Jarvis’ wizened head poked into the room. “Your grace, Mr. Kent has arrived.”
“Send him up,” Will said before Alaric could answer.
Jarvis—or should he say Judas—shuffled out to do Will’s bidding.
“What the devil is your partner doing here?” Alaric demanded.
“I asked him to come. He’s the best investigator in London.” Will folded his arms over his chest. “And something tells me your particular predicament calls for the best.”
Before Alaric could argue further, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a minute later, Ambrose Kent strode in. He wasn’t alone. Miss Kent followed and mayhap Alaric was hungrier than he realized for she looked luscious in a dress the color of summer peaches. An odd spasm hit his chest when he saw the genuine worry in her eyes.
She was concerned ... about him?
“Your grace. I do hope we’re not inconveniencing you.”
Alaric’s gaze shifted to the owner of the sultry, feminine voice. He hadn’t noticed the regal silver blonde who had followed Miss Kent in, though by all rights he ought to have. Mrs. Kent, the former Lady Marianne Draven, was an Incomparable after all. She performed an elegant curtsy. Hastily, Emma followed suit, and her unfussy little bob made him want to smile.
Schooling his features, he tried to discern if Miss Kent’s family had any inkling about the escapade at Andromeda’s or her visit last evening to his home. Given the fact that her brother wasn’t throttling him or calling him out, he guessed she’d kept their encounters under wraps.
Her discretion was surprising—and irritating. Any other virgin would be clamoring for him to do the right thing. But not Emma Kent, the stubborn, high-minded chit. He, a bloody duke, wasn’t good enough for her. The question flitted into his head—what the hell did she desire in a husband?—and he shoved it out just as quickly.
He deliberately turned his attention upon her sister-in-law. “Mrs. Kent,” he drawled, “beauty such as yours is never an inconvenience. I’m afraid I’m rather laid up at the moment. Otherwise I’d pay you proper homage.”
“You had better not,” Will said under his breath.
Alaric got his brother’s meaning. Although he’d judged his brother’s partner to be a calm, reasonable fellow, the warning scowl on Ambrose Kent’s face suggested otherwise. Which went to show that even a rational man could be made a fool over a woman.
Well, if Kent and Will didn’t know the difference between idle flirtation and actual intent, that was their problem. The truth was that it required effort to keep his attention upon Mrs. Kent when all he wanted to do was look at Emma. Surreptitiously, he continued to monitor her.
She was taking in his private sanctuary, a line furrowing between her fine brows as her gaze hit the painting. He wondered what she was thinking. To him, she looked deliciously out of place in the masculine bedchamber. Against the backdrop of the striped forest green silk walls and heavy mahogany furnishings, she appeared more like a fresh, juicy fruit than ever.
An image burst upon his brain: Miss Kent naked and tied to his big tester bed, moaning as he buried his face buried between her thighs ...
Beneath the covers, his cock stirred against his thigh. Get a bloody hold of yourself, man. Thank God the tray hid his disgraceful state.
“It seems I owe you an apology, your grace,” Kent said stiffly. “We Kents have misjudged you, and I have come to make amends. The services of Kent and Associates are at your disposal, with my compliments.”
Alaric was tempted to tell Kent to take his free services and go to hell ... but as much as it galled him, he did need help. Someone was out to kill him, and the Runners he’d hired were proving worthless. They were flummoxed by the shooting, had made no progress on the poisoning either.
His instincts told him that Kent was a man who could be trusted. And, despite the longstanding animosity between him and Will, the truth was that he knew his brother would never stab him in the back ... however much he might deserve it.
“Your grace.” Miss Kent approached the side of his bed. Fingers knotted together, she said, “I am terribly sorry that my actions led to you being harmed, and I hope you will be willing to forgive the past.”
Her beseeching eyes and sincere apology hit him like pellets of sunshine. His antagonism slowly melted. When it came to the misunderstanding over Clara’s death, he found he couldn’t hold a grudge against Miss Kent any longer. It would be churlish to do so when, in truth, she’d made an honest mistake, and his own actions hadn’t been blameless.
“Think no more of it. You didn’t shoot me—some blighter did,” he said brusquely.
He was rewarded by her tremulous smile.
“Do you know the identity of the shooter?” Kent drew his attention to the business at hand.
“No. But he had a scar. Like this.” Alaric drew a finger down the middle of his face, mimicking the zigzagging disfigurement. “It was dark, and I didn’t get a good look at the rest of him.”
“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, having more than 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 proce
ed. 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 Thirteen
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 being 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.
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 10
