“Umm. You could do worse. Young, pretty and moderately wealthy. Sure you don’t fancy being compromised by her?”
“No, and you would think they would be a little more concerned about their safety after what transpired tonight.” He glared after his coach.
The dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty did not interest him in the slightest, at least not after he had caught her last month trying a similar trick on an elderly, widowed earl who had absentmindedly entered a maze during a costume ball. Nathaniel was on his way out of the shrubbery, having entered the dark labyrinth at night on a wager. He claimed he could get to the ornamental pergola in the middle and find his way back out in twenty minutes without getting himself entangled with any one of a number of stray females wandering the grounds. Unlike the earl, Nathaniel had been extremely careful to ensure he was quite alone during his rambles.
The old earl had been embarrassingly grateful when Nathaniel found him and guided him out in time to save the decrepit peer from an unexpected engagement. And Nathaniel had collected his wager and considered the entire affair a good night’s work.
In contrast, Lady Alice had not been so pleased. She had to find her own way out of the maze since the remaining men found it too perilous to volunteer as her guide. Sadly, the redoubtable Peter Harnet had not been in attendance.
“Yes, but everyone knows a duke would not commit murder,” Harnet remarked. “And come to think on it, I would not mind being compromised. Too bad Lady Alice does not seem interested in younger sons.”
Nathaniel laughed. “Not yet. Give her time, or hang about a few mazes during costume balls.”
If any of the ladies would chance it in the future.
“Say, about that ward of your uncle’s,” Harnet said in a deceptively offhanded manner. “What about an introduction to her? I hear she is rich as a Prince of Persia.”
“No.” Nathaniel eyed him. The idea of Harnet chasing Miss Haywood was so revolting that Nathaniel had a hard time restraining the urge to break his best friend’s jaw. “She’s not interested in men.”
Harnet laughed. “Oh—ho, not that hoary old tale. A girl like her—”
“What do you mean, ‘a girl like her?’” Nathaniel asked, his hands forming tight fists.
“Why, did you not notice her bosom? You know what they say about women with small, high breasts—they are the most ardent lovers. I would not mind—”
Nathaniel’s fist connected soundly with Peter Harnet’s jaw, knocking him halfway across the street. Shaking his head and feeling his chin gingerly, Harnet stumbled to his feet. After a moment, he staggered over to the sidewalk.
Nathaniel glowered at him, not feeling the least bit of remorse. In fact, he felt good, very good, except for the intense pain radiating up his arm from his fractured hand.
“Wha-what did you do that for?” Harnet complained, trying not to lisp. Pulling a linen handkerchief from his pocket, he daubed at his swollen, split lower lip and spat blood into the street. He wavered dizzily and finally gripped Nathaniel’s arm to keep himself upright. “You will never go near her, is that clear?”
Harnet studied him. “What the devil—hey, ho, so that is how it is. How the mighty have fallen, and all the further, since they have to fall from such a great height.”
Nathaniel could barely understand him because of the cloth Harnet pressed to his mouth and the fact that he kept spitting out blood. But he heard enough to feel his temper rise again. “I haven’t fallen for anyone, you idiot. And particularly not my uncle’s ward. So unless you have a desire to lose more teeth, I would suggest you keep silent.”
Harnet chuckled and edged away, holding up one hand, when Nathaniel leaned in his direction.
“Your Grace!” a young female voice called from the door.
“Oh, God!” Nathaniel groaned, his blood curdling at the sound. “You have got to help me,” he said to Harnet. “That is Miss Mooreland. This is a bloody nightmare! Why will not they leave me alone?”
“A nightmare I would like to have, my friend.” Harnet slapped him on the shoulder. “Come along, then. How does a brief visit to White’s and a night in a rather small, slightly scruffy, bachelor flat sound?”
“Like heaven.”
Harnet shook his head, his blond locks falling into his eyes. “You and I have remarkably different ideas of heaven, Your Grace.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Harnet.”
