by Darcy Burke
“Darling.” Marianne reached out and touched Ambrose’s sleeve. A silent communication passed between them. Amber eyes blazing, he clenched his jaw and let his wife speak.
“You wish to marry Emma, Your Grace?” Marianne said.
“Yes. As soon as possible.” His eyes upon Emma’s face, he murmured, “As soon as I can convince the lady in question to have me, that is.”
Way to throw me beneath the carriage. Emma gave him an annoyed look.
A smile flickered on his lips.
“Emma?” her brother said in disbelief. “Are you truly considering this?”
She took a breath. “His Grace and I have agreed to a courtship period. To help us decide if we are truly suited.”
“You see?” Alaric’s wide shoulders lifted. “’Tis Emma who is dallying with me and not the other way around.”
“No one is dallying with anyone! Emma, I cannot condone this.” Ambrose gripped the back of the chaise, his face stark with disapproval.
For the first time, Emma felt a spark of anger. Why was her brother being so unreasonable? She was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.
“You’re the one who said I should find a husband,” she said.
“I meant a suitable one. He ... his past,”—her brother waved a hand at Alaric in mute frustration—“he’s not good enough for you.”
The unfairness of the statement riled her. “He is a good man!”
“A duke being condescended upon by a mere mister—that has to be a first.” Alaric arched a dark eyebrow. “Would you prefer it, Kent, if I were a costermonger?”
“’Tis your past and your character I question, not your title. Can’t you see how different you and Emma are? She is an innocent girl, devoted to her family. You are an accounted rake, and from what I’ve seen between you and McLeod, you haven’t the first notion of what it means to be a family.”
Emma cringed.
The muscle ticked in Alaric’s jaw. “You know nothing about my family.”
“And you know nothing about mine,” Ambrose said. “When it comes to marriage, Kents don’t care about money or rank.”
“Yes, I can see how you’ve sacrificed the finer things in life on the altar of matrimony.” Alaric’s gaze circled sardonically around the well-appointed drawing room.
Her brother’s cheekbones turned a dull red.
Intervening quickly, Emma said, “Strathaven and I aren’t making any hasty decisions. We’re taking the time to get to know one another. Nothing is written in stone.”
“Emma knows her own mind,” Marianne said quietly to Ambrose. “She always has.”
Emma felt a rush of love toward her sister-in-law.
“Someone is out to kill you, Strathaven,” her brother growled. “Do you wish to endanger my sister as well?”
“Emma’s safety is my primary concern. Which is why we will keep our courtship secret until the murderer is caught,” Alaric said evenly. “If you truly wish to guarantee Emma’s safety, you might consider actually finding the bloody killer.”
“We have made progress.” Ambrose’s tone was equally hard.
“I’m all ears.”
Emma saw the indecision on her brother’s face. Clearly, he wanted to go a few more rounds with Alaric. His gaze landed on her, and his mouth tightened. “We’ll remove to my study—”
“Emma will hear this,” Alaric said. “She has the right to know about the case; it affects my future and therefore hers. Besides, it was through her efforts that we now have a new lead on the maid.”
Despite Alaric’s overconfident assumption that their futures were indeed entwined, Emma’s chest expanded with giddiness. He’d listened to her in the carriage. He was respecting her wishes—had just publicly acknowledged her abilities as an investigator.
Catching her eyes, he murmured, “See, pet? I am capable of compromise.”
“Emma will find out anyway. As will I,” Marianne said. “You might as well discuss the case here, darling.”
Ambrose said tersely, “We’re not done talking about you and my sister, Strathaven.”
Alaric’s gaze was cool, level. Clearly, he was done.
Her brother raked a hand through his hair and visibly collected himself. When he spoke, it was with brisk professionalism.
