A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  He’d seen John from time to time. More than once, John had looked as if he’d like to speak to Mark. But he never had and Mark told himself that was the way he liked it. Now there would never be a chance to know his cousin. Mark might be known as the stone man, but he didn’t wish death upon anyone. It had been heart wrenching seeing the horrible effect his cousin’s death had on his uncle. The man had lost his only son, his only child. Mark could not imagine that type of pain.

  Mark tossed down his quill and scrubbed his hands across his face. It only made things worse that his cousin’s death meant he would have to renounce a duchy of all blasted things. Could he do it quietly, without anyone finding out? He’d have to discreetly inquire about that as well. Blast. Blast. Blast.

  Meanwhile he’d acted like a complete arse to Nicole last night. What the hell was wrong with him? She was here to get with child. He’d agreed to do the job. After so many nights spent alone, he should have jumped at the chance to end his self-imposed celibacy. He tried to tell himself he’d refused her because of the news of his cousin, and that was certainly part of the reason, but it would be disingenuous to blame it entirely on that. It wasn’t because he was in mourning. He barely knew the man. He was sorry his cousin was dead for his uncle’s sake. The poor man was near to breaking over it. Mark wasn’t made entirely of stone.

  He leaned back in his chair and rested an arm atop his head. If he was honest, he was also sorry his cousin was dead for his own sake. Why couldn’t John at least have sired an heir first? It was an unkind thought, but Mark wasn’t in a kind mood.

  He hadn’t been angry with Nicole last night because of that. He’d been an arse because the fact that he was suddenly a marquess brought up too many of the feelings he’d had early in their marriage, when she left. After she admitted she’d known all along that his grandfather was a duke, Mark realized she’d indeed married him for his connections, while allowing him to think she’d married him for love. Love? Ha. That’s what he got for spending time with the daughter of an earl. Such young ladies had only one thing on their mind: marrying advantageously. Still, refusing to bed her last night had been idiotic. It punished him as much as her. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He picked up his quill again, determined to finish his paperwork before midday.

  A knock at the door interrupted him. Abbott opened the door and cleared his throat. “A man is here to see you, General.”

  Mark looked up and narrowed his eyes at the butler. “Who is it?”

  “He says his name is Oakleaf. Daffin Oakleaf.”

  Mark knew that name. “Show him in.”

  Daffin Oakleaf was a friend of Cade and Rafe Cavendish, two of his best spies. He was also the best of the Bow Street Runners, a small private police force that solved cases in return for bounties.

  Oakleaf strolled into the study, whistling. “Good morning, General.”

  The man was tall, broad, and blond. He even looked like the Cavendish twins, only while their eyes were blue, Oakleaf’s were bright green. Mark had heard that Cade Cavendish, a privateer with more aliases than a Drury Lane actor, had pretended to be Oakleaf a time or two. The man standing before him was definitely Oakleaf himself.

  “Oakleaf,” Mark said, glancing up from his paperwork. “Take a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His tone was jovial, but a skitter of apprehension worked its way down his spine.

  Oakleaf settled himself into a chair in front of Mark’s desk. “I’m here to talk to you about your cousin’s death.”

  Mark nodded. He’d suspected as much. Oakleaf knew exactly who his family was. “I plan to visit John’s house today. My uncle told me he collapsed at dinner, a heart condition.”

  Oakleaf shifted in his seat. His astute gaze met Mark’s. “He collapsed at dinner, that’s true, but it was no heart condition.”

  Mark dropped the quill and eyed the other man carefully. As he’d feared. Bow Street Runners didn’t involve themselves in deaths unless foul play was suspected. “What do you mean?”

  “We suspect it was murder. Lord Tottenham asked me to come and find you.”

  Mark arched a brow. “Am I a suspect?”

  Oakleaf grinned. “On the contrary, he wants you to assist with investigating the case. You, apparently, have an airtight alibi, you were at dinner with Tottenham and Allen when John died, were you not?”

