The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  It was not so very different from when she aided Papa. Those occasions, too, involved the solving of a problem. The logical collection of all the information available. Testing, trying, creating a prototype. In this instance, they were attempting to solve the problem of who had murdered Mrs. Ainsley.

  “She was in good spirits,” Mr. Seward answered slowly, as if truly considering the question, perhaps even reliving the moment when his path had crossed with the dead woman. “She told me…”

  He paused, his gaze going from Elysande to Hudson, and then back again.

  “What did she tell you?” Hudson prodded, his voice firm.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Mr. Seward was looking at Elysande now, a flush tinting his clean-shaven cheeks. “She told me her gentleman friend had asked her to await him here, but that she had no means of entering.”

  Hudson had told her he had not invited Mrs. Ainsley to his rooms. She believed him. And yet, Mr. Seward’s words still nettled. She could not entirely keep the jealousy at bay. Perhaps a small part of her remained determined not to trust the man she had married. The vulnerable, frightened part of her. She knew Hudson had not married her because he had been entranced by her beauty. Or because he had fallen in love with her as Papa had with Mama. Rather, he had married her because he had been given no other choice.

  As if sensing her turbulent thoughts, Hudson placed a calming hand on her elbow. The gesture was reassuring, and the physical connection to him was precisely what she needed. The tenderness those hands had shown her could not be denied.

  “When Mrs. Ainsley told you she required a key, did you not think it odd?” Hudson asked. “Surely if I had asked her to join me there, I would have either accompanied her or made certain she could access the rooms until I joined her.”

  Mr. Seward’s fingers were moving at his sides, as if he itched to correct the angle of yet another box or bottle on the shelves. “I will admit that I did not question it. The lady was amiable and quite lovely to look upon. I fetched Mr. Cowling’s key ring and allowed her to go inside.”

  Quite lovely, Mr. Seward had said. And those words were like pinpricks to her heart. A thousand of them, all at once.

  Of course Mrs. Ainsley would have been beautiful if she had been a former lover of Hudson’s. He was so wonderfully handsome. Elysande, by comparison, was a dowdy bluestocking who spent more time aiding her father’s inventions than doing what other ladies of an age with her did.

  Hudson gave her elbow a reassuring squeeze as he addressed Mr. Seward. “After you allowed her entrance to the rooms, what happened next?”

  “She thanked me.” The apprentice’s cheeks went redder still, and he turned his stare to the floor, shuffling his feet.

  “How did she thank you?” Elysande asked, sensing there was more to the story.

  “She…I…” The young man’s gaze flitted wildly between Hudson and herself as he attempted to produce an answer.

  “She?” Hudson prompted.

  “She kissed me,” Mr. Seward admitted on a rush. “It was improper, and I should not have allowed it. But she was giggling like a girl, and she said thank you, sir, and then she kissed me quickly and closed the door.”

  It sounded to Elysande quite plainly that Mrs. Ainsley had been in her cups. She had gone to Hudson’s rooms uninvited, managed to gain entrance, and had charmed the young Mr. Seward in the process. But what had happened afterward? For the first time, it occurred to her that perhaps Mr. Seward had harmed her, and Elysande’s blood ran cold.

  “What did you do after she closed the door, Mr. Seward?” Hudson asked, his tone authoritative and yet calm all at once.

  The younger man raised his head, and Elysande noted for the first time just how blue his eyes were. Or perhaps it was merely the flush in his cheeks that made her aware. Either way, a shiver passed over her as it occurred to her that, aside from Mrs. Ainsley’s killer, the man before her was the last who had ever seen or spoken with her.

  Unless Mr. Seward was her killer. Was he? She had to admit that, despite Mr. Seward’s amiable demeanor, he could be guilty. At this point, anyone could.

  “I returned here to finish my work,” Mr. Seward said.

  “And how long did you remain?” Hudson asked quickly.

  “Another quarter hour, perhaps one half hour,” the other man answered, frowning. “I had not consulted my pocket watch. But the time was not long. I had almost completed my work for the day when I first ventured out to aid the lady.”

