Bewitched by the Bluestocking

by Eaton, Jillian

  “No, it’s not that. It’s…bollocks.” Kincaid gave a short, irritated shake of his head. He should have been focusing exclusively on Sterling’s case. A case that was literally a matter of life and death.

  Instead, he was dreaming about Joanna like some sort of lovesick fool. Had he learned nothing from Lavinia? The evil bitch who had gleefully torn his heart out of his chest, ripped it in half, and then shoved the bleeding organ back inside. He’d sworn he would never again blur the lines between his personal and professional life. Yet here he was, four years later, on the brink of doing precisely that.

  Wasn’t that the definition of madness? Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result. Best lock himself up in bedlam now, for surely an insane asylum would be preferable to peeling the scars off his heart and exposing it to even more hurt. The kind of hurt he never wanted to feel again.

  “It’s nothing,” he snapped. “She means nothing.”

  Sterling’s brows lifted with interest. “She? You mean your American?”

  “I told you that she isn’t my American.” He needed a drink. Throwing his hand in the air, he managed to snag the attention of a barmaid and held up two fingers. She sauntered over, a curvy brunette with an ample bosom. While Sterling openly admired the view—and gave the maid a light smack on her bottom as she walked away—Kincaid took a long, quenching drink.

  “I take it back,” said Sterling. “A dash of typhoid might be worth it.”

  “I’m sure she’d be willing to entertain any offer you made.”

  Instead of appearing pleased by the reminder that he could have whatever woman he desired, the duke looked oddly dejected. “They always are. But it’s the title they want, not me. I know that’s what Eloise wanted.”

  “Which is why you killed her,” said Kincaid, carefully watching Sterling to gauge his reaction.

  The duke was innocent, but that wouldn’t matter if he displayed even a hint of guilt over his mistress’ death. Thankfully, Sterling’s expression did not waver, an indication he would do well under questioning…if it came to that.

  “That’s what they tell me.” Sterling sipped his ale. “Does your American know that you fancy her?”

  “For the last time,” Kincaid said through gritted teeth, “she isn’t mine. And I don’t fancy anyone.”

  “Really? Because I haven’t seen you this worked up since…never mind.” Realizing his error a second too late, Sterling immediately stopped talking. But the damage had already been done, and they both knew what name he hadn’t said.

  “Lady Lavinia Townsend.” A muscle ticked high in Kincaid’s jaw.

  “May her adulterous, lying soul rot in hell.”

  “She isn’t dead.”

  “I know, I saw her just this past week at the Earl of Whitefield’s garden party. I didn’t want to mention it,” Sterling said apologetically, “seeing as how you two…well, parted ways.”

  Parted ways.

  How pleasant that made it sound.

  Rather like calling the Black Death a mild cough, or Marie Antoinette’s beheading a little nick.

  He and Lavinia hadn’t parted ways.

  They’d scorched the damned earth.

  And then she’d tried to bury him in it.

  “When the witch finally does die,” Sterling continued, “I can assure you there is only one direction she is traveling. And it’s not up.”

  Kincaid’s mouth twitched. He appreciated his friend’s loyalty more than he could put into words. Society dictated the duke should have sided with Lavinia. She was, after all, the well-bred daughter of a marquess and the wife of one of Sterling’s acquaintances. They’d run in the same circles since they were children. But Sterling had always made it clear where his allegiances lay, and Kincaid was grateful for it. Especially since he knew others did not look upon him so kindly.

  Courtesy of Lavinia’s lies and calculated deceit, his first year as a private investigator had almost been his last. Clients who had been with him since his first days as a peeler had suddenly acted as if he’d caught the plague, their minds poisoned against him by Lavinia’s uncanny ability to spin fiction into fact. If not for sheer persistence and a little luck, he’d have gone belly up within six months. And he would have had no one to blame but himself for being gullible enough to fall for Lavinia’s crocodile tears.

