by Darcy Burke
If you don’t let me go, I’ll tell Ma, Will had said. Da’ll whip you for trespassing.
In the end, he’d had no choice but to let Will have his way. At first, things had gone well; using a ladder, they’d made it over the tall stone fence, racing through the waving grass fields undetected. Alaric had climbed the tree and tossed the apples down into Will’s waiting arms.
I told you I could help, Will had called proudly.
Without warning, a shotgun had fired.
The idyllic summer afternoon exploded with cries of panicked birds. The next instant, Alaric jumped to the ground, hissing Run at his paralyzed brother. When Will didn’t move, Alaric yanked him by the arm, dragged him back through the fields, apples scattering as they ran for their lives. When Will stumbled, crying, Alaric hauled him up and towed him along.
The fence came into sight, the promise of safety. Just as Alaric reached the top, he heard his brother’s whimper behind him.
It’s too high. Will’s chubby fingers slipped against the stones, and he slid to the bottom, his eyes wide and shimmering. I can’t get over.
Cursing, Alaric dropped to the ground. Going down on one knee, he linked his hands and boosted his brother over.
It worked—too well. Will had gone sailing over the top, landing hard enough to break his arm. Alaric could still see the accusing looks on their parents’ faces.
What were you thinking, involving my boy in your shenanigans? his stepmother had cried.
By God, you’re a bad seed, his da had spat. No son of mine would hurt his own kin.
Alaric had received the whipping of his life.
Not only that, but he hadn’t even an apple to show for it.
“Kent’s hackney just pulled up.” Will’s voice pulled him back to the present. “You’re certain you want to go in with us?”
Jaw taut, Alaric said, “I’m not hiding in the carriage like some lily-livered coward.”
“Suit yourself.” Will shrugged. “Stay close, and I’ll take the lead.”
His brother might have been a pain in his arse during their youth, but Alaric had to admit a growing respect for the adult William’s expertise. Will looked as seasoned and fierce as one of their ancient Highland ancestors as he led the way from the carriage, his eyes roving in a ceaseless scan, his brawny posture ready for anything.
Kent descended from a hackney and joined them. From the investigator’s terse greeting, Alaric assumed that the other hadn’t yet come to terms with Alaric’s involvement with Emma.
Too damn bad for him.
Entering the shop, Alaric was assailed by the scent of oil, leather, and gunpowder. It was a humble, rather gloomy premises compared to Manton’s on Davies Street, the gun maker favored by the ton. Here, dust blanketed the counters, and pistols hung in crooked lines over the walls.
A round-faced clerk greeted them at the front counter. “Afternoon, gents,” he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “How may I be o’ service?”
Will placed the torn cartridge wrapper on the counter, tapped his gloved finger on it. “This one of yours?”
The clerk peered at the paper. “Aye, that’s from a cartridge for our double-barreled flintlock. I can tell by the quality o’ the paper.” He pinched it between finger and thumb. “Extra heavy, see, to carry the weight o’ the powder and shots. Costs extra, but it’s worth the—”
“And this?” Will set down the pair of bullets Kent had found. “Yours too?”
“Could be. But harder to say—shot ain’t that distinctive.” The clerk’s expression grew wary. “Er, what was it that you said you wanted?”
“We’re looking for the customer who bought a double-barreled flintlock and that cartridge. A fellow with a scarred face,” Will said.
The clerk’s gaze jumped nervously, his face reddening. “I’m sorry, sirs, I didn’t sell nothin’ to a scarred gent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work ...”
“Babcock, you lazy bugger, what are you jawing about?” A man with stringy salt-and-pepper hair emerged from the backroom.
“N-nothing, Mr. Palmer,” the clerk stammered.
Palmer’s eyes formed slits as he regarded Alaric and the others. “Who’re you?”
Kent stepped forward. “Ambrose Kent, at your service.” He handed over his calling card. “My colleague and I are investigating a crime. We’re looking for a man with a scarred face who might have purchased a double-barreled flintlock and cartridges to go along with it.”
