she said.
    Then she leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. I turned away at once, embarrassed to be privy to so intimate a scene.
    Then she closed the door.
    Mr. Roberts let out a breath, as though he had been holding it. I thought at first that he had forgotten me, but at last he turned from the door. He gave me a shaky and somewhat rueful smile.
    â€œI … I’m sorry I made a scene, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “It was just so unlike her not to answer her door.”
    â€œWell, I’m very glad to see she’s all right.”
    â€œYes,” he replied vaguely, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
    We parted ways then as he went into his room. I couldn’t help but think as I walked away, however, that there was something amiss in the scene I had just witnessed. Isobel had been acting strangely. It could, of course, be nothing more than that she was still feeling unwell. Sickness often made people peevish.
    However, there was something in her behavior that struck me as odd. Desmond hadn’t looked satisfied with their encounter. Despite Isobel’s display of affection, he had stiffened when she’d kissed him, and he had seemed distracted as he went into his room. I didn’t know if it was embarrassment at her kiss or annoyance at her dismissal, but it seemed that all still was not well in paradise.
    *   *   *
    IT WAS PERHAPS an hour later when Milo came into my room.
    Winnelda was following Parks’s example and mercilessly polishing my riding boots while I read in the chair near the fire.
    â€œStill reading that dreadful thing, are you?” Milo asked, indicating the copy of The Dead of Winter in my hand. Well, I’ve come to rescue you from it. I’ve just been out to the stables and asked the groom to saddle horses for us. Are you ready for the ride you promised me?”
    â€œI suppose so,” I answered absently. To be honest, I had not been reading for some time. Try as I might, I had not been able to concentrate much on the novel. My thoughts were still on Isobel Van Allen. Something about the scene at her doorway nagged at me, but I could not determine what it was.
    â€œI am flattered by your enthusiasm,” he remarked dryly.
    I smiled and turned my attention to him. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
    He looked at me warily, but said nothing.
    â€œA ride sounds lovely,” I told him, rising from my seat.
    â€œGood.” He went across to the door to his room. “It shall only take me a few moments to be ready.”
    â€œVery well.” I set the book aside and moved to change into my riding costume, a white blouse and tan trousers tucked into my now-gleaming black boots. Winnelda insisted upon brushing my dark jacket before I could put it on, so I sat back down to wait.
    Normally, I would have been pleased at the prospect of a ride with my husband, but I could not seem to get my mind off of Isobel Van Allen. Perhaps she really had been ill and