idn't you enjoy yourself, Winston?" Emily asked, squinting at him in the muted glow emanating from the dying fire in the living room at Beck House.

Winston put down his brandy balloon and gaped at her, genuine astonishment invading his face. He shook his head in wonderment. "Paula sits there looking as if she's at death's door, hardly opening her mouth all night. Jim manages to get stewed to the gills between cocktails and the main course. My sister is so pregnant she seems about ready to drop triplets right there at the dinner table. Merry doesn't stop bemoaning the fact that she's on the shelf at twenty-three because all of the. men she's grown up with are otherwise involved. Alexander is in a raging snit because of your mother's sexual antics with half the bloody Government. Maggie Reynolds bores me senseless, droning on about some dilapidated shooting lodge in the Outer Hebrides. And you ask a question like that. Oh yes, Emily, I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I had a wonderful time. It was one of the most exciting, entertaining evenings of my life." He began to laugh, suddenly seeing the humorous side.

Emily laughed with him. She snuggled into the corner of the sofa, tucked her feet under her, and said, "But Anthony was in good form."

"Amazingly so. Well, he seems to have his feet on the ground these days and is coping extremely well."

'Thanks to Paula. She told me she had a long talk with him a few weeks ago, sort of gave him a lecture, advised him to put the past behind him and get on with his life."

"She's very good at that," Winston muttered, swirling the cognac around in his glass, his face thoughtful.

"What do you mean?"

"Giving advice. Mind you. she's usually right about everything she says. If only she'd take some of her own advice."

Emily's face sobered instantly. "Yes."

Winston leaned back against the cushions, put his feet up on the coffee table, and let himself drift. The evening at Long Meadow had been a disaster, and he had been relieved to escape with Emily relatively early, to come back here to the comfort and tranquility of Beck House. But one dreary dinner party was meaningless, of no consequence. What troubled him was Paula's physical appearance and her state of mind. For some weeks now, since his return from Vancouver via New York, he had been vaguely conscious of her misery. The last few hours had confirmed his feelings. She was an unhappy woman. He was convinced her marriage to Jim was at the root of her pain.

Emily said, "You're very quiet, Winston. You're worrying about Paula, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so, darling. Apart from the fact that she looked so dreadful tonight, she spoke in monosyllables. I know she's a bit reserved at times, not a chatterbox like you, but she's normally much more communicative, especially with the family group."

"It's not the work that's getting her down," Emily exclaimed. "She's used to pressure, long hours, carrying tremendous responsibilities. Anyway, she has the stamina of a bull—like Grandma."

"I'm aware of that, Emily, I know Paula almost as well as you do. I meant it just now when I said she looks as if she's at death's door. However, I realize she's not actually physically ill. She's emotionally disturbed..." He swung his feet to the floor, searched the pocket of his robe for the packet of

cigarettes. "There are a lot of problems in that marriage. Want to bet?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Oh, you're so right, Winston. I've tried to bring up the subject several times lately, but she just gives me funny looks and retreats into herself, or talks about something else."

"But you two have always been so close. Hasn't she said anything at all?" he asked, his voice rising an octave, registering his surprise.

"No, not really. I told you before, she was upset on that awful Sunday in September. You know, because of Jim's attitude, the way he spoke to her in regard to her problems with Sam Fellowes. And I knew she'd been crying when I got back from Pennistone Royal. The weekend Jim returned from Ireland, when the three of us were in London, she murmured something about Jim's being irritable, even irascible with her. I started to probe a bit, and she sort of... shrugged it off, became as uncommunicative as she was tonight. But I've noticed that tendency a lot in the last few months, and she is burying herself in work. That's all she does, actually, except for spending any free time she has with the babies. She adores the twins. Actually, I think they've become her whole life, aside from business, of course."

"That's no good. Aunt Emma's going to be miffed—not too thrilled—when she gets back next month—seeing Paula like this." Winston shifted his position on the sofa, immediately saw the concern in Emily's face. He took her hand, "Hey, poppet, come on, don't look so miserable. It'll all work out. Life has a funny way of taking care of itself."

"I suppose so," Emily murmured, wondering if it would, deciding that it wouldn't, because of Paula's basic nature. She would cling to her marriage no matter what, because of the children and her extraordinary sense of duty to them, as well as her determination not to be defeated.

"Would you like me to talk to Paula?" Winston ventured. "I could..."

"God, no!" Emily cried fiercely, sitting up with a jerk. "She'd resent it, consider it an intrusion into her privacy, and, anyway, you'd only get a flea in your ear for your trouble."