Something slithered through Palmer’s eyes. He crumpled the calling card in his grease-stained fist.
“Didn’t see no scarred man,” the gunsmith said. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a business to run.”
Will jerked a thumb at Alaric. “Do you know who this is?”
Palmer eyed him up and down and sneered, “Some nob, by the looks o’ ’im.”
“The nob happens to be the Duke of Strathaven. And someone, using your shot and your gun, attempted to assassinate him a week ago. So, unless you want to be carted off to Newgate as an accomplice,” Will growled, “you will tell us what you know.”
“Already told you. Don’t know nothing,” Palmer said belligerently.
Alaric noticed sweat trickling down one of the clerk’s temples. “You—Babcock, is it?”
“Y-yes, your lordship.”
“Have you seen a disfigured man in the shop? One with a scar down the middle of his face?”
Babcock darted a terrified gaze at his employer. “N-no, sir—I mean, your lordship.”
“That’s a bluidy lie,” Will said, his hands balling.
Alaric held his brother back. “If either of you remembers anything, there happens to be a sizeable reward,” he said coolly.
The clerk wetted his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Ain’t nothin’ for us to remember,” Palmer spat. “Now get out o’ my shop afore I toss you out.”
As the carriage rolled off, Will said in frustrated tones, “Both of them were lying through their teeth. I could have gotten the truth out of them.”
“By beating them?” Alaric smoothed his gloves in place. “Palmer still wouldn’t talk. My guess is that he has some personal connection to the shooter.”
“We’ll have Palmer tailed,” Kent said. “He might lead us to the suspect.”
“If Babcock doesn’t come to us sooner.” Alaric’s instincts told him the clerk was more than ready to fly his employer’s coop. “He wants that reward.”
“Blunt doesn’t buy everything,” Will said.
“Anyone who believes that doesn’t have enough of it,” Alaric replied. “Kent, any progress at The Cytherea?”
“I confirmed that Lily White was indeed an actress there—the term “actress” being applied loosely,” the investigator said. “By the look of things, the theatre is a step up from a bawdy house, with skimpy outfits and skimpier talent.”
“Got a good look, did you?” Alaric drawled.
“I have no interest in such depravity.” Kent shot him an irritated look. “According to the manager, Miss White up and left the company around the time she started as a maid at your cottage. No one at the theatre has seen her since, and they haven’t any notion where she might have gone. Apparently, she kept to herself.”
“That’s what my staff claimed as well—until Emma somehow got them to talk.” With an odd mixture of ruefulness and pride, Alaric had to acknowledge the truth: his future wife was a force to be reckoned with. Fortunately, he knew how to put her energies to good use.
“Do not bring my sister into this,” Kent said through his teeth.
“She’s already in it.”
“Aye, and I don’t like it.” The investigator glowered at him. “What are you up to, Strathaven? Why are you sending Emma on a wild goose chase through the ton?”
“You have a better idea for keeping her out of trouble?”
The look of impotent frustration on Kent’s face spoke louder than words.
<
br /> Will’s brow lined. “What wild goose chase? Why is Miss Emma involved?”
“She is determined to be part of the investigation and, more specifically, to protect my life.” Emma’s loyalty and concern reached a dark, frozen corner inside him. There it was again, that dangerous spark of hope ...
Don’t be a fool. He could lust after Emma, do what it took to make her his. But he would never lose control over his heart or his head. Never set expectations that would only lead to disillusionment and pain.
In cool tones, he said, “I’ll leave it to Kent to explain why his sister disobeys commands and does exactly what she pleases.”
“I’m her brother not her keeper,” Kent snapped. “Aye, Emma is independent and headstrong; she has had to be. She has managed our household since she was a girl, saw our family through poverty and loss.”