  “I was,” Mark intoned, but it still seemed odd that Tottenham would ask for his assistance. Why would Tottenham care about this case? Mark shook his head. No doubt it was because the heir to a dukedom was involved. Bluebloods always garnered attention. Damn. It would be difficult to keep the fact that he was related to the family a secret. Especially now that he was legally the heir. Bloody inconvenient.

  “Will you help?” Oakleaf asked.

  “Of course,” Mark replied, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to navigate this investigation with extreme care. “My uncle—he doesn’t yet know you suspect foul play, does he?”

  Oakleaf shook his head. “No. We haven’t told him. We know his health is precarious.”

  Mark nodded. “Good. Let’s investigate first. If it comes to that, I will tell him.”

  Mark stood and made his way around the large mahogany desk to escort Oakleaf out.

  “I heard Nicole is back. Think we should bring her with us to investigate?” Oakleaf gave him an innocent look, blinking as if he didn’t know what a sore subject it was.

  Mark growled under his breath. “Of course you’ve heard Nicole is back. You damn runners and your damned nosiness.”

  Oakleaf’s crack of laughter shot across the room. “That’s ironic coming from a spy. Besides, Nicole is a damn fine investigator.”

  “Nicole will not be coming with us,” Mark grumbled.

  “Retired from that line of work, has she?”

  “No, actually. She was helping the police in France, but I’ll be investigating this particular case on my own.”

  “With my help, of course.” Oakleaf winked at him.

  “Of course.” Mark grinned. He swung open the door and gestured to the other man to precede him into the corridor. “Lead the way.”

  * * *

  Not half an hour later, Mark and Oakleaf stood in the dining room at John’s town house. His cousin’s body had been removed to one of the drawing rooms to be prepared for burial, but from the looks of the dining room, little else had been touched. The meal from the night before still lay on the table, chairs were pulled away at haphazard angles as if their occupants had left in a hurry, and the seat at the head of the table, where John no doubt had sat, had plates and glasses scattered on the floor.

  Mark glanced around the scene, taking in every detail. He nodded toward the head of the table. “John’s place?”

  “Yes, have you never been here before?” Oakleaf asked.

  Mark shook his head, keeping his face carefully blank. “No. And I’d prefer if you would keep the bit about him being my cousin to yourself, at least for the time being.”

  “Understood,” Oakleaf replied. He crouched down to study the items on the floor next to John’s chair.

  Mark eyed the cutlery, plates, and two glasses scattered on the rug. “What do you think happened?”

  “We have reason to believe he was poisoned,” Oakleaf replied.

  Mark scanned the area. A wineglass had rolled under the table and stained the rug a dark red that looked nearly black.

  “His friends who were sharing the meal with him report that he took a drink of wine just before he collapsed,” Oakleaf continued.

  Mark crouched down on the balls of his feet to study the wine stain on the rug. There was a dark ring around the stain. He carefully lifted the glass and sniffed it. “It has a metallic odor.”

  “Precisely,” Oakleaf agreed.

  “Who else was here last night?” Mark glanced up at the table to count the places.

  “Eight diners total,” Oakleaf replied. “John, his intended, Lady Arabelle, and her mother, Lady El
oise. Mr. Matthew Cartwright. Miss Molly Lester and her mother, Tabitha. Lord Anthony Rawlins, John’s closest mate, and Lord Michael Hillenbrand, another of John’s friends.”

  The name Matthew Cartwright seemed familiar, but Mark couldn’t quite place it. He’d never heard of the ladies, nor their mothers. Lord Rawlins and Lord Hillenbrand were peers. He’d met them both in passing a time or two. “We’ll want to speak to each of them.”

  “Of course,” Oakleaf replied.

  Mark stood and examined the wine bottle the glass had most certainly been poured from. It sat in front of John’s place at the table. Odd that one of the footmen hadn’t taken it away. In the course of a normal dinner party, the footmen would pour the wine for all of the guests and retreat with the bottle. Mark lifted the bottle and sniffed. It had a metallic odor, too. “Any idea who would want him dead?”

