The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  On the first floor, she stopped to greet the maids who were dusting and polishing the immaculate atrium. The maids chimed “Good mornin’, Miss Kent” in unison and bobbed curtsies. When she’d first moved in, Emma had made the mistake of trying to pitch in with the household tasks. Idle hands performed the devil’s work, after all, and she was used to maintaining her family’s home.

  It had taken Marianne’s gentle admonition to make Emma see that her behavior was having the opposite of its intended effect. She was actually upsetting the staff, who took her actions to mean that they were not doing their jobs properly.

  Horrified, Emma had stopped the lifelong habit of making her own bed. She’d allowed a maid to be assigned to her to help her dress and do her hair. And she never offered to help Chef Arnaud with meal preparations again.

  To her, leisure was a foreign concept and one that, frankly, did not sit well. She had no idea how upper class ladies managed all that free time. Thank goodness she had Kent and Associates. She would go mad if she didn’t have a meaningful purpose and something to do.

  When she entered the breakfast room, Ambrose looked up from the sideboard. Marriage suited her big brother well. Emma saw his wife’s hand in the simple yet fashionable charcoal cutaway and trousers perfectly tailored to his tall, lanky frame. His unruly dark hair had been wrangled into an expert cut. Most importantly, where haggard lines had once aged his appearance, he now looked younger, happier, his amber eyes warm with contentment.

  That, Emma thought with gratitude, had been Marianne’s true gift.

  “Good morning, Em,” he said. “You’re up early.”

  “No earlier than you.” She joined him at the buffet, eyeing the bewildering display of breakfast options.

  The Kents hadn’t always lived a life of luxury. Before he met Marianne, Ambrose had worked in London, supporting the entire family on a policeman’s wages whilst Emma managed the cottage back in Chudleigh Crest. For years, she and her brother had been a team, together taking care of their elderly father and younger brother and sisters.

  As if sharing that memory, Ambrose gave her a rueful smile. “It still takes getting used to, doesn’t it?”

  She didn’t need to ask what he meant. “Yes, it does.” Taking a plate, she chose some coddled eggs and said thoughtfully, “The girls are doing well with the new comforts, though. Thea’s health has improved, and Violet is excelling in her riding and dance lessons. Even Polly is flourishing.” She experienced a glad pang thinking of how their shy sixteen-year-old sister, the baby of the family, was coming out of her shell. “She’s delighted to be reunited with Rosie, who gives her confidence, I think.”

  Primrose—Rosie to all who loved her—was Marianne’s daughter from a youthful affair. It was the search for Rosie that had brought Ambrose and Marianne together eight years ago. While all the Kents thought of Rosie as one of their own, Rosie and Polly shared a special bond. They were of the same age and had been devoted to one another since their first meeting.

  “Rosie certainly has confidence to spare.” Though his tone was dry, the smile in Ambrose’s eyes spoke of his love for his spirited adopted daughter. “But there’s someone else you’ve yet to account for.”

  Emma took the chair that the footman held out. “Well, Harry is Cambridge’s problem now. I’d wager it’s a great deal safer for him to be tinkering in their laboratories than here.”

  Their younger brother had gone off to university the year before. An aspiring scientist, he had quickly established himself as a bit of a genius. Professors lauded the dear boy’s tendency to blow things to smithereens. He was spending the summer abroad, at the Université de Paris, learning advanced techniques from a famous French chemist.

  “I shudder to think of Harry’s expanding arsenal,” Ambrose said as he cut into his ham. “But I wasn’t referring to the lad.”

  Emma’s brow furrowed. “Who, then?”

  “You, Em. You haven’t said much about that ball two nights ago.”

  Beneath her brother’s scrutiny, Emma tried not to squirm. That was the thing about Ambrose: he didn’t miss a thing. He’d always said that, as an investigator, his main job was to observe and let the truth reveal itself. Images bombarded Emma—Lady Osgood helpless and bound to the gazebo, Strathaven, ducal and menacing—and she quickly dammed them off.

  You made Lady Osgood a promise. A Kent’s word is her bond.

