by Shana Galen
“Come down and speak with Mr. Sharpsly about what you cl—what you saw last night.”
Juliette looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t take well to orders when I was married, Will, and I don’t take well to them now.” She lifted the sheets and started up the stairs again.
“Madam!”
Juliette kept walking, ignoring her every instinct to pause.
“Juliette.”
With a smile, she stopped and looked over her shoulder.
“If you please.” Pelham ground the last word out, like carriage wheels over seashells. “Come down and speak with the magistrate.”
“You don’t want me to leave?” she asked prettily. She knew she was pushing him, but if he wanted her to stay, she had no objection. Well, she did object on the grounds he was an ass, but at least he was not a murderer. She was safe here—safer than she would have been on her own.
“Come down.”
So he wasn’t prepared to go so far as to say he wanted her to stay. Very well. She would try to wrest an invitation somehow. Something told her to stay close to Pelham. But it was a strange experience—meeting a man who did not rush to fill her every whim.
Oh, she had met plenty of men like Pelham before she became the Duchess of Dalliance. When she was simply Juliette Clifton, no one gave her a second look. Pelham was a good reminder of what her life had been and would be from now on. Now that she would no longer be seen as the celebrated Duchess of Dalliance but a spurned fallen woman.
But if she were to stay here with Will for any amount of time, something would have to be done about his temper. She would not be yelled at or threatened. She’d had enough of that for a lifetime.
She descended the steps, more regally than she might have, because she could see it annoyed Pelham. Then she waltzed into the parlor and took a seat on a couch upholstered in blue-and-white-striped silk. She arranged her bedclothes about her and folded her hands.
“We called you here today, Mr. Sharpsly,” Pelham began, standing at the fireplace before the same painting he had stood before last night. Juliette was coming to think of this as his Lecturing Pose. “Because Juliette—I’m sorry for the informality, she refuses to tell me her surname—claims to have witnessed a murder.”
Juliette was watching Sharpsly on Pelham’s last words and saw his eyes harden. This man was not as silly as he had seemed in the vestibule. She could almost see the change in him. He was all severity and gravity now.
“I see.” Sharpsly turned to her. “May I ask you a few questions, Duchess?”
“Please.” She almost shivered. She did not want to think of the events of last night again. She would have rather teased Pelham or spent the day with Fallon and Lily or even at her own home. But she didn’t have that luxury anymore.
“If you would, tell me what you saw last night.”
She nodded. “I will, but it didn’t begin last night.” And she told him of Lucifer’s visit to her town house, the events on the balcony at Carlton House, and her return with Pelham to the spot where Eliza’s body had been dropped.
Sharpsly listened intently, asking for quill and parchment at one point, and asked her dozens of questions. By the time he was finished, she’d told the story more times than she could count and was drained. She glanced at the bracket clock on the side table and saw it was nigh ten. Pelham’s schedule was in complete disarray, and yet he’d said nothing except to answer the questions Sharpsly directed to him.
Sharpsly made another scribble on his parchment full of them and looked up.
Pelham raised a brow. Juliette saw his hand pause before the pocket with his watch, but he resisted taking it out, and rested his arm on the mantel. “Well?” he asked.
Sharpsly’s mouth was tight. “I’m glad you called on me, Your Grace. I understand why you were frightened, Duchess, but you should have come to us about the diamonds. I don’t think it would have saved Lady Elizabeth, but it would have lessened the risk to your person.”
“Then you believe her?” Pelham asked, unable to staunch the incredulity in his voice.
“I do.” Sharpsly stood. “Firstly, because she has no reason to lie and gives no indication thereof. She’s genuinely frightened.”
Pelham glanced at her, clearly not persuaded. “She has reason to lie. Look at the papers this morning.”
“I do not think even the duchess, who admittedly makes her living through her notoriety, would go to such extremes to feature in the Morning Chronicle. She is mentioned there almost daily, and all she need do is smile at a new man.”
Pelham’s lips thinned.
“I believe her secondly because I know of this Lucifer. He owns a gambling hell and is extremely disreputable. I have no personal knowledge of his clients reporting thefts of their jewelry or other valuables, but one never knows with a man like that. He has many vices. Thirdly, we had a report from Lord and Lady Nowlund that their daughter, Lady Elizabeth, did not return home last night.”
“She is still not at home?” Pelham looked surprised, and Juliette wondered if he had even considered the possibility before this moment. He was so intent on believing she was lying, he had not even worried about his missing fiancée.
“Lady Elizabeth had not returned when I set out this morning. And that worries me. As does the missing body and the necklace you found, Your Grace.”
Juliette watched Pelham’s face. Finally—finally! He, too, looked concerned.
“We must search for Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “I’ll spare no expense, hire every available man—”
Mr. Sharpsly held up a hand. “I would appreciate the additional funds, Your Grace, but you must think of yourself and the duchess. If Lucifer realizes you saw something, he will come after you.”
Pelham waved an arm. “I’m not afraid of this Lucifer. If anything has happened to Lady Elizabeth, I’ll make him sorry he ever heard my name.”
