The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

“Lord Wormleigh, may I have a word?” Kent said.

  “Quiet, sirrah.” Wormleigh didn’t turn, kept his focus on the copse up ahead. “The beaters are on the move again.”

  Richard saw glimpses of the men moving through the dense brush, driving the game out with their sticks and flags. An instant later, a flock of pheasants exploded into flight, their distinctive cries of kok-kok-kok muted by the boom of gunfire.

  Wormleigh shot. Swore. Grabbed another gun from the footman and shot again.

  The birds sailed smoothly on into the horizon.

  “Damn and blast.” Wormleigh was red-faced. “I could have sworn I hit one.”

  “Better luck next time,” Strathaven drawled.

  “We need to speak to you, my lord,” Kent said. “Alone, if you please.”

  Wormleigh waved away the servant, who’d been busily reloading the used guns. Resting its chin on its paws, the retriever yawned and settled down for a nap.

  Removing a silver flask from his pocket, Wormleigh said, “Well, what is it?”

  “It concerns Madame Monique,” Kent said. “I’ve been tasked with investigating her death, and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

  “I thought Billings said it was an accident. Lord knows I don’t have anything to add.” Wormleigh took a swig. “I hardly knew the woman.”

  “Actually, my lord, I’m given to understand that you and the deceased had an argument on the night she died,” Kent said.

  Wormleigh coughed, spewing droplets of brandy. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Various sources.” Kent’s expression and tone remained neutral. “One of whom noted that you were also seen later that night by the library. Where the deceased woman was found.”

  “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with…?” The veins on Wormleigh’s jowls stood out against his florid complexion. “Sirrah, I ought to call you out.”

  “It’d be simpler to answer his question.” Strathaven cocked a dark eyebrow. “Unless you have something to hide, my lord?”

  “I have nothing to hide!”

  “Then why don’t you answer the man’s question?” Richard said evenly.

  Wormleigh’s eyes darted like that of cornered quarry. Richard saw him take measure of Kent’s stalwart posture, the duke’s languid menace. Wormleigh’s gaze hit Richard, clearly assessing his height and heft… and slid hastily away.

  “What I tell you must remain between us,” Wormleigh muttered. “Your word as gentlemen.”

  “I give you my word to be as discreet as possible. If the knowledge you share becomes evidence in the case, however, I cannot guarantee to keep it secret,” Kent said.

  “Spit it out, Wormleigh,” Richard advised. “The longer you draw this out, the more havey-cavey you appear.”

  “I had nothing to do with the bitch’s death,” Wormleigh protested.

  “But you knew her,” Kent said.

  Gunfire boomed in the distance, birds squawking.

  “We had a brief… acquaintance.”

  “Define acquaintance,” Richard said.

  “Bloody hell, Carlisle, must you be indelicate?” Wormleigh found refuge in indignation. “She was my mistress, if you must know. It didn’t last long. A matter of months early last year.”

  “What happened?” Kent said.

  Wormleigh took another swig. A long one. “She was a lying whore.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “I took a fancy to her after seeing her perform at Astley’s. I thought to myself, a woman who can balance on a tightrope… imagine what she could do in bed. Those stockings of hers, they don’t leave much to the imagination, do they?” When he received only stony stares in reply, Wormleigh grunted and went on. “I made her acquaintance and soon after had what I wanted from her. We had an arrangement, you understand. And since I was paying for her cottage and pin money—and it wasn’t cheap, mind you—I believed I was entitled to certain exclusive rights.”

  Kent’s scrutiny didn’t waver. “What happened?”

  “After maybe two months, I began to suspect that I wasn’t the only one in the stables, so to speak. I could never be sure—she was a sly creature—but a man can tell when a filly’s been ridden in his absence.”

  “Do you know who she was seeing?” Strathaven said as Richard’s gut iced over.

  “When I confronted her, she denied it, called me a jealous fool. I told her I wasn’t the least bit jealous—but no man likes a hackneyed mount. She didn’t like that, so we had a row, and that was that. She had a temper, that one. Very French,” Wormleigh said with a touch of nostalgia.