Harnet jerked his head back in his characteristic gesture, flinging his hair out of his eyes. Unfortunately, the smooth gesture was ruined when he had to press his handkerchief to his split lip again. “Honestly, ever since you became the Duke of Peckham, you have become such a dull dog I barely recognize you. What happened to the smiling lad I knew at Cambridge, eh? Old stop-at-nothing, laughing Dodger, the bane of marriageable daughters’ mamas?”
“I believe I am still their bane.” Nathaniel snorted. “But I am not smiling near as much.”
Harnet shot a quick glance at Nathaniel’s frowning face. “I say, let us forget White’s for one evening, shall we? How does a nice quiet night in front of the fire sound? No females—just a lovely bottle of brandy.”
“Brilliant. You are saving my sanity, Harnet.”
“Just so you understand how much you owe me.”
“More than you can imagine. My peace of mind is worth much more than my life at the moment.”
Peter Harnet chuckled and shook his head, his blond hair falling into his eyes again.
Nathaniel relaxed, feeling the enormous weight of expectation lift from his shoulders for a few hours, anyway.
Chapter Eight
Constables can make notes regarding cases at the time they occur, or immediately afterwards. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
When the duke arrived home the following morning, he was even more relieved he had spent the night away.
“How many females?” Nathaniel asked while his butler relieved him of his cloak.
“Two, Your Grace. A Miss Emily Thistledown was found in the large wardrobe and Lady Catherine Woodley was in your dressing room.”
“I trust you provided them with suitable escorts when you sent them to their homes.”
“Yes, Your Grace. There will be no lingering difficulties. Most particularly since you elected to remain at the home of Mr. Harnet.”
“Lucky, that.” Nathaniel grinned and idly leafed through the envelopes on the sleek bird’s-eye maple table in the center of the hallway. “Anything else I should know about?”
His butler, Carter, harrumphed and rolled back on his heels. He fixed his stare on the ceiling above Nathaniel’s head. “Well, Your Grace. There was one other female, A Miss Mooreland.”
“Good God, not her again! You were busy last night, were you not? Where was she?”
“The young lady never actually made it into the house, Your Grace. The scullery found her in the garden, near the French doors that lead to the library. Michael accompanied her home.” Carter’s dour face nearly broke into a grin. “He volunteered.”
Nathaniel laughed. “That ought to teach her parents a lesson, eh, Carter? Letting a young girl on the loose like that. Serves them right if she falls in love with my groom. It will not be the first time, at any rate. A regular Don Juan is our lad, Michael. Did he return?”
“Not yet, Your Grace. But it is early, just after seven.”
“When did they leave?”
“A few minutes after two, I believe.”
“That’s five hours! The Mooreland’s establishment is less than a mile away.”
“Perhaps Michael stopped…elsewhere…on his way home.”
“Let us hope so. And let us just try to avoid creating any new scandals, shall we? Find out where he has been, and if need be, send him to The Orchards for a few months until he learns a bit of discretion. I have no use for a groom who cannot be trusted around females, and maybe the country air will cool his ardor.” His country estate, The Orchards, employed very few women under the age of fifty. If he sent M
ichael there, the groom would find precious little to do other than work.
“Yes, Your Grace. Oh, and might I suggest you read this morning’s paper? It appears there was a bit of a difficult situation last night and certain irresponsible parties noted your presence.”
Nathaniel swore and picked up the papers. There was a large article about the discovery of Lady Anne’s body and the fact that a duke had been present, although they tactfully left out which duke to avoid being sued.
As he read further down, his swearing grew bitterer. An anonymous source indicated the duke had been seen running from the gardens shortly before the discovery of the body. The source had to be Bolton. The words sounded too much like those he had said last night to be anyone else’s description.
“Blast!” Nathaniel swore again, twisting the paper and throwing it onto the table.
“As I mentioned, Your Grace. Unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? That’s a bit of an understatement, even for you.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Carter shifted his feet and threw an uncomfortable glance at the library door. “I beg your pardon Your Grace, I should have mentioned earlier. We have a—ahem—guest related to last night’s events.”
