The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (37 page)

Until Kent coughed and McLeod said loudly, “I see two words in your future, Carlisle:
special license
.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Back at Traverstoke the next afternoon, feeling much more the thing after a good night’s rest, Violet gathered with her family and friends in a private sitting room. Magistrate Jones and Billings were also present. Ambrose had just concluded his explanation of yesterday’s events.

“So, in the end, what began as an accident became a crime of opportunity.” The magistrate sat at the head of the circle in a high-backed chair, his expression severe. “Miss Turbett pushed Monique de Brouet, unintentionally injuring her. When Goggston came upon the unconscious woman, he found the necklace on her and tried to take it. But she came to, resisted, and he smothered her.”

“That is the gist of it, sir,” Ambrose said. “It turns out that Goggston was being hounded by the cutthroats from whom he borrowed money. In trying to keep in step with his friends, he’d landed himself in desperate straits. When the necklace presented itself to him, he saw it as the solution to all his problems.”

“Who would have thought Goggs capable of such evil?” Em murmured to Violet.

Goggston’s voice rang in Vi’s head.
She laughed at me, taunted me when I tried to take the necklace from her—and now she’s dead. Have a care, or I’ll do to you what I did to her…

At the time, Vi had been too focused on getting free to be frightened. But now an icy rivulet trickled down her spine. How wrong she’d been about Goggs. On the outside, he’d seemed amicable and innocuous yet on the inside…

She felt a hand on her shoulder; turning her head, she looked up at Richard, who was standing behind her chair. The understanding in his eyes anchored her. As ever, his presence was solid and reassuring.

“So how did he plan to get away with the crime?” Magistrate Jones asked.

“I don’t think he had much of a plan, sir, but he did manage some inspired deviousness. When he saw Mr. Murray’s signet on the chain around Monique’s neck, he hit upon the idea of framing Mr. Murray by placing the ring in the victim’s hand. Then he went and buried the sapphire necklace and the blood-stained pillow in the woods for safekeeping. As the days went on and no mention was made of Mr. Murray’s involvement, he began to fear that his ruse hadn’t worked.”

Violet exchanged a guilty glance with Richard, and he spoke up.

“I would like to offer my apology again, sirs, for impeding the investigation,” he said in grave tones. “I was trying to protect my brother, but instead I paved the road to hell.”

“Having started down that road myself once or twice,” Ambrose said dryly, “I know how tempting it can be.”

Knowing this was her brother’s way of saying bygones were bygones, relief poured through Violet. She wanted her family to adore Richard as much as she did.

“Back to Goggston,” Ambrose went on, “he panicked that we were closing in, and he began to strike out. The day of the village fair, he planted the pillow in Mr. Murray’s room. And then he drugged Violet, hoping to discredit her and Carlisle, whom he’d feared had caught his scent.” Ambrose paused. “He got careless with that last move, and when Carlisle questioned him about the poisoned drink, he knew it was only a matter of time before he was found out. So he bought himself time by blaming Parnell and made a last bid for escape—kidnapping Violet to use as a bargaining chip.”

“Very thorough, Mr. Kent,” the magistrate said with approval.

“What I still don’t understand,” Billings put in, “is how Monique de Brouet arranged for such a clever switch. Now that I have the real necklace back in my possession,”—the banker’s nod to Ambrose passed for gratitude—“the resemblance between it and the fake copy is extraordinary.”

“The answer to that question was provided by Jeanne, the victim’s maid, who Mr. Lugo tracked down and my sisters interviewed this morning. I shall leave it to them to share their findings,” Ambrose said.

All eyes turned to Violet and Emma.

“You start, dear,” the latter said with an encouraging nod.

Taking a breath, Violet began. “Jeanne told us that the necklace was, in fact, a family heirloom of the de Brouets. Monique’s mama had had to pawn her favorite piece of jewelry to pay for their escape from The Terror. Growing up, Monique had heard much about the necklace and possessed a small portrait of her mother wearing the piece. When the necklace went up for auction several months ago, Monique recognized it straight away. She wanted to get back what she felt was hers: the legacy that had been robbed from her. According to Jeanne, Monique didn’t think of it as stealing.”