  Oakleaf had moved to the sideboard to examine the contents of the covered dishes there. He shrugged. “The man’s father is gravely ill and he stands to inherit a dukedom. I’d say we find the next in line and we have a good suspect.”

  Mark cleared his throat, turning to face Oakleaf. “Normally I would agree with you, but there is only one problem with that theory.”

  “What’s that?” Oakleaf replaced the lid on a silver tureen and met Mark’s gaze.

  Mark scratched his cheek and expelled a deep breath. No use hiding the facts from the best of the Bow Street Runners. “Turns out I am the next in line.”

  “What!” Oakleaf’s eyes looked as if they might bug from his skull. “How in the devil’s name?”

  “It was a surprise to me as well. My uncle just informed me last night, shortly after he told me about John’s death.”

  The runner’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn’t know you were next in line to a dukedom?”

  “My mother was the duke’s sister. These things are not normally passed down by female bloodlines. In our case it’s an exception.” Mark paced toward the dining table and ran a hand through his hair. “Again, I ask for your discretion with that news as well.” There was no use not telling Oakleaf. His investigation would turn it up eventually. By telling him now, Mark was staving off an awkward moment later and the risk of making Oakleaf think he was purposely hiding information.

  “As you wish,” Oakleaf replied, his tone measured. “For the record, who did everyone think was the next in line?”

  Matthew Cartwright. That’s where he’d heard that name before. The detail snapped into place in Mark’s memory. “Mr. Cartwright, I believe. We’ll need to confirm that, though. I gave little thought to my mother’s side of the family. None of these details were at the forefront of my mind until last night.”

  “I see,” Oakleaf replied, still examining the contents of the sideboard. He bent to sniff another dish. “I must ask, did anyone else know you were next in line?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mark replied.

  Oakleaf straightened and stared at him for a moment as if turning everything over in his mind. “If your uncle suspected you, I daresay he wouldn’t have made you privy to the details.”

  “He trusts me,” Mark replied. “And he doesn’t yet know John was murdered.”

  Oakleaf’s eyes narrowed. “May I ask why he’s never claimed you as his nephew?”

  “On my request,” Mark said. “He knows that the last thing I’ve ever wanted was the dukedom, or any ties to my family’s name on my mother’s side. We’ve never been close.”

  “You don’t say.” Oakleaf shook his head. He raised a brow at Mark. “Anything else to declare before we continue this investigation, Grim?”

  Mark scratched the back of his neck. Oakleaf was being damned reasonable, given the circumstances. Though having a flawless alibi didn’t hurt. “No, that’s it.”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t allow someone with such close ties to the family to help investigate,” Oakleaf said, pursing his lips. “But Tottenham specifically asked for you and doesn’t know you’re related.”

  “I promise to be impartial,” Mark replied soberly. “And I promise to inform Tottenham … when the time is right.”

  “Fine.” Oakleaf gave him an efficient nod. “Meanwhile, we’ll have to study each of the people who were at the dinner party last night.”

  “And the servants,” Mark added. “Are they still here? We need to ask them some questions.”

  Oakleaf nodded and left the room to arrange for the servants to come speak to them. Not ten minutes later, a worried-looking butler and a stricken-looking housemaid were lined up in the dining room near the wall.

  “Did anything unusual happen last night? When the guests were arriving?” Mark asked the butler.

  “Like what, sir?” The sweating man looked completely miserable.

  “Like did any of the guests leave the drawing room? Do anything unusual?”

  “No, sir. Not a one,” the butler replied, wringing his hands.

  “Did your master say anything to you last night to make you think anything was different?” Mark asked the butler next.

  “Not that I can think of, sir. Lord John was in high spirits. He was always happy to see Lady Arabelle, if not her mother.”

  “Mother bothered him, did she?” Oakleaf asked with a smirk.

