by Corwin, Amy
“His Grace was in the garden at the time of the murder?” Mr. Clark confirmed, writing something with a stubby pencil into his book. He flicked a quick, apologetic glance at Nathaniel. “Well, there could have been any one of a number of reasons why His Grace would be dashing through the shrubbery.”
“Before that, he was dancing with poor Lady Anne. He was laughing, knowing he planned to kill her!” Bolton said, his brows beetling over his dark, deep-set eyes. “He danced with her three times!”
“Now, sir, there is nobody who knows what another body is thinking,” Mr. Clark replied in a soothing tone.
“Why would I want to kill her?” Nathaniel interrupted.
Bolton leaned toward Nathaniel, his fists clenched and his face flushed. “Because you are a damn misogynist—you hate women!”
“I don’t hate women! Why would I dance with her thrice if I hated her?” Nathaniel felt his own temper rise in response to Bolton’s anger. He turned partially away, deliberately maintaining a casual appearance.
Bolton shrugged but didn’t back down. “If you are not, then why are you always throwing them out of your carriage and running the other way when one dares to greet you on the street? If you ask me, this is just the first we have discovered. There have probably scores of others you have murdered, and there will be more. I don’t care if you are a duke. You cannot say you were not in the garden when Lady Anne died! For all we know, you dance with all your victims three times before you kill them!”
“I was in the garden, but I had nothing to do with Lady Anne’s accident. In fact, I was speaking to my uncle’s ward, Miss Haywood, on the terrace.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Clark replied, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. “I am sure we all appreciate your patience with this terrible affair. Although it is a mere formality, can this ward of your uncle’s verify your whereabouts the entire time?”
“Part of the time. Have you thought to examine the clothing of those who were seen in the garden?”
“Not yet, Your Grace.”
“You should consider doing so,” Nathaniel suggested in a calm, almost bored, voice. “In fact, I believe we should start with those standing here.”
The muscles in Bolton’s jaw clenched as the color in his florid face grew deeper. “Just what are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing, other than the identity of the murderer,” Nathaniel replied smoothly. “Don’t you want to discover who killed Lady Anne?”
“Yes, damn you!” Bolton held out his hands. They were smeared with black earth, bits of grass and long reddish streaks of dried blood. “I have blood on me, it is true. But I touched her to see if she was alive. I helped carry the body inside.”
“No one is blaming you, Bolton,” Nathaniel said, having a difficult time keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “The stains on your hands are from touching dried blood, not fresh.” Then, he held up his own hands, pulling his white cuffs further out from his sleeves. “Look carefully, gentlemen. You will find no bloodstains on me.”
He gestured to the statuette lying on the ground next to Mr. Clark. “I could not have bludgeoned her without some sort of stain—”
“That doesn’t prove your innocence,” Bolton said.
“And I was so thoughtful in trying to prove yours,” Nathaniel murmured.
Clark scrutinized the ground where the body had been found and picked up the statuette, staring at the blood-stained cheeks. “It might have been possible to hit her from behind with this and not get any blood on you.”
“Possible, but not very likely.” Nathaniel moved the lantern over the grass, letting the circle of light hover over several dark spots. “Look! There and there—blood. If it sprayed onto the lawn in this fashion, how could the murderer have escaped without getting any on his clothing?”
“It is possible,” Bolton repeated. “Cowardly trick, hitting a girl from behind. I daresay you could have managed to avoid the blood.”
The Bow Street runner dutifully noted the information. “A duke has no need to be bashing young women over their heads,” he replied after closing his notebook and turning to address Lord Thatcher, Lady Beatrice’s father. “I will need a guest list, my lord.”
“Certainly. I will send it over to you on the morrow.”
“Then I will just nip out one more time to speak to a few witnesses if you gentlemen don’t mind. And would you have a sack for the statuette used in the commission thereof?”
Lord Thatcher gave hurried orders to one of the footman standing near the edge of the terrace, positioned to keep curious guests away from the gardens. The rest of the men quietly drifted indoors, entering the ballroom to collect their families and return home.