Winston sighed. "I suspect that's true. Listen, if you want my opinion, I think she and Jim ought to get a divorce."

"She'd never do that! She thinks as I do about divorce."

"Oh. And how's that?" he asked, pricking up his ears. He gave her a long, hard stare.

"Well," Emily said slowly, "we sort of disapprove, really. I mean, after all, we've had a lovely example with my mother. She's had so many husbands and so many divorces I've lost count."

"Your mother's the exception to the rule, Emily."

Ignoring this comment, Emily hurried on: "Paula believes that if there are problems in a marriage they've got to be worked out. She says that people can't keep getting divorced at the drop of a hat, just because they meef a few snags along the way, that this is no solution. She thinks marriage requires a great deal of effort—"

"It takes two to tango, you know."

A reflective look washed over Emily's face as she nodded, said, "You're implying Jim might not make the effort... Is that actually what you mean?"

Winston hesitated. "Perhaps. But I could be wrong, and, anyway, who really knows about other people's private lives? That's why this conversation should be terminated right now. It's rather futile. Dumpling."

"Yes," she said. "Winston, don't call me Dumpling. I'm very svelte these days."

He laughed. "I meant it affectionately, not critically, you silly goose." He put down his drink, moved over to her side of the sofa. Putting his arm around her, he whispered against her cheek, "So I'm stuck with you for the rest of my life, it seems, in view of your opinion about divorce."

"Yes," she whispered back, "we're stuck with each other. Thank God!"

"I second that." He pulled away slightly, looked down into Emily's innocent young face. How pretty she was, and there was an innocence about her, and she was very young, and yet she had a depth of wisdom that at times took him by surprise. He said softly, "I could never be happy with anyone else, Dumpling, not now after I've had you.'

"Why?" She returned his gaze through flirtatious eyes.

"Always fishing, aren't you?"

"Tell me why..."

"Because I know you so thoroughly and understand you, my love, and because we're so compatible sexually."

"Are you really sure we are?" she teased.

"Now that you mention it... well, perhaps we ought to give it another try." He smiled, loving her with his eyes. Standing up, he held out his hand. "Let's go to bed, darling, and experiment some more, just to make certain." He led her upstairs.

"It's a good thing you put central heating in this house, otherwise we'd be freezing. It's very cold tonight," Emily said half an hour later, wrapping part of the sheet around herself.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think we're pretty hot stuff together." Winston winked, pushed a pillow behind his head, and reached for the glass of brandy he had brought upstairs with him. He offered it to Emily. "Like a sip?"

"No, thanks, I don't want any more. It gives me heart palpitations."

"Oh, damn! And I thought I was the one who caused those." He grinned, asked, "Shall I light the fire?"

"Aren't we going to sleep?"

"That wasn't part of my present plan," he said, leering at her. "Are you tired already?"

She shook her head, laughing, and her gaze followed him as he leapt out of bed, nulled on his dressing gown, and strode to the fireplace directly opposite the old-fashioned four-poster. He struck a match, ignited the paper and wood already arranged in the grate, then worked the pair of old bellows to get the blaze properly going. Emily liked watching Winston doing things. He was so clever and competent with his hands, forever repairing things in the house and on the grounds. She thought of the little bridge he had built across the pond at Heron's Nest when they were children. It had been charming, and a masterpiece of intricate design and clever engineering. Yes, he had been excellent at carpentry. She still had the small jewelry box he had made for her tenth birthday, so prettily painted and lined inside with red velvet. But he had given up his woodworking for music when he and Shane had formed the Herons.

Smiling to herself, she said suddenly, "Winston, whatever happened to your trumpet?"

He was in a crouching position in front of the fire and he swung his head, taken aback by this question which had come out of the blue. "Whatever made you think of my trumpet, for God's sake?"

"I was lying here remembering... you know, remembering bits of our childhood."

"Funnily enough, Sally came across it a few weeks ago, when she was poking around in one of the cupboards at Heron's Nest." He returned to the bed, threw off his robe, and climbed in next to her. "Wasn't I awful in those days? Really fancied myself on the old horn, thought I was the bee's knees."