“I’ll begin with the poisoning,” he said. “I discussed your symptoms with a physician experienced in such matters. He suspects that we are dealing with a substance of strong toxicity, one with dose dependent qualities—most likely a wild plant of some kind. He once saw a family, all of whom had mistakenly ingested poisonous mushrooms. The father, who’d eaten the most of the contaminated stew, died, as did one of the sons, who’d had a second helping. Having eaten less, the mother and sisters survived.”
“This is why Clara died, and I did not.”
Despite Alaric’s detached tone, Emma knew him well enough now to perceive his self-recrimination. She touched his arm; beneath her fingers, his hard bicep quivered.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You didn’t know the whiskey was poisoned.”
His expression remained harsh, but his chin dipped in a slight nod.
“We don’t know that drinking less of the whiskey would have saved Lady Osgood,” Ambrose said. “Depending on the individual, the lethal dose can vary to some degree. In the case of the family, a second son, who ate just as much as his brother who died, ended up surviving. My physician friend hypothesized that this was because this boy had survived eating poisonous mushrooms once before and had developed a degree of resistance to the toxins.”
Grooves deepened around Alaric’s mouth. “I had a digestive illness in my youth, which I later overcame. Perhaps that built up my resistance.”
“Perhaps. At any rate, we are dealing with a murderer with some knowledge of poison. He knew enough to choose a weapon with no detectable taste or odor. His mistake was not dosing the whiskey with enough poison to kill you with one drink ... which brings us to the second attempt on your life.”
Alaric straightened. “You have news about the shooting?”
“McLeod has made headway with the list of gunsmiths. He’s narrowed it down to the last handful, says he should have the shop identified by the morrow.”
“I’m going there with you,” Alaric said grimly.
“I want to come, too,” Emma said.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
“No,” her brother and Alaric said as one.
At least the two agree on something. Well, it wasn’t as if she didn’t expect resistance. Summoning her breath, she prepared to argue, but Alaric headed her off.
“I have kept my end of the bargain. Now you will keep yours. My rules, Emma,” he reminded her.
“But I want to help investigate—”
“And so you shall,” he said. “I have an assignment. An important one.”
“An assignment for me?” She could hardly wait. “Do you want me to go to The Cytherea, track down Lily White—”
“No. Your task is more important than that.”
More important? “Yes?” she said eagerly.
“Your job is to infiltrate the ton.”
“What?” She frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Remember what you said about poison being a lady’s weapon?”
Brows drawn, she gave a slow nod. “But that was just conjecture. We don’t have any specific evidence to support—”
“That is where you come in. I want you to circulate amongst my peers. Keep your eyes and ears open for any suspicious activity, particularly where ladies are involved.”
“But I don’t know the first thing about high society,” she protested.
“I need your help, Emma.”
With those five words, he had her. How could she deny his request—deny him anything—when he looked at her with such mesmerizing warmth in his eyes?
Swallowing, she said, “What sort of suspicious activity would I be monitoring?”
“Go
ssip, for one thing. Amongst the ton, it is a powerful weapon. It often holds fragments of the truth and may yield clues to the killer’s identity.” He paused, leveled a challenging look at Ambrose. “If you don’t believe me, ask your brother.”
Ambrose’s brows knotted. After a minute, he said curtly, “It is true that gossip can be a source of important information.”
“See?” Alaric’s broad shoulders lifted. “I would do this myself, but people don’t dare to talk about me to my face. That is why I need you: an investigator with excellent observation skills, someone I can rely upon.”
Touched by his trust, she searched his face. “This isn’t some ploy to distract me from the real danger, is it? You really think I could learn something important just by listening?”
“Emma, you have the ability to do what your brother and his partners cannot: you can blend in with the ladies, conduct reconnaissance in drawing rooms and ballrooms undetected. And let me be clear: all you’re to do is listen. You’ll take no risks, and you’ll report anything you hear directly to me and your brother. Is that understood?” His gaze locked with hers until she gave a nod. “If I am asking too much of you, pet—”
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to see you safe.” She wouldn’t have him believing otherwise, not when he was entrusting her with so vital a mission. “I won’t let you down.”
