A Duke is Never Enough

by Darcy Burke

  “Not murder?”

  “No, because you’re going to argue self-defense. You just told me you hadn’t intended to harm Drobbit. The man was stealing from people, and you were trying to put a stop to it. You quarreled. Drobbit attacked you, and you shot him.” Harry paused, his gaze fixing intently on Marcus. “You brought a pistol with you?”

  Damn. Marcus hadn’t thought about that part. “No, Drobbit had one. I threw it in the Thames.”

  Harry stared at him, his expression slightly dubious. He did not, perhaps, entirely trust everything Marcus said. “Assuming they find you guilty of manslaughter, you should claim privilege of peerage. You may escape this with only paying a fine. Or perhaps even acquittal—don’t underestimate your number of friends.”

  “Or I might hang. I realize it’s been a while since the Earl Ferrers was executed for murder, but not so long ago.” Nearly sixty years, but people would remember that it wasn’t unheard of for a peer to be taken to Tyburn.

  “You aren’t going to hang,” Harry said. “Which is why you aren’t going to confess.”

  “I am going to confess, but I appreciate you trying to help me—you’re a good friend.”

  Harry sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his wide chest. “I just wish you hadn’t fought with Drobbit—or Sainsbury.”

  “I regret the altercation with my cousin, but he incited that. I will readily admit, however, that I provoked Sainsbury.” And he’d do it again. Happily.

  “I understand you defamed him?” At Marcus’s nod, he continued. “Impugned his manhood is the rumor.”

  “That’s accurate.”

  “What did he do to invite your wrath?”

  “He insulted the wrong person.” Insulted didn’t begin to describe Sainsbury’s crimes, but Marcus wouldn’t share the specifics.

  “Are you sure you want to confess?”

  “I am.” Marcus’s gut clenched again. He had the sense he was falling into an abyss. He cocked his head at his old friend. “You don’t believe I did this.”

  “I don’t. But I believe you want me to think you did.” Harry stood. “Tomorrow, the magistrate will make a record of the murder and accusing you of committing it. If you choose to plead guilty right then, I am not sure what will happen. Please plead not guilty to give yourself a chance.”

  A chance for what? He really didn’t know if he would hang, even if he did plead guilty to the magistrate tomorrow. There was an inherent privilege to being a marquess, which was ridiculous. He came into this world the same as any other man and would exit it the same way. Why should he benefit from something so arbitrary as blood?

  Marcus slowly rose.

  “I can see you’re thinking about it,” Harry said. “Good. I’ll come fetch you in the morning. Unless I can discover what really happened before then.”

  That couldn’t happen. He’d find out Phoebe’s father had done it. Marcus took a few steps toward Harry. “Don’t. I did this. No one else. Let it go. Please.”

  Harry’s answering stare was dark, his jaw tight. “Do you want to sign a confession now, then? If you do, I can’t let you leave.”

  Goddammit. The room shrank even more. Marcus tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. “Tomorrow.”

  “Good decision.” Only Harry’s gruff tone didn’t sound as if he approved at all. But then, why would he if he believed Marcus was lying?

  “Don’t worry overmuch about me, Harry,” Marcus said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Harry shook his head. “I sure as hell hope so.” He went to the door and opened it, gesturing with his head for Marcus to precede him.

  Marcus left the building and climbed into his waiting coach. He looked down at his hands to see if they were shaking. They were not.

  He’d count that as a victory.

  The truth was that while he knew what he was doing, he wasn’t at all sure how it would turn out. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he cared. For the first time in his life, he felt truly despondent. And dammit if that didn’t scare him to death.

  Chapter 15

  Collecting herself after Marcus had left had taken Phoebe some time. She’d gone out to the yard and viciously pruned a pair of shrubs. When she’d finished, she hoped she hadn’t stunted them forever.

  Eager to clean up after her exertions, Phoebe awaited the arrival of fresh water in her chamber. She was delighted to see that Meg, the maid her father had terminated and who had ended up working for Sainsbury, was the one to deliver it.

