Page 140 of A Portrait of Love

She’d been standing in front of the canvas for a good ten minutes, and still she hadn’t painted so much as a stroke.

She lowered the brush. Today wasn’t a good day to paint; it was a good day to work on canvasses and frames. She would—

Angry voices came from out in the corridor and the door swung open hard enough to slam against the wall.

It was Bella, with Hume close on her heels.

“I’m terribly sorry, my lady,” Hume said before Honey could speak. Her butler shot the breeches-wearing beauty a cold look. “I told Lady MacLeish that you were not to be disturbed when you—”

“Has something happened to Simon?” Honey looked from her butler to Bella’s wide-eyed and frightened face.

“Where is Simon?” Bella asked at almost the same moment, her magnificent eyes flickering around the room, as if Honey’s husband might be hiding somewhere among the painting paraphernalia.

Honey went limp with relief; if Bella was looking for Simon, that meant he wasn’t lying hurt or dead somewhere.

Her relief quickly turned to anger. “What can I do for you, Lady MacLeish?” Honey demanded.

“Where is Simon?” Bella repeated, louder this time.

“He has gone to speak to the duke,” Honey said coolly. “If you must know,” she added, “he has gone on a matter not so tangentially concerning you.”

“What do you mean?”

Honey looked pointedly at Hume, her meaning clear: if Bella wanted to demand answers in such a rude, public fashion, Honey would gladly share the truth in front of her servant.

But the other woman either didn’t catch her meaning or didn’t care. “I saw Raymond’s groom—Taft—last night and he was heading toward the Turnbull farm. I saw him not long after I left Simon.”

Honey shook her head, confused. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I just now heard about Simon’s accident from one of your stable lads.”

Honey frowned, still unable to see her point. “And?”

“I don’t think Simon’s horse was the bullet’s target, my lady,” she bit out.

Hume’s jaw sagged.

So did Honey’s. “Please excuse us, Hume.”

She could see the man didn’t want to leave, but thirty-odd years of service made him nod and retreat.

The instant the door was closed she turned to Bella. “Explain,” she ordered.

Bella was clutching her riding gauntlets, which she was wringing like laundry. “It’s Raymond—” she stopped, the muscles in her jaw flexing, her expression agonized. “I hope to God I am wrong, but I think Raymond is trying to h-hurt—no—kill Simon.”

“What?” Honey shrieked. “But why?”

“For the dukedom,” she said, as though Honey were thick. “He wants the title—he always has. We don’t speak at all, now—he hates me—but years ago, we were—” Bella bit her lip and stared at Honey.

“Yes?” she prodded.

“He used to be obsessed with the title. He might not speak to me anymore, but I can still see it in his eyes—the way he sometimes looks at Simon. I’ve not seen him with the duke, of course, but I’m guessing it is the same as it was before.”

Honey’s brain couldn’t find purchase in the other woman’s words. “But—the duke—” she stopped, the dowager’s words from last week ringing in her ears:

Poor Wyndham has been so ill—this dreadful stomach problem just seems to go on and on. I don’t know what to do if the doctor cannot discover what is wrong—

“Good God,” Honey blurted.