  He was still deeply ashamed of how easily she’d been able to manipulate him. She hadn’t only pulled the wool over his eyes. She’d changed him into a bloody sheep, and he hated her for it. He hated himself for it. Which was why he was determined that history was not going to repeat itself.

  “If anyone has a pact with the devil, it’s Lavinia.” He drank his ale. “I never should have believed a word she told me.”

  “No,” Sterling agreed. “You shouldn’t have. But you’re not the first man she deceived, and I’m certain you will not be the last. It’s a bloody game to her. To all of them. The ton.” Storm clouds gathered in his gaze. “There’s nothing they delight in more than ruining reputations and spinning half-truths. It is their entertainment.”

  “You’re a duke,” Kincaid pointed out. “One could argue you are the very personification of that which you despise.”

  “One could also argue that you are deliberately trying to steer the topic of conversation away from your new client.” Sterling leaned back in his chair, arms casually draped behind his neck. “Is she attractive, this American who isn’t your American? A change of scenery could be a welcome distraction.”

  If Kincaid were a wolf, his hackles would have stood straight up. “She’s not interested.”

  “Every woman is interested in a duke. It sort of comes with the territory.”

  “Not Joanna.”

  “On a first name basis, are we?” Gray eyes holding a glint of amusement, Sterling lowered his arms and took a casual sip of ale. “I thought you didn’t fancy her.”

  “I don’t,” Kincaid said shortly. “But that doesn’t mean you get to.”

  As far as he was concerned, no one did. Joanna wasn’t his. He didn’t claim her. He didn’t want her. But neither could anyone else have her. If they tried, he’d kill them. Including Sterling. It was as simple—and bloody complicated—as that.

  Scowling, he reached for his ale. Only to grunt in annoyance when he realized he’d already finished it off.

  “Here,” Sterling said, sliding his tankard across the table. “Have mine, although I don’t know how you drink the stuff. Tastes like lukewarm piss.”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “That’s troubling. Speaking of piss, I’ll be right back.”

  While Sterling went to relieve himself, Kincaid finished off the remainder of the ale and considered his soup, but the talk of Lavinia had soured his stomach.

  She was a dark spot he couldn’t scrub out. A stain he couldn’t erase. A blemish he couldn’t fix. If only he’d never met her. Never tried to help her. Never fallen in love.

  In a way, however, he supposed it was good that he had. The consequences of his affair had taught him a valuable lesson. A difficult lesson, but a valuable one nevertheless. Because of Lavinia, he knew how easily a man could be destroyed from the inside. Because of Lavinia, he knew the sharp, slicing pain of betrayal. Because of Lavinia, he knew he could never give the broken shards of his heart away. Not even to Joanna. Which was why he had been trying his damned best to ignore her.

  And failing miserably.

  A man could no more ignore Joanna Thorncroft than he could his next breath. A single kiss, and he craved her lips as much as he craved oxygen to breathe. He wanted her. He needed her. Which was exactly why he couldn’t have her.

  Need was an opportunity for exploitation.

  Need was a vulnerability.

  Need was a weakness.

  And he’d made himself a promise. A promise that he would never be vulnerable or weak ever again. A promise that he intended to keep…no matter how strong the temptation was to break it.r />
  He rubbed the sides of his temples where a dull ache had settled. The only solution, as he saw it, was to find Joanna’s ring and get her the hell out of England. With an ocean between them, maybe he’d finally be able to stop thinking about her every bloody second of every bloody day. Because he couldn’t go on like this.

  Not unless he wanted to drive himself completely mad.

  When Sterling returned, complaining of the ungodly stench radiating from the water closet, Kincaid’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t yet made any headway on tracking down the ring or the man who had given it to Anne Thorncroft. The Queen Mary’s manifest hadn’t given him any clues, nor had his usual connections turned anything up. But his connections only extended so far, and given the ring’s presumed origin, it may have simply been that it was in the hands of someone too far above his reach.

