Page 54 of Murder at the Debutante Ballby

He rose too and caught my hand.

I withdrew it. “Jonathon, please. Don’t do this.”

He turned grave. “Hear what I have to say. Please, Cleo. I’m mortified and I want to make it up to you. Join me for dinner tonight.”

“I’m afraid I have to decline.”

“We can dine in the hotel restaurant, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

“It’s not that.” I drew in a breath and let it out slowly, stalling as I tried to think of a kind way to tell him. But I could only think of blunt words. “Jonathon, we can never be more than acquaintances. We’re not compatible.”

“You can’t say that. We hardly know each other.”

“I know enough.”

My words stung. I could see it in the hard swallow and the slight narrowing of his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” I hastily added. “I don’t plan to marry anyone.”

He relaxed and drew in a deep breath. He almost smiled. “Floyd did warn me, but I thought you might make an exception for…” He let the sentence drift like an unmoored boat, but I knew he was referring to his status as the heir to a viscountcy.

“I hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us,” I said.

“No more than they already were after my despicable behavior.” He gave me a flat smile. “Goodnight, Cleo.” He headed for the door, only to stop before opening it. He turned to me, frowning. “Blame the copious amounts of alcohol I drank tonight, but I’m going to die of curiosity if I don’t ask.”

Oh Lord.

“When you say you don’t mean to marry, are you suggesting you want to be my mistress?”

“No!”

He put up his hands. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

“Gladly.”

He opened the door but paused again. “Don’t tell Floyd I asked you that. He’d clock me if he knew.”

“Perhaps you need to be clocked.”

His shoulders slumped and he slunk away towards the staircase.

I closed the door behind him and returned to bed, determined not to think anything more about Jonathon or this strange night.

I slept late.When I rose, I discovered Harmony had eaten her half of breakfast, cleaned my en-suite bathroom, tidied my sitting room, and left me a note telling me I snore. Under that was another note saying she hoped I was feeling better, but if I still had a headache, she’d make me a soothing tisane using an old family recipe.

I felt guilty that I couldn’t tell her I didn’t have a headache. She’d want to know why I’d come up with the story and I’d have to lie for Mr. Chapman’s sake. I didn’t want to lie to her. She’d probably see right through it anyway.

I ate my cold breakfast and collected my hat and gloves. That’s when I noticed a piece of paper had been slipped under my door. It was a brief message asking me to call on my uncle in his office if I felt better.

I may have imagined the ominous tone in the written words, but I dreaded speaking to him. It could only be about Mr. Chapman finding me in his office. I forced myself to place one foot in front of the other, all the while thinking up an excuse as to why I’d broken in. But I could think of nothing that would sound reasonable. So be it. If Mr. Chapman broke his end of the bargain and informed my uncle, so I didn’t have to keep mine.

I threw back my shoulders and knocked.

Uncle Ronald bade me enter and indicated I should sit and wait while he finished writing his letter. After a few minutes in which my stomach churned with anxiety, he signed his name and put down his pen. He set the letter aside for the ink to dry and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him.

“Are you feeling better this morning, Cleo?”

“I am, thank you. The long sleep did wonders.”