  Ambrose requested fresh coffee from the footman. The latter left the room with the well-trained discretion that characterized all of Marianne’s staff.

  “That bad, was it?” Ambrose said when they were alone.

  Emma heard the undertone of sympathy in his deep voice. He, of all people, understood the challenges of living in a world in which one did not fully belong. Ambrose attended ton affairs without complaint because he loved his wife. It didn’t mean, however, that he liked them.

  “It was memorable,” Emma said truthfully.

  For an instant, she was tempted to tell her brother everything—but Lady Osgood’s hysterical threats rang in her head. She had given her word and couldn’t risk the other doing something foolish.

  Swallowing, she said, “The truth is that I’d much rather go to work with you than to any ball. Shall we leave soon? There’s much to do and—”

  “About that. We need to talk, Em.” Ambrose cleared his throat and set down his utensils. “You’ve been a marvel, and the partners and I are extremely appreciative for all you’ve done to help us recover from the fire. But a young woman like yourself shouldn’t be holed up in an office. You’ve known enough burdens, caring for the family all these years. I want more for you. Now is the time for you to enjoy yourself, to find happiness—”

  “I know what I need to be happy,” she blurted out.

  “Do you now?”

  Her heart pounded. Ready or not, she had to lay out her proposal.

  No time like the present—follow the wisdom of your heart.

  “I want to work with you. As an investigator, I mean,” she said in a rush.

  It wasn’t often that she saw Ambrose flummoxed. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious. With the new office and growing clientele, you need help. And I,”—she gave her brother a pleading look—“I need a purpose.”

  “You have plenty to do.” Ambrose sounded bewildered. “You look after the girls.”

  “They’re grown. They don’t need me like they once did.” Sorrow flickered at the reality. “They have lessons and fittings and outings to occupy their time now. When it comes to fashionable ways, Marianne is a far better mentor than I.”

  “Then spend your time meeting eligible gentlemen. Don’t you want a husband, Em, one you could have your own family with?”

  “I’ve not met a man whose morals I truly admire,” she said honestly. “If I were to marry, I would want a husband who shared my values and treated me as an equal partner.”

  All her life, she’d looked up to her father and brother, men of principle and character who were devoted to their families. Although Ambrose had wed a wealthy woman, marriage hadn’t altered his essential nature. He continued to work, no longer out of necessity but because he believed in the pursuit of justice. His pride was such that when his office had burned down, he’d refused to take Marianne’s money to rebuild it. He’d gone from one lender to the next, trying to secure a reasonable loan. Just as things had begun to look hopeless, he’d received backing from Hilliard Bank.

  ’Twas proof, he’d said, that perseverance was the key to success.

  “That’s because you haven’t met enough eligible gentlemen,” was Ambrose’s predictable reply. “You’ve been so busy taking care of everyone else that you haven’t had time to think of yourself.”

  “Even so, the fact remains that I’m hardly marriage material.” Prosaically, she counted off the points against her on her fingers. “I’m managing, forthright, not to mention practically on the shelf—”

  “You’re on
ly four-and-twenty!”

  “In the ton, that makes me a spinster. Please, Ambrose,” she beseeched, “won’t you at least consider letting me join the family business?”

  Ambrose sat back in his chair, his features somber. “It’s one thing for you to organize the office, another for you to engage in my line of work. It’s not as if I’m a greengrocer, and you’d be helping me to sell lettuce. The private enquiry business is fraught with peril. I won’t risk exposing you to danger, Em.”

  “I helped with Mrs. Kendrick, didn’t I?” she said desperately.

  “That was an anomaly. Most cases aren’t solved by giving an emetic to a ring-eating cat,” her brother said in exasperation.

  Yes, but Emma had been the only one to suspect Snowball, Mrs. Kendrick’s long-haired Persian. Having cared for cats herself, she knew all about their penchant for gobbling up shiny objects. Tabitha, her own feline, had once swallowed a brooch; its removal had not been pretty, and for days after Tabitha had given her sour looks.

  Thinking quickly, she said, “What if I only worked with elderly ladies and widows? How much trouble could I get into?”

