The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  How well she read him, and he was amazed by her astuteness, despite her having spent so little actual time within his physical presence.

  He inclined his head. “I do intend to seek out a former colleague of mine. Three days have passed without any word as to the state of the investigation into Mrs. Ainsley’s murder. I also have a handful of loose ends to follow in the hopes one of them will lead me to Croydon.”

  She shivered. “I do so wish you would not involve yourself in cases, Hudson.”

  “My involvement is temporary.”

  At least, he hoped it was. If he were to be charged with Maude’s slaying, his involvement would be permanent. But then, he had to believe that his testimony, along with his prior connections to Scotland Yard and his newly inherited title would aid him. Moreover, he had witnesses who could vouch for his presence at the Black Souls.

  Hope was a fragile beast.

  “Will you take breakfast with me?” she asked, frowning at him as if she disapproved of his response.

  Of him, even.

  Blast. Where had the responsive woman who had surrendered to him so beautifully last night gone? He wanted her back. But he would have to settle for a polite duchess who had arranged breakfast for now.

  “I will,” he allowed, knowing that both his stomach and his wife would demand it.

  He was proving a devoted servant to both.

  “Come then, and serve yourself,” she said primly. “Everything has been laid out.”

  He moved nearer to where she stood by the sideboard, drawn to her and the feast she had seen prepared in unequal measures. But a few strides closer and he stopped in awe, taking in the vast assortment.

  Oranges, butter, poached eggs. Sweet heaven on earth, there were muffins and kidneys and—Christ above—bacon and toast, honey and preserves. It was more food than he had ever seen assembled at once, aside from the luxurious wedding breakfast her parents had hosted. But how much did she possibly think he could consume? There was enough food here to feed all Scotland Yard.

  “By the looks of this sideboard, I will be needing to eat breakfast, luncheon, and dinner here,” he teased, still amazed by the quantities.

  In Buckinghamshire before his marriage, he had been pleased to eat simple fare, and the cook had done whatever he wished. Buns and cold meat had often sufficed. The domestics had been pared down to a frightfully low number for the size of the household, or so he had been told. Easy meals had pleased him. Less waste, which he had been unable to afford anyway.

  But now…why, Elysande’s dowry had solved one problem, even if his marriage to her had caused half a dozen more.

  “I did not know what you preferred,” came her hesitant voice, somewhere near his elbow, “so I requested an assortment. You need not fear the additional food shall go to waste. Some can be packed along with you, and the rest shall provide luncheon for the domestics. They will be pleased for all the fresh fruit, I should think.”

  Yes, they would. And for that matter, so would he. Was this the life of a duke, breakfast with his wife, a veritable feast his for the taking? If so, there could be benefits, surely.

  He turned to offer her praise. “You are so very thoughtful. Thank you, my dear.”

  “You are not displeased, then?”

  “That my beautiful wife arranged a bountiful breakfast? Only an ogre would be displeased.” He paused, allowing himself the liberty of brushing a stray curl from her silken cheek. Everything in him cried out for more.

  Not this morning, you oaf.

  You’ve business to attend to.

  Right, he did. But first, breakfast.

  She was smiling at him, radiant by the fresh light of the morning. “Fill a plate for yourself then, if you please.”

  He did as she bade, taking up a dainty dish rimmed in gold and heaping all his favorites upon it. When there was not another speck of room, he settled in at the table with her. The food was excellent, as was the coffee. The newspaper laid out for his inspection by an overzealous member of the staff, however, was not.

  There on the front page, he saw a bold headline that made his mouth go dry.

  Murder and Mystery Follow the Detective Duke.

  Elysande’s eyes seemed to catch upon the journal at the same moment, for she stilled. His appetite abruptly died.

  “Hudson.”

  His body was moving independently from his mind, rising from the chair. He snatched up the paper and stalked across the breakfast room toward the fireplace. Without a second thought, he hurled the entire affair into the merrily crackling flames. It caught fire instantly, the combustion giving him precious little comfort.

