The Duke Who Knew Too Much (5 page)

Jarvis didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’ll see to the refreshments for your guests.”

“Wait a minute. Guests—as in plural? Who the devil 
...
”

Jarvis had already exited. The butler pretended deafness whenever he didn’t want to hear what Alaric had to say. His selective hearing ought to have gotten him dismissed, but both he and Alaric knew that would never happen. Jarvis had served the Strathavens all his life, his loyalty as steadfast as the rock upon which Strathmore Castle had been built.

During the years of the prior duke’s reign, Jarvis had broken with his master’s rules in only one arena as far as Alaric knew: the butler had shown kindness to a sick boy. With his antipathy toward any kind of weakness, the old duke had tried to cure Alaric’s “malingering” by forbidding all pleasures from the sickroom. Windows were bolted shut, diversions removed. Meals of gruel and water were eaten by the light of a single candle.

By smuggling the occasional treat onto the supper tray or a book under Alaric’s pillow, Jarvis had won Alaric’s loyalty forevermore.

“Doesn’t make him any less of an interfering codger,” Alaric muttered.

In canine agreement, Phobos made a chuffing noise and rolled onto his back.

Letting out an aggrieved breath, Alaric stalked toward the drawing room. His foul mood deepened with each step. He could scarcely credit the hellish events of the past two days. Helpless rage burgeoned within him at the thought of Clara. She’d been murdered under his roof—because of him.

Someone had laced his whiskey with poison. Because the decanter had been smashed, its contents lost, he couldn’t prove it, but it was the only explanation he could think of. With his one customary drink, he’d gotten ill and lost consciousness. With her three, Clara had paid the ultimate price.

Who had killed Clara? Who wanted him dead?

Possibilities whipped through his mind. Like any powerful man, he had his share of enemies, yet only one had threatened his life: Silas Webb. Alaric’s fists clenched as he pictured the portly bastard with the piggish face, sparse black hair, and spectacles.

Around four months ago, Alaric had taken over a failing mining company. He’d formed a consortium of investors and sold stock in the company to raise additional capital. Within weeks, he’d turned United Mining around, and the venture was now poised for success. In the process of overhauling the dilapidated company, Alaric had fired its longtime man of business, Silas Webb. Webb’s overwhelming incompetence—which had ranged from inaccurate ledger keeping to heinous expenditures—had sabotaged the already floundering enterprise.

Webb had been none too happy about his dismissal. He’d uttered threats as he’d been forcibly ejected from the premises. The week after Webb’s dismissal, a rock had shattered the front window of the office.

To Alaric’s mind, Silas Webb was the prime suspect in the poisoning, and he’d given the man’s name to the investigating magistrates.

Fat lot of good that has done
, he thought in disgust.

It had been two days since Clara’s death, and the magistrates had made no progress. Their post-mortem examination had yielded “inconclusive” results on the cause of her death. Nor could they find any trace of Webb, who’d apparently gone missing. Finally, they’d failed to capitalize on the other possible lead: Lily Hutchins, one of the maids at Alaric’s cottage, hadn’t shown up for work since the murder, and none of his other staff knew of her whereabouts. Her sudden disappearance was too much of a coincidence to be overlooked.

Grimly, Alaric knew that he would have to take matters into his own hands and hire his own investigators. As if finding a killer wasn’t enough, now he had to deal with his sodding half-brother.

Shoulders tensed, he entered the drawing room. Will stood by the windows facing the outside square. As always, the sight of his sibling stirred up a potent mix of emotions he didn’t care for. Yet he cared even less for the shock of seeing Miss Emma Kent sitting there. Dressed in yellow, she looked as fresh as a daffodil on his green velvet settee.

What the devil is she doing here?

She appeared deep in discussion with the gentleman sitting beside her. They had their dark heads bent together, and Alaric couldn’t make out their conversation. Whatever they were talking about, he didn’t like the intimacy of their pose.

“To what do I owe this sterling pleasure?” he drawled.

They all turned to him, Miss Kent and the stranger with her rising from their seats.