  Kent jotted in his notebook. “How long ago was this?”

  “Last February, I believe. Hadn’t seen her since then—until this party.”

  “What was your argument about, then?” Richard said.

  Wormleigh shuffled his muddied boots. “I had one too many glasses of wine at supper and got a bit top-heavy. I ran into her in the hallway and sought to, ahem, renew our acquaintance. Don’t know why it got her bristles up—I offered to pay for her services. But she got all touchy about it.”

  “Strange, that,” the duke said.

  Apparently missing the other’s irony, Wormleigh gave a righteous nod. “Bit high in the instep, if you ask me. As the old adage goes, beggars cannot afford to be choosers. And given that I saw Monique having a cozy tête-à-tête with her old friend Garrity after supper, she definitely can’t afford to turn down good money. But that was Monique for you: all fire and pride and very little sense.”

  Richard’s nape prickled. “What was the nature of the relationship between her and Garrity?”

  “It was strictly a monetary affair. She always had need of coin; he’s in the business of lending it. Back when I was covering her expenses, I paid off a note she owed to Garrity—and it wasn’t bit change, either. As far as I know, the two had been doing business for years.”

  “Why were you in the library that night?” Richard demanded.

  “I never went into the library, just walked past.” Smirking, Wormleigh said, “On my way to an appointment, you see.”

  Strathaven’s brows lifted. “Appointment?”

  “A gentleman goes to enough house parties, he knows to have a bedpartner in reserve if the top choice is unavailable. Monique wasn’t the only fish in the sea.”

  “So you were with someone that night?” Kent said.

  “All night. What a fine filly she turned out to be. Bit skinny for my taste, but a better ride than I expected, eh?” Wormleigh winked.

  “I’ll need a name, my lord.” Although Kent’s features remained impassive, Richard heard the distaste in the investigator’s voice.

  “Can’t give it. She made me promise to keep it a secret.” Wormleigh puffed out his chest. “Gave her my word of honor, sirrah.”

  “She’s your alibi,” Richard said.

  “Josephine Ashe,” Wormleigh blurted.

  “Right.” Kent paused, his notebook still open. “Anything else you’d care to add?”

  Wormleigh hesitated. “Come to think of it, there is one thing. When I walked by the library, I heard voices coming from within. I recall the clock chiming; it was just after two.”

  During the window of time when Monique was killed. Richard tensed.

  “Do you know who those voices belonged to?” Kent said sharply.

  Wormleigh shook his head. “They were speaking quietly, their voices muffled through the door. It was a man and a woman—lovers, I assumed.”

  “What made you assume that?” Richard said.

  “Who else would be alone in the library at that time of night?” Wormleigh snorted. “And I did catch one word they were saying: Gretna. Stupid fools were probably plotting to run off together. For love or some equally asinine reason.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Kent said. “Thank you, my lord—”

  “Hello!”

  Richard turned to see Violet ambling toward them. She was a vision of vitality in
her blue cloak, the yellow feathers of her bonnet ruffling in the breeze. The duchess followed behind her.

  “Good afternoon,” Violet said with a pretty curtsy.

  “What a pretty picture you make, m’dear.” In a blink, Wormleigh transformed into a courtier, bowing over Violet’s hand while Richard gritted his teeth. “You are a spot of color amidst this dreary landscape.”

  “Thank you. Hopefully, I won’t tip off the birds.”

  Wormleigh flashed a smile. “They’ll think you are one of them with your lovely feathers.”

  “Then I hope the hunters won’t make a mistake and take a shot at me,” Violet said.

  Wormleigh’s smile didn’t waver. Richard could practically see the man searching for some flattering reply, and he spoke up to forestall any further flirtation.

  “What are you doing here?” he said to her.

  “We finished up early. Our chat was uneventful.”

  Her message was clear: Wick’s secret was still safe. Relief swept through Richard.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it uneventful,” Her Grace muttered. “At least not your part in the business, Violet.”

