by Darcy Burke
Grimly, Alaric knew that he would have to take matters into his own hands and hire his own investigators. As if finding a killer wasn’t enough, now he had to deal with his sodding half-brother.
Shoulders tensed, he entered the drawing room. Will stood by the windows facing the outside square. As always, the sight of his sibling stirred up a potent mix of emotions he didn’t care for. Yet he cared even less for the shock of seeing Miss Emma Kent sitting there. Dressed in yellow, she looked as fresh as a daffodil on his green velvet settee.
What the devil is she doing here?
She appeared deep in discussion with the gentleman sitting beside her. They had their dark heads bent together, and Alaric couldn’t make out their conversation. Whatever they were talking about, he didn’t like the intimacy of their pose.
“To what do I owe this sterling pleasure?” he drawled.
They all turned to him, Miss Kent and the stranger with her rising from their seats.
“Hello, Alaric.” Will’s cautious tone underscored the uncomfortable state of affairs between them, half-brothers who’d lived most of their lives apart. Who had nothing in common but one parent and a history of animosity.
“I think you know why I’m here,” his brother went on.
“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea ... Peregrine.”
Will stiffened at the use of his hated first name.
A petty satisfaction, Alaric acknowledged, but one had to get one’s pleasures where one could. Arching one brow, he added, “And you’ve brought guests along on this uninvited visit. What exceptional manners you have, little brother.”
“Damn you, Alaric—” Will bit out.
“Please forgive the intrusion, Your Grace.” Standing, the stranger was tall, close to Alaric’s own height. He looked to be in his forties, and his most distinguishing feature was his gaze; the clear golden brown irises conveyed a disconcerting keenness.
“I’m Ambrose Kent, Mr. McLeod’s partner in a private enquiry business.” The man bowed. “This is my sister, Miss Emma Kent.”
“His Grace and I have met,” she said.
The hostility in her voice, in her big, tea-colored eyes sliced into him. The reason for her presence dawned upon him. Incredulity spread like frost over his insides.
The bloody chit wouldn’t dare.
“If memory serves, I didn’t extend an invitation to call at our prior meeting,” he said icily.
Miss Kent lifted her chin. “This isn’t a social call.”
“I asked the Kents to come.” Will came toward him, bristling with temper. “To help you, you stubborn bastard!”
It never failed to amaze him that he and Will shared a father; in looks and temperament, they were nothing alike. Will was the golden child, the one everyone had fawned over. Robust and sturdy as a lad, he’d grown into a strapping Scotsman with a hot temper to match.
Alaric, on the other hand, had learned to control his impulses with a cool head. No one had spoiled or coddled him; like the god Ares of Greek lore who’d been trapped for years in a bronze jar without his parents noticing, no one would have missed Alaric if he disappeared. He’d been the dark horse all his life, and, aye, he knew how to play the role well enough.
Alaric infused his tone with amused condescension. “Why would I need their help?”
“Lady Osgood.” Will spat the name, his hands on his hips.
“What about her?”
“You were found with a dead woman, Alaric—bluidy hell, it’s all over the papers!”
The papers, as far as Alaric was concerned, were full of shite. The half-truths were worse than lies. Gossip raged about Clara’s death; nothing was said of the attempt on his own. Since there’d been no witnesses and he’d suffered no lasting effects from his single shot of the adulterated whiskey, the world’s collective ignorance of the facts wasn’t surprising.
The magistrates had advised him to keep silent about his poisoning and not add fuel to the wildfire whilst they conducted their enquiry into the matter. He’d done so, not out of compliance with the useless bastards but because he wasn’t going to sink to the level of the gossips. He was a nobleman; he wasn’t about to give credence to scandal, plead his innocence to the ignorant masses.
Nonetheless, the rumors that he might somehow be involved in Clara’s death infuriated him. The notion of Miss Kent adding to the misconceptions made red flicker at the edges of his vision.
