The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “That’s a start.” Kent had removed a small notebook and was scribbling in it. “Onto suspects, then. Who might want you dead?”

  “A charming fellow like him?” Will snorted. “You’ll need a bigger book.”

  “Very droll, Peregrine,” Alaric said in icy tones. “As a matter of fact, only one person comes to mind. His name is Silas Webb, and he used to work for the company I acquired.” He related his history with Webb. “The Runners I hired haven’t been able to find any trace of him.”

  “We’ll look into it.” Kent tapped his pencil against the page. “Might you have any other enemies related to your mining venture or other business dealings? In my experience, money is a prime motivation for murder.”

  “Anyone who has invested in my scheme has become richer for it. If blunt were the measure, I’d be rolling in friends,” Alaric said.

  “Speaking of personal relationships, do you have any, um, intimate acquaintances who might have an axe to grind?” Miss Kent put in. “I’ve heard it said that poison is a woman’s weapon, you see—”

  “We’re not discussing my private affairs,” he said.

  He’d be damned if that Pandora’s Box was opened in front of an audience. Nevertheless, Miss Kent’s conjecture made his chest tighten uncomfortably. After Laura’s death, he’d gone on a bit of a sexual rampage. He’d had his share of affaires; some of them had not ended well. Despite his making his expectations clear, a few ladies had hoped for marriage. Would any of them try to murder him over the disappointment?

  It seemed unlikely, to say the least.

  “How can we solve the case if you don’t tell us everything?” Miss Kent said.

  “You are not getting involved.”

  He and Kent traded startled glances—they’d said the words simultaneously.

  She crossed her arms beneath her bosom. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Emma does have a point.” This came from Mrs. Kent. “Relationships can be deadly. For instance,” she said, “have you considered Lord Osgood as a possible culprit? He’d have motive—against both you and Lady Osgood for making him a cuckold.”

  “Excellent point, my dear,” Kent said.

  “As far as I know, the Osgoods had an understanding. Lord Osgood had no problem with his wife’s ... friendships.” Seeing Miss Kent’s rapt interest, Alaric searched for a delicate explanation. “As long as she was discreet, he encouraged it because he had his own pursuits.”

  “He had friendships with other ladies?” Miss Kent said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Not with ladies, no.” He saw understanding dawn for everyone except Miss Kent, who continued to look confused. “My point is Lord Osgood understood and benefited from their arrangement. He wanted a wife on his arm and a marriage to show the world; he had no reason to kill Clara.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Kent said. To Miss Kent, she murmured, “I’ll explain later, dear.”

  Kent cleared his throat. “As I see it, there are two avenues of investigation with which to proceed. The first is the poisoning. McLeod told me about your runaway maid, and it is a coincidence that cannot be overlooked. Your staff must be interrogated.”

  “It’s been done,” Alaric said.

  “Not by me.”

  Said without pride, there was nonetheless a confidence to Kent’s words that inspired Alaric’s own. For the first time since this murder business began, he felt a prickle of hope.

  “Now for the shooting.” Kent came closer to the bed. “After McLeod described the attempt to me, I went to the scene.”

  So saying, he removed a small drawstring pouch from his side pocket and emptied the contents onto the coverlet.

  In disbelief, Alaric picked up the pair of lead balls, studying them. Misshapen and lumpy, they were each the approximate size of his thumbnail. “You found the shot?”

  “They were embedded in a wooden post behind where you were standing.” Kent shrugged. “So we know the weapon was double-barreled. By my guess, a flintlock.”

  Shaking his head in amazement, Alaric picked up the torn segment of paper next to the bullet. “What is this?”

  “Part of a cartridge wrapper, I believe.”

  Alaric knew that some shops offered pre-assembled cartridges, with the gunpowder and projectile wrapped in parchment for easy loading. When he put down the paper, specks of a sooty substance clung to his fingertips.