  “At what time did you leave the shop for the evening, Mr. Seward?” her husband asked next.

  Elysande found herself mesmerized by Hudson. By the manner in which he could maintain his composure, speak so calmly and politely, smile at Mr. Seward in an encouraging fashion, quite as if they were friends. By the speed of his nimble mind. By so much. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time.

  Seward fidgeted some more. “I told Chief Inspector O’Rourke I reckon it was ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock,” Hudson repeated. “You are certain?”

  Elysande watched him closely, sensing there was something more underlying his words.

  The apprentice swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his long throat. “Yes. I consulted my watch just before I locked the shop and left for the evening.”

  “Did you hear anything else untoward? Any screams, thumps, or cries? Voices? Anything from the floor above which would have led you to believe that Mrs. Ainsley was in danger?”

  “I heard a man’s voice,” Mr. Seward said. “Nothing else.”

  Hudson was completely concentrated upon the other man now, his gaze fixed and focused. “Nothing else. You are certain?”

  “Yes. I am certain.”

  Hudson inclined his head. “Thank you, Mr. Seward. This interview has proven most enlightening.”

  The younger man bowed again, and when he straightened, Elysande detected the undeniable sheen of perspiration on his brow. He was sweating, and yet the day was cool. Heavens, it was cold. She was still wearing her wrap and hat, and yet in the heatless room, Mr. Seward was perspiring as if it were the height of summer.

  He plucked a handkerchief from within his coat and mopped his brow. “Thank you, Your Graces. If that will be all, I should return to the counter, where Mr. Cowling prefers me to be.”

  Hudson nodded. “That is all, Mr. Seward. You may go.”

  The other man wasted no time in scurrying from the room, leaving Elysande and Hudson alone for a moment. All the questions churning in her mind rose to the forefront.

  “He seemed slightly nervous, did he not?” she whispered.

  “He did.” Hudson’s frown deepened.

  She blurted out the next question weighing on her mind. “Do you believe he was being truthful?”

  “I do not know what to believe just yet,” he said quietly. “He seemed reasonably honest, but only time and further investigation shall tell. I do believe we have managed to gather all the answers we shall find here for now. But there is one more place I must seek before we go.”

  A sick sensation in her belly told her what that place was, but she asked anyway. “Where is it?”

  He met her gaze, a muscle in his jaw tensing. “To my rooms.”

  Chapter 10

  Elysande told herself she did not want to see Hudson’s bachelor rooms. Not because he had lived there alone, likely entertaining a host of ladies within over the course of the years. Although, to be fair, that thought set her teeth on edge. No, indeed.

  She did not want to see his rooms for the plain and simple reason that a woman had met her violent end there not long ago. She had no notion of what the interior would reflect. Would there be blood? Gore? Small clues that another woman had been within, hoping to share her own husband’s bed?

  The thoughts combined and made bile rise in her throat.

  They climbed the stairs in tense silence. For Hudson, it was the first time he had returned to the rooms since that awful night. For Elysande,
it was the first time seeing her husband’s life as it had been before their marriage. As it had been during their time apart. He unlocked the door and hesitated before opening it, turning to Elysande.

  “Perhaps you ought to wait in the carriage while I go inside.”

  She was having none of that, despite her inner turmoil. “I want to go with you.”

  For both their sakes, she felt it imperative that she accompany him.

  “I have no notion of what awaits,” he said, his expression guarded.

  “I have already prepared myself, Hudson. Where you go, I shall follow. I cannot help you to solve this murder if I am left in the darkness because of my tender sensibilities.” She raised her chin, feeling mulish. “I was raised to believe myself the equal of any man. I have worked at my father’s side in his workshop for years.”

  Hudson’s full lips tightened into a thin line. “Murder is not the same, Ellie. You have never witnessed the ugly aftermath as I have, and I would spare you that.”