“Hello, Alaric.” Will’s cautious tone underscored the uncomfortable state of affairs between them, half-brothers who’d lived most of their lives apart. Who had nothing in common but one parent and a history of animosity.

“I think you know why I’m here,” his brother went on.

“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea ... Peregrine.”

Will stiffened at the use of his hated first name.

A petty satisfaction, Alaric acknowledged, but one had to get one’s pleasures where one could. Arching one brow, he added, “And you’ve brought guests along on this uninvited visit. What exceptional manners you have, little brother.”

“Damn you, Alaric—” Will bit out.

“Please forgive the intrusion, your grace.” Standing, the stranger was tall, close to Alaric’s own height. He looked to be in his forties, and his most distinguishing feature was his gaze; the clear golden brown irises conveyed a disconcerting keenness.

“I’m Ambrose Kent, Mr. McLeod’s partner in a private enquiry business.” The man bowed. “This is my sister, Miss Emma Kent.”

“His grace and I have met,” she said.

The hostility in her voice, in her big, tea-colored eyes sliced into him. The reason for her presence dawned upon him. Incredulity spread like frost over his insides.

The bloody chit wouldn’t dare.

“If memory serves, I didn’t extend an invitation to call at our prior meeting,” he said icily.

Miss Kent lifted her chin. “This isn’t a social call.”

“I asked the Kents to come.” Will came toward him, bristling with temper. “To help you, you stubborn bastard!”

It never failed to amaze him that he and Will shared a father; in looks and temperament, they were nothing alike. Will was the golden child, the one everyone had fawned over. Robust and sturdy as a lad, he’d grown into a strapping Scotsman with a hot temper to match.

Alaric, on the other hand, had learned to control his impulses with a cool head. No one had spoiled or coddled him; like the god Ares of Greek lore who’d been trapped for years in a bronze jar without his parents noticing, no one would have missed Alaric if he disappeared. He’d been the dark horse all his life, and, aye, he knew how to play the role well enough.

Alaric infused his tone with amused condescension. “Why would
I
need their help?”

“Lady Osgood.” Will spat the name, his hands on his hips.

“What about her?”

“You were found with a dead woman, Alaric—bluidy hell, it’s all over the papers!”

The papers, as far as Alaric was concerned, were full of shite. The half-truths were worse than lies. Gossip raged about Clara’s death; nothing was said of the attempt on his own. Since there’d been no witnesses and he’d suffered no lasting effects from his single shot of the adulterated whiskey, the world’s collective ignorance of the facts wasn’t surprising.

The magistrates had advised him to keep silent about his poisoning and not add fuel to the wildfire whilst they conducted their enquiry into the matter. He’d done so, not out of compliance with the useless bastards but because he wasn’t going to sink to the level of the gossips. He was a nobleman; he wasn’t about to give credence to scandal, plead his innocence to the ignorant masses.

Nonetheless, the rumors that he might somehow be involved in Clara’s death infuriated him. The notion of Miss Kent adding to the misconceptions made red flicker at the edges of his vision.

He iced his temper. Strolling over to the hearth, he propped one arm against the mantel in a deliberately indolent pose. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read, little brother.”

“’Tis only because I
am
your kin that I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Will said darkly. “Miss Kent has told me she witnessed an incident two nights ago. ’Twas at my behest that she agreed to come today and clear up the misunderstanding instead of going straight to the magistrates.”

“There is no misunderstanding, Mr. McLeod,” Miss Kent said.

Her conviction tested his self-control.
Stupid, meddling chit.

“Then why are you here?” he said scathingly.

“To say what I ought to have said that night.” Though her cheeks were pale, she lifted her chin. “’Twas my fault for not insisting that Lady Osgood report you to the authorities. I was swayed by her fear for her reputation ... and my own fear that she would succumb to hysterics and do something she might regret. But I was wrong, and she is dead. And now the only thing left for me to do is see justice served.”

His jaw ticked. “How, precisely, do you hope to accomplish that?”

“By demanding your signed confession,” she said steadily.

By God, the termagant had pushed him too far. He stalked toward her. Kent blocked his path, but she held her brother back.