  Violet looked uneasy. Before he could ask what her sister meant, she pointed to the copse and said, “Look, the beaters are readying to flush the game again. Are you going to shoot, Lord Wormleigh?”

  “Don’t think I’ll bother, my dear,” Wormleigh said grandly. “The guns are defective.”

  “Really?” Violet glanced at the collection of firearms. “All of them?”

  For Christ’s sake. Having had enough, Richard strode to the caddy. He hoisted out a double-barreled Manton—a damned fine fowling piece—and braced the stock against his shoulder. He maintained a relaxed grip and stance. The retriever perked up, trotting over to him. When the birds burst into the grey sky, Richard took aim and fired. Game plummeted. Tossing the empty gun aside, he grabbed another from the caddy and shot again with the same result.

  The retriever leapt into action, bounding joyfully across the field to fetch the fallen birds.

  “Double brace,” Strathaven declared. “Bravo, Carlisle.”

  “Thunder and turf, you’re a crack shot,” Violet exclaimed. “Jolly well done!”

  The admiration in her eyes made Richard feel taller than a mountain. He counted himself damned lucky that, this time around, he’d found a woman more impressed by shooting skills than drawing room conversation.

  He offered her his arm and said gruffly, “Shall we, Miss Kent?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After leaving Wormleigh, the group found privacy beneath the sheltering branches of an oak tree and compared notes on their interviews. Vi let Emma do the talking about Jeanne; she was relieved when her pleading look worked and her sister skimmed over the part involving her escapade out the window, saying merely that Vi’s “ingenuity” had gotten them in. When Em was finished, Ambrose related the results of the men’s talk with Wormleigh.

  Upon hearing of Wormleigh’s alibi, Em raised her brows. “Talk about the kettle calling the pot black. To think, Miss Ashe called Monique a harlot for having lovers.”

  “Sinners are oft those who preach the loudest,” Strathaven said.

  “And reformed rakes make the best philosophers, I take?” Em teased.

  Bending his dark head, the duke whispered something in her ear; whatever he said made roses bloom in her cheeks.

  “At any rate, we can strike Miss Ashe off the list,” Ambrose said. “She might have been jealous of Monique, but between the maid Mary and Wormleigh, her time is now accounted for.”

  “We have new suspects to take her place,” Richard said grimly. “Garrity and Burns.”

  Glancing at his pocket watch, Ambrose sighed. “I’ll deal with them after I have my daily briefing with Magistrate Jones.”

  “That bad?” Em said.

  “Let’s just say that Jones wants justice painted in black and white when the reality oft lies in shades of grey.” Beneath the brim of his hat, Ambrose’s face was haggard. “Between the magistrate’s intolerance of ambiguity and our host’s insistence on discretion, it’s not easy to carry out an investigation.”

  “But you’ll manage because you’re the best investigator in London,” Em declared.

  As Violet watched her brother stride off, guilt gnawed at her: how long could she keep the secret from him? She exchanged a look with Richard; from his troubled gaze, she knew that he was equally discomfited by their concealment of evidence. Yet they couldn’t tell Ambrose about Wick’s ring now. An uncompromising man like Magistrate Jones would no doubt presume Wick guilty: Wick would be tossed in gaol… or worse.

  “Let’s get back to the house,” Emma said.

  The four began the trek back through the waving grasses. Em and Strathaven walked a little ahead, giving Vi and Richard some privacy.

  Walking beside her, Richard had a creased brow. “So how, precisely, did you convince Jeanne to let you in?”

  Crumbs. “I can be, um, very convincing when I want to be.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” His tone was dry. “Care to elaborate on your ‘ingenuity’?”

  “It was nothing.” Deciding it wise to change the subject, Vi said brightly, “We’ve learned a lot today, haven’t we? Two new suspects… and I wonder who Wormleigh overheard in the library—the lovers he mentioned?”

  “For all we know, he made that up. The man has more hot air than a flying balloon.”

  “Yes, I know,” she agreed. “Imagine calling a double-barreled Manton defective.”

  Richard slid her a startled glance. “You know about guns?”