  Her resolve remained firm as ever, but she was pleased his hesitation was to protect her instead of some misguided notion. Heaven knew she had witnessed more than her fair share of wrongheaded opinions about the fairer sex.

  She touched her husband’s arm. “Please, Hudson. Allow me to come with you. I meant what I said. I do not want you to face this alone.”

  He nodded, then opened the door, waiting for her to enter first. She crossed the threshold hesitantly. There was an eerie stillness in the chamber, but it was tidy. The curtains were closed, leaving shadows everywhere. Hudson moved past her to pull them aside, sending light over the darkness. A small stove occupied one wall, along with a table and chairs. Everything was neat and tidy.

  Except for the blood.

  Her heart beat faster as she spotted the first traces of it. Drops on the floor in a trail leading from the darkened room at the opposite end of the main chamber to the door. The blood must have dripped from either Mrs. Ainsley, or the killer himself.

  “Likely, it would have dripped from the murderer’s blade,” Hudson said, as if he had read her thoughts. “Or perhaps his hands.”

  The urge to retch was strong. She swallowed hard against another rush of bile. “Of course. That makes sense.”

  Hudson was pale and somber. “This is too much for you. I should not have allowed it.”

  “It is not too much,” she denied. “I want to examine the rooms. Perhaps there are clues left behind, something Scotland Yard overlooked.”

  There remained the troubling matter of Chief Inspector O’Rourke having given Hudson conflicting—and incorrect—information. But neither of them spoke about that now. There would be time aplenty to discuss the implications of their interview with Mr. Seward later.

  Hudson nodded, his countenance frozen in a grim mask. “That is my intention as well.”

  “We shall do this together,” she said, her heart aching for him, knowing how difficult a return to the place where he had discovered Mrs. Ainsley must be.

  “Let me go into the bedroom first,” he said, relenting.

  “Of course.” She would follow his lead.

  He moved toward the closed door at the opposite end of the chamber, and Elysande followed him, taking note of a small shelf bearing a row of books. Beyond, a table where a faded photograph of a woman sat in a frame, unsmiling. The resemblance to Hudson was undeniable.

  It had to be his mother. He scarcely spoke of his parents and his family to her, but she could only imagine he must have been close to her if he kept her picture in such a prominent place.

  Hudson opened the door slowly, the creak of the hinges echoing in the silence surrounding them, almost like a cry. She held her breath as he stepped inside. Past his large form, she could discern a bed which had been stripped of its linens, curtains parted to allow a thin shaft of sunlight within, and more blood.

  A great lot of it, soaked into the mattress and the carpeted floor.

  The sight made her faintly dizzy.

  She steeled herself against the urge to either swoon or cast up her accounts, both of which were currently competing against each other.

  “Christ,” Hudson muttered, his voice low and guttural. Part prayer, part shock, she supposed.

  He bowed his head, standing so still and stiff, she could not shake the notion that if she touched him, he would break. He took a ragged breath, as if struggling with his reaction to the awful signs of what had happened within this room. Elysande broke free of the trance which had been holding her in its thrall. She moved to his side and slowly, gently, slid her arm around his waist. She flattened her hand on the small of his back and stroked up and down his spine, attempting to comfort him in the only way she knew how. Words were dreadfully insufficient in a moment such as this. What could she say that would chase away the demons haunting him, that would atone for Mrs. Ainsley’s murder?

  There was nothing.

  Instead, she offered him her support.

  “It seems like a terrible dream,” he said. “I can still see her so vividly as she looked that night, pale and lifeless and covered in blood. So much blood. Damn it, I need to find out who was responsible for this. The way she must have suffered…it is impossible to believe anyone evil enough to inflict such violence upon another human being. I have seen murders before, but never one with so much vitriol. The way he slashed her…”

  Elysande shivered, imagining what Hudson must have witnessed. She continued stroking his back, up and down, wishing she could do more, yet feeling utterly helpless.

  “I am so sorry for what happened to Mrs. Ainsley,” she said softly, “and sorry for you to have been the one to find her that way.”