“A guest?” Nathaniel groaned. “Not another woman….”
“No, Your Grace. A detective from Bow Street. A Mr. Clark.”
A cool breeze lifted the fine hair on the back of Nathaniel’s neck with a prickling sensation. “Mr. Clark is here?”
“Yes, he insisted on waiting. I showed him to the library.”
Throwing the newspaper back onto the table, Nathaniel stalked to the library. He threw open the doors. Across the room, the stocky detective stood on tiptoes, peering up at a row of books bound in red leather. At the sound of Nathaniel’s footstep, Mr. Clark nearly fell over. He caught himself just in time by clutching the back of a leather arm chair.
“Your Grace!” he wheezed, pulling out his handkerchief and mopping his brow. “You startled me.”
Nathaniel growled something which a deaf man might have mistaken for an apology.
“Yes, well—” Mr. Clark wiped his brow more vigorously. He bowed several times while trying to stuff the damp piece of linen back into his pocket. “I am sorry to interrupt Your Grace. But I am sure you will understand we must ascertain all the facts in the matter at hand while they are still fresh—”
Mr. Clark’s overly officious way of speaking twanged along Nathaniel’s nerves. He sat down behind his desk and gestured impatiently. “I understand—get on with it. What do you want to know?”
“Ahem—excuse me,” Mr. Clark said, clearing his throat several times. Perspiring freely, he resorted to his handkerchief again. “Very warm in here, Your Grace.”
“Is it? I had not noticed.” Behind him, the windows were both open. A distinctly chilly breeze edged around the green velvet drapes and drifted lazily along the floor, nipping Nathaniel’s ankles.
However, studying Mr. Clark’s damp, gray face, Nathaniel wondered uncomfortably if the detective was on the verge of a heart attack. The sheer fear of interrogating a duke seemed to be more than Mr. Clark could handle.
Relenting, Nathaniel invited him to take a seat.
Clark gratefully sank down on the edge of a nearby chair. However, he couldn’t seem to relax enough to lean back. “Thank you, Your Grace. An honor, I am sure—”
“I am a busy man. Get on with it.”
“About last night, Your Grace, I was hoping as you could recall the events again, just as you remember them.” He slipped his black occurrence notebook out of his pocket. Wetting a pencil stub on his tongue, he poised it above a fresh page and waited.
“I’ve already given you all the details I remember.”
“Indeed, yes, but after a peaceful night it is possible you might have remembered something fresh, is it not?”
Clark’s voice rose in a hopeful question. “If you would just capitulate the events as you recall them, I would be grateful Your Grace.”
Capitulate? Nathaniel wanted to throw a dictionary at him and tell him to look up ‘recapitulate.’ With a great deal of patience, he complied.
“Is that all?” Clark asked, finally.
“Yes. As I said, I have no new information for you.” Nathaniel stood up. “However, if I should remember anything, I will certainly send word.”
Mr. Clark remained seated. He nodded and said, “That would be of great service, Your Grace, and one for which I would be properly grateful. Just one more question, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it?”
“You did not hear about some little bob of a thing, some ornament perhaps, one of the guests might have lost, did you? Or perhaps find something of that nature?”
Nathaniel stilled. “An…ornament? What kind of ornament?”
“Mayhap a fob or object of that kind?”
What did Clark suspect? Had Bolton found Nathaniel’s lapis fob?
Nathaniel replied casually, “No. Am I to understand someone found a trinket near Lady Anne’s body?”
The detective shook his head and stood. “No, Your Grace. Rumors is all. At the moment, I only have rumors.” His sharp eyes watched Nathaniel with curiosity.
He smiled. “I shall certainly let you know if I hear, or find, anything. Now if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend this morning.”
Bowing, Mr. Clark stuffed his small leather notebook into his pocket and obsequiously professed his undying gratitude for the duke’s generosity in allowing him an interview. It took all of Nathaniel’s patience to keep smiling as his butler led the detective to the door.