“Thank you.” His slow smile dazzled her senses. “I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“Wait. What arrangements?”
“You can’t go sleuthing about without the proper equipment. In order to operate amongst the ton, you’ll need a few supplies. I will, of course, bear the expense for them.”
Before she could ask what supplies he was referring to, he said to Marianne, “You would not mind chaperoning Emma, Mrs. Kent?”
“Not at all.” Marianne’s lips gave an odd twitch. “Are there any particular, er, investigative opportunities you’d like us to pursue, Your Grace?”
“Start with the Blackwood Ball,” Alaric said. “Their parties are guaranteed crushes.”
“And quite exclusive,” Marianne murmured.
“Lord Blackwood is a friend of mine and can be trusted to be discreet. I’ll secure your invitations.”
Emma’s stomach lurched at the prospect of attending so elevated an affair, but she reminded herself that she’d do anything to help protect Alaric’s life—including navigating the ton’s treacherous waters.
Alaric addressed her brother. “Kent, I’ll expect to be notified when Will identifies the gunsmith.”
His expression carved in stone, Ambrose jerked his chin in reply.
Alaric rose, bowing first to Marianne and then taking Emma’s hand. When his lips skimmed over her knuckles, longing shivered over her.
“You won’t regret our bargain, sweeting.” His pale green irises smoldered with silver smoke as he murmured, “Once this is over, I will come to you a free man and make no mistake: we will settle things between us.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?” She wrinkled her nose.
His lips took on a faint, wicked curve. “Either way, pet, it means you’re going to be mine.”
Chapter 19
“Papa, may I sleep with the light on?”
Seated at the side of the bed, Ambrose smiled at his seven-year-old son. “There’s no need for that. Nothing’s going to happen, I promise.”
Edward’s eyes, the same emerald shade as his mama’s, peered anxiously from his small face. “How do you know?”
“Because monsters live only in dreams, and they can’t hurt you. You have nothing to fear, lad.” Ambrose tucked the blanket around his son’s shoulders. “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”
“Promise, Papa?”
“I promise, lad.”
A quarter hour later, Ambrose brushed his hand lightly over Edward’s tousled dark head, extinguished the light, and headed for the master bedchamber.
Marianne was waiting in bed. Even after eight years of marriage, her beauty struck him anew. With her platinum hair loose around her slim white shoulders and her vivid eyes glowing with love, she was an angel. And he was one lucky bastard.
Setting aside her book, she smiled at him. “Asleep?”
“Aye. Poor fellow.” Removing his robe, Ambrose got into bed and took her into his arms. Settling them both against the pillows, he said, “I hope he outgrows the night terrors soon.”
“Did he ask about the monsters?”
“I told him they weren’t real.”
“Not the kind he fears, anyway.”
At his wife’s pensive tone, Ambrose turned his head to look at her. He saw the shadows in her gaze, as if she were recalling the monsters of her past. Monsters he’d done everything in his power to slay.
“Sweetheart?” he said quietly.
She touched his jaw. “I’m not thinking of my own demons, darling, but of yours.”
“Mine?” he said in surprise.
“Monsters come in all guises. Evil people, harrowing events—even something as ordinary as not being able to protect the ones you love.”
His muscles tensed. “What are you saying?”
“Ambrose, you’re a wonderful brother, but Emma is a grown woman.” Marianne’s perceptive eyes searched his face. “You cannot protect her any longer, and you must not blame yourself for those times when you could not.”
The memory of those times rose within him. Those years when he’d barely been able to feed his younger siblings ... when Emma, as the next eldest, had been forced to shoulder all the burdens of their family while he earned a living in the city. One time, she, a sixteen-year-old girl, had travelled all the way to London on her own because calamity had struck their family, and she’d had no one to turn to ...
Old knots tightened in his chest. “She’s missed out on so much. She’s never had a chance to be young,” he said roughly. “She deserves to be happy.”