“Not stealing indeed,” Billings muttered. “I paid for that jewelry fair and square. I have the receipt to prove it—which makes de Brouet no better than a common pickpocket!”

Beside him, Gabby wore a pained expression. “But, Father, if her family lost the heirloom due to such horrific circumstances—”

“Money paid equals ownership,” the banker said sharply. “That necklace belongs to me.”

Gabby bit her lip and fell silent.

Violet rushed to fill the awkward silence. “Jeanne says she tried to dissuade her mistress from the plan, but Monique became obsessed with reclaiming what she saw as her birthright. When she received an invitation to perform here, she saw it as a stroke of Fate. She had a fake copy of the necklace made, using her mama’s portrait as a guide. She researched the house, obtained a map of its inner workings, and made her plan.”

“Which went awry when she ran into Miss Turbett and Mr. Burns in the library,” Emma added. “Those were Monique’s fatal flaws: she was an opportunist and too reckless by far. She thought she could profit from discovering the lovers’ elopement plans. Instead, she drove Miss Turbett to act rashly… which led her to lose everything.”

“And this maid, Jeanne, why did she run?” the magistrate asked.

“She saw it as her sacred duty to protect the de Brouet name. She feared that if she stayed the truth would be coerced from her,” Violet explained. “She didn’t want to taint Monique’s name—for the world to see the last of the de Brouets as a common thief. So she fled to preserve her mistress’ honor.” Vi paused, adding truthfully, “And she’s also a bit batty.”

“Poor thing was frightened half to death,” Em said. “Jeanne may have survived The Terror, but it left its mark. And now she has no place to go. No position or pension after all those years of faithful service.”

Strathaven narrowed his eyes at his duchess. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re the most generous of husbands,” Em said brightly.

“Bloody hell.” He sighed. “Am I also now the employer of one batty old maid?”

“Did I mention you’re clever as well as generous?”

The magistrate rose. “I believe I have all the information I require to close the case. The true villain is in custody, and the necklace has been returned to its rightful owner. The only matter left to attend to is the release of Mr. Murray, which I shall arrange for forthwith.”

Vi shared a relieved smile with Richard.

Billings escorted the magistrate out.

When the door closed, Ambrose said, “All’s well that ends well, I suppose. Mr. Murray is free and Goggston behind bars. And, as it turns out, Miss Turbett will have her happy ending.”

“She will?” Violet said.

“Given her involvement—albeit unintentional—in Monique’s death, Miss Turbett is ruined. She’ll never live down the scandal. Since he wants grandchildren, Turbett decided that Burns is a better choice than none at all. Once the investigation is closed, Miss Turbett and Burns are headed to Gretna.”

Richard exhaled, and Vi understood his reaction immediately.

“Oh no. Wick’s debt to Garrity,” she blurted.

“Mr. Murray’s debt is to
Garrity
?” Ambrose said sharply.

Vi wanted to kick herself. “Um, I…”

“It’s all right, lass,” Richard said. “Your brother already knows about Wick’s debt. He just didn’t know to whom the money was owed.” Rubbing his neck, he said, “I’ll think of some other way to help Wick…”

“Why don’t you just speak to Mr. Garrity?” Gabby said curiously.

Looking ill at ease, Richard said, “It’s, er, not that simple, Miss Billings.”

“Why not?” Gabby’s blue eyes were puzzled. “Mr. Garrity is ever so kind and understanding. I’m sure if you’d just explain the situation…”

“Garrity is one of the most dangerous and ruthless men in all of London,” Ambrose said flatly.

The shock on Gabby’s face confirmed Vi’s suspicion: the girl had formed a
tendre
for the moneylender.

Color suffused Gabby’s cheeks. “I’m certain that isn’t true, Mr. Kent.”

“I’m afraid it is, my dear,” Emma said gently.

“Well, I don’t believe it.” Gabby rose, her chin lifted. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to attend to.”

She left the room.

“Should I go after her?” Vi said worriedly. “Try to talk some sense into her?”