  He watched as the words curled in on themselves, burning into ash, and tried to regain control over his wildly fluctuating emotions. Maude’s body, lifeless and bloodied and slashed, the flat look of dead terror in her eyes, the ashen paleness of her, rose in his mind. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the rage roaring inside his head threatening to overwhelm.

  It was as if he were there, back in his rooms three nights ago, finding her for the first time. He had been working with the victims of crimes for years. He knew better than anyone the painful vortex of shock, loss, and fear that could poison a man. But it mattered not. There was no making sense of this maelstrom. Maude was dead, and he was to blame in his own selfish way, and now all London believed him a murderer as well.

  Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm. He flinched away from the touch until reality returned, and he realized he was in the breakfast room with Elysande, and it had been her tentative caress on his sleeve. She was attempting to comfort him. Of course she was. Sweet Elysande, trapped in this godawful mire with him.

  He turned to her, the guilt enough to eat him alive.

  “I am sorry,” she said, her face a mask of contrition.

  He wanted to kiss the lines of worry from her forehead. To gather her in his arms and hold her softness to him, to lose himself in the benediction that was this wondrous woman he had married.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his voice hoarse from the tumult within. “It is I who should be apologizing, for dragging you into this hellish mess. Your name will be run through the mud along with mine, and you do not deserve such brutal treatment.”

  Indeed, she only deserved the best.

  She shook her head. “I should not have requested the newspaper after what Mr. Barlowe said last night at dinner. Had I known the story would be on the front page, I never would have done so.”

  There was something indefinable sparkling in the gold-brown depths of her beautiful eyes. He hoped to Christ it was not pity, for he could not bear it. Loathing would be preferable. After the manner in which he had conducted their marriage thus far, it would certainly be understandable.

  “You need not protect me, Ellie,” he said, and it was true. “I am aware that I have become the talk of the town and that all London suspects I murdered Mrs. Ainsley. Everyone seems to have an opinion on the matter. Some suspect I murdered her because I missed the ability to solve cases. Others because we had a lovers’ spat. The speculation is as endless as it is wrong.”

  She stepped closer and reached for him again, cupping his cheek with such tenderness he could have wept were he not so inured to tears from all his years in Scotland Yard. “This is not a battle you need to fight on your own, Hudson. Let me fight it with you.”

  He did not hesitate. “No.”

  “But Hudson—”

  “No,” he said again, more firmly this time. “I’ll not bring you into this any more than you have already suffered.”

  “That decision should be mine, do you not think?” Her thumb stroked his cheek. “You have not shaved again today.”

  He swallowed, wanting her to keep touching him forever yet feeling as if he ought to push her away and put a necessary distance between them. “Perhaps I ought to look the part of the monster they believe me to be.”

  “You do not l
ook like a monster at all.” The tenderness in her expression hit him in the chest. “You look like the man I married, only with a rakish shadow of whiskers on his jaw. I rather prefer it, actually.”

  “You do?” For a moment, he forgot the threats of the outside world, determined to crush him. Instead, she was the entire focus. Pleasing her. Doing whatever he must to ensure she continued to look at him in exactly this fashion.

  As if he were a man worthy of her.

  As if she desired him.

  Her thumb traveled lower, brushing over his mouth. “I do.”

  “I will never shave again,” he vowed, kissing the velvet pad of that lone digit.

  Her smile was slow and sweet and made his cock twitch to life. “Just to please me?”

  “Anything to please you. Whatever you want, Ellie. Say the word, and it is yours.”

  “I want you to let me help you,” she said. “Let me assist in your investigations. I am your wife, and I do not want you to face this alone.”

  Assist in his investigations? Christ. She was asking too much of him, though it warmed his heart that she was willing to do that. For him.

  He caught her wrist in a gentle grip, holding her hand in place, and pressed a kiss to the silken skin. “I will not expose you to danger.”

  “I am hardly fashioned of glass, Hudson,” she countered stubbornly. “I will not shatter or break. You should not face this on your own.”