"I thought you were wonderful. Not on the trumpet, though... you did stink. Gosh, I bet it was you who put the dead fish in my bed!" She thumped him on the arm. "You rotten thing. I'll never forget that fishy smell. Ugh!" He grabbed her, wrestled her back against the pillows, pinned her down with his hands. "You deserved it. You were a precocious little wretch." He bent into her, kissed her on the mouth, let his tongue linger on hers. As he drew away finally, he whispered, "If I'd had any sense, I should have put myself in your bed—"

"You'd never have dared, Winston Harte, so don't pretend you would! Grandma had eyes in the back of her head."

"She still does," he quipped. He moved away from her, amusement dancing in his eyes. He picked up the brandy balloon, nursed it in both hands, then savored a mouthful. He felt so good, was enjoying this friendly bit of idle banter with Emily, this relaxed break in their arduous, exciting lovemaking. He always did with her. She was so easy to be with afterward. There was never any tension between them when their passion was spent, only during their loving. Then her intensity, her endless desire for him inflamed and thrilled him. He reached for her hand lying on top of the sheet, held on to it tightly, thinking of his narrow escape. He knew now that it would never have worked with Allison Ridley. He hadn't loved her, not really, not in the way he loved Emily.

Winston closed his eyes, reliving that special Sunday night in April, when she had driven over to have the supper he was supposedly going to cook. He never did cook it. The moment Emily had arrived they had looked knowingly and longingly into each other's eyes. And they had ended up, a fast ten minutes later, in the middle of this bed, where he had proceeded to surprise himself by making love to her three times in quick-succession. His cousin—third cousin, he corrected himself—had astonished him with her lack of inhibitions, her willingness to give pleasure and receive it, her unstinting generosity and joyousness in bed. At eleven-thirty, wrapped in bath towels, sitting in front of the living room fire, they had made an al fresco picnic of the odds and ends in his bachelor refrigerator, washing everything down with a bottle of Shane's vintage champagne.

It had been the most wonderful evening...

Emily said, "Winston, please don't get cross with me, but there's something I want to tell you. It's really important."

Dragging himself away from his erotic meanderings about her, he lifted his lids, glanced out of the corner of his eye. "Why should I get angry? Go on, tell me, Dumps."

"That's even worse than Dumpling," she groused, pulling a face, pretending to be annoyed. "Why is it that the English have this ridiculous predilection for silly nicknames?"

"Because nicknames are pet names, and they express warmth, affection, familiarity, intimacy, caring. Are you going to tell me this really important thing, or not, Dumps?"

"Yes, I am." She pushed herself up and half-turned to face him, propping herself on her elbow, staring into his face intently. "It's about Min's death... the inquest."

"Oh no, Emily, not again!" he groaned and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "You've driven Paula crazy. Now you're starting on me."

"Please listen to me, just for a minute."

"Okay, but you'd better make it quick. I think I've got myself into quite a state again."

"Winston, you're insatiable."

"Only with you, my sweet, seductive, passionate little thing."

"I'm not so little,' she countered. "Listen—Sally told me Anthony is still unconvinced that Min killed herself. He thinks it was an accident, and I—"

"This is a terrible waste of time, darling," Winston interjected impatiently, wanting her desperately. "Aunt Daisy and Jim have each given us detailed accounts of the inquest. It couldn't have been an accident, from what I understand. No chance."

"I agree. I mean about its not being an accident. However, / don't believe it was suicide, either."

Winston laughed disbelievingly. "Are you trying to tell me you think it was murder? Oh, come on, Emily."

"I'm afraid I do think so, Winston."

"Then who did it? Certainly you can't possibly harbor the idea that it was poor old Anthony, who wouldn't say boo to a goose?"

"No. And I don't know who. But her death bothers me a lot... I can't seem to forget it. You see, Winston, it's those five hours. They've always seemed odd to me, and even that Irish policeman called them mysterious. Auntie Daisy told me so. I happen to agree with him. They are, and they're also most peculiar."

"You've missed your calling, poppet. You should'have been a mystery writer," he retorted, chortling. "Maybe she just passed out from the booze."

"Laugh if you want, Winston, but I bet it'll come out one day. You wait and see," Emily shot back. Her voice was grave.

Winston sat up, paying attention. For as long as he could remember, he had always thought Emily was exceptional— bright, smart, clever, and a lot shrewder than some of the family realized. This belief had been considerably reinforced since he had become seriously involved with her. She made sense in so many ways, and he had grown accustomed to listening to her, trusting her judgment. Certainly it was she who had pushed him to go after the Canadian paper mill, insisted he persist when the talks had faltered. Lately, even some of her drive and ambition had washed off on him, and she had convinced him it was his duty to make a bigger contribution to the newspaper chain. So much so, he had _ actually abandoned the idea of leading the life of a country gentleman.

