Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) Read Free Page A

bugger off. But we're taking Henry with us," Maura announced. "You can't just leave him in this drafty old house while you and Kate go gallivanting."
    "Madam, I shall be with him." Harvey said haughtily.
    "Oh, sure, a butler. Might as well put Ritchie in charge."
    "Ritchie can look after me. He looks after me just fine," Henry said, defending his chief nemesis with a fervor usually reserved for Jedi knights. "He's older than Kate."
    "He's been daft every day of his life and you know it," Maura snapped. "And a butler isn't your blood. I'm your mum, and I'm taking you home."
    "Maura, I swear to God—" Kate balled up her fist, crinkling the plaster across her knuckles.
    "Kate, please." Hetheridge didn't meet his wife's eyes. He didn't need to; the force of her glare could have been felt from orbit. Turning to Maura and Louise, he said, "I understand your position perfectly, ladies. But a certain expression applies. I've had it said to me countless times, yet never had occasion to use it myself." Resting both hands on Henry's shoulders, he said, "Not without a warrant."

Chapter Two

    Detective Sergeant Kate Wakefield Hetheridge still found it difficult to omit the "Wakefield" and supply the "Hetheridge," even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Several times since returning to Scotland Yard as a married woman, she'd introduced herself to new colleagues as DS Wakefield, resulting in cleared throats and curious glances. Everyone at the Yard, including file clerks, secretaries, and janitors, seemed aware she'd been featured (briefly and coolly) in newspaper society columns. Many could quote entire paragraphs of the tabloid coverage, which had been colorful and expansive. "Beggar Bride and Geriatric Beau Baffle West End," published in a scandal rag called Bright Star , was now required reading for the Metropolitan Police Service, judging by how often Kate heard about it. Only in the fame and title-obsessed world of Bright Star could a career detective, who'd paid her own way since her teens, be called a "beggar," and a fit, handsome sixty-year-old be called "geriatric."
    He'd deny the "handsome" part , Kate thought. That triggered an automatic flood of fondness, which she mentally squashed, incinerated, and cursed out of existence. She was furious with him, and he deserved it. So what if she accidentally introduced herself as DS Wakefield at the crime scene? Maybe she'd do it on purpose while he was in earshot.
    "Kate," Tony called from the other side of the bathroom door. "They've cleared out. Walked them halfway to Green Park Tube station myself. Shall we…?"
    She said nothing, perversely hoping he'd blunder again. Since their marriage, he'd occasionally muddled personas, adopting what she thought of as "Guv mode" at home, or "Tony mode" on the job. Just now, a command—"Shall we get on?"—had nearly issued from CS Hetheridge's lips. But then it fragmented into the gentler "Shall we…?" as he no doubt remembered they were still at home, and on the husband front, he was still in trouble.
    Kate leaned over the basin, scowling at her reflection. Her cut lip was obvious. There was no concealing it with makeup, so she settled for extra mascara and a liberal application of powder. As for her shoulder-length blonde hair, it was hopeless. Gathering it into a ponytail, she twisted the mass into a bun. If this murder case turned into an all-nighter, the clips would eventually work free, probably at the worst possible moment. She didn't care. At least she had on one of her nicest suits, dark and sober and scarcely bloodstained. Maura and Louise had descended on Wellegrave House just as Kate arrived home, and what with all the shouting, she'd never had time to change out of her professional attire. This tailored suit from Harrods was still a prized possession, something she'd purchased soon after joining Hetheridge's team, in hopes a more conservative appearance would help her up the ladder.
    Before I leapfrogged everyone by marrying the