  “Meg, you’re here!” In the cloud of her sadness about Marcus, Phoebe had forgotten she would be coming today. The housekeeper had arranged it the day before yesterday.

  Meg, a young maid, perhaps not even quite twenty, grinned as she poured the steaming water into the basin. She was already garbed in the clothing Phoebe provided, something she did whenever anyone came to work in her household. The dark peach color of her gown brought out the warm hues of her dark blonde hair. “I am, miss. Thank you for the new dress.”

  “I’m so glad it seems to fit well enough.”

  “Indeed it does. I can’t thank you enough for hiring me away from Mr. Sainsbury.” She flinched as she stepped back from the basin and went to set the empty bucket near the door.

  “I’m so glad to have you. I’m just sorry you ended up in Sainsbury’s household at all.” Phoebe had learned from the housekeeper that Meg had leapt upon the opportunity to leave. She’d said she was miserable working for Sainsbury, which hadn’t surprised Phoebe, of course.

  “I own I’m worried about those who are left,” Meg said, clasping her hands as her brow puckered.

  Phoebe turned her back to Meg. “Would you mind unfastening my gown? Page is out this afternoon.”

  Meg loosened the ties and then helped Phoebe to undress.

  “Are you concerned for their safety?” Phoebe asked, wondering if Sainsbury had abused any of his female servants the way he had her. She stood at the basin and washed her arms, face, and neck.

  “Yes, I think so. He didn’t physically harm any of us—not in the way one would think, anyway.”

  Phoebe, clad in just her corset and chemise, turned to look at Meg. “I understand. You recall that I was betrothed to Sainsbury. He didn’t physically hurt me either, not in the traditional sense where one might be bloody or bruised. But he did take physical advantage, and he did cause harm.”

  Tears formed in Meg’s eyes, but she blinked them away before they fell. Phoebe clasped her hands and gave them a squeeze. “You’re safe now. And let’s see what we can do to deliver the others to safety too.”

  Meg nodded. “Thank you, miss. You’re so very kind. I do worry that Mr. Sainsbury might start actually hurting someone. He’s quite fond of his pistols, always cleaning them, shooting them, bandying them about. He carries one on his person nearly all the time. It makes us nervous. I was so relieved when Mrs. Tarcove came to see me, especially since he’d arrived home early Wednesday morning with gunpowder on his clothing. We speculated that he’d perhaps fought a duel, but we didn’t hear of one. Did you?” Meg winced slightly. “Begging your pardon, miss. I don’t mean to gossip.”

  Phoebe was intrigued by all this information about the man she’d escaped marrying. She’d never felt more fortunate—he sounded even worse than she’d thought him to be. “I am not aware of a duel.” But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. She could well imagine Sainsbury getting into such trouble.

  “We wondered because he came home Monday night in a rage with blood all over him, said his nose had been broken in a fight.” Meg went to the wardrobe to fetch a fresh petticoat.

  A fight? On Monday… That night was emblazoned in her mind forever, because it was the first night she and Marcus had lain together. Marcus had also been bleeding—supposedly from hitting his head on the hack. “Do you know whom he fought with?” Phoebe asked.

  Meg returned and dropped the garment over Phoebe’s head before tying it in place. “Mr. Sainsbury didn’t say, but I do recal
l him muttering the name Ripley several times. He seemed quite angry when he did so. Perhaps that’s who he fought?”

  Of course it was—Phoebe had absolutely no doubt. Her heart tripped, and she sucked in a breath. Why hadn’t Marcus told her he’d fought with Sainsbury? What had happened to provoke the conflict? She’d told him what Sainsbury had done… Had Marcus started a fight with him? Worse, had they fought a duel?

  No, that couldn’t have happened. Sainsbury would likely be dead. She’d heard that Marcus was an excellent shot—it was part of his scandalous reputation.

  She longed to ask Marcus about their fight, but how could she do that now? Her anger at him resurfaced. Oh, he was a frustrating man!

  Calming her emotions while Meg fastened her into a gown, Phoebe focused on the problem at hand: Sainsbury and the gunpowder on his clothing. Something about that tugged at her thoughts, and it wasn’t because she thought he and Marcus had somehow fought a duel from which they’d both escaped unscathed. Unless Sainsbury had been wounded? “When Sainsbury came home with gunpowder on his clothing, was he hurt?”