“A fact that I admire. If you can’t protect her from herself, however, then I certainly will,” Alaric said calmly. “We both know that Webb is our main and only suspect at this point, and he’s hiding somewhere in the stews. Thus, if Emma is determined to muck around, the ton is the safest place for her to do so.”
“I’m not daft, Strathaven, I know what you’re doing,” Kent growled. “You’re circulating her amongst your sort on purpose—grooming her to be your next duchess.”
Alaric didn’t bother denying it. Part of Emma’s resistance to marrying him had to do with her perception that they came from incompatible worlds. Which meant that getting her comfortable within his social stratum was essential to furthering his cause.
“Mrs. Kent was preparing to launch her anyway.” He gave an insouciant shrug. “With my backing, Emma will not only be a guaranteed success, she’ll land the Season’s biggest catch.”
“I don’t give a damn about your title. You don’t have what it takes to make Emma happy.”
Will, who’d been watching the exchange with an air of mute fascination, burst out, “You ... and Miss Emma? Bluidy hell,” he said, looking stunned, “Annabel was right.”
“My sister has not agreed to anything,” Kent said sharply.
“Not yet,” Alaric said.
Will’s face split into a sudden grin. “Lass wouldn’t have you? Turned down the great Duke of Strathaven himself?”
“Shut it, Peregrine.” Alaric narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Emma will have me.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Kent vowed.
Alaric’s patience snapped. “Just what do you have against me? Other than the wealth and privilege I intend to bestow upon your sister, that is?”
A heartbeat passed. Kent said, “Do you love her?”
Pinned by the other’s keen gaze, Alaric felt the ghosts within him swirl. Da’s furious brown eyes, the lecture he’d delivered between the stinging swishes of the belt. No son of mine would endanger his own brother. You’re a disgrace to the McLeod name. You have no part in this family ...
Laura’s beautiful face contorted with feverish anger. You don’t love me. You’re not capable of love. Well, one day soon you’ll know what you’ve lost—
“I didn’t think so,” Kent said coldly.
Alaric tried to ignore the pressure at his temples. “I will take care of Emma. She will want for nothing.”
“Except for the one thing she needs most. Your philandering is common knowledge. My sister will give you her heart, her trust, and in return what do you have to offer?”
You’re nothing. A useless invalid. His guardian’s deathbed words sliced through him. I never should have taken you in ...
“I am a duke,” he bit out.
Kent shook his head in disgust. “You don’t even understand, do you?”
Will cleared his throat. “Kent, far be it for me to interfere, but Strathaven, well, he’s my kin after all. Now I’m not saying he’s perfect, but he ain’t as bad as all that ...”
Alaric took refuge behind a wall of anger. He didn’t need this investigator’s judgment, his brother’s condescension.
The righteous fools don’t know me. Devil take them both.
“I am marrying Emma. Get used to it or don’t, Kent—I don’t give a damn,” he said in chilling accents. “In the meantime, however, I’m paying you to find a murderer. If you cannot carry out your duties, say so now, and I’ll hire someone else.”
White-lipped, the other man said, “I will do my bloody job, Your Grace. If for no other reason than to put an end to this case and my sister’s involvement with you.”
Will looked as if he might speak ... and then shook his shaggy head and looked out the window. Silence descended upon the cabin, and whilst Alaric maintained an icy facade, his mind spun like the carriage wheels. He knew how much Emma valued her brother’s opinion—hell, she looked up to him like he was a bloody saint.
What would she do if Kent forbade the match? What choice would she make?
Alaric’s hands clenched with sudden ferocity. There’s only one choice. No one is going to take her from me. Emma is mine.
Chapter 21
“Good afternoon, Miss Kent,” Jarvis said as he ushered her into the foyer.
“Hello, Jarvis. How are your knees today?” Emma said.
Beneath his beetled brows, his eyes twinkled. “Much better, thank ye kindly. Your salve is nothing short of a miracle.”
“I’ll bring more the next visit,” she promised. “Is the duke at home?”
