Ice Blue by Emma Jameson Page A

glass of Chardonnay.”
    “Right. Better dash home, then, and tell dear
old mum which of your slacks to press.”
    “I am perfectly content,” Bhar said, “to wear
whatever Mum chooses for me. Cheers!” he called, and was gone.
    “And people ask why I never had children.”
Hetheridge turned back to Kate. “What about you? Does a prior
commitment loom?”
    Kate laughed, dully this time, and shook her
head, looking tired again. “No way. Right now I’m searching for a
reason not to go home.”
    “How about a tour of the house? If you can
keep from falling asleep, that is. You seemed preoccupied.”
    “I’m not – oh, fair enough,” she said. “I am.
Probably look like something the cat coughed up. I was up most of
the night, worried about Henry.”
    “Henry is … your brother?”
    “My nephew. The eight-year-old. Yesterday,
his headmaster told me he’s been skeeving off his classes and
hiding in the library, making excuses to avoid the other students.
Apparently he’s being bullied something awful. Mostly verbal, which
means there isn’t a damn thing the school will do about it. They
practically blame Henry for not being tough enough to stop it
himself. All this time, I thought Henry was doing great. Turns out
he’s miserable, and doing so badly, he may fail his year and have
to repeat. I always knew being Ritchie’s sister was tough, but I
thought being Henry’s aunt was a piece of cake. I had no idea he
was drowning at school,” Kate said, mouth contorting as she
controlled herself. “I’m useless! Some mum I’ll be.”
    Hetheridge found himself without an idea what
to say. After a moment, he settled for the absolute truth. “You’ll
be one hell of a detective.”
    Kate stared at him. Then she wiped her eyes,
sniffed, and gave a high-pitched little cry of a laugh. “Shit.
Would it kill you to say I am one hell of a
detective? Even if it isn’t quite true?”
    Hetheridge smiled. “You prefer men who
lie?”
    When she laughed again, it was softer, and
with full control. “It’s all I know.”
    “Must be why you enjoy practicing the martial
arts so much. One of the first things I noticed in your file,”
Hetheridge said. “You’re ranked at the top of the Yard’s female
detectives.”
    “Yeah, well, they’re not an athletic bunch.
Eating Pop-Tarts every day and smoking between training sessions,”
Kate said. “I’m great at defense. I can immobilize blokes three
times my size. Offense is more of a challenge. Apparently, I suffer
from bad form. What about you? Bhar told me you’re a champion
duelist.”
    “Fencing,” Hetheridge said. “Pastime of
mine.”
    “I thought you were going to say,
passion.”
    Hetheridge stared back at her. He was aware
of the distance between them, the drape of her shirt over her
breasts, the smooth expanse of her skin. “I have no passions.”
    “That’s it. Lie to me,” Kate said. “And show
me the house while you’re at it. I’ve always wondered how a baron
lives.”
    Hetheridge, who had never before undertaken
such a working class ritual, rather enjoyed it, lingering in each
room as he did his best to take Kate’s mind off her nephew’s
troubles. He showed her the marble floor tiles imported from Italy,
the Vermeer that had been prized for generations (until proved a
fake) and the bedroom his great-aunt Lucy had insisted was haunted.
He even produced the Victorian chamber pot, still beneath the bed,
where Lucy had not-so-secretly stashed a whiskey bottle to fortify
herself against spectral visitations. Kate was especially delighted
by the antique telephone, non-functioning, and the antique lift,
which had been reengineered to modern standards. And unlike most of
Wellegrave’s guests, who pretended indifference their surroundings,
since commenting upon them was hopelessly ill-bred, Kate was
captivated by the lift’s scarlet carpet and brass-cage door.
Hetheridge was happy to oblige her with a ride.
    “Let’s go up to the third floor. I