The Duke Who Knew Too Much (12 page)

A shiver ran through her. She ought to have been shocked. Disgusted.

Instead, his words set off a deep, explosive resonance that shook the foundations of her being.

’Twas a yearning she could put no words to—an urge so terrifying that for the first time in her life, she’d not only stood down, but fled. Only she couldn’t run from herself. From the strange, mortifying,
exhilarating
impulses that Strathaven had awakened her.

She’d dreamed of him last night. Of them, tangled skin against skin. In sleep, she had no control over her will, and she’d let him do everything he’d described to her. His hands, his mouth, his command ... Pleasure had trapped her like a bell jar, and there’d been no escaping the confines of her own surrender. He’d owned her breath, her body, her soul—and she’d never felt more free. She’d awoken bathed in perspiration, the tips of breasts pebbled and throbbing, her sex slick with dew ...

“I don’t think I’ll have much use for a new wardrobe,” Violet droned on. “I’m planning on joining Astley’s and becoming a circus performer.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Emma said.

Silence met her words.

She looked up from the bowl. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I wasn’t listening, was I?”

“Not to a single word I was saying.” Vi’s golden-brown eyes narrowed. “What
is
the matter with you, anyway? You’ve been acting strangely all this week.”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just ... preoccupied.”

“By what? Making salve?” Vi’s gaze rolled upward. “Back in Chudleigh Crest, you did that while tending to Papa, sewing up petticoats for me and Polly, putting out Harry’s latest fire,
and
cooking supper. No, something’s going on,”—Vi tapped her chin—“and I’d put my money on the duke.”

Though her pulse skittered, Emma spooned salve into the waiting jars. “I’ve cleared up the matter with the magistrates. I’ll have no further dealings with him.”

Why doesn’t that make me feel relieved?

She told herself that things were better this way. She had to admit that she was not as in command of her carnal impulses as she’d believed, and staying away from Strathaven was clearly the safest option. After all, she’d offered to make amends; he’d refused. She’d done what she could. As for furthering her investigative skills, she’d simply have to find another way to convince Ambrose ...

The sound of rustling silk made her turn to the doorway. One look at Marianne’s grave expression, and even Violet said in alarm, “What’s wrong, Marianne?”

“I’ve just received some rather disturbing news.”

Emma’s nape tingled with premonition. “What is it?”

“It’s Strathaven,” Marianne said. “He’s been shot.”

Chapter Twelve

If there was anything Alaric despised, it was the sick bed.

He’d spent half his youth in one, the boredom and helplessness nearly as bad as the illness itself. He’d hated the quacks; summoned by Aunt Patrice, they’d arrived to Strathmore Castle in droves, vials of potions rattling in their carrying cases. Some supposed cures had actually made matters worse; after being dosed with a tincture of belladonna, he’d retched for hours. Writhing and shivering in his own sweat, he’d prayed for an end to the suffering.

Lady Patrice had nursed him tirelessly through it all. Having lost her own son to scarlet fever, she wasn’t taking any chances with her new ward. Between her, the stifling sickroom, and uncontrollable episodes of pain, he’d felt like an osprey stuffed in a canary cage.

Like Ares imprisoned in that bloody jar.

His gaze went to the painting on the wall, which brought that mythological scene to life in darkly exquisite oils. He’d commissioned the work from an Italian master, and it showed the God of War, his muscles rippling and fists raised against the curved walls of his cell. The artist had captured Ares’ expression admirably, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. It wasn’t meant to be.

To Alaric, it was a reminder: he’d never let himself be trapped again.

“How are we doing today?” came a bright, female voice.

Annabel McLeod entered the room, Will trotting at her heels. The two had showed up after the shooting—summoned by Jarvis, the old betrayer—and proceeded to nurse Alaric, who’d been too weak to fend them off.

Now he glared at his sister-in-law. She had pulled back the sleeve of his robe without so much as a by-your-leave and was fussing with the dressing on his right arm.

“Are you trying to finish off what the assassin started?” he said.

Annabel narrowed her violet eyes at him. No tepid lass, his brother’s wife. Her temper could flare as brightly as her hair. The Scotsman in him respected a woman who could give as good as she got. Of course, this made him think of Miss Kent.

Did she know that he’d been shot? If she did, would she care?

Only insofar as she’d like to finish the job
.

“If you’d hold still instead of thrashing like a lamprey, I’d have an easier time of it,” Annabel said tartly. “Dr. Abernathy said to check the wound at least once a day.”

“He may be Scottish, but he’s still a quack,” Alaric grumbled.

“You keep your tone civil, or I’ll take my leave and my wife with me,” his brother growled from the other side of the bed.

Turning his head on the pillow, Alaric inquired, “Oh, you’re still here?”

“You bloody ingrate—”

“Enough, you dunderheads.” Annabel peeled away his bandage with enough force to make him inhale sharply. Her auburn brows knit together as she peered at his injury. “The wound’s oozing, but it doesn’t look infected. The mold paste appears to be doing its job.”

“The paste was a fine touch, lass,” Will said. “Brains as well as beauty. I’m a lucky fellow.”

Seeing the smug expression on his brother’s face, Alaric thought he might be ill again. For all his brawn, Will was naught but an oversized pup when it came to his wife. What a chump.

Although he had to admit that Annabel had proved rather handy in this instance. The daughter of a country physician, she’d been the one to suggest smearing his wound with the concoction of fermented bread, an infection preventative that her father had used with great success. Dr. Abernathy had been intrigued in her fount of knowledge, and the two had had quite a time of it, debating ways to treat Alaric’s injury. He’d felt like a side of beef with two chefs arguing over which was the best way to serve him up.

“I’m the lucky one.” Adoration shone in Annabel’s eyes as she gazed at her husband.

Devil take it, the two should just find a bedchamber and be done with it.

She set a tray over Alaric’s lap. “As for you, your grace, you’d best eat something if you hope to regain your strength.”

His stomach churned at the sight of the gruel; it brought back memories of the old duke’s punishments. Of the tasteless mush he’d been given to cure him of his “malingering.” He’d sooner starve than eat a spoonful of such shite again.

“I’m not hungry,” he said testily. “I’d like rest and privacy, if you please.”

Fists on her hips, Annabel looked ready to argue, but Will intervened. “Not until we talk.”

“About what?” Alaric said.

“Who’s out to kill you, for starters.”

“That’s none of your affair.” In a moment of weakness—which he chalked up to blood loss—he’d told his brother everything, from the poison in his whiskey to the shooter last night.

Will glowered at him. “We’re kin. Of course it’s my affair.”

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.