“You can try. We all can.” Em sighed. “But that doesn’t mean she’s going to listen.”

~~~

Closing the door to the suite that evening, Ambrose called for his wife.

Her voice drifted through the doorway of the adjoining room. “Just finishing up. I’ll be right with you.”

Sprawling on a divan, he declared, “This is the most exhausting party I’ve ever attended.”

“You say that every time, darling,” she called back.

“This time, I mean it.” He shrugged out of his jacket and unknotted his cravat. “How many parties involve solving a murder, returning stolen goods,
and
planning a wedding for one’s sister?”

“You’re happy for Violet. And you like Carlisle. Admit it.”

Marianne knew him too well. The fact was he did like Carlisle, whom he judged a reliable and honorable sort of man. One couldn’t fault a fellow for trying to protect his kin, after all.

More importantly, there was the way Violet had blossomed under Carlisle’s influence: overnight, Ambrose’s middle sister had matured, her girlish exuberance transforming into the glowing confidence of a young woman in love. Ambrose could scarce credit the changes in the little madcap.

Carlisle, for his part, wasn’t one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but there was no mistaking the deep and abiding emotion in the Scot’s eyes whenever he looked at his bride-to-be. As if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.

Smiling, Ambrose leaned his head back and slung an arm over his eyes. Yawning, he said, “You’re right, of course. I’m glad Vi will be settling down with a decent chap. But I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave this place tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will come soon enough.” Marianne’s voice entered the room. “In the meantime…”

He removed his arm, looked up. All vestiges of fatigue vanished, replaced by hot, belly-clawing hunger. The front of his trousers instantly tented.

For his wife was standing in front of him—and she wasn’t wearing a stitch.

“The party’s not over yet, darling,” she said with a sultry smile.

She lifted one knee onto the divan, then the other, straddling his lap.

Then she proceeded to affirm yet again that he was, indeed, the luckiest bastard alive.

Chapter Forty

Ten days later

Filled with triumph, Richard swept his new wife into his arms. With the skirts of her lemon yellow travelling dress billowing over his arm, he carried her over the threshold. Complements of the Tremonts, their bridal bower was the finest suite at Mivart’s, a grand London hotel. The lavish room was done up in shades of ivory and gold and boasted separate sitting and bathing rooms attached to the main boudoir.

“This suite is the
utmost
, isn’t it?” Violet said gleefully.

Captivated by her glowing eyes, he said huskily, “Aye. The utmost.”

Setting her gently down on her feet, he watched with amusement as she tossed off her bonnet and gloves and scampered through the rooms like a curious kitten. Her explorations were shared with him via her adorably scattered commentary.

“… oh look, they’ve left us a bottle of champagne… by Golly, you ought to see the bathing tub, it’s enormous… butter and jam, the bed is the largest I’ve
ever
seen…”

Her last comment got his attention. Grabbing the bottle of champagne and two flutes, he went into the bedchamber… and stopped short at the sight of Violet on her back on the cream-colored counterpane. Her arms and legs were stretched out as if she were lying on a bed of snow, making a snow angel. She was grinning up at the canopy.

Joy punctured his chest. Standing in the doorway watching his wife at play, he vowed to protect her youthful exuberance for as long as he lived. Then she leaned up on her elbows, and the flirtatious warmth in her tawny eyes turned his thoughts from her adorable qualities to her womanly ones. Her lithe form and gorgeous face made his blood thrum, beckoning him like a fever dream.

But he didn’t want to rush things. This was their wedding night; he wanted to make it special for her. And if the fact that she was a virgin made him just the slightest bit uneasy, he reasoned that it was only natural. For tonight was to be a first for him as well: he’d never taken a lady’s innocence before.

Popping the cork of the champagne (and trying to push a related image out of his mind), he poured two flutes of the bubbly golden liquid and brought them over to the bed. He handed Violet one and sat next to her on the mattress.

He tapped his glass to hers. “Cheers, lass.”

“Cheers.” Her eyes out-sparkled the champagne.

For a few moments, they drank in companionable silence.

“Did you enjoy the wedding?” he said.

As McLeod had predicted, they’d wed by special license, the small ceremony taking place at the Strathavens’ townhouse. It hadn’t been a big to-do; they’d only invited her family, Wick, and a few close friends to share in the special occasion. Since all Richard had wanted was to make Violet his, he was well satisfied with the wedding. But was she similarly so?

“It was first-rate,” she said happily. “Everything from the ceremony to luncheon to the tossing of the bouquet.”

“Tell me the truth: were you aiming for Miss Billings?” he asked.