  “It was caught in alleyway debris a few yards from where you were attacked. The fact that there’s still gunpowder residue upon it suggests that the cartridge was freshly used,” Kent said.

  A memory pushed through Alaric’s brain.

  “As the carriage was coming toward me, I saw something fly out of the window. It could have been this.” He turned the paper this way and that and saw a symbol along the ragged edge. Part of it had been torn away; what remained was half an oval filled with squiggly lines. “Is that an emblem of some sort?”

  “I believe it is part of an insignia used by the gun shop. It may lead us to the place that sold the weapon and the shooter himself. If it suits you for our firm to take on your case, I will personally pursue that line of enquiry.”

  Alaric had to admit he was impressed. “The case is yours—on one condition.”

  Kent quirked a brow.

  “I will pay your usual rate plus any expenses incurred in the course of the investigation. I will not be beholden to anyone,” he stated.

  Kent exchanged looks with Will, who shrugged.

  “As you wish,” Kent said crisply. “In addition to the footmen I saw out front, I would suggest that you retain professional guardsmen for your protection.”

  “I know some fellows,” Will said. “Honest, reliable men from the regiment who I fought side by side with and can vouch for. They’d be keen on the job.”

  Alaric inclined his head. “Hire them on.”

  “I will keep you apprised of our progress.” Kent bowed. “We will leave you to your rest.”

  “Our wishes for your speedy recovery, Your Grace,” Mrs. Kent said.

  “May I visit again?” Miss Kent blurted. “To inquire on your health?”

  Her request surprised ... and touched him. “If you wish,” he said gruffly.

  “I’ll be here in the afternoons,” Annabel chirped up. “So I could chaperone.”

  Kent’s brows came together. “Emma, it isn’t safe. After all, the duke has been targeted—”

  “You saw the footmen outside, darling,” Mrs. Kent cut in, “and now there’s to be armed guards as well. This place is more secure than St. James’s Palace.”

  Kent looked as if he might argue further, but his wife took him by the arm and led him toward the door. “I’ll accompany Emma the day after tomorrow. Would two o’clock suit, Annabel?”

  “Perfectly, Marianne.”

  To Alaric, the look shared by the two ladies appeared suspiciously ... conspiratorial.

  Chapter 13

  Accompanied by Marianne, Emma returned to Strathaven’s residence two days later. The Palladian townhouse looked even more imposing with the armed guards flanking the entrance. Mr. Jarvis showed them inside, and she saw that his gait was as slow and shuffling as the last time. Removing a jar from the basket she was carrying, she handed it to him.

  “’Tis a salve that relieves aching joints,” she said. “I thought you might like to try it.”

  “Right kind o’ ye, miss. Much obliged,” he said with a wide smile.

  As he led her and Marianne through the foyer, she asked, “How is His Grace faring today?”

  “He’s much recovered. Been through worse. His Grace ain’t no dainty English fop, but a Scot through and through.”

  Emma heard the pride in the butler’s voice. “Have you worked for him long?”

  “Worked for Strathavens my whole life, miss. I was there that first day His Grace arrived at Strathmore Castle. Nine years old, he was, and the new ward of the former duke.”

  Emma recalled what Annabel had said about Strathaven b
eing raised apart from his brother at a young age. “Why did he come to live here when he had his own family?”

  “His father was a distant cousin to the old duke. When the duke’s own son died and he and the duchess couldna have another, he took the young master in.”

  Emma pondered this as the butler slowly led them up one sweeping wing of the double staircase. “Wasn’t he sad to be parted from his family and at so young an age?” Put in his situation, her heart would have torn in two.

  “Not every family is a happy one, dear,” Marianne murmured.

  “Canna say I know much about that. Even as a lad, His Grace was never the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve.” Pausing on the landing, Mr. Jarvis looked back at Emma, his rheumy gaze unexpectedly shrewd. “He’s got his reasons to protect it, but if you approach with a patient, kind hand, you’ll see his bark is worse than his bite.”