“Indeed, miss. But His Grace has a meeting at the moment—”
“I’ll wait. I have an important matter to discuss with him,” she said with determination.
“Of course. Right this way.”
Jarvis put her in the drawing room, leaving to fetch refreshments. Alone, she paced over the Aubusson, impatient to see Alaric so that she could take him to task. Ever since she’d agreed to spy on the ton on his behalf, an unending stream of so-called supplies had arrived on her doorstep. His extravagance had been staggering: evening gowns, frippery, every kind of accoutrement—all of it in the latest fashion and every item fitting her perfectly.
Rosie and her sisters had oohed and aahed over each lavish gift, and even Marianne’s brows had risen at the item currently residing in Emma’s reticule. Emma, however, was not impressed. As she faced the prospect of her debut reconnaissance mission at the Blackwoods’ tomorrow night, she had to wonder if Alaric had something other than investigation on his mind.
An ulterior motive that had little to do with her helping to track down a villain—and everything to do with getting his way.
When she heard his deep, distinctive tones in the distance, she could wait no longer. She headed in the direction of the voices … and stopped short. Not because of Alaric—who appeared, as usual, effortlessly virile in a burgundy waistcoat and buff trousers—but the familiar pair of men standing with him.
“We are grateful for your patronage, Your Grace,” the senior gentleman said.
“As ever, we are at your service,” his younger replica added.
Alaric wasn’t looking at them, however. His eyes had locked on her. His guests followed the direction of his gaze.
“Ah, Miss Kent. What a surprise.” The speculative glance that the elder banker threw in Alaric’s direction confirmed her sudden, blazing suspicion. “Good afternoon.”
“Mr. and Mr. Hilliard,” she said. “What a coincidence it is to see you here.”
“Er, yes. Coincidence, of course.” The younger Mr. Hilliard cast an uncertain look at Alaric. “’Tis a pleasure to see you, but Father and I must be getting along. Appointments, you know.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” she said.
After they left, she turned to Alaric, who emanated tension. Her intuition told her the cause of his unease. Yet if her hunch was correct, why would he want to hide such a thing?
He rubbed the back of his neck, scowling at her. “What are you thinking, coming here unchaperoned? There’s a murderer on the loose, not to mention proprieties—”
“You arranged the loan
for Kent and Associates, didn’t you?”
She saw him flinch; he recovered instantly. “My business affairs do not concern you.”
If he thought hauteur would shield him, he was wrong.
It was too late for that; she’d seen him for what he was.
And she liked it. Liked it so very much.
“After the fire, no bank would lend the agency the sum at a reasonable percentage. So you made it happen,” she said steadily. “You’ve been looking out for your brother all along.”
He took her by the arm and steered her down the corridor to his study. His hounds leapt up to greet her, but he evicted them from the chamber with a sharp command. Closing the door, he backed her into it. With his hands planted on either side of her, he leaned in and said, “You are not to say a word of this. To anyone.”
She looked up at his handsome, annoyed visage—and tenderness filled her. What a complex man he was, his motivations and desires hidden behind a facade of arrogance. He could be moody, brooding, deserving of his moniker. Yet now she knew what her instincts had sensed early on: the proud, powerful duke had a true and loyal heart.
“Why don’t you want Mr. McLeod to know that you’ve done this for him?” she said gently.
“That’s none of your concern. Just do as I say and keep your mouth shut.”
“But why don’t you want Mr. McLeod—or my brother, for that matter—to know that you’re their secret benefactor? You’re their guardian angel—”
“I’m no angel. Ask anyone.” The wild, pale fire in his eyes dared her to disagree.
Quietly but firmly, she said, “I say you are. Why do you try to hide it?”
With a ragged breath, he pushed away from her, stalked toward his desk.
She followed him.
“Why are you here?” He shuffled irritably through a pile of papers. “You’re risking your safety—never mind your reputation—coming here on your own.”