It was a sad end to the evening.
When he got to the door, Nathaniel prayed his carriage had returned. Fiddling with his cane and gloves he requested his coach and stood near the door, trying not to pace.
“Your Grace,” the butler said with a bow. “Your coach stands ready.”
“Thank you,” Nathaniel replied with relief.
He strode through the door and down the stairs so rapidly that he skipped several steps. A footman idled at the side of the carriage, and when he saw Nathaniel, he opened the door.
Nathaniel leapt inside. Barely seated, he sniffed and then sneezed. Thick rose-scented perfume filled the enclosed space.
From his right came a light, nervous titter.
He stuck his head out the window and gasped for breath before he asked, “Who are you?”
Another laugh greeted his question.
Thankfully, his driver had to wait for another carriage to pass and the vehicle had not moved. “Lansbury! Stop. Don’t go anywhere. I’ve forgotten something.”
“Your Grace!” the woman exclaimed.
He recognized her voice. “Lady Alice—I beg your pardon. My driver will take you wherever you wish to go.”
With those words, he flung the door open and jumped down. Before shutting the coach door, he stuck his head back inside. “Oh, and bon nuit!” He slammed the door shut and slapped the coat of arms on the side. “Lansbury, take Lady Alice to her home. Don’t worry about me, I fancy a walk. Oh, and Lansbury, tell Mrs. Evans to make a thorough, very thorough, search of the house. We don’t want any surprises tomorrow morning.”
Nathaniel sighed and watched Lansbury flick his whip over the heads of the horses. The carriage finally lumbered away.
However, before he could turn back to the sidewalk, someone clapped Nathaniel on the back. He nearly jumped out of his clothes.
“Bravo!” Peter Harnet said between chuckles.
Nathaniel glared at his closest friend’s unlined face. He felt years older than Harnet, although they were both twenty-eight.
“Lucky escape, that. Which one was it this time?”
“Lady Alice,” Nathaniel replied shortly.
She’d slipped out ahead of him and hidden in his coach, most likely on instructions from her mother. Perhaps it was time to stop riding in coaches and particularly ones with his crest on the side.
“Umm. You could do worse. Young, pretty and moderately wealthy. Sure you don’t fancy being compromised by her?”
“No, and you would think they would be a little more concerned about their safety after what transpired tonight.” He glared after his coach.
The dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty did not interest him in the slightest, at least not after he had caught her last month trying a similar trick on an elderly, widowed earl who had absent-mindedly entered a maze during a costume ball. Nathaniel was on his way out of the shrubbery, having entered the dark labyrinth at night on a wager. He claimed he could get to the ornamental pergola in the middle and find his way back out in twenty minutes without getting himself entangled with any one of a number of stray females wandering the grounds. Unlike the earl, Nathaniel had been extremely careful to ensure he was quite alone during his rambles.
The old earl had been embarrassingly grateful when Nathaniel found him a
nd guided him out in time to save the decrepit peer from an unexpected engagement. And Nathaniel had collected his wager and considered the entire affair a good night’s work.
In contrast, Lady Alice had not been so pleased. She had to find her own way out of the maze since the remaining men found it too perilous to volunteer as her guide. Sadly, the redoubtable Peter Harnet had not been in attendance.
“Yes, but everyone knows a duke would not commit murder,” Harnet remarked. “And come to think on it, I would not mind being compromised. Too bad Lady Alice does not seem interested in younger sons.”
Nathaniel laughed. “Not yet. Give her time, or hang about a few mazes during costume balls.”
If any of the ladies would chance it in the future.
“Say, about that ward of your uncle’s,” Harnet said in a deceptively offhanded manner. “What about an introduction to her? I hear she is rich as a Prince of Persia.”
“No.” Nathaniel eyed him. The idea of Harnet chasing Miss Haywood was so revolting that Nathaniel had a hard time restraining the urge to break his best friend’s jaw. “She’s not interested in men.”