  Before Emma could digest that, Mrs. McLeod came toward them.

  “Emma, thank goodness you’ve come,” the auburn-haired beauty said. “Strathaven is in quite the temper today.”

  “I may not improve that situation,” Emma said truthfully.

  “Nonsense. He has been asking for you.”

  “He has?” Her heart gave a silly little hiccup. “He wants to see me?”

  “His precise words were I thought the chit was supposed to be here at two.” Winking, Mrs. McLeod nudged her toward the door. “Why don’t you go on in, dear. I have something to discuss with Marianne, and we’ll be in shortly.”

  With a fortifying breath, Emma ventured into the bedchamber.

  Strathaven was sitting up in his tester bed, lounging against pillows, a portrait of sartorial elegance in his black silk dressing robe. At the same time, there were hints of vulnerability, too: his thick raven hair was tousled, and shadows hung beneath his eyes. He studied a letter, then tossed it impatiently onto the pile of correspondence on the bed.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said.

  His head jerked up, and pale green eyes roved over her. “You came after all.”

  “I said I would.”

  “How rare. A woman who keeps her word,” he drawled.

  She was about to retort in kind when Mr. Jarvis’ words came back to her. Was the duke’s surliness a shield of sorts? Had he been hurt in the past—by his family? Or someone else?

  Even so, it’s no reason for him to snap at me.

  With a patience honed from raising four siblings, she counted to ten in her head. “I’m only late because of this.” She tapped the wicker basket. “Our chef is territorial when it comes to the kitchen. I had to wait until he went out to the market before I could use it.”

  His dark brows came together. “Why would you need to use the kitchen?”

  “To cook, of course.” Spotting the tray on the side table, she went to unpack the basket’s contents. She brought the tray over to the bed and placed it over Strathaven’s lap.

  He stared down as if he’d never seen stew or bread before. “You made that? For me?”

  The odd note in his voice reminded her that ladies of the ton didn’t prepare meals, leaving such menial tasks to the staff. Emma, however, had cooked all her life, and back in Chudleigh Crest, it had been a gesture of goodwill to bring sustenance to sickly neighbors.

  “It’s just hotchpotch,” she said with sudden embarrassment. “Mrs. McLeod said you weren’t eating, so I thought you might like to try it. It’s quite restoring—my brother Harry always asked for it when he was ill.”

  Strathaven gave her an unreadable glance. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the simmered medley of meat and vegetables. Gingerly, he brought it to his mouth.

  What was I thinking, preparing a simple country dish for a duke?

  He probably had a team of French chefs producing cuisine suitable for his refined palate. She wanted to groan at her gaucheness.

  It was too late. He’d sampled the spoonful.

  “It’s good.” He sounded surprised. “Delicious, actually.”

  Flustered by the compliment, she said, “It probably just seems so compared to the bland sickroom foods you’ve been eating. I’ve never understood why a sick person should have to eat food a healthy person wouldn’t.”

  “I’ve never understood it myself,” he said.

  He flashed a smile at her—a crooked, boyish one that transformed him, in a blink, from a wickedly brooding duke to a devastatingly handsome man. Her senses reeled.

  He waved her to a chair at his bedside, where she sat, further astonished when he proceeded to tear off a piece of the loaf she’d baked, dipping it into the bowl. This was something any member of her family would have done, but he seemed too sophisticated, too ducal, to mop up hotchpotch with bread.

  Nonetheless, he ate with seeming gusto, and her gaze wandered to the painting on the bedside wall. The dark, grotesque picture depicted a man—an ancient soldier, she would guess, from his crested helmet and gladiator-like garb—held captive in ... an urn? His expression ravaged, the poor fellow pummeled his fists futilely at the walls.

  Who in their right mind would want to wake up to that? she mused.

  “Can you cook anything else?” Strathaven drew her attention back to him.

  She nodded. “My mama taught me. Being the eldest girl, I helped her in the kitchen as soon as I could peel a potato. After she passed, I took over preparing the family’s meals.”

