Francis Lightfoot mused, pouring a round of after-dinner brandies, “might I reasonably infer that she's a bit put out with you for having married someone else?” “Ever the keen observer, Francis,” his brother quipped as he settled into a chair beside the library hearth. Unfazed, the younger Lee handed Devon a snifter and went on with a grin, “You're lucky to have escaped with your life. She's killed three husbands, you know.” “Figuratively speaking, of course,” Richard Henry quickly added. Devon narrowed his eyes and studied the dark spirits in his glass, remembering. Francis snorted, but it was his brother who actually commented, “You don't honestly suspect foul play, do you, Devon?” Suspecting murder and proving it were two very different things. And a careful search of Lytton Hall had turned up nothing that could even be considered circumstantial evidence. Devon shrugged and took a sip of his drink before replying, “All I know for sure is that Robert Lytton was barely a score of years older than I and every bit as healthy when he dropped dead last year.”
