From the grave, Laura’s twisted beauty taunted him.
You don’t love me—you’re not capable of it! You’re selfish, cruel, and black-hearted. Her cornflower eyes glimmered with rage, her red lips taking on a malignant curve. I’m going to make sure everyone knows what a bastard you are.
Cold, unadulterated fury clawed at Alaric. Control was slipping from his grasp, chaos swirling around him. Clara was dead, a murderer on the loose. His business plans were suddenly in jeopardy. And now his past was rising like a dark tide ...
All because of Emma Kent—the lies she’d told about him.
All of this was her doing.
“I’ll see to it that my name is cleared,” he vowed. “Whoever poisoned Clara and me will be brought to justice.”
The marquess’ brow furrowed. “An attempt was made on your life as well?”
Alaric hesitated before saying, “Yes.”
Both he and Tremont were men who valued privacy, and they did not typically discuss matters outside of business. Given the scandal’s impact upon their venture, however, Alaric decided to make an exception and gave Tremont a brief summary of events.
Tremont’s frown deepened at the mention of Silas Webb. “I recall Webb was irate when you dismissed him. But would he resort to murder?”
“I intend to find out.”
“You must take care. Murder is a dangerous business.”
“Evidently so is scandal. Try to keep the investors placated. In the meanwhile, I’ll put a stop to the rumor that I killed Clara.”
Tremont’s eyebrows went up. “How do you plan to do that?”
By dealing with the cause of the fiasco herself.
Jaw taut, Alaric said, “I have my ways. Let’s leave it at that.”
“As you wish. For what it’s worth, I am sorry for your misfortune.”
If there was anything Alaric despised, it was pity.
“What do you know about misfortune?” he said in cool tones.
Tremont’s gaze darkened, grooves forming around his mouth. Standing, he executed a stiff bow. “Good day, your grace.”
After the marquess departed, Alaric was reminded that he and Tremont did have something other than business in common: they were both widowers. The resemblance ended there, however. Tremont’s lady had been known for her charity and kindness, and their marriage had been accounted a happy one, with an heir to show for it.
Whereas Alaric’s duchess had been a lying bitch whose efforts to manipulate him had led not only to her own demise but that of their only child. His son, Charlie ...
He felt a warning cracking inside, like the rushing of dark water under ice. The currents dragged at him, pulled him toward the vortex. He struggled for purchase, for control against the raging chaos.
No—the past is done. Look forward. Address the problem at hand.
His fists clenched. Yes, that was what he needed to do.
Fix the problem.
All he had to do was find her.
Chapter Seven
“Do you have a minute, Emma dear?” a husky female voice said.
At the escritoire, Emma looked up from her book as her sister-in-law entered the drawing room. As usual, Marianne exuded glamour. Caught up in an elegant twist, her silver-blond curls framed her flawless features, and her emerald promenade dress—which matched her vivid eyes—clung lovingly to her willowy figure.
“I have all the time in the world.” Emma tried not to sigh.
Why can’t Ambrose give my dream of being an investigator a chance?
The business with Strathaven, she thought darkly, hadn’t helped her cause. Ever since she’d reported the duke to the magistrates, her brother had become even more overprotective. The authorities had promised to keep her identity confidential, but aspects of her testimony had leaked nonetheless. Rumors that the duke had killed Lady Osgood were running rampant, and Ambrose had insisted that she stay at home until the business blew over.
Ever astute, Marianne said, “Ambrose wants what is best for you.”
“I know.” Now Emma felt disloyal on top of it all.
All morning, she’d been as restless as a gypsy. She knew she’d done the right thing where Strathaven was concerned, yet the thought of him made her feel on edge, filled her with a disquieting, buzzing energy. If only she could bury herself in tasks at the office—she needed something to do, a distraction. Out of desperation, she’d dug up her book of household remedies.
She waved to the open volume in front of her. “I was researching a salve for Mr. Pitt’s joints and the second footman’s back. I hope you don’t mind my using your desk—”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Marianne frowned. “As I’ve said before, my home is yours.”