Harnet laughed. “Oh—ho, not that hoary old tale. A girl like her—”
“What do you mean, ‘a girl like her?’” Nathaniel asked, his hands forming tight fists.
“Why, did you not notice her bosom? You know what they say about women with small, high breasts—they are the most ardent lovers. I would not mind—”
Nathaniel’s fist connected soundly with Peter Harnet’s jaw, knocking him halfway across the street. Shaking his head and feeling his chin gingerly, Harnet stumbled to his feet. After a moment, he staggered over to the sidewalk.
Nathaniel glowered at him, not feeling the least bit of remorse. In fact, he felt good, very good, except for the intense pain radiating up his arm from his fractured hand.
“Wha-what did you do that for?” Harnet complained, trying not to lisp. Pulling a linen handkerchief from his pocket, he daubed at his swollen, split lower lip and spat blood into the street. He wavered dizzily and finally gripped Nathaniel’s arm to keep himself upright. “You will never go near her, is that clear?”
Harnet studied him. “What the devil—hey, ho, so that is how it is. How the mighty have fallen, and all the further, since they have to fall from such a great height.”
Nathaniel could barely understand him because of the cloth Harnet pressed to his mouth and the fact that he kept spitting out blood. But he heard enough to feel his temper rise again. “I haven’t fallen for anyone, you idiot. And particularly not my uncle’s ward. So unless you have a desire to lose more teeth, I would suggest you keep silent.”
Harnet chuckled and edged away, holding up one hand, when Nathaniel leaned in his direction.
“Your Grace!” a young female voice called from the door.
“Oh, God!” Nathaniel groaned, his blood curdling at the sound. “You have got to help me,” he said to Harnet. “That is Miss Mooreland. This is a bloody nightmare! Why will not they leave me alone?”
“A nightmare I would like to have, my friend.” Harnet slapped him on the shoulder. “Come along, then. How does a brief visit to White’s and a night in a rather small, slightly scruffy, bachelor flat sound?”
“Like heaven.”
Harnet shook his head, his blond locks falling into his eyes. “You and I have remarkably different ideas of heaven, Your Grace.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Harnet.”
Harnet jerked his head back in his characteristic gesture, flinging his hair out of his eyes. Unfortunately, the smooth gesture was ruined when he had to press his handkerchief to his split lip again. “Honestly, ever since you became the Duke of Peckham, you have become such a dull dog I barely recognize you. What happened to the smiling lad I knew at Cambridge, eh? Old stop-at-nothing, laughing Dodger, the bane of marriageable daughters’ mamas?”
“I believe I am still their bane.” Nathaniel snorted. “But I am not smiling near as much.”
Harnet shot a quick glance at Nathaniel’s frowning face. “I say, let us forget White’s for one evening, shall we? How does a nice quiet night in front of the fire sound? No females—just a lovely bottle of brandy.”
“Brilliant. You are saving my sanity, Harnet.”
“Just so you understand how much you owe me.”
“More than you can imagine. My peace of mind is worth much more than my life at the moment.”
Peter Harnet chuckled and shook his head, his blond hair falling into his eyes again.
Nathaniel relaxed, feeling the enormous weight of expectation lift from his shoulders for a few hours, anyway.
Chapter Eight
Constables can make notes regarding cases at the time they occur, or immediately afterwards. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
When the duke arrived home the following morning, he was even more relieved he had spent the night away.
“How many females?” Nathaniel asked while his butler relieved him of his cloak.
“Two, Your Grace. A Miss Emily Thistledown was found in the large wardrobe and Lady Catherine Woodley was in your dressing room.”
“I trust you provided them with suitable escorts when you sent them to their homes.”
“Yes, Your Grace. There will be no lingering difficulties. Most particularly since you elected to remain at the home of Mr. Harnet.”
“Lucky, that.” Nathaniel grinned and idly leafed through the envelopes on the sleek bird’s-eye maple table in the center of the hallway. “Anything else I should know about?”