For all these reasons he had to take her seriously now. Slowly he said, "You say you don't know who could have killed her, and that is a tough nut, I admit. On the other hand, you've obviously thought a great deal about Min's death, so you must have some theories about what might have happened. Tell me. I'm all ears. Honestly, Dumps, I'm not laughing at you anymore."

Emily gave him a small gratified smile. "Nothing will ever convince me that Min hung around the lake for all that length of time. I think she left, went to see someone, where she proceeded to get horribly drunk. Whoever she was with probably helped her along, might also have given her the pills—you know, Winston, to dull her senses. Then, once she was out cold, unconscious, she was put in the lake to make it look like suicide or an accident."

"Look, I'm not ridiculing you, honestly I'm not, but this is

a bit farfetched. Besides, from all the accounts we've heard, she never left the estate."

"I know, but that's a presumption. And she might have. She could have walked somewhere, left her mini at the lake."

"Oh, Emily, Emily." He shook his head, looking at her helplessly. "This doesn't make any sense. Who would want to kill Min? And why? What was the motive? I have lots of questions, and I could shoot lots of holes in your theory. I'm.. sure Paula did. What did she say?"

"She more or less said the same thing as you... then she told me to forget it, that the case was closed, that everyone had come out of it relatively unscathed. She used some terrible clichd like 'Let sleeping dogs lie,' and brushed me off. But what about Anthony and Sally having to live with the knowledge that Min killed herself because of them? And there's another thing, Winston, think of Min. If she was murdered in cold blood, which I think she was, the person who did it should be brought to justice."

Winston was silent, mulling over her words. He said quietly, '-'Oh, darling, don't be a crusader. There's nothing you can do, really, and Paula's right, the case is closed, finished with. You d only "be opening a tin of worms, putting Sally and Anthony through more unpleasantness. I could talk to you for hours about this matter, Dumps, but"—he sighed—"I just don't have the inclination or the strength at the moment."

Emily bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up tonight."

"Well, let's face it, darling, you did pick a most inopportune time." He touched her cheek lightly with one finger, traced a line down onto her neck, ran it diagonally across her bare chest to the edge of the sheet tucked around her. "Emily, in case you didn't realize it, I do have other things on my mind."

She smiled winningly, shoving aside her worry about the inquest. "I said I was sorry. Let's drop it."

"Your wish is my command." He turned, put the brandy glass on the side table, then swiveled his head quickly. "I'd prefer you not to mention any of this... your theory... to Sally."

"Of course I won't. I'm not a dunce."

"Far from it. Come here. I want you." He switched off the lamp.

Emily did the same, slithered across the bed, nestled into his arms opened to her, wrapped her legs around his body, fitting herself into him.

He said, "See what's happened? Your lurid murder theory has rendered me incapable of performing my duty as a devoted fiance." He stroked her hair, which shimmered brightly gold in the light from the fire blazing up the chimney.

"Not for long, if I know you," she murmured, pulling his head down to hers, seeking his mouth, kissing him passionately.

Responding to her ardent kisses, he ran his hand over her body, touching her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs, enjoying the feel of her silky skin. He brought his hand up swiftly, cupped one breast, lowered his mouth, let it linger around the nipple. Her hand went into his hair and he felt her strong fingers on the nape of his neck, heard the faint moan in her throat as the tip of his tongue touched the tip of her hardened nipple.

Emily held herself very still, her breathing strangled as Winston moved down and away from her breast. He began to kiss her stomach, and his hand stroked down her outer thigh, then her inner thigh, his touch sensuous, thrilling her. He knew exactly how to arouse her. But then he always had. He had acquired more expertise, more finesse, had a better understanding of a woman's body since their childhood days. His hand fluttered between her thighs, then probed, enveloped her fully. In a swift, sudden movement that momentarily startled her he pulled his hand away, dragged himself on top of her. He slipped his hands under her back, lifting her forward as he went into her and took possession of her. His mouth found hers, they locked together, her body arching to his. Emily gripped his shoulder blades,. let herself be carried along by his rhythmic movements and the growing momentum of their bodies rising and falling in unison.

Sometime later, as they lay exhausted in each other's arms, Emily said, with a small smile, "I wonder who passed around that nasty and most erroneous story about Englishmen being terrible lovers?"

There was a contented sigh from Winston, followed by a deep chuckle. "Foreigners, who else," he said.