The Valentine Legacy by Catherine Coulter

himself. He could barely contain himself, watching Jessie Warfield drink that dreaded tea, but he knew he had to. He was here to do his duty. He had to be alert. He not only had to listen to everyone’s words but also carefully study their expressions. His father had always told him that you could see guilt on a man’s or woman’s face if you knew what to look for. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he always looked carefully. He couldn’t think about his luscious bride, even now lying in their bed, all warm and naked and tousled. He swallowed and forced himself back to his duty. He looked from that tea-drinking female, Jessie Warfield, to Dancy Hoolahan to James Wyndham. He cleared his throat.
    â€œWould you like a muffin, Gordon?”
    â€œNo, James, thank you. I’d like to hear what happened after Jessie Warfield brought the mare back here. Yes, Thomas, you come in here as well. You were one of the parties present that night.”
    â€œIt wasn’t really a party, Mr. Dickens,” Thomas said, all austere because he knew this was proper business. “PoorMiss Jessie was all bloody and Mr. James was holding her up. No, it weren’t no party.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant. Tell me what happened.”
    When all the facts had been wrung out of all of them, Gordon Dickens stroked his whiskers, stared at Jessie, and said, “I understand that you and James Wyndham are rivals. I always wager on James, but you beat him at least half the time, which surely isn’t the thing to do. I’ve seen you try to shove your horse into him. I’ve seen you kick out at him. I’ve seen him try to ride you into a ditch. You’re enemies. Why would you defend him and threaten Allen Belmonde? Why would you even bother saving that mare? It wasn’t your mare.”
    â€œI like Sweet Susie. She’s a fine mare. I don’t suppose you’ve found the two men who stole her? Or whoever hired those men to steal her?”
    He’d been too busy getting married and learning the awesome joys of the marriage bed to pursue the matter, but Gordon Dickens didn’t say that. He thought about how he’d spent the early-morning hours and blushed. He shook a bit. Who cared about a damned horse when Helen was lying there waiting for him, smiling at him, her arms out? “Not yet,” he said, and his voice was as chilly as a Baltimore spring rain. How dare the damned girl question him? “You haven’t answered my questions, Miss Warfield.”
    â€œIt didn’t matter that Sweet Susie belonged to Allen Belmonde, who wasn’t a very nice man. I would have tried to save Sweet Susie if she’d belonged to Mortimer Hackey, a truly despicable man. Anyway, Allen Belmonde was annoying everyone, shouting accusations at James—totally unfounded accusations—and I wanted to hit him.”
    â€œPerhaps you shot him instead.”
    James, who was leaning his shoulders against the mantel of the fireplace, jerked forward to tower over Gordon Dickens. He pulled him up by his collar out of his chair andshook him. “That is the most ridiculous thing that’s emerged from your mouth. Just look at her—she’s perfectly white with fear. Mind your tongue, or else I’ll mind it for you.”
    â€œSee here, James, I’m just doing my job. She did threaten him, she plays at being a man, just perhaps she also uses a gun like a man, and—”
    Wanting only to distract James, who he could see was itching to send his fist into Gordon’s jaw, Dr. Hoolahan said quickly, “I don’t suppose you know that Allen Belmonde had once wanted to marry Ursula Wyndham, James’s sister?”
    James whipped around, staring at him as if he’d grown an extra ear. “Well, he didn’t marry Ursula, so I had no reason to shoot him. How the devil do you know about that, Dancy?”
    â€œMr. Belmonde’s wife became ill