  Meg shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, he was in a rather cheerful mood. It was very strange. Whatever happened, he was quite pleased about it. We determined he must have won the duel.”

  Phoebe’s blood went cold. Had he—? No, it couldn’t be possible. And yet she was fixated on the possibility that Sainsbury had killed Marcus’s cousin. But why would he do that?

  To make it look as though Marcus had done it.

  She wasn’t sure she believed that. Sainsbury was despicable, but why would he seek to completely ruin Marcus? Not just ruin him, but potentially see him hanged, since that was the punishment for murder.

  It made some sense. Or maybe Phoebe was simply trying to find a way to save Marcus. Discovering Sainsbury to be the villain in this scenario would be particularly satisfying, which meant it likely wasn’t true.

  Phoebe summoned a feeble smile for Meg. “Thank you for your help. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Meg dipped a curtsey before she picked up the basin of water. “I am too, miss.” As she went to pour the used water into the bucket, Phoebe donned her shoes and tidied her hair. All the while, her mind turned at the possibility of Sainsbury’s involvement in Drobbit’s death.

  Meg departed and then returned almost immediately. “There’s someone here to see you. Mr. Harry Sheffield from Bow Street.”

  Phoebe’s blood turned colder still. “Thank you, Meg. Please let Culpepper know I’ll meet Mr. Sheffield in the garden room.”

  Taking a final look in the glass, Phoebe smoothed her hair, then hurried downstairs. She composed herself and slowed as she entered the garden room. Mr. Sheffield stood near the glass doors that led to the garden. He was a massive presence, both taller and wider across the shoulders than Marcus, which seemed an impossible feat to Phoebe.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sheffield.” It was nearly evening, actually.

  He bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Lennox. I do hope I am not intruding upon you.”

  “Not at all. Would you care to sit?”

  “Thank you.” He took her favorite chair near the hearth, prompting her to find another chair nearby. “I do hope you won’t think me too forward—and I want you to know that I will do my best to protect anything you tell me here with regard to your reputation.”

  Phoebe’s curiosity was intrigued, but her thoughts were agitated after what she’d just learned from Meg. “I appreciate you saying that.”

  “Pardon the indelicacy of my inquiry, but is it acceptable—to you—for me to assume that when I visited here early Wednesday that Lord Ripley had spent the night here?”

  She didn’t want to lie, not about anything to do with what happened to Marcus’s cousin. “Yes.”

  “What time did he arrive that night?”

  “About…one, I think. Maybe shortly before.”

  Sheffield clasped his hands in his lap. “How did he seem?”

  Phoebe wasn’t sure how to answer that question. She thought back to that night. He’d come into her chamber, and she’d poured him a glass of port. He barely drank any of it because she’d stripped her dressing gown away almost immediately. There was little conversation.

  “Fine,” she answered.

  “He didn’t seem agitated or upset?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. He was as he always is—utterly in possession of his control and desires.” She blushed at her embarrassing choice of words. Plus, it wasn’t entirely true. He’d nearly lost control, and she’d had to remind him to don the French letter. “Why do you ask?” She wanted to know, and she didn’t want to leave the last word she’d said hanging in the air.

  Sheffield frowned. “He came to Bow Street earlier and confessed to killing his cousin.”

  “What?” The word spilled from her mouth without thought. “That’s ridiculous.”

  The Runner’s expression was grim. “I think so too, and yet he insists he did it. I couldn’t determine why he would lie to me so I went back to the Horn Tavern. I learned that someone else visited Drobbit that night.”

  There was an expectant weight to his words. “Who?” Phoebe asked.

  “Your father.”

  Phoebe clutched the arms of her chair, her insides somersaulting. She wanted to ask why, but she knew. Drobbit had been cheating her father. Marcus also knew that. “Did Marcus know my father was there?”

  “Yes. One of the Horn’s employees, a maid, said she told Ripley about your father—she didn’t know his identity until Ripley referred to him as Lennox. That conversation happened just before Ripley confessed to me.”