  He shook his head, as if waking from sleep. “I do not deserve your sympathy. I’ve had to endure nothing compared to what she suffered. All I can do now is make certain her killer is brought to justice.”

  “We shall,” she vowed. “Together.”

  That was when she noticed the unusual marking in blood on the carved headboard of the bed, scarcely visible from a distance as it blended with the grain of the wood. She drew nearer, needing to be certain her suspicions were correct.

  “What do you see?” Hudson asked, following her.

  “I believe it is the print of a hand.” Careful not to touch the stain, she pointed to it. “This is the heel of a palm, here. This appears to be a thumb print, and here, the index finger.”

  “The size of the hand is far too large to have belonged to Mrs. Ainsley. It must have been the murderer’s.”

  “Yes,” Elysande agreed. “It looks as if he was holding on to the bed, perhaps during or after he had committed the crime.”

  He held his hand closer to the print, examining the size of his hand compared to it, and Elysande’s heart rose. The print was clearly smaller than Hudson’s, but too large to have belonged to Mrs. Ainsley. Which meant only one thing.

  “This print could be the definitive proof I require to solidify my innocence,” Hudson said, having arrived at the same conclusion she had. “O’Rourke said nothing of a print having been discovered when he interviewed me.”

  “Either Chief Inspector O’Rourke has neglected to impart the correct information to you, or he has been lying,” Elysande said, giving voice to the suspicions which had been boiling within her ever since their earlier meeting with Mr. Seward.

  Hudson was grim. “That is a matter to be dealt with later. First, I need to fetch a photographer to document this hand print.”

  Elysande was right.

  Either O’Rourke was lying, or he was intentionally offering Hudson incorrect information. The latter made sense if he truly believed Hudson guilty of Mrs. Ainsley’s murder. As for the former, it defied logic or reason. If O’Rourke was lying, it would have to be for a reason. And that reason could not be good.

  Hudson sighed and poured himself another measure of brandy, knowing it would offer him no clarity. Only a temporary respite from the mayhem which had become his daily life since Maude’s
killing.

  After spending the day investigating with Elysande, he was exhausted. They had shared a quiet dinner, after which she had retired for the evening. He had spent the hours since recording the information they had gleaned thus far. All he had was an anthill of evidence and a mountain of questions.

  Wearily, he finished his brandy and made his own way to his chamber. As he passed his wife’s closed door, he told himself to keep walking. He had promised her three months without consummating their marriage, and he was a man of honor, damn it. He still intended to uphold that vow, even if doing so grew more difficult by the day. By the day? Hell, he may as well be honest. By the hour, the minute, the very second.

  Elysande was intriguing and multifaceted in a way he had never supposed when he had first met her in the Brinton Manor salon. Not just lovely but intelligent and courageous, she was more than he could have hoped for in a wife. She had steadfastly remained by his side, despite the toll he knew the ghoulish scene of Maude’s murder must have taken upon her.

  For all those reasons, he moved into his own chamber, endeavoring to make as little noise as possible in case she was not yet asleep. He decided against calling for Greene. No need for him to be tended to this evening. All he wanted was to remove his clothes, climb into his bed, close his eyes, and forget everything.

  The brandy was meant to help him do that. But this evening, it had decidedly failed to conduct its duty. He shucked his coat and waistcoat, removed the necktie he had donned for dinner, and toed off his shoes. The man he saw reflected in the looking glass was wild, his jaw dark with unshaven whiskers, his hair in need of a trim. In nothing but his white shirt and trousers, he resembled more the man he had once been than the duke he was becoming.

  That was when he heard it.

  A loud thump from the bathing chamber next door. His heart leapt in his chest. Elysande. What manner of noise was that? Good God, if anything were to happen to her, he would not be able to bear it. His feet flew over the floor, and without thought, he threw open the door adjoining his chamber to the shared bathroom. The fear that had been rising within him dissipated instantly, replaced by a raw, nearly violent surge of lust.