Marianne had told her this many a time, yet Emma couldn’t quite squelch the discomfort of residing in another’s woman house. She supposed she’d grown too accustomed to running her own household. Back in Chudleigh Crest, the cottage had been her kingdom; she’d arranged things to her own design, had come and gone as she’d pleased.
“I wanted to catch you whilst we have a few moments’ privacy.” Marianne sat on the snowy chaise longue, her skirts fluttering gracefully around her. “The girls are with the dancing master, and Edward is still sleeping.”
Plopping herself on the adjacent settee, Emma said with sympathy, “Did he have another bad night?”
Edward, Marianne and Ambrose’s seven-year-old, had recently started having night terrors. During the episodes, the little lad was inconsolable and difficult to wake.
“Poor thing was beside himself. I stayed with him until dawn,” Marianne said ruefully.
“I remember when Polly suffered a similar bout of nightmares. The only thing that helped was a glass of warm milk and a biscuit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Clearing her throat, Marianne said, “What I really wish to discuss with you, however, concerns the Duke of Strathaven. Ambrose told me everything last night. I do wish the two of you had consulted me before bringing the matter to the magistrates.”
Emma’s shoulders stiffened. Not because her brother had shared this information with Marianne—she knew he and his wife kept no secrets from one another—but because of the judgment she heard in her sister-in-law’s tone.
She lifted her chin. “All I did was report a crime that I witnessed.”
“I know you meant well, dearest. You always do. But this is London, and things are different here than in Chudleigh Crest.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Are you?” The hesitation was uncharacteristic of Marianne and put Emma on guard. “I can’t help but wonder if you acted too hastily. No, don’t look so put out, dearest—I mean no insult to you. Or to Ambrose, for that matter. I know you both believed you were right to go to Bow Street. I do have some information, however, that might have influenced your decision.”
“What information could change the truth? I know what I saw,” Emma said stubbornly.
Marianne’s lips formed a faint smile. “How you remind me of Ambrose, dear.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was meant to be. The integrity that runs in the Kent bloodline is a quality that I admire greatly.” Marianne’s shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug. “Until Ambrose came into my life, I did not concern myself greatly with morality or living by anyone’s rules but my own.”
“You’re a wonderful wife and mama. And you’ve been nothing but kindness to the rest of us Kents,” Emma argued.
“I am glad you think so.”
Marianne’s sincerity sent a squiggle of guilt through Emma. Since moving to London, Emma had felt a slight degree of tension toward her sister-in-law. It wasn’t the other’s fault; all Marianne had done was take the Kents under her wing, treating them to luxury after luxury. Yet in doing so, she’d inadvertently made Emma … extraneous. When it came to leading a fashionable life, Marianne was an expert guide—and Emma as necessary as a fifth wheel.
Shame suffused Emma. She didn’t want to be ungrateful; she did love her sister-in-law.
“I know you have our best interests at heart,” she said, flushing.
“I do,” Marianne agreed, “which is why I must talk to you about Strathaven.”
“What about him?” Emma said warily.
“While I cannot lay claim to being as honorable as you and Ambrose, I do have my areas of expertise, and one of them happens to be the ton. Simply put, I have access to a surfeit of gossip. In this instance, there are things I know about the duke that you do not.”
With trepidation, Emma said, “Such as?”
“First off, his so-called victim was not a stranger to him.”
“I know they were acquainted. In fact, I believe Strathaven might have had some hold over Lady Osgood. He probably forced her to his cottage and—”
“They were lovers, Emma.”
Chill trickled down Emma’s spine. “Lovers?”
Marianne nodded. “From what I gather, their affaire was not longstanding. They kept it discreet owing to the fact that Lady Osgood is married.”
Emma’s mind was working furiously. Goodness, Lady Osgood and Strathaven had been amorously involved? “But it doesn’t change what I saw. He was hurting her,” she blurted. “I saw the duke restraining Lady Osgood. He tied her up, said he would make her beg.”
A pause.