  His resolve was fading, foolish though he knew it was. “Ellie.”

  “Please.” Her other hand came up to frame his face, her gaze searching his.

  How could he deny her? He thought he would happily pluck the sun from the sky and deliver it to her on a silver salver if he could.

  He nodded, relenting. “Very well. Within reason.”

  Her smile blossomed, stealing his breath. “Thank you, Hudson.”

  He took her mouth with his then, the words he meant to say unraveling themselves in his heart instead.

  No, Ellie. Thank you.

  Hudson’s former lodgings were above an apothecary’s shop. Fortunately, for now, Elysande and her husband remained in a back area of the store below, rather than in the rooms above. The chamber in which they found themselves smelled medicinal, and lining the shelves surrounding them were stocked tins and boxes and bottles, powders, syrups, and tinctures. There was only one chair and a small desk, presumably for the apothecary’s use when tallying his ledgers or otherwise taking inventory of his wares.

  To that end, Hudson, Elysande, and the apothecary himself, Mr. Benjamin Cowling, stood in a strange, awkward trio.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr. Cowling.” Hudson’s voice was cool and composed. Gone was the raw, anguished man of the breakfast room. In his place was Chief Inspector Stone.

  Cowling was a man of short stature, with thinning, dark hair and an extensive mustache, the ends of which had been waxed to curl upward. To Elysande, the appearance was quite comical, as if his facial adornment were smiling.

  “The sooner this murder is solved, the better for me,” the apothecary said, his countenance dour and severe. “Do you have any notion how bad it is for business to have had a woman murdered above one’s shop?”

  Elysande longed to deliver a stinging set-down to Mr. Cowling. A woman had been murdered, and he was more concerned with the impact the death had upon his business than the loss of life. His sole motive in seeing the killing solved was to benefit himself, and he had no intention of being charitable, despite Hudson’s status.

  But Hudson, to his credit, maintained his sangfroid, appearing utterly unaffected by the man’s selfishness. “Solving the case and bringing Mrs. Ainsley’s murderer to justice is what I intend to do. That is why I have come to speak with you, as you can imagine.”

  Cowling’s gaze narrowed. “Scotland Yard has already been here, you know. Chief Inspector O’Rourke. He told me you are the next Duke of Wexcomb.”

  “Wycombe,” Hudson corrected quietly.

  “Hardly matters, does it? One duke is no different than all the rest,” Mr. Cowling said, his tone dismissive. “What I don’t understand is why you were keeping it a secret, continuing to make use of the rooms I rented you.”

  “That is a private matter, Mr. Cowling,” Hudson said stiffly, “and I did not come here this morning to talk about myself, but rather about what information you may have concerning the night Mrs. Ainsley was found murdered.”

  For the first time, the apothecary trained his speculative stare upon Elysande. “And who might this be, accompanying you?”

  “My wife, Mr. Cowling,” her husband said, a bite of irritation underscoring his tone now. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Wycombe.”

  Elysande had never had occasion to be introduced to an apothecary in the storage room of his shop whilst investigating a murder before. She hardly knew the protocol, so she dipped into a curtsy worthy of any court presentation.

  “Mr. Cowling,” she said.

  Looking startled, Mr. Cowling offered her a bow. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I had not realized you were married.”

  The words were not particularly welcome, especially considering the events of the past few days. Here it was, the specter of her husband’s past, and she must greet it like an old friend instead of warily, dagger drawn.

  Elysande had done everything she could to distract herself from thoughts of Hudson’s bachelor quarters. And not just for the most disturbing reason of all—the murder of Mrs. Ainsley, which had been perpetrated there. Rather, the notion of the life he had lived before he had married her left her with a curious, unwanted feeling in her breast, rather like a hot coal, lodged just beneath the skin.

  Jealousy.

  She supposed.

  Whatever the emotion, it had returned with fierce vengeance just now at the reminder Hudson had been living here, even following their marriage. That a woman who had once been his lover had awaited him at his rooms.