  “Enough to know that Lord Wormleigh was the problem, not the fowling piece.”

  “But how did you learn…?”

  “My brother Harry taught me about guns.” How she missed her brother, she thought with a pang. She wanted him to meet Richard; she was certain the two would rub along famously.

  “Your brother enjoys hunting?”

  “Not really. It’s the explosion side of things that he’s interested in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Harry’s a scientist and the genius of the family,” she explained. “He’s finishing up at Cambridge, and he’ll probably become a professor. Anyway, he’s been blowing things up ever since he was a boy, and he used to experiment with flintlocks all the time, trying to get a bigger bang.” She grinned, remembering. “When it came to target practice, however, I beat him every time.”

  “You can shoot?”

  “Well, yes, although I’ve never shot at a moving object. Just at apples and bottles. Although,” she amended in the spirit of honesty, “I did shoot Tabitha once.”

  Richard stopped in his tracks. “You shot a woman?”

  “Oh no, Tabitha is Em’s cat. And I didn’t shoot her with a gun. That time, I was practicing with a slingshot.” Seeing his flummoxed expression, she added hastily, “I didn’t mean to hit Tabby; it was an accident. She wandered in front of the target at the last moment.”

  “I… see.” His tone said he didn’t. “Do you have any other hidden talents I should know about?”

  She was tempted to gloss over the truth. Yet another part of her wanted him to know her, and how could he, if she wasn’t honest with him? If he was going to be disappointed, better now than after they were married, when it would be too late.

  Gathering up her courage, she said baldly, “I can ride, shoot, and play cricket. I like swimming and acrobatics. With my trousers on, I can beat most anyone climbing up a tree.”

  The way he was staring at her made her heart thump nervously. She didn’t want to shock or put him off, but she didn’t want to hide who she was either. It was one of those instances in which compromise didn’t come easily.

  “Would you like to do those things with me?” he said.

  Now it was her turn to stare. “Pardon?”

  “Would you like to ride, shoot, and play other sports with me?” In the sunlight, his eyes had an iridesc
ent gleam. “I could even teach you how to hunt—to shoot at moving objects, if you’d like.”

  He couldn’t be serious.

  “Are you funning me?” she said suspiciously.

  “Not a bit.”

  “You’d truly teach me to hunt?”

  “Since I’m fairly competent at it, I’d be happy to give you a few pointers.”

  Fairly competent? She’d never seen anyone handle a double-barreled Manton with such finesse and confidence. Why, to get tips from him, for him to even suggest such a thing…

  “How are you at fencing? Archery?” he went on.

  She shook her head in wonder. “I haven’t done either.”

  “I have. I could teach you the fundamentals of both.”

  By… Golly. Her spiraling excitement was almost too much to bear. “You’d do all that? Even though it would be, um, irregular?”

  “Who’s to say what is regular between a man and his wife?”

  His meaning sunk in—and gave her an undeniable thrill. “Are you trying to bribe me into marriage, Carlisle?”

  “It’s Richard, and I’m just trying to sweeten the pot, lass. In fact, when we’re married, you could even wear your trousers from time to time—as long as you do so only in my presence.”

  There was no mistaking the pure male anticipation in his gaze.

  Happiness flooded her, made her speechless.

  Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he steered them toward Em and His Grace, who stood waiting up ahead. “If you marry me, you’ll have a lifetime of pleasures to look forward to. Dancing, shooting, riding—we’ll do it all. And that’s to say nothing of the sporting we’ll get up to in the marital bower.”

  His intimate suggestion made her toes curl in her half-boots.

  “Now you’re being wicked,” she managed.

  “Just trying to press any advantage I have.” His eyes smiled at her. “By the by, I spoke to your brother and Strathaven.”

  “Oh.” Her heart gave a silly hiccup. “How did it go?”

  “They gave me permission. Not that I would have accepted anything else.” He tucked her hand more firmly against his arm. “Face it, Violet: sooner or later, you’re to be mine.”

  This time, his determination filled her not with rebelliousness but giddy joy.