Juliette believed him. He had that dangerous glint in his eye—the one that had given him the name The Dangerous Duke.
But she was not the Dangerous Duchess, and she was afraid. She felt safe in the duke’s home, but how long could she stay here? He had already ordered her out.
Was Lucifer lying in wait outside the duke’s door? Was he biding his time, knowing she had to emerge at some point?
Mr. Sharpsly rose and started for the parlor door. “I’m going to my office to see if any new information has been reported. Then I’ll assign a man to Lucifer’s Lair and sniff around there. If I can use your assistance, I will send word later today, Your Grace.”
Juliette followed the two men into the vestibule, where Richards waited with his hand on the door handle. Sharpsly took her hand in his, kissed it. “The pleasure was all mine, Duchess. Please be careful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sharpsly.”
The magistrate bowed. “Your Grace.”
Richards opened the door, and Juliette screamed.
Nine
Pelham pushed Richards out of the way and moved to catch the footman before he could fall. As the footman was dressed in Pelham’s scarlet-and-gold livery, at first the duke did not see the blood. And then he felt the wetness and realized it was everywhere. The man gurgled, his eyes wide. Juliette screamed again, but Pelham heard Sharpsly’s calm voice speaking to her, ushering her away.
Pelham knelt beside the man. Another footman rushed to his side, and Pelham ordered him to fetch a doctor. The duke glanced at Richards, uncertain of the name of the fellow whose head he held off the floor. The man was still gurgling, but he seemed to breathe easier with his head elevated.
“It’s Davenport, Your Grace,” Richards said, his voice low and anguished.
“Davenport,” Pelham said. The man’s unfocused gaze cut to him, seemed to sharpen. “I have a doctor coming. You hold on, do you understand? That is a
n order.”
“Yerrrr—”
“Don’t speak,” Sharpsly said, kneeling on the man’s other side. Pelham hadn’t heard him return, and he hoped Juliette was somewhere far away from this. He did not want her to see it.
“Lie still, Davenport,” Pelham instructed. “You’re going to be fine.” He didn’t think the man would be fine at all. He didn’t believe the man would last the hour. His fears were confirmed when Sharpsly parted the man’s coat and shirt. The two men’s eyes met, and Sharpsly shook his head.
“Would you like some water?” Sharpsly asked.
“Or something stronger?” Pelham inquired. After all, if this was the man’s last drink, it might as well be a good one.
“Gin,” Davenport whispered.
“Richards?” Pelham never took his eyes from Davenport.
“Yes, Your Grace. Right away.”
Pelham held the man, noting with alarm that his breathing grew more and more labored. “Richards,” he muttered.
A moment later, Richards rushed in with a glass and a bottle of gin. Pelham had no idea where the gin had come from. He never drank it, but he was thankful for whatever servant had donated it. Richards poured the gin, his hand shaking slightly, and handed it to Sharpsly. Sharpsly put it to the footman’s lips. “Slowly, now.”
The footman sipped, coughed, and sipped again. “Gud,” he murmured. He tried to draw in another breath, and Pelham heard an awful gurgling sound. Blood and gin seeped out of the man’s mouth, and his eyes closed.
“Davenport,” Pelham said. He stared at the man’s chest, waiting for it to rise again. “Davenport!”
Sharpsly put a hand on Pelham’s wrist. “He’s gone.”
Pelham looked around. “Where’s the doctor?”
“It’s too late for that, Your Grace. The knife”—he pointed to the footman’s bloody chest—“must have punctured his lungs. They filled with blood.”
Pelham nodded, took a breath. Carefully, he laid Davenport’s head on the cold marble. “Richards, bring me the tablecloth.”
“From the dining room, Your Grace?”
Pelham glared at him.
“But, Your Grace, that was your grandmother’s table—”
“Bring it.”
Richards did as he was bid, and Pelham used the fine white linen to cover his dead servant. Immediately, scarlet flowers bloomed on the fabric. Pelham rose. His housekeeper stood nearby with a basin, pitcher, and fresh water. Pelham washed the blood from his hands, tinting the water pink. He frowned when he spotted Juliette standing in the parlor doorway. She was as pale as the white marble on the bust she stood beside.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Pelham said. “You shouldn’t be seeing this.”
“I—” She held out her hand. A slip of paper fluttered in it. “This fell to the floor when—” Her voice broke, but she rallied. “When you caught him. I think he’d been clutching it.”
Frowning, Pelham took the paper. It was white with bloody fingerprints on the edges.
He opened it and read.
Regards, Lucifer.
Pelham clenched his jaw and rounded on Sharpsly. “What the hell is going on?”
“It’s from him, isn’t it?” Juliette asked. “Lucifer.” She was shaking. He could see it, but he didn’t know what to do about it. Who was he to comfort her? He’d never comforted anyone in his life. Hell, he couldn’t remember ever being comforted himself.
Pelham shifted awkwardly, unsure as to whether he should make some attempt at… something. Pat her on the shoulder or some such thing. Instead, he took out his pocket watch.