  “It is a new marriage,” Hudson said by way of explanation.

  Elysande bit her lip to refrain from further speech.

  “That explains a great deal.” Mr. Cowling nodded his head, sending a thin hank of greased hair over his balding pate. “Young marriages can often be difficult.”

  Elysande’s heart beat faster at the man’s intimation that her husband had been unfaithful. Oh, he had not said the words, but doing so had been quite unnecessary.

  Hudson’s lips compressed. “My marriage is none of your concern, Mr. Cowling. Let us dispense with further niceties and get to the heart of the matter, which is the unfortunate murder of Mrs. Ainsley. As I understand, you were the one who provided her with the key to my rooms on the night of her death. I was hoping you might have some additional information in that regard which would prove useful.”

  “I didn’t,” Cowling said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I didn’t grant Mrs. Ainsley entry to your rooms on the night she was killed,” the apothecary elaborated.

  “But that’s impossible. If you did not unlock my door for her, then who would have done so?” Hudson asked.

  “As I told Chief Inspector O’Rourke, it was my apprentice, Mr. Seward, who was here that evening. He was organizing a recent arrival of stock and tallying the ledgers when she arrived.”

  “Is Mr. Seward the young gentleman at the counter in your store just now?” Hudson queried, his voice deceptively calm.

  She could see his mind working behind those intelligent gray-blue eyes.

  “That would be him, yes,” Mr. Cowling replied.

  “If you would be so kind as to replace him at the counter and ask him to answer a few of my questions, I would be most appreciative,” her husband told the apothecary.

  “I don’t want any more trouble,” the man said, hesitating.

  “Please, sir,” Elysande intervened, unable to hold her tongue a moment longer. “There will be no trouble. My husband only wants to solve Mrs. Ainsley’s murder, which will prove beneficial to you
r peace of mind and that of your patrons as well.”

  Still looking reluctant, the apothecary inclined his head. “I will ask him to speak with you.”

  With another bow, the man quit the room, giving Elysande the opportunity to speak to her husband alone, if only just for a moment.

  “You believed Mr. Cowling was the one who granted her entrée,” she said. “Why?”

  He frowned. “O’Rourke told me.”

  “The inspector?” Worry curdled her stomach. “He lied to you, then? For what purpose?”

  “I’ll be damned if I know,” Hudson said.

  The sound of approaching footsteps prevented further conversation. Mr. Cowling’s apprentice, a younger man with a wiry frame and a shock of bright-red hair, entered the room.

  “Your Graces,” he said, sounding a bit nervous as he bowed. “Mr. Cowling said you wished to speak with me.”

  “If you would be so kind, Mr. Seward.” Hudson offered the man a friendly smile, which Elysande supposed was meant to ease some of his anxiety. “Given that you were the one who spoke with Mrs. Ainsley on the evening of her murder, and it was you who allowed her entrance to my rooms, I was hoping you might offer some insight.”

  Mr. Seward nodded. “I am not certain I have insight, Your Grace. I already offered everything I could to Chief Inspector O’Rourke.”

  “I understand,” Hudson said patiently. “However, since the incident occurred in my rooms, and since Mrs. Ainsley was an acquaintance of mine, I am seeking information independent of Scotland Yard.”

  Mr. Seward paced to the far end of the room, then reached out to perfect the alignment of some stomach powders on the shelf before turning back to face Hudson and Elysande. “Ask what you like.”

  “How did Mrs. Ainsley approach you that evening, Mr. Seward?” Hudson asked, once more firmly in his role of investigator.

  “I heard knocking above,” said Mr. Seward. “A bit of a commotion which was unusual for the time of the evening. I went outside to investigate, and that is when I discovered a lady attempting to gain entry to the rooms.”

  “Did she seem distressed?” Elysande asked, although she knew she ought to hold her tongue. She had never conducted an interview such as this. Yet, her mind was whirling with all the possibilities.