  “I may need your help with something,” he told Sterling. “A case.”

  “A case?” Visibly intrigued, the duke slid into his chair. “What sort of case?”

  “The one that brought Joanna Thorncroft and her sister here.”

  “There’s a sister?”

  “No.”

  “But I haven’t even—”

  “No,” Kincaid said firmly.

  “All right,” Sterling muttered. “What can I do?”

  In short order, Kincaid explained the ring’s history. How Joanna’s mother had traveled to England when she was a young woman, and had an affair with a man who then gave her the priceless ruby before she’d returned to America and married Jacob Thorncroft.

  “Wait,” Sterling interrupted. “Then Joanna is really the illegitimate daughter of a British nobleman?”

  Kincaid gave a clipped nod. “Yes. Given the ring’s value, that is my working theory. I believe it is an heirloom that the family never had any plan of giving up or else they wouldn’t have gone to such pains to retrieve it after more than two decades.”

  “Fascinating,” said Sterling. “Absolutely fascinating. But you’ve had no leads?”

  “None.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What is it?”

  “I just find it interesting that you’ve hit such a wall when ordinarily you’re quite good at all this detective business.” Sterling drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Is it because you’ve genuinely exhausted all possibilities, or you secretly want your American to remain in London for as long as possible?”

  “If you call her that again, I’m going to pick up this tankard and bash you over the head with it,” Kincaid threatened.

  Sterling clucked his tongue. “Striking one duke is an isolated incident, but striking two is the beginning of a pattern. Should I tell the Duke of Avalon to be on the lookout?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “If he’s as big of an arse as you.”

  There weren’t many people in London, or all of Great Britain, for that matter, who would dare deliver such an insult to a man of Sterling’s station. But he didn’t appear insulted. If anything, he looked amused.

  “That’s a crown I wear alone, I’m afraid.”

  “If I could find the ring and send Joanna home on the next ship bound for Boston, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Maybe if he said it out loud, Kincaid thought, it would make it true. “But if the ring is being held by a family of great means, I haven’t the resources to root it out.”

  “Which is where I come in, I suppose.” A dark wave of hair slid across Sterling’s brow as his head canted to the side. “A ruby in the shape of a heart, you said?”

  “Surrounded by diamonds.”

  “It should be unusual enough to stand out. And the initials inscribed on the band?”

  “JW.”

  “That narrows it down some.”

  “But not enough,” said Kincaid.

  “No,” Sterling concurred. “Not enough. If only the name James wasn’t so damned popular. And the W could refer to either a surname or a title.”

  Kincaid had come to the same deduction. “Short of stealing into every manor in Grosvenor Square under the cover of darkness, I’ve no way to ascertain the ring’s whereabouts. But you rub elbows with the ton every day.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Sterling grimaced. “As it happens, there’s a ball coming up at the end of the week. A prestigious affair to celebrate the Countess of Beresford’s seventieth birthday. Her gout has rendered her unable to travel, which means the ton will be flocking in en masse from their country estates. I can get you in invitation, if you’d like.”

  Kincaid’s gaze sharpened behind his spectacles. “It’s expected to be well attended?”

  “Everyone who is anyone will be there,” the duke confirmed.

  Which meant that Kincaid might not get a better opportunity to discover the identity of the elusive JW and the whereabouts of the ring before the London Season resumed in January. Five months from now. His teeth gnashed together. He couldn’t have Joanna here for five more months. He didn’t even want her here for five more days. His self-control was already hanging by a thread. Another encounter like the one in his office, and it would snap entirely.

  Then all hell would break loose.

  Sweet, sweet hell.

  The kind a man wouldn’t mind burning in.

  “I’ll take that invitation.” Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet and reached for his coat. “I need this finished.”

  Sterling stood as well. “What is it about this American that you dislike so much?”

  Kincaid shoved his hands into his pockets where they curled into fists. “She’s far too impetuous.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It is when you lack the common sense to avoid danger.”

