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at his very desk.
    Mr. Belmont ranged an arm along the back of the sofa, the gesture of a man not put off by an ungracious comment.
    “Does the possibility of hysterics concern you, Mrs. Stoneleigh?”
    Abby had many, many concerns. “One doesn’t know whether to be more concerned by a temptation toward drama, or a lack thereof. I’ve never been a widow before. Ah, what an awful word that is: widow.”
    His scowl became less fierce, more irascible. What sort of man had a vocabulary of scowls?
    “Widower is equally as unappealing,” he said. “Then it takes on a gilded edge in the eyes of some, as a man becomes desirable for his bereaved status.” This gilding had not appealed to Mr. Belmont.
    “Women whose spouses have died are seldom viewed as having the same cachet as men in similar circumstances.”
    Perhaps because the men could and did quickly remarry. Nonetheless, this startlingly unsentimental conversation was safer ground than the floundering bewilderment that had struck Abby the instant she’d seen her husband’s body.
    Or the fear.
    Mr. Belmont passed her a slice of cheese. “If you inherit this property, then you are a wealthy widow. Stoneleigh Manor is lovely, well run, and large, as acreages go in this area. I’d wager that among those assembled below, you will find several of the single gentlemen prompt with their condolence calls, and a few won’t even wait three months.”
    A spark of anger flared, at Gregory, for subjecting Abby to those gentlemen and their
prompt
calls after years of neighborly indifference.
    She took a bite of the cheese, an excellent cheddar. “You speak from unhappy experience.”
    “I do. A man cannot possibly raise his own sons without the assistance of some female who knows the children not and loves them not.”
    Many men wouldn’t even try. “I regret that we never had children.”
    Mr. Belmont moved Abby’s tea closer to her side of the tray. “Would you really want to be comforting a seven-year-old today, trying to explain why her papa can’t ever take her riding again, or why death isn’t like oversleeping?”
    Abby accepted the second slice of bread from Mr. Belmont’s hand, along with the knowledge that his wretched honesty was more comforting than all the platitudes of condolence put together.
    “No wonder you are such an ill-tempered fellow.”
    He shot his cuffs, which sported a surprising dash of lace. “My sister-in-law calls me reserved, my sons describe me as professorially stern. My brother says I’m backward but dear, and my late wife called me an ass more often than you might think.”
    Heavenly days, Mr. Belmont’s recitation provoked him to something approaching a smile.
    “Your brother has remarried?” Abby posed the question with the relief of a befogged mariner whose conversational oars have bumped against dry land by chance.
    “Recently.” Mr. Belmont held her mug of tea out to her.
    She sipped and set it down, but shook her head when he presented a slice of ham.
    “You are pale as a winter sky, madam. You need sustenance.”
    “I need a pause in my gluttony.” Abby cradled the mug close, wrapping both hands around its warmth. “I haven’t eaten much lately, and my digestion is tentative.”
    Blond brows lowered to piratical depths. “Could you be carrying a posthumous child?”
    How… presuming and sad the question was. “I could
not.
” Before Mr. Belmont could stumble through an apology for that bluntness too, Abby charged on. “Oh, don’t poker up. I wasn’t that sort of wife.”
    He busied himself building up the fire, while Abby wondered what he’d make of her expostulation. He was apparently condoling the widow today, not investigating the murder, so he kept his questions behind his perfect, white teeth.
    “I will take my leave of you,” he said, when the fire was throwing out decent heat. “I would like to call upon you within the week, to discuss what I learned when speaking with the staff yesterday, and I