Passion in Secret. Catherine Spencer

to make do with his moral support. No point in rubbing salt into his in-laws’ wounds. They were suffering enough.

      The drawing room, a masterpiece of late nineteenth-century craftsmanship with its intricate moldings and ornately coffered ceiling, hummed with the low buzz of conversation. Every spare inch of surface on the highly polished furniture was filled with photographs of Penelope framed by huge, heavily scented flower arrangements.

      Under the tall Arcadian windows overlooking the rear gardens, a table held an assortment of fancy sandwiches, hot canapés and French pastries. A fat woman whom he didn’t recognize presided over the heirloom sterling tea service and priceless translucent china. At the other end of the room, a Chippendale desk served as a temporary bar with his father-in-law in charge. Colette, an empty brandy snifter at her elbow, perched on the edge of a silk-upholstered chair, accepting condolences.

      Fletcher Burton saw him and Sally first. At six foot one—only an inch shorter than Jake himself—he stood taller than most of the rest grouped about the room. About to pour sherry for the weepy-eyed woman at his side, he thumped the heavy cut-glass decanter back on its silver tray and cut a swath through the crowd. “I don’t know how this young woman managed to get past Morton—!”

      “I brought her here, Fletcher.”

      “What the devil for?”

      “She and Penelope had known each other from childhood. They were friends. Sally was the last person to see your daughter alive. I’d say that gives her as much right to be here as anyone.”

      “For God’s sake, Jake! You know Colette’s feelings on this. We’re trying to put the past behind us.”

      “With altogether more speed than decency, if you ask me.”

      “Nevertheless, under the circumstances, I hardly think—”

      “I agreed to your taking charge of all the funeral arrangements because I couldn’t be here in time to handle them myself,” Jake cut in. “But may I remind you, Fletcher, that although you were Penelope’s parents, I was her husband. I believe that entitles me to invite whom I please to this reception honoring her memory.”

      “No, it doesn’t. Not if it adds to anyone’s grief.” Sally, who’d been edging back toward the foyer, spoke up. “I came to pay my respects, Mr. Burton, and now that I have, I’ll leave.”

      “Thank you.” Poor old Fletcher, henpecked to within an inch of his life, cast an anxious glance across the room to where Colette held court. “Look, I don’t mean to be offensive, but I’m afraid you’re no longer welcome in our home, Sally. If my wife should see you, she’d—”

      But the warning came too late. Colette had seen them and her outraged gasp had everyone looking her way. Handkerchief fluttering, she fairly flew across the room. “How dare you show your face in our home, Sally Winslow? Have you no sense of decency at all?”

      “She came with me.” Not only was he beginning to sound like a broken record, Jake was growing thoroughly tired of repeating the same old refrain. It was his own fault, though. He should have stood his ground and insisted on postponing the funeral until he could have taken over. A few more days wouldn’t have made any difference to Penelope, but if he’d hosted her wake in the house they’d shared as a couple, he might have been able to circumvent the present scene.

      “How could you do that, Jake?” Colette wailed, her baby blues swimming in tears. “How could you hurt me by desecrating Penelope’s memory this way? I’ve suffered enough. I need some closure.”

      “We all do, Colette,” he said gently, moved despite himself by her anguish. Colette Burton might be a diva of the first order, but she’d truly adored her daughter.

      “And you expect to find it by bringing that woman here?” She let out a tortured sob. “What kind of son-in-law are you?”

      Fletcher would have caved at that line of attack, but Jake wasn’t about to. “One trying to put back together the pieces of his life.”

      “With the help of your wife’s murderer?”

      The shocked reaction brought on by that remark—because there wasn’t a soul in the room who hadn’t heard it, including his parents—bounced back from the walls in a throttling silence broken only by a faint whimper of despair from Sally.

      Caught again in the urge to leap to her defense, he said, “Perhaps you’d like to retract that accusation, Colette, before it lands you in more trouble than you’re able to handle right now.”

      “No!” Sally overrode him, her voice thick with emotion barely held in check. “Don’t blame her.” She turned to Colette, and touched her hand contritely. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Burton. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted to tell you again how very sorry I am that Penelope’s life ended so tragically. I truly feel your pain.”

      Colette snatched her hand away as if she’d been singed by a naked flame. “Do you really, Sally Winslow! Are you trying to tell me you’ve walked the floor every night since she was killed, wondering what that strange noise is and realizing it’s the sound of your own heart breaking, over and over again?”

      “No, but I’ve—”

      “Of course you haven’t! You’re probably glad Penelope’s dead, if truth be known, because you always resented her for being prettier and smarter than you. But now, you don’t have to live in her shadow anymore, do you?”

      “Colette, that’s enough.” Fletcher tried steering her away, to no effect.

      “Leave me alone! I’m not finished with her yet.” Like a wild thing, she flung him off and rounded on Sally again. “Do you have any idea how it feels to see your child lying dead in her box? Do you know what it’s like to finally fall asleep from sheer emotional exhaustion, and do so praying that you’ll never wake up again? Do you?”

      Sally, pale enough to begin with, blanched alarmingly and pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. Perspiration gleamed on her brow. Her eyes, normally dark as forest-green pools, turned almost black with distress.

      “That’s what you’ve done to me, Sally Winslow.” Colette’s voice rose shrilly. “I’ll never know another moment’s peace, and I hope you never do, either! I hope what you’ve done haunts you for the rest of your miserable days!”

      Again, Fletcher moved to intervene. “Hush now, Colette, my darling. You’re overwrought.”

      She’d also fortified herself with more than one brandy and was three sheets to the wind, Jake belatedly realized. Her breath was enough to knock a man over. But it was Sally who suddenly fell limply against him and, before he could catch her, crumpled to the floor at his feet.

      Drowning out the chorus of shocked exclamations, Colette teetered in Fletcher’s hold and shrieked, “I hope she’s dead! It’s what she deserves!”

      “Sorry to disappoint you,” Jake said, stooping to feel the pulse, strong and steady, below Sally’s jaw. “I’m afraid she’s only fainted.” Then, although he shouldn’t have, he couldn’t help adding, “Probably too much hot air in here. Where can we put her until she comes to?”

      “The library,” Fletcher said, handing a sobbing Colette over to one of her hangers-on. “She can lie down in there.”

      “I’ll take her, Jake.” His father materialized at his side. “You’ll never make it with that injured leg.”

      “I’ll manage somehow,” he muttered, wishing his parents hadn’t had to witness the scene just past. There’d never been much love lost between his family and the Burtons, and he knew they’d be upset by Colette’s attack on him.

      “You don’t always have to be the iron hero, you know. It’s okay to lean on someone else once in a while.”

      “Can the advice for another time, Dad,” he said, a lot more abruptly than the man deserved. But cripes, his leg