“Let his grace say what he has to say to my face,” she said.

“You want the truth, Miss Kent?” Alaric said with lethal softness. “Here it is for the last bloody time. I’ve never hurt Clara. I most definitely did not kill her. But I am going to find out who did and your interference will only get in my way.”

“I
saw
you. You tied Lady Osgood up. You were
assaulting
her, and she begged you to stop!”

Damn her and her accusations. To make matters worse, he couldn’t deny them without further besmirching Clara’s reputation. Bad enough that she’d been found dead with him, a man not her husband; was he now to tell the world that she
enjoyed
being bound and, aye, spanked on occasion?

His chest tightened. Nay, he would protect her honor.

The way he ought to have protected her life.

“Is that true, Alaric?” Will bit out.

Devil take it. Why had he been under siege his whole life? Why was he now being attacked in his own home by his holier-than-thou brother, a righteous virgin, and some damned investigator? He was a duke, for Christ’s sake, a bloody peer of the realm. He didn’t have to answer to them—or to anyone.

“Miss Kent, as I said to you that night: you have no idea what you’re talking about. Lady Osgood told you nothing happened. You will leave it at that,” he decreed with glacial finality.

“Do
not
tell me what to do. I know what I saw, and if you won’t admit to it, I’ll tell the magistrates myself!”

His temper surged. “Test me, pet—and I promise you won’t like the results.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not anyone’s
pet
.”

“Aye, and there’s your problem.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you need a man to keep a rein on you. To keep you occupied with your own damned life so you won’t have the energy or time to meddle with mine,” he said succinctly.

“How
dare
you.”

Flags of pink stood out on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed rebelliously at him, her bosom rising and falling in swift surges beneath yellow silk. They were standing nearly toe to toe, neither backing down. Her defiance, her clean, feminine scent maddened him. His fingers flexed. He wanted to shake her for being so stubborn, so
wrong
. To haul her into his arms and kiss her until she admitted the error of her ways, surrendered to him completely—

“That’s enough, your grace.” Kent’s warning pierced his haze of enraged lust.

Will gripped his arm. “Alaric, stand down.”

He shook Will off, took a step back. Straightening his jacket, he got himself under control. “Get out.” It took every ounce of self-discipline not to snarl the words.

“Emma, we’re leaving,” Kent said sharply.

Her cheeks blazing, she looked as if she might refuse. Then she took the arm Kent held out. If looks were daggers, her departing glare would have left Alaric full of holes.

Alone with his brother, Alaric felt the tension in the room rise even higher, a warring miasma of past and present that clouded his faculties. The bitter fog sucked him into battle even as he struggled to master himself.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” Will said in disgust. “I don’t know why I bother trying.”

“I don’t recall asking for your help.”

“Ma was right. A leopard won’t ever change his spots,” Will shot back.

Words catapulted reflexively. “I suppose your mother died an uppity bitch then.”

The next instant, Will had him by the lapels. “You take that back, you bastard! My ma was the kindest, most loving woman who ever lived.”

Alaric shoved his brother off with equal force. “To
you
, maybe. Although we shared a household, we grew up in different families, little brother.”

“What the bluidy hell is that supposed to mean?”

The fact that Will remained ignorant to the truth enraged Alaric further. How pleasant it must be to wear a halo that blinded one from life’s ugliness.

“It means one of us had a loving home and the other didn’t,” he said tightly.

“You chose to go to Strathaven!” Will threw up his arms. “It was
your
choice. You went because you wanted money and prestige more than a real family.”

Better to be hated than pitied. Let him think what he wants.

With utter sangfroid, Alaric said, “Can you blame me for preferring a castle over a cottage?”

“Even that wasn’t enough for you,” Will said bitterly. “After our parents died, you had the chance to take me in, to make things right between us. God knows there was room to spare in that bluidy castle you lived in. But
you
talked our uncle out of it, made sure that I wasn’t extended a welcome. Thanks to you, I had no place to go but the regiment!”

You think the army was bad? You think you know the first thing about violence and brutality? At least on the battlefield, little brother, you could see the bayonets and bullets coming ...