  The room swam before Phoebe. Marcus had confessed to this crime after learning her father may have committed it… “You don’t believe Marcus did this.”

  “I do not. And neither does Mary—the maid I spoke with. Ripley told her he was trying to avoid hanging, which was why she told him about your father visiting. She’d withheld that information from me before because of some arrangement between Drobbit and her employer, Mr. Scoggins. Gentlemen who came to see Drobbit were to be kept secret. Mary feared for her job, so she didn’t say anything until she realized Ripley could be charged with a crime he didn’t commit.”

  If Marcus hadn’t done this—and she was certain he hadn’t. Did that mean her father had? Phoebe couldn’t believe that either, and yet her father had been so angry of late. Angry enough to kill someone? No, she couldn’t imagine it.

  She did, however, have an idea of someone who could. Someone who apparently always carried a pistol and had come home with gunpowder on his clothing that night.

  “Are you all right, Miss Lennox?” Sheffield looked to her with an expression of genuine concern.

  She was not, but she had to maintain her composure. She turned, breathing deep in an effort to slow her racing pulse. “I can’t believe that either Marcus or my father did this. The culprit has to be someone else. And I think I might know who.”

  The Runner blinked in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so immediately?”

  “I didn’t realize until right now. I mean, I suspected, but it seemed far-fetched. And it may still be.” She shook her head. “I’m confusing you. Let me start at the beginning. Apparently, Marcus fought with Mr. Laurence Sainsbury on Monday night. I believe he broke Sainsbury’s nose.”

  “I’d heard about this fight. It doesn’t bode well for Ripley since it shows he has a violent side.”

  “It also shows that Sainsbury does too,” Phoebe said, warming to her theory. “Did you know that Sainsbury carries a pistol?”

  Sheffield’s auburn brows pitched into a V as he leaned slightly forward. “No, and how do you know this?”

  “I’ve just hired a maid who was in his employ until this morning. She told me he returned home early Wednesday with gunpowder on his clothing. They’d assumed he’d gotten into a duel and that he’d won, for he was uncharacteristically happy. As opposed to the night before, when he’d arrived home in a r
age with a bloodied nose, muttering about Marcus.”

  The Runner abruptly stood and paced a few steps. He was quiet, clearly pondering what she’d told him. Then, just as suddenly as he’d gotten to his feet, he turned to face her. “You think Sainsbury killed Drobbit?”

  “I think Sainsbury is a vengeful blackguard.” He’d done plenty to denounce Phoebe after she’d jilted him. “What if he went after Marcus the night after their fight and then, with the convenience of his pistol, found an opportunity to blame a murder on him?”

  “That’s possible…” Sheffield took a few steps to the side and then returned to the same spot. “May I speak with your maid?”

  “Of course.” Phoebe sent for Meg, who came to the garden room and timidly repeated to the Runner what she’d told Phoebe.

  “I don’t suppose anyone in Mr. Sainsbury’s household saved the gunpowder-stained clothing?”

  “I don’t know,” Meg said hesitantly.

  Sheffield gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right. I’d like to go and speak with your former coworkers. Do you think they would talk to me?”

  Meg wrung her hands. “Maybe, but only if Mr. Sainsbury wouldn’t be angry. He has a powerfully bad temper, sir.”

  “I understand,” Sheffield said soothingly. “I will ensure the safety and well-being of everyone.”

  “They can all come work here,” Phoebe offered. “I mean that. Until they can find employment elsewhere. And I’ll help them do that too.” It wasn’t as if Phoebe had anything else to do. Without Marcus, her life seemed incredibly empty, which was strange because it hadn’t felt that way before he’d come into it.

  “You’re very kind, miss,” Meg said, her brown eyes warm with gratitude.

  Phoebe turned to the Runner. “Is there anything else you need from Meg?”

  “No.” He pivoted toward Meg. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Meg presented a quick curtsey and took herself off.

  When she was gone, Phoebe asked, “So you think it’s possible Sainsbury could have killed Drobbit?”