“As to that, there might be another explanation,” Marianne said.
“Such as?” Other than the obvious, Emma couldn’t think of a single one.
“There have been a few whispers. About Strathaven’s proclivities.” Peachy color stained Marianne’s high cheekbones. “You see, dear, sometimes the relationship between a man and a woman can take … unusual forms.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t suppose you do.” Marianne sighed. “I should hate to spoil your lovely innocence. Suffice it to say that, in hurting his lover, Strathaven may not have actually been hurting her. Do you see what I mean?”
“No.” That explanation was as clear as the mud on London’s streets.
“Good lord, this is more difficult than I thought,” Marianne muttered.
They were interrupted by a knock. Mr. Pitt appeared. “Good morning, madam,” he said with a bow. “Mrs. McLeod wishes to see if you and Miss Emma are receiving at present.”
Emma’s unease grew. Mrs. McLeod wanted to see her? It was too early for a social call.
Marianne waved her hand. “Send her in. And do bring some tea—the Ceylon, I think.” When the butler departed, she said, “We’ll continue this conversation later, Emma.”
As Marianne rose to greet their guest, Emma hung back shyly. In the presence of the older ladies, she felt like an awkward miss. Her sister-in-law was a celebrated beauty, and Annabel McLeod, with her fiery tresses and smoldering violet eyes, possessed an aura of sensual femininity.
What would it be like to possess such mystique? Emma wondered.
She saw herself as a sister, daughter, even a mother of sorts, but as a ... woman? A wife? Mundane and forthright, she’d never attracted much male attention. Never inspired passion in any man except, on occasion, over her cooking (the one marriage proposal she’d received, from the village vicar, had been motivated by his ardor for her Sunday supper). In truth, back in Chudleigh Crest, she’d had a reputation for being a bit of a termagant, and it hadn’t boosted her allure.
Was she supposed to stay silent when the butcher tried to sell her an overpriced cut of meat? Was she to just accept the thatcher’s word that the flimsy excuse of a roof he’d put on would hold up against the elements? Her strong will had been forged by years of taking care of her family, her determination a trait that had helped her cope with poverty, illness, and loss.
Nonetheless, she’d begun to suspect that her managing nature might preclude her from falling in love. As she’d told Ambrose, she had yet to meet a man who made her want to relinquish her independence. Who tempted her to give up control over her own future.
Out of nowhere, Strathaven’s face appeared in her mind’s eye, his slashing cheekbones and gleaming jade eyes. Her belly quivered at the memory of his lean physique, so close to hers that she’d felt the heat emanating from him, his spicy male scent infusing her senses ...
Her heart raced. That’s just … fear. You were afraid of him and rightly so.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Annabel?” Marianne said when they’d all seated themselves.
Mrs. McLeod’s gaze settled on Emma. “I won’t beat around the bush. It’s about Strathaven.”
Though the declaration came as no surprise, Emma tensed, her hands clenching in her lap.
“Mr. McLeod doesn’t know I’m here,” the lady went on, swishing her russet skirts into place. “He’s quite irritated with his brother at the moment.”
“I can’t blame him. From what Ambrose told me, the meeting between them didn’t go well,” Marianne murmured.
Mrs. McLeod sighed, shaking her head. “Men can be such foolish creatures.”
“On that, we cannot agree more.”
The ladies shared a smile before Mrs. McLeod turned to Emma. “It’s always been that way between McLeod and his older brother,” she explained. “Since I’ve known them, they can’t be in a room together for more than a few minutes before they’re at each other’s throats.”
“Strathaven started it,” Emma said. “He was rude. Mr. McLeod was only trying to help.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I’m here. Once my husband’s temper wears off, I am certain he will regret not doing more to help his brother. They are kin, after all, even though they were raised apart. To a Scotsman, blood is thicker than water.”
“Why were they raised apart?” Emma couldn’t help but ask.