  Her brother gave her a baleful look. “Your question reveals your innocence.”

  “You can supervise, and I’ll do whatever—”

  “No, Emma. I cannot allow it.”

  She opened her mouth to argue further, but the door opened.

  “Good morning.” Pitt, the butler, bowed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a caller, sir.”

  Ambrose frowned. “At this hour?”

  “It’s Mr. McLeod. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Send him in,” Ambrose said.

  Frustrated, Emma knew the conversation thus far was going as badly as she’d feared. Perhaps the arrival of William McLeod, one of her brother’s business partners, would be a good thing. Emma knew Mr. McLeod to be a fair and reasonable man. He’d praised her work at the office. Mayhap she could convince him to take her side ...

  The spacious breakfast room seemed to shrink as the brawny Scotsman strode in. Mr. McLeod was as tall as Ambrose and more muscular besides. Despite his fierce, outsized exterior, the ex-soldier was a gentleman. The Kents had supped at Mr. McLeod’s home, and he was clearly a devoted husband to his wife Annabel and doting father to their two children.

  Today, however, Mr. McLeod’s handsome, rugged features were set in severe lines. An air of agitated energy emanated from him. His thick brown hair mussed, he gripped a newspaper in one hand. Emma knew something was wrong when the typically polite Scotsman barely scraped her a bow before going straight to Ambrose.

  “What’s amiss, McLeod?” her brother said.

  “I need your help,” the Scot blurted, shoving the newspaper forward.

  Ambrose took the paper, shook it out. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the lines. “Dear God,” he said under his breath. He aimed an alert glance at his partner. “You’ve spoken to Strathaven?”

  Emma jerked in her chair. Strathaven? What is going on?

  Mr. McLeod raked a hand through his hair as he paced back and forth. “No. He and I—we haven’t talked in months. But I bluidy well know he didn’t do this.”

  Do what? Emma’s sense of foreboding burgeoned. How is Mr. McLeod acquainted with the duke?

  “We’ll go to him now.” Ambrose left the paper on the table, clapped his partner on the shoulder. “We’ll offer our assistance and do whatever we can to help.”

  “Thank you, my friend. I hope it’ll be enough,” Mr. McLeod said heavily.

  As the men made arrangements for the carriage to be brought round, Emma went and snatched up the paper. Shock jolted through her as the headline swam before her eyes:

  DEVIL DUKE DISCOVERED WITH MURDERED WOMAN.

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  Mr. McLeod turned swiftly. “It’s naught but circumstantial evidence and conjecture, Miss Kent. Just because Lady Osgood was found with Strathaven doesn’t mean that he—”

  “But it’s true. I know it is,” she said through numb lips.

  Guilt and horror swirled inside her. This is my fault. Lady Osgood is dead ... because of me. Because I didn’t do the right thing ...

  “What are you talking about, Em?” Ambrose’s tones pierced her dazed state. “And why are you pale as a ghost?”

  She took a shaky breath, gripping the back of a chair. Whatever promise she’d made to Lady Osgood was null and void. The lady was dead ... there was no more need for secrets.

  I failed her once. I cannot fail her again.

  “Ambrose, we need to go to the magistrates,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “What? Why?” Her brother frowned.

  “I have proof,”—she pushed the words through her constricted throat—“that Strathaven did indeed kill Lady Osgood.”

  “The devil you say.”

  Her gaze bounced to Mr. McLeod. Gone was the good-natured gentleman she knew. In his place was a fierce Scotsman who looked ready to do battle.

  She exhaled. “I witnessed an incident. Two nights ago, between Strathaven and the victim.”

  “Give her a chance to explain, McLeod.” Ambrose’s tone held an edge of warning.

  William McLeod nodded, but the fire didn’t leave his eyes. “Go ahead and explain then, Miss Kent,” he said grimly. “Tell us why you would accuse my brother of murder.”

  Chapter 4

  “You have visitors, Your Grace.”