  “How old were you when she died?”

  “Thirteen.” Were they having a ... normal conversation?

  “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Your tendency to take charge.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I do what needs to be done, Your Grace. If you want to call that managing, then so be it.”

  “You needn’t take that tone.” He put down his spoon, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Tell me, Miss Kent, are you always this difficult? Or is it merely with me?”

  “No one has called me difficult before you.” At least, not to her face.

  “It’s me, then.” His mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “’Tis only fair, I suppose.”

  “What is fair?”

  “Given that you seem to bring out the devil in me, it is only fair that I should have the same effect on you,” he said dryly.

  She was about to argue that there was no devil in her—but that wasn’t true, was it? Since meeting him, she’d interfered with justice, visited a bawdy house, and engaged in a reckless embrace. She’d discovered her susceptibility to wanton impulses; her once sturdy morals lay in shambles. With a feeling of resignation, she decided not to add lying to the list.

  “Fine. We bring out the worst in each other,” she muttered. “Satisfied, Your Grace?”

  He laughed, the husky sound ruffling her senses further. “I believe that this is the first time we have agreed on anything.”

  Wry humor tugged at her lips. “We agree that we disagree?”

  He gave a slow nod. "To celebrate the momentous occasion—and also because it seems ludicrous not to do so at this juncture—let’s skip the formalities, shall we? My name is Alaric.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m Emma. As you know.” She fought to keep from blushing.

  His smile faded, and his gaze grew intent. “Tell me, Emma, why are you being so nice?”

  “I’m not acting any differently than usual.”

  “Let me rephrase, then: why are you being nice to me?”

  Right. Now that she could see that his health was improving, ’twas time to proceed with the other purpose of her visit.

  Alaric was in danger, and he needed help. Ambrose was making some headway, but his interrogation of Alaric’s staff had turned up no clues. Desperately, Emma had begged her brother to let her have a go with the maids. He’d adamantly refused.

  “You’ve been far too entangled with Strathaven already,” he’d said sternly. (You don’t know the half of it, she’d thought). “I won’t have you involved in this business any furthe
r, Em.”

  There’d been no swaying her brother. Once he made his mind up, Ambrose was as stubborn as an ox. This left her one other option. If she could convince Alaric to let her talk to his servants, then maybe she could find a clue to the missing Lily Hutchins—and save his life.

  She had to try.

  “Since your life is in peril, I thought we should bury the hatchet,” she began.

  “Consider it buried.”

  That was easy. Too easy. His expression gave away nothing.

  “You know my brother talked to your staff at the cottage—”

  “And discovered nothing. As I predicted.”

  “It can be difficult for women to talk to men,” she said diplomatically. “On the other hand, perhaps if I were to interview the maids—”

  “Devil take it, I should have known.” He scowled at her. “You’re like a bloody dog with a bone, you know that?”

  “I’m only trying to help,” she protested.

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean why? Someone shot at you. Your life is at risk—”

  “I’m touched by your concern for my welfare. But there’s something else, another reason, isn’t there?” Beneath his piercing gaze, she found herself squirming. “Spit it out, Miss Kent, or I will drag it out of you.”

  She huffed out a breath. “I do care whether you live or die—God knows why. But, yes, my plan does benefit us both. I tried to explain this to you last time, but you wouldn’t give me a chance—”

  “Explain now.”

  “By assisting in your case, I will prove to my brother that I am capable of doing investigative work. Joining Kent and Associates is my calling, and I’m going to fulfill it one way or another.” With a touch of defiance, she added, “What do you think?”

  “You don’t want to know,” he said grimly.

  He’d known the chit had something up her sleeve.

  Alaric fought to control his anger at being manipulated. Cooking him stew, acting so concerned, being so sweet—all of it was a ploy. She was as cunning as all the females he’d known. To think, he’d been touched that she seemed to care ...