“It’s a lengthy tale and not mine to divulge. Suffice it to say, those two have had a long and difficult brotherhood—but it doesn’t mean that they don’t care about each other. And for all Strathaven’s ...” Mrs. McLeod waved a hand, as if trying to summon an accurate description of the man.
“Arrogance? Conceit? Holier-than-thou attitude?” Emma suggested.
Mrs. McLeod’s lips twitched. “Given your short acquaintance, you seem to know him well.”
“One doesn’t have to be acquainted with his grace long to glean those facts.”
“Be that as it may, arrogance doesn’t make a man capable of murder. Strathaven is McLeod’s brother, and I cannot believe a man who shares my husband’s blood could do anything so vile.” Mrs. McLeod’s expression grew somber. “Furthermore, the duke once did me a great favor, one I’ll never be able to repay. I do not speak of that time,”—shadows flitted through her violet gaze—“but in truth, McLeod and I owe him our very happiness. Strathaven does have a heart; he’s not as wicked as he likes to have others believe.”
Emma tried to digest that notion. Could that be possible? Uneasily, she turned the facts over in her mind, saw the duke overpowering his victim in the garden, heard Lady Osgood’s pleas for mercy ...
“Sometimes things are not as they appear.” Mrs. McLeod gave a delicate cough. “Lovers, for instance, might engage in, er, behavior that could seem … odd. To an onlooker, I mean.”
Perplexed, Emma said, “Marianne was trying to explain this earlier.”
“With no more luck than you, Annabel.” Briskly, Marianne said, “To be blunt, Emma, some men have a need for control more than others. The duke is said to be such a man.”
Strathaven’s voice echoed in Emma’s head. I’m going to do whatever I want. And you’re going to enjoy it. She shuddered. She had no doubts whatsoever that the duke was a dominating brute.
“Which is why he must be stopped,” she said fiercely. “So he cannot hurt anyone else again.”
“But, you see, there are ladies who don’t, ahem, mind such behavior from a man,” Mrs. McLeod said, her cheeks reddening. “In fact, they might welcome it.”
Incredulity and confusion filled
Emma; what the other was saying didn’t make an ounce of sense. “That’s ridiculous. Lady Osgood was begging for mercy. I heard her.”
“Are you certain it wasn’t part of a lovers’ game? Perhaps you misunderstood—”
“I misunderstood nothing.” She might not be as sophisticated or beautiful as the other two, but her senses were fully functioning. “I know what I witnessed. Nothing can change those facts, and I’ll not take back the truth.”
The ladies exchanged glances.
With a sigh, Mrs. McLeod said, “My brother-in-law is an odd, haughty gentleman, one who does not march to anyone’s drum but his own. I urge you, however, to reconsider what you witnessed and to ask yourself if you truly saw the duke hurting Lady Osgood in any way.”
Emma frowned as the events replayed in her head. Lady Osgood had begged Strathaven to stop, and she’d been tied up, blindfolded ... Yet had Emma seen any real evidence of injury? Had she witnessed the duke lay a hand on the lady?
No, but that is because I prevented it ... didn’t I?
Mrs. McLeod leaned forward, took one of Emma’s cold hands in both of her own. “A man’s life is at stake. Despite his faults and devil-may-care attitude, Strathaven has suffered much. A little over two years ago, he lost his wife and son in a grievous accident.”
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. He’d had a son? “But they say he was cruel to his wife,” she blurted. “That she died fleeing him.”
“Where did you hear that?” Marianne said.
“Rosie,” Emma admitted.
Marianne’s gaze cast heavenward. “My daughter may think she’s an expert on the ton, but she is only sixteen. At that age, she and her friends are as impressionable as wax. Believe me, she doesn’t know half as much as she believes she does.”
“So the rumors aren’t true?”
“Years ago, I met the Duchess of Strathaven. She was undoubtedly beautiful: a blond, blue-eyed angel. The ton—and gentlemen in particular—adored her.” Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “Beneath Lady Laura’s charming exterior, however, I sensed a manipulative nature. I cannot say whether the vitriol she spewed about the duke was true or not, only that her own behavior was far from blameless.”
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 6