He iced his temper. Strolling over to the hearth, he propped one arm against the mantel in a deliberately indolent pose. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read, little brother.”
“’Tis only because I am your kin that I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Will said darkly. “Miss Kent has told me she witnessed an incident two nights ago. ’Twas at my behest that she agreed to come today and clear up the misunderstanding instead of going straight to the magistrates.”
“There is no misunderstanding, Mr. McLeod,” Miss Kent said.
Her conviction tested his self-control. Stupid, meddling chit.
“Then why are you here?” he said scathingly.
“To say what I ought to have said that night.” Though her cheeks were pale, she lifted her chin. “’Twas my fault for not insisting that Lady Osgood report you to the authorities. I was swayed by her fear for her reputation ... and my own fear that she would succumb to hysterics and do something she might regret. But I was wrong, and she is dead. And now the only thing left for me to do is see justice served.”
His jaw ticked. “How, precisely, do you hope to accomplish that?”
“By demanding your signed confession,” she said steadily.
By God, the termagant had pushed him too far. He stalked toward her. Kent blocked his path, but she held her brother back.
“Let His Grace say what he has to say to my face,” she said.
“You want the truth, Miss Kent?” Alaric said with lethal softness. “Here it is for the last bloody time. I’ve never hurt Clara. I most definitely did not kill her. But I am going to find out who did and your interference will only get in my way.”
“I saw you. You tied Lady Osgood up. You were assaulting her, and she begged you to stop!”
Damn her and her accusations. To make matters worse, he couldn’t deny them without further besmirching Clara’s reputation. Bad enough that she’d been found dead with him, a man not her husband; was he now to tell the world that she enjoyed being bound and, aye, spanked on occasion?
His chest tightened. Nay, he would protect her honor.
The way he ought to have protected her life.
“Is that true, Alaric?” Will bit out.
Devil take it. Why had he been under siege his whole life? Why was he now being attacked in his own home by his holier-than-thou brother, a righteous virgin, and some damned investigator? He was a duke, for Christ’s sake, a bloody peer of the realm. He didn’t have to answer to them—or to anyone.
“Miss Kent, as I said to you that night: you have no idea what you’re talking about. Lady Osgood told you nothing happened. You will leave it at that,” he decreed with glacial finality.
“Do not tell me what to do. I know what I saw, and if you won’t admit to it, I’ll tell the magistrates myself!”
His temper surged. “Test me, pet—and I promise you won’t like the results.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not anyone’s pet.”
“Aye, and there’s your problem.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you need a man to keep a rein on you. To keep you occupied with your own damned life so you won’t have the energy or time to meddle with mine,” he said succinctly.
“How dare you.”
Flags of pink stood out on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed rebelliously at him, her bosom rising and falling in swift surges beneath yellow silk. They were standing nearly toe to toe, neither backing down. Her defiance, her clean, feminine scent maddened him. His fingers flexed
. He wanted to shake her for being so stubborn, so wrong. To haul her into his arms and kiss her until she admitted the error of her ways, surrendered to him completely—
“That’s enough, Your Grace.” Kent’s warning pierced his haze of enraged lust.
Will gripped his arm. “Alaric, stand down.”
He shook Will off, took a step back. Straightening his jacket, he got himself under control. “Get out.” It took every ounce of self-discipline not to snarl the words.
“Emma, we’re leaving,” Kent said grimly.
Her cheeks blazing, she looked as if she might refuse. Then she took the arm Kent held out. If looks were daggers, her departing glare would have left Alaric full of holes.
Alone with his brother, Alaric felt the tension in the room rise even higher, a warring miasma of past and present that clouded his faculties. The bitter fog sucked him into battle even as he struggled to master himself.
“You haven’t changed one bit,” Will said in disgust. “I don’t know why I bother trying.”
“I don’t recall asking for your help.”
“Ma was right. A leopard won’t ever change his spots,” Will shot back.