“One more—” Mr. Clark stopped in the doorway. Carter thrust him outside.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Carter asked, shutting the door with a smart snap.
“No.” He wanted to say he felt that was quite enough for seven in the morning. However he feared if he complained now, the day would only get worse as punishment for his foul temper.
Mr. Clark’s visit concerned him. Where was his missing lapis fob? If someone found the fob near Lady Anne’s body, he would have difficulties explaining it.
Suspicions about Nathaniel could not only ruin him socially and politically, but could damage the Archer family, as well. They could end up ostracized over a misplaced piece of jewelry.
“Oh, and I beg your pardon, Your Grace. There is one more item.”
Nathaniel groaned.
“Today is your uncle’s birthday. You did ask to be reminded,” his butler said.
“Thank you, Carter.” His mood lightened. At least he could put off thinking about last night for an hour or so. “Did the fob I ordered come in yet?”
“Yes, Your Grace. It is in your bed chamber.”
“Splendid! And you took care of Archer’s bills?”
“Those that were in the bundle you found. Mr. Cooke saw to them yesterday.”
He laughed. “With Uncle John’s recent winnings, paying a few of his bills does not seem like such a brilliant gift, but he will enjoy the fob. Let us hope he does not berate me for wasting good money paying off his tradesmen. Thank Cooke for me, will you?” Nathaniel strode off and climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Halfway up, he remembered his uncle’s ward, Miss Haywood, and her laughing eyes. Your Horrible Highness….
He stumbled and nearly cracked a shin on the edge of a step. The last thing he needed to do was think about a woman.
After the adventures he might have experienced last night if he had actually returned home, he needed to keep his mind off of the fairer sex. In fact, he loathed females, especially unattached ones. All they wanted to do was to trap him so they could marry a duke.
Perhaps he truly was a misogynist.
And although his uncle’s ward was beautiful, she was still an unattached female and an American, as well. Everyone knew Americans loved titles, although they claimed not to believe in them. Most likely she longed to be a duchess just like every o
ther woman in England.
He tripped again and banged his knee on the treads.
“Damn!” He stopped to rub his leg and swear. The chit wasn’t even here, and she was causing him pain. A more superstitious man might be positively nervous, particularly after losing his lucky lapis fob.
As it was, he straightened and carefully negotiated the remaining steps before climbing the second flight of stairs. When he arrived at his bedroom intact, he decided things might not be so bad after all.
The danger of seeing Miss Haywood again might be worth it, and Uncle John would only turn forty-seven once. Nathaniel found the present for John Archer carefully wrapped in brown paper and slipped it into his pocket, trying not to think about Miss Haywood’s gleaming blue eyes.
Chapter Nine
Note.—In cases of fresh pursuit when the offender escapes…the constable or person having the warrant…may follow the offender to the distance of seven miles… — Constable’s Pocket Guide
Distracted by the noise of visitors coming and going, Charlotte finally turned to her new maid, Betty, and asked, “What is all the fuss about?”
The activity flustered Charlotte. Were the Archers as stringent as the Westovers? The Westovers had kept strict visiting hours. They only deigned to accept guests from eleven in the morning until noon and then again from three until four. After four, the Westovers retired to prepare for supper.
Charlotte had once told them it was unnecessary to be so exacting. They rarely had enough visitors to impress with such rules. The careless remark caused Lady Westover to collapse in a fit of vapors and refuse to see anyone for two days.
Nervous about walking into a crowded room of strangers, Charlotte could finally understand Lady Westover’s perspective.
“It is Mr. Archer’s birthday, Miss.”
“Mr. Archer’s birthday?”
“Yes, Miss. He is forty-seven today.”
“Oh, dear.” Charlotte eyed her locked trunks and bandboxes. A sudden impulse seized her to give something to Mr. Archer. She could not forget Lady Victoria’s offhand generosity in allowing her to wear her pearl necklace. “Open that large trunk, Betty.”
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