  “Ah.” Sterling nodded in understanding. “The poor thing’s a bit daft, is she? I find the pretty ones usually are.”

  Kincaid snorted. “Hardly. If anything, she’s too intelligent for her own good. But she’s also headstrong. Doesn’t listen to a damned thing I say.”

  “Then why take her case?”

  “A moment of temporary weakness that I’ve since regretted a thousand times over.”

  “Personally, I’ve always been fond of bold, headstrong women.” A dimple that had made hearts flutter from London to Leeds flashed in Sterling’s left cheek. “Especially in bed. It was what first drew me to Eloise. That, and her laugh. Like wind chimes in the breeze.” His smile faded. “I need to find out who did this to her, Kincaid. For her sake as much as my own.”

  “We will. I will.” His gaze skimmed across the crowded room, then returned to Sterling. “I’m going to question Eloise’s household staff tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go with you,” the duke said at once, but Kincaid was already shaking his head.

  “I won’t get the answers I need with you hovering behind me. The servants won’t talk if you’re there.” Because details were important, he removed his journal from an inside flap he’d had specially sewn into his coat and asked a passing barmaid for something to write with. She returned shortly with a pencil, worn down to a nub and chewed at the end, but it worked well enough. “Did the staff come with the house you rented for Eloise, or were they hired after?”

  Sterling frowned. “How the devil am I supposed to know that? Eloise was in charge of all those matters.”

  Kincaid closed his journal. “It would help move the case along if you could provide some details.”

  The duke gave him a hearty slap on the back. “That’s why I hired you.” He sobered when he saw Kincaid’s resulting expression. “They’re not excellent, are they? My chances of getting out of this without being charged for her murder.”

  “No,” Kincaid said bluntly. “They’re not. Unless we can find the true culprit, you’re going to be brought before the House of Lords. I’d find a good lawyer now.”

  “At least we have time on our side.”

  “That, and little else.” Kincaid would have lik
ed to reassure his friend. But having once been the unsuspecting recipient of false hope, he’d always rather give the truth. No matter how hard it was to hear. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything of note tomorrow. Try to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Aye,” Sterling said dryly. “After all this joviality, I’m sure I’ll sleep like a baby. By the by, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you that not every woman is like Lavinia.”

  “Duly noted,” Kincaid said, his tone unmistakably curt.

  “She was awful,” Sterling went on. “There’s no denying it. And what she did—”

  “I don’t care to have this conversation.”

  “—there’s no excuse for it. Hell, there’s not even a good reason other than her being a scheming whore. But she’s a single fish in a large pond. Maybe it’s time you have a go at another. Who knows? You may even prefer the American variety.” The duke’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively. “Headstrong or not, I’ve heard they’ve quite a good mouth on them.”

  The picture that brought to mind was not one Kincaid cared to contemplate.

  Not unless he wanted to spring a cockstand in the middle of the bloody pub.

  “Sod off.” He slapped a handful of coins onto the table to pay for their drinks and then walked out, Sterling’s rich laughter ringing in his ears.

  *

  Midnight found Kincaid laid out flat on the bed in his office, scotch in one hand and regret in the other. Lifting his head, he tilted the bottle back and took a generous swallow before dropping it onto the ground where it rolled, empty, across the floorboards and under his desk.

  He wasn’t a man who drank to excess. His set of skills required a sharp mind and quick wit, neither of which were conducive to drinking himself into oblivion. But once he’d finished his first glass of scotch, it seemed only right to have another, and after that was done, James, the rascal, had knocked the glass onto the floor and broken it, so what else could he have done but drink directly from the bottle?

  A poor decision, that. One he’d regret more come morning, he imagined, as right now he found the heaviness of his limbs and the numbness in his skull rather pleasant. It was certainly a welcome distraction from his memories of Lavinia…and his thoughts of Joanna.