Words catapulted reflexively. “I suppose your mother died an uppity bitch then.”
The next instant, Will had him by the lapels. “You take that back, you bastard! My ma was the kindest, most loving woman who ever lived.”
Alaric shoved his brother off with equal force. “To you, maybe. Although we shared a household, we grew up in different families, little brother.”
“What the bluidy hell is that supposed to mean?”
The fact that Will remained ignorant to the truth enraged Alaric further. How pleasant it must be to wear a halo that blinded one from life’s ugliness.
“It means one of us had a loving home and the other didn’t,” he said tightly.
“You chose to go to Strathaven!” Will threw up his arms. “It was your choice. You went because you wanted money and prestige more than a real family.”
Better to be hated than pitied. Let him think what he wants.
With utter sangfroid, Alaric said, “Can you blame me for preferring a castle over a cottage?”
“Even that wasn’t enough for you,” Will said bitterly. “After our parents died, you had the chance to take me in, to make things right between us. God knows there was room to spare in that bluidy castle you lived in. But you talked our uncle out of it, made sure that I wasn’t extended a welcome. Thanks to you, I had no place to go but the regiment!”
You think the army was bad? You think you know the first thing about violence and brutality? At least on the battlefield, little brother, you could see the bayonets and bullets coming ...
“Are you quite finished with your rant?” He buffed his nails against his sleeve. “I have appointments to attend to. The business of being a duke, you know.”
Will looked ready to explode. “I’m finished all right. Finished with you for good.”
Alaric let him reach the doorway before speaking. “By the by, do send my regards to that lovely wife of yours. ’Tis a shame I don’t see more of Annabel—more than I already have, that is.”
To his grim satisfaction, his barbed reference made Will’s oaths echo through the halls. Moments later, the front door slammed. Alaric exhaled harshly. He raked both hands through his hair, willed the pounding in his temples to stop.
A rattling tray heralded Jarvis’ arrival. His rheumy eyes scanned the empty room, the wrinkles on his face deepening. “Where has everyone gone?”
“To hell for all I care,” Alaric snapped back.
Chapter 5
That evening after her bath, Emma collapsed on her bed. For one of the rare times in her life, she was too tired to do anything. As if sensing her exhaustion, Tabitha came to curl up against her side. Emma stroked the cat’s soft, striped grey fur as she stared up at the pink canopy, her thoughts as swirling as the damask.
Accompanied by Ambrose, she’d given her testimony to the magistrates that afternoon.
She’d had a moral duty to make that report. Her chest tightened as she thought of poor Lady Osgood. There was nothing more that Emma could do, yet her nerves were as tightly strung as a clothesline.
If Strathaven thinks he can intimidate me into silence just because he is a duke, then he is in for a rude awakening, she thought fiercely.
As far as she was concerned, justice knew no class distinctions. A murderer was a murderer, whether he was a duke or a crossing sweep. And the nerve of the cad, telling her she needed to be kept under rein! Her life had plenty of purpose, and she didn’t need any man—least of all him—telling her what to do. Never had a person angered her so much—or affected her so strangely.
Just the thought of him sent a buzzing awareness through her. In his presence, all her senses were heightened. She recalled the crackling hostility between them in the drawing room. As he’d towered over her, his lean, muscular frame had radiated leashed power. Silver had flashed in his pale eyes, illuminating for an instant the tempest of emotions he’d held in check. Barely.
What would happen if he lost control?
A rapping on the door jerked Emma back to the present. Her breath was puffing from her lips, her skin misted with perspiration. As she sat up, her breasts brushed against her nightclothes, the tips oddly sensitive and tingling.
“Emma, are you awake?” Her sister Dorothea’s gentle voice drifted through the door.
“I—I’ll be right there,” she said.
She took a moment to compose herself; she had no wish to worry her sisters. When she went to unlock the door, Thea, Violet, Polly, and Primrose filed in like a troop of cheerful ghosts in their voluminous lawn night rails.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” Emma said to the two youngest.