His butler, Carter, harrumphed and rolled back on his heels. He fixed his stare on the ceiling above Nathaniel’s head. “Well, Your Grace. There was one other female, A Miss Mooreland.”
“Good God, not her again! You were busy last night, were you not? Where was she?”
“The young lady never actually made it into the house, Your Grace. The scullery found her in the garden, near the French doors that lead to the library. Michael accompanied her home.” Carter’s dour face nearly broke into a grin. “He volunteered.”
Nathaniel laughed. “That ought to teach her parents a lesson, eh, Carter? Letting a young girl on the loose like that. Serves them right if she falls in love with my groom. It will not be the first time, at any rate. A regular Don Juan is our lad, Michael. Did he return?”
“Not yet, Your Grace. But it is early, just after seven.”
“When did they leave?”
“A few minutes after two, I believe.”
“That’s five hours! The Mooreland’s establishment is less than a mile away.”
“Perhaps Michael stopped…elsewhere…on his way home.”
“Let us hope so. And let us just try to avoid creating any new scandals, shall we? Find out where he has been, and if need be, send him to The Orchards for a few months until he learns a bit of discretion. I have no use for a groom who cannot be trusted around females, and maybe the country air will cool his ardor.” His country estate, The Orchards, employed very few women under the age of fifty. If he sent Michael there, the groom would find precious little to do other than work.
“Yes, Your Grace. Oh, and might I suggest you read this morning’s paper? It appears there was a bit of a difficult situation last night and certain irresponsible parties noted your presence.”
Nathaniel swore and picked up the papers. There was a large article about the discovery of Lady Anne’s body and the fact that a duke had been present, although they tactfully left out which duke to avoid being sued.
As he read further down, his swearing grew bitterer. An anonymous source indicated the duke had been seen running from the gardens shortly before the discovery of the body. The source had to be Bolton. The words sounded too much like those he had said last night to be anyone else’s description.
“Blast!” Nathaniel swore again, twisting the paper and throwing it onto the table.
“As I mentioned, Your Grace. Unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? That�
��s a bit of an understatement, even for you.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Carter shifted his feet and threw an uncomfortable glance at the library door. “I beg your pardon Your Grace, I should have mentioned earlier. We have a—ahem—guest related to last night’s events.”
“A guest?” Nathaniel groaned. “Not another woman….”
“No, Your Grace. A detective from Bow Street. A Mr. Clark.”
A cool breeze lifted the fine hair on the back of Nathaniel’s neck with a prickling sensation. “Mr. Clark is here?”
“Yes, he insisted on waiting. I showed him to the library.”
Throwing the newspaper back onto the table, Nathaniel stalked to the library. He threw open the doors. Across the room, the stocky detective stood on tip-toes, peering up at a row of books bound in red leather. At the sound of Nathaniel’s footstep, Mr. Clark nearly fell over. He caught himself just in time by clutching the back of a leather arm chair.
“Your Grace!” he wheezed, pulling out his handkerchief and mopping his brow. “You startled me.”
Nathaniel growled something which a deaf man might have mistaken for an apology.
“Yes, well—” Mr. Clark wiped his brow more vigorously. He bowed several times while trying to stuff the damp piece of linen back into his pocket. “I am sorry to interrupt Your Grace. But I am sure you will understand we must ascertain all the facts in the matter at hand while they are still fresh—”
Mr. Clark’s overly officious way of speaking twanged along Nathaniel’s nerves. He sat down behind his desk and gestured impatiently. “I understand—get on with it. What do you want to know?”
“Ahem—excuse me,” Mr. Clark said, clearing his throat several times. Perspiring freely, he resorted to his handkerchief again. “Very warm in here, Your Grace.”
“Is it? I had not noticed.” Behind him, the windows were both open. A distinctly chilly breeze edged around the green velvet drapes and drifted lazily along the floor, nipping Nathaniel’s ankles.
However, studying Mr. Clark’s damp, gray face, Nathaniel wondered uncomfortably if the detective was on the verge of a heart attack. The sheer fear of interrogating a duke seemed to be more than Mr. Clark could handle.