  At the sound of Jarvis’ voice, Alaric’s deerhounds, Phobos and Deimos, stirred from where they lay dozing by the fire. They cocked their grey, grizzled heads; noting no promise of food or an outdoor romp, they settled back onto the plush Aubusson. At his desk, Alaric put down the mining report that he’d been reading to distract himself from darker thoughts and gave his ancient butler a hard stare. Stooped and wrinkled, Jarvis returned his regard with unconcerned eyes.

  “I gave you instructions to say that I’m not at home,” Alaric said.

  “I thought you might want to make an exception in this case.” The old retainer’s weathered face was set in its usual imperturbable lines. “’Tis Mr. McLeod who has come to call, and I’ve put him in the main drawing room.”

  William. Just bloody perfect. As if I don’t have enough to plague me.

  Alaric slapped the sheaf of papers down onto the blotter and shoved irritably away from his desk. “In the future,” he said acidly, “I’d advise you to think less and follow orders more.”

  Jarvis didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’ll see to the refreshments for your guests.”

  “Wait a minute. Guests—as in plural? Who the devil ...”

  Jarvis had already exited. The butler pretended deafness whenever he didn’t want to hear what Alaric had to say. His selective hearing ought to have gotten him dismissed, but both he and Alaric knew that would never happen. Jarvis had served the Strathavens all his life, his loyalty as steadfast as the rock upon which Strathmore Castle had been built.

  During the years of the prior duke’s reign, Jarvis had broken with his master’s rules in only one arena as far as Alaric knew: the butler had shown kindness to a sick boy. With his antipathy toward any kind of weakness, the old duke had tried to cure Alaric’s “malingering” by forbidding all pleasures from the sickroom. Windows were bolted shut, diversions removed. Meals of gruel and water were eaten by the light of a single candle.

  By smuggling the occasional treat onto the supper tray or a book under Alaric’s pillow, Jarvis had won Alaric’s loyalty forevermore.

  “Doesn’t make him any less of an interfering codger,” Alaric muttered.

  In canine agreement, Phobos made a chuffing noise and rolled onto his back.

  Letting out an aggrieved breath, Alaric stalked toward the drawing room. His foul mood deepened with each step. He could scarcely credit the hellish events of the past two days. Helpless rage burgeoned within him at the thought of Clara. She’d been murdered under his roof—because of him.

  Someone had laced his whiskey with
poison. Because the decanter had been smashed, its contents lost, he couldn’t prove it, but it was the only explanation he could think of. With his one customary drink, he’d gotten ill and lost consciousness. With her three, Clara had paid the ultimate price.

  Who had killed Clara? Who wanted him dead?

  Possibilities whipped through his mind. Like any powerful man, he had his share of enemies, yet only one had threatened his life: Silas Webb. Alaric’s fists clenched as he pictured the portly bastard with the piggish face, sparse black hair, and spectacles.

  Four months ago, Alaric had taken over a failing mining company. He’d formed a consortium of investors and sold stock in the company to raise additional capital. Within weeks, he’d turned United Mining around, and the venture was now poised for success. In the process of overhauling the dilapidated company, Alaric had fired its longtime man of business, Silas Webb. Webb’s overwhelming incompetence—which had ranged from inaccurate ledger keeping to heinous expenditures—had sabotaged the already floundering enterprise.

  Webb had been none too happy about his dismissal. He’d uttered threats as he’d been forcibly ejected from the premises. The week after Webb’s dismissal, a rock had shattered the front window of the office.

  To Alaric’s mind, Silas Webb was the prime suspect in the poisoning, and he’d given the man’s name to the investigating magistrates.

  Fat lot of good that has done, he thought in disgust.

  It had been two days since Clara’s death, and the magistrates had made no progress. Their post-mortem examination had yielded “inconclusive” results on the cause of her death. Nor could they find any trace of Webb, who’d apparently gone missing. Finally, they’d failed to capitalize on the other possible lead: Lily Hutchins, one of the maids at Alaric’s cottage, hadn’t shown up for work since the murder, and none of his other staff knew of her whereabouts. Her sudden disappearance was too much of a coincidence to be overlooked.