Murder at Rough Point Read Online Free Page A

reached out to steady him with a firm hand. This only elicited more laughter. Then they sobered and traded quieter words.
    I had a good look at them then. One was all darkness—hair, eyes, even his complexion, which possessed a smooth olive sheen particular to Mediterranean climates. He again raised a hand, this time to push a mop of thick curls off his forehead. That hand was large, the fingers long and slender, and beautifully tapered.
    But it was when the other turned in my direction that my breath stopped. Where the first was dark, this man was light—hair, eyes, skin, and even the way he held himself and the way he moved, as if he might at any moment grasp the breeze and fly out over the ocean. The fanciful notion nearly made me chuckle out loud. Here I had thought I had regained my professional perspective. But his was an artist’s face surrounded by wavy light brown hair, or at least the sort of face artists loved to capture, with its chiseled cheekbones, strong chin, and intelligent brow. And yet the mouth—the mouth was soft, gently bowed, almost feminine in its lushness....
    â€œAh, that’s Vasili and Niccolo you see out there, Miss Cross.” Miss Marcus’s grin was feline and, I thought, cunning. “They’ve been out exploring the Cliff Walk. Thank goodness neither went over the side.”
    The men entered the veranda, first sitting to remove their boots and step into shoes before opening the drawing room doors to come in. They seemed startled at first to see Mrs. Wharton and me, and greeted us with brief bobs and good mornings. They continued through to the Great Hall, their steps echoing off the high ceiling.
    â€œI assume they’re part of the retreat,” I said. “Who are they, may I ask?”
    Josephine Marcus looked almost sorry for me. Mrs. Wharton said, “My dear, that’s Vasili Pavlenko—the pretty one with the light brown hair.”
    â€œAnd the delicious figure,” Miss Marcus added in a stage whisper. “He’s perfect—absolutely perfect from head to toe. But then, ballet dancers usually are.”
    â€œA dancer,” I mused. “How wonderful.”
    Mrs. Wharton’s hand came down on my wrist, startling me with its abruptness. “No, dear. Not any longer. Vasili sustained an injury that prevents him from dancing professionally ever again. It is his great sorrow. He’s now a choreographer with the Imperial Russian Ballet. Do not mention his past unless he brings it up first.”
    â€œThank you for warning me. I won’t. And the other . . . ?
    â€œThe dark one is Niccolo Lionetti.” Miss Marcus wrinkled the perfect slope of her nose, but rather than a negative gesture there was something proprietary in her expression, though she elaborated no further.
    â€œIs he a dancer, too?” I asked.
    â€œGoodness, no.” Mrs. Wharton laughed again in that easy way she had. “Niccolo plays the cello, and quite beautifully, I might add. He’s in demand in every major city in Europe. I expect the same will soon be true here in America once he’s played on a few stages.”
    â€œI see. And whom else can I expect to meet?”
    My question sent furtive glances back and forth between Edith Wharton and Josephine Marcus. Mrs. Wharton said casually, “There is Sir Randall Clifford, of course. He’s interested in buying Rough Point.”
    â€œI didn’t know it was for sale.” Indeed, Mr. Dunn hadn’t mentioned that very pertinent fact, nor had Uncle Frederick and Aunt Louise.
    â€œNothing is certain yet,” Mrs. Wharton explained. “I’m sure it’s no secret to you that they’ve grown tired of Newport. One cannot blame them for wishing to unload the place.”
    â€œNo, I don’t suppose so.” My thoughts turned inward. I couldn’t help thinking about how much had been lost to me already, and how much more stood to be lost. My cousin