“Yes, she does. But only she can decide what will make her so.”
“You can’t think Strathaven is a good decision,” he said in incredulous tones.
Marianne said softly, “Why not? Because he’s a duke? He’s rich?”
“No, because he’s a rake.”
“The gossip isn’t all true. His dead wife spread some vile rumors about him. And Annabel says that he’s got a good heart—that she and Mr. McLeod are in his debt.” After a pause, Marianne said, “I know what it’s like to be misjudged by Society.”
Ambrose tightened his arms around her. “That was different. Your actions were prompted by your desire to find Primrose. You were blameless, sweetheart.”
“How do you know Strathaven is not as well? Whatever his past, he cares for Emma.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Marianne’s lips formed a wry curve. “Why else would he concoct this plan to have her investigate the ton? He’s keeping her away from the true danger—and saving her from herself, I might add.”
That insight did not sit well with Ambrose. Even if Marianne was right, he didn’t trust Strathaven’s motives. Didn’t want a dissolute libertine entangled with his innocent sister.
Stiffly, Ambrose said, “Even if he didn’t kill Lady Osgood, he was having a salacious affair with her—a married woman. He is morally corrupt.”
His spouse made an amused sound.
“What is so humorous?” he said, frowning.
“You, darling.” Still smiling, she kissed his jaw. “By your standard, no gentleman would be good enough for Emma. What man hasn’t had an affaire or kept a mistress?”
“I haven’t,” he said.
“You are the exception. That is why I adore you.” Her hand glided down his chest, and he felt himself hardening, responding as ever to his wife’s touch. “You want to handle Emma with care. You don’t want to push her away.”
“I can’t talk about my sister when you do that,” he said hoarsely.
Marianne smiled her siren’s smile. “Will you consider what
I said?”
In his work, he prided himself on considering all the evidence before drawing any conclusions. He supposed he ought to do the same in this instance. Objectivity could be dashed difficult, however, when one’s own family was involved.
“I will try,” he conceded.
“Thank you, darling.”
His wife’s lips caressed his neck, her hand wandering lower still. Fire ignited in his loins, and rolling her onto her back, he took her mouth in a hungry kiss. She sighed with pleasure, her ardor obliterating his thoughts, and for the next little while at least, all worldly troubles scattered to the winds.
Chapter 20
Two days later, Alaric found himself in his carriage with his brother. They were outside Palmer’s, a small establishment tucked between Covent Garden and St. Giles. From the window, Alaric saw the weathered sign above the door which bore the gun shop’s emblem of a pineapple. Will, seated on the opposite bench, held up the torn cartridge wrapper.
The half oval with the squiggly lines was a perfect match for the fruit on the sign.
“This is the place,” Will said with satisfaction. “Kent’s on his way from The Cytherea. Once he arrives, we’ll go in and question the owner.”
Alaric hesitated. A part of him wanted to praise his younger sibling’s scouting abilities. Another part felt ... awkward. Too much had passed between them, bricks of hostility and misunderstanding forming an invisible wall.
Yet Will was his brother. His only sibling.
He settled for a compromise. “How did you manage to find the shop? It was no small feat, I imagine. There must be dozens of gunsmiths in the city.”
“Compared to tracking down spies and scouting enemy terrain, this is child’s play.”
Pride gleamed in Will’s brown eyes nonetheless—and threw Alaric back into a memory. Of the two of them as boys, trespassing on their neighbor’s property. The McGregor had been the stingiest, meanest man in the county, and the wagers amongst the village lads oft involved his infamous tree, which boasted bright red apples the size of small melons.
Any lad who could show a McGregor apple would win undying respect from his peers, and at age nine, Alaric had craved that respect more than his next breath. A single apple was guaranteed protection against the taunting and beatings of the other boys; he’d been prepared to filch the fruit or perish trying. What he hadn’t been prepared for was his little brother’s insistence on tagging along.