The Duke Who Knew Too Much (7 page)

“As I’ve said before, the purpose of the cottage is privacy. The staff leaves at dusk and does not return until noon.”

“Beg pardon, your grace. We were just confirming that there were no witnesses to the victim’s poisoning—or, ahem, yours,” Dobbs said.

Incensed by the speculative glances exchanged between the pair, Alaric said cuttingly, “You do not need witnesses. You have my word as a peer of the realm. Now have you made any progress on the missing maid or Silas Webb?”

“No, your grace.” Dixon wiped his brow. “That is, we’ve nothing new to report on Miss Hutchins. We have, however, searched Mr. Webb’s office.”

“And?”

“It appears he has vacated the premises—and rather hastily, I might add. He didn’t take much with him, and, according to the landlord, he left no forwarding address.”

“We’ll keep looking for him, of course,” Dobbs mumbled.

Capital. Now I can sleep at night.
Disgusted, Alaric stood to signal the end of the interview.

The pair of blundering idiots scrambled to their feet.

“Thank you for your time, your grace—” Dixon began.

“Then do not continue to waste it,” he snapped.

After the magistrates’ departure, Alaric stood, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out the window at the immaculate green square surrounded by townhouses. Typically the sight calmed him, reminded him of how far he’d come. Once he’d only dreamed of such privilege; now, through a combination of fate and hard work, he had an ancient title, estates in England and Scotland, and the power and wealth to do anything he wanted.

So why did peace
still
elude him?

Why was he always under siege? Why did everyone—his family, Laura, the
ton
, even these magisterial lack wits—try to bring him down? What was so loathsome about him that he invited continual attack?

Bitterly, he wondered if contentment was destined to remain beyond his reach. Perhaps happiness was a mirage, the way Strathmore Castle had appeared like a refuge ... and Laura had seemed like love. As he looked out into the empty green expanse, a pair of well-dressed children—a dark-haired boy and girl—entered his field of vision. They skipped ahead of their nanny, laughing as they ran past the gate into the park. A pair of happy, pink-cheeked imps.

Something in his chest throbbed. An old bruise that never healed.

Or a foolish longing that wouldn’t die.

Cursing, he scrubbed a hand over his face.
Pull it together, man.
Being targeted for murder was no excuse to turn into a maudlin fool. The world be damned: he would take matters into his own hands as he’d always done. If he’d learned anything, it was that the only one he could rely upon was himself.

Take control and take action: that was his motto.

He’d already retained Runners to hunt for Silas Webb and the missing maid. He’d hired on extra footmen for personal security. At this point, there was naught to do but carry on; he wasn’t going to let the threat of murder interfere with his routine.

He was considering a stop at Gentleman Jackson’s or the newer Apollo’s Academy for a round of boxing when a carriage led by matched grays stopped in front of his steps. The man who descended was tall and fit, dressed with puritanical severity in a dark jacket, trousers, and an unadorned waistcoat. The only note of color was the tawny hair curling beneath the brim of his plain hat.

Minutes later, Alaric received his visitor in the study.

He’d met Gabriel Ridgley, the Marquess of Tremont, at Oxford, and the two had become fast friends. Back then, Tremont had been the spare to the title, and he’d left midway through his studies to live with some wealthy relative abroad. He and Alaric had lost touch; not until last year had they come into contact again. Alaric had been surprised by how somber his once mischievous friend had become.

Now Tremont didn’t game or drink to excess and dedicated himself to the restoration of his estates. Although his wife had died some time ago, there were no rumors of him taking a lover or mistress; he was either a monk—which Alaric doubted—or perfectly discreet. Owing to his exemplary behavior, the
ton
had dubbed Tremont the
Angel Marquess
.

Time hadn’t eroded all of Alaric and Tremont’s commonalities, however. They discovered an avid shared interest in business. Unlike other peers who didn’t deign to dirty their hands in business matters, the two spent many a night at their club discussing the merits of various financial schemes. When it came to money, they had a similar philosophy: the more the better.

After exchanging greetings, the men settled into the wingchairs by the fire.

“How are you, Strathaven?” Tremont said.

“I’m fine,” Alaric said curtly. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because of the scandal.” Tremont leveled a grey gaze at him. “The gossips are saying someone stepped forward with proof that you were involved in Lady Osgood’s death.”

Bloody Emma Kent. I’m going to wring her neck.

“The testimony is utter claptrap.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Tremont steepled his hands. “Unfortunately, it’s having an impact on our venture.”

Hell’s teeth.
The news pierced Alaric’s gut like an arrow. Tremont had been one of the first investors he’d tapped to join the United Mining venture, and their partnership had proved fruitful. In just over a month, they would hold a General Meeting to finalize an expansion plan that would include the purchase of several key mines in Scotland. When the vote went through, Alaric was certain stock prices would hit the roof.

Everything had been going according to plan … until now.

“How bad is it?” he said grimly.

“We’ve lost a half-dozen investors, Surrey and Burrowes amongst them.”

“
Damnation.
” Alaric’s hands clenched the arms of the chair at the mention of two of their scheme’s largest investors.

“That might only be the start. Noblemen catch a whiff of scandal, and they bolt like it’s a fire. No one wants to be caught in a burning house.” Tremont paused before saying bluntly, “You should know that the current business has also resurrected talk about your previous marriage.”

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.