It was now nigh eleven. His daily routine was shot to hell. Considering he now had a dead footman, a scared courtesan, and a cryptic note on his hands, he didn’t think his day was going to improve.
“Is this someone’s idea of amusement?” Pelham demanded, pocketing the watch and holding the note out to Sharpsly.
“I’m afraid so, Your Grace. I’m going to advise you to leave Town for the present.”
“Leave Town? I have business to conduct. Parliament is in session.”
“Will, stop being obtuse!” Juliette cried. “You won’t conduct any business if you’re dead.”
Sharpsly nodded. “I agree with the duchess. I advise both of you to leave as soon as possible. Today, if you can be ready. Leave word with my clerk where I can reach you. I will try and keep you updated. Good day, Your Grace. Duchess.”
Pelham watched Richards close the door on the magistrate. He turned back to Juliette. “I suppose you think I orchestrated that, too,” she said.
“No.” He sighed. “But life was a lot simpler before I met you.”
“You thought it was simpler only because you didn’t know the truth.”
“Perhaps I don’t want to know the truth. Perhaps I like my life simple.”
“Of course. I’ll be gone directly. Then you can return to your simple life.” She started up the stairs.
Against his better judgment, he followed. “Where are you going?”
“To the scarlet room and then…” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He continued following her, pausing only when she entered the bedroom she’d slept in. He stood in the doorway, not sure what to say or do next.
He was a duke. He knew all about obligations and dependents and responsibility. He had more than any one man should, and he did not want any more. But he also had a dead footman. That footman had been his, by God. And someone had cut him down.
Pelham couldn’t help but see Davenport’s death as a failure. He had failed to protect his servant.
He looked at Juliette. She’d thrown the bedclothes on the floor and was rifling through her valise, tossing out what looked like underthings. Pelham averted his gaze.
She did not belong to him. He didn’t know whom she belonged to, but somehow she had become his responsibility. He knew the precise moment, too: when he’d seen her tremble.
She’d seemed so strong, so independent. But he’d seen the fear in her eyes. It aroused in him something besides lust for her. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something he vowed he’d never feel again.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She whirled to face him. “What? First you want me gone, now you want me to stay?”
“It’s not safe for you to set out on your own.”
Her hands were on her hips. “Oh, really? When did you realize that? After I told you your fiancée had been murdered? When I told you Lucifer had been at my home last night? Only after your footman was killed? Do you finally believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
She threw her arms down and gave him her back. He could hear her muttering under her breath.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Her maid was standing behind him. He moved aside to allow her entrance. He watched as the maid shook out a gown and held it up for Juliette’s inspection.
“Regardless, you’re not leaving. Yet.”
“I don’t have enough clothing for an extended stay.” She didn’t even look at him.
“I’ll accompany you to your town house as soon as you’re dressed. We’ll take whatever else you require.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her jaw tightened, and he caught the hard glint of glacier ice in her eyes. Everything about her stance, her expression, her tightly reined fury projected loathing. She wanted to refuse him. She wanted to be done with him. “Fine.”
He realized she must be frightened indeed if she was agreeing to remain in his company.
“Fine.” He stood, watching the hatred radiating from her. He could almost feel its icy fingers reaching out to poke him. Yes, hers was a cold fury—unlike his father’s. That had been white hot.
“Are you planning
to stand there and watch me undress?” she asked, shaking him out of his thoughts. “Is that your fee for protecting me?”
He frowned. “There’s no fee.”
“Are you certain?” A look of seduction crossed her face. Cold seduction. “Because if there’s something you want, you should tell me now. I like to be up front when doing business.”
He took a step back, revulsion flowing through him. “I’m sure you do. But as I think I have made perfectly clear, I am not interested in your services.”
She raised a brow. “And yet you’re still standing in the bedroom doorway.” She raised the hem of her nightrail. “Are you certain you don’t want at least a glimpse of what you’re refusing before you do so?”
“No.” His voice was husky as his traitorous gaze dropped to her white ankles and calves.
“No, you’re not certain?”
“Yes.” He looked at her face, reminded himself to stare at those glacial eyes. “Yes, I am certain I want nothing from you.” And he strode away, but he’d be damned if the image of those shapely calves wasn’t forever etched in his mind.
Ten
Juliette stood in her bedroom and stared at the destruction around her. The draperies had been slashed, the clothespress emptied, her velvet jeweled pillows ripped open. Feathers and silk and stuffing littered the floor.
“I take it this is not your usual style of housekeeping.”
She cleared her throat, uncertain whether she could force her voice to work. The entire macabre scene was so familiar, it was almost as though she had gone back in time. She had to remind herself she was no longer Juliette Clifton. Oliver was not going to step into the room and strike her at any moment. She swallowed. “No, it’s not.”
“And that on the bed?”
She stared at the bed, shivering. Her bed was virtually untouched. She could see a corner of her blue silk sheets peeking out from beneath the luxurious cream coverlet. Stabbed through the center of the bed was a knife pinning a slip of blood-red parchment. Oliver had never done anything like that. “Not mine,” she said.