While Polly looked abashed, Rosie’s emerald eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Yes,” the latter said merrily. “So hurry and close the door before Mama catches us!”
With her flaxen hair and flawless face and form, Rosie Kent was a stunning miniature of Marianne. At sixteen, the spirited girl was already beginning to turn heads, and Ambrose joked that he dreaded the day of Rosie’s coming out for surely he’d have to start carrying a shotgun to fend off her suitors.
As Emma closed the door, her middle sister Violet declared, “Last one to the bed is the rotten egg!” and, amidst muffled squeals and giggles, the four girls made a mad dash for the destination.
Relieved for the return to normalcy, Emma dragged a chair to the side of the bed. She sat and found herself under the scrutiny of four pairs of bright, inquisitive eyes. Her sisters had arranged themselves along the length of the bed, with Violet at the foot, Polly and Rosie in the middle, and Thea at the head.
As usual, Violet spoke first. She sat cross-legged, her chestnut hair tumbling down her back. Agile and energetic, she gave the impression of constant motion.
“Start at the beginning, Em,” she said, “and don’t leave anything out.”
“The beginning of what?”
Vi rolled her caramel-colored eyes. “Your visit to the magistrates’ office today, of course.”
For the time being, Ambrose and Emma had both agreed to keep mum on the subject of Lady Osgood’s murder. They’d thought it best to protect their younger siblings from the gruesome details for as long as possible. Protecting a Kent from her own curiosity was never an easy task, however.
“How did you find out?” Emma said with a sigh.
“We didn’t mean to snoop.” Thea’s hazel eyes were soft with apology. She rested against the headboard, her hands gracefully stroking Tabitha who lay belly-up and purring in her lap. “We found out by accident.”
A year younger than Emma, Dorothea was the gentlest of the Kents. Emma attributed it to Thea’s constitution, which had been frail since childhood. Although her health had grown more robust, Thea continued to favor more sedate pursuits, and Emma thought proudly that her sister’s performance
at the pianoforte could compare with that of any fine London lady.
“Thea found out by accident. I snooped,” Vi said with aplomb. “I asked Millie the chambermaid to ask John the groom where you and Ambrose had gone all day. Since John has eyes for Millie, he told her straightaway. Thea overheard me telling Polly and Primrose about it.”
“You’re not supposed to encourage gossip amongst the servants, Violet,” Emma chided.
“Pish posh. Stop trying to change the subject,” her incorrigible sister replied.
“Yes, do tell.” Rosie’s smile could charm a bird from a tree, and her tone was just short of wheedling. “You wouldn’t want us to perish from curiosity, would you?”
“You should tell us, Emma, for your sake if not ours,” Polly put in.
Emma’s youngest sister sat with her arms hugging her knees. The womanhood which had begun to blossom so radiantly in Rosie hadn’t yet unfurled in Polly. At sixteen, she was still a small, thin girl with wavy hair that was neither blond nor brown but a range of shades in between. To Emma, her baby sister possessed a unique beauty: Polly’s solemn features exuded quiet dignity, a blend of wisdom and innocence in her aquamarine eyes.
At times, those remarkable eyes seemed to see too deeply. Back in Chudleigh Crest, there’d been whispers about Polly being “odd,” which had made the sensitive girl retreat into shyness. As a result, Emma and the rest of the siblings were particularly protective of her.
Family always stood together.
“Why for my sake, dear?” she asked.
“Because something’s bothering you,” Polly said with her quiet perceptiveness. “You’ve always said that we could come to you with anything. So you should feel free to talk to us in return.”
“You haven’t been yourself, Em. Even I can see that,” Vi added.
“We just want to help,” Rosie chimed in.
“But only if you wish us to,” Thea said.
“For heaven’s sake, you win.” Amused and touched at the same time, Emma shook her head. “What was I thinking? Trying to refuse a band of Kents?”