  “As much as anyone’s future mother-in-law is bothersome, I suspect, sir,” the butler replied, his voice cracking.

  Mark pulled his card from his inside coat pocket. “If you think of anything, anything that happened that was out of the ordinary, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler nodded profusely.

  Mark dismissed the butler and smiled kindly at the maid. The poor woman had obviously been crying and now she had the look of a person headed for the hangman’s noose. Her face was pinched and pale.

  “Who was here last night? Serving, I mean?” he asked.

  The housemaid looked startled and shook her head. “The usual servants wot serve. Both footmen, Matthew and Timothy.”

  “They’re not here at the moment,” Oakleaf explained.

  Mark narrowed his eyes. “Where are they?”

  The maid’s face grew paler. “They went out with a few o’ the other servants to have a pint, sir. Ta toast Lord John. They were all frightened something awful. And Mr. Cartwright gave them money.”

  “Mr. Cartwright? He was one of the guests last night?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, he’s the one wot’s rumored ta be takin’ Lord John’s place as the marquess. Seems ta be a generous man.”

  Mark and Oakleaf exchanged a look.

  “And the usual cook prepared the meal last night?” Mark prodded.

  “Yes,” the maid replied. “Mrs. Whately. She’s down at the pub wit the others.”

  “I see.” Mark flashed a bill to the maid and handed her another card. “When they return, ask the footmen and the cook to come to this address later today. There will be money for them if they arrive.”

  “Yes, sir,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy and rushing out of the room.

  Mark crossed back to the table where Oakleaf stood.

  “Do you know this Cartwright man?” Oakleaf asked.

  Mark placed a fist on his hip. “Never met him.”

  Oakleaf crossed his arms over his chest. “Seems to me he should be first on the list of possible suspects.”

  “Agreed,” Mark replied. “I’ll meet you at your offices this afternoon.”

  Oakleaf nodded. “Where are you going?”

  Mark took a deep breath and blew it out, hanging his head. “To perform the unsavory task of telling my uncle his only son was murdered. We need his help.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Nicole once again stared at a blank piece of vellum. She couldn’t summon the will to write her mother and tell her she was in London. Mother was in the country this time of year. There was no chance Nicole would run into her, but there was every chance her mother would hear about her appearance at Lord Allen’s dinner party last night. Stil
l, she didn’t want to write her. There would be too much explaining to do, that, at the moment, Nicole was not prepared for. She didn’t intend to lie to her mother, but she couldn’t tell her the entire embarrassing truth either, and frankly it was none of her mother’s affair.

  She’d been keeping things from her mother for years, hadn’t she? What did a bit more hurt? She’d never told her mother about the time she sneaked out to the stables when she was fifteen years old and rode her horse in the darkness. She’d never told her mother about her work with the Bow Street Runners. She’d certainly never told her mother about the time she kissed Corporal Grimaldi at Grandmama’s ball.

  * * *

  It was true. Nicole had never been kissed before and now she was certain she’d never recover from it. Corporal Grimaldi’s mouth claimed hers. His lips pushed hers open and his tongue plunged inside, exploring every bit of her mouth. It was like drinking from a fountain on a hot day. She couldn’t get enough of him. Her arms moved up to wrap around his neck and he pulled her against him, hard. She gasped into his mouth as he continued his gentle assault. His lips twisted to meet hers, her hips lifted to meet his. By the time he grabbed her upper arms and pushed her away, they were both gasping.

  “Why did you stop?” She blushed for asking such a bold question, but the words had flown from her lips.

  Letting go of her arms, he bent over and rested his palms on his knees, still breathing heavily. “Sweetheart, if I didn’t stop, we’d end up doing far more than you bargained for.”

  She vaguely understood there was more, much more that went on in private between a man and woman. That had to be what he was referring to, but the kiss had been so magnificent, she hadn’t wanted it to end.

  She blew out a breath. “I didn’t know we’d be kissing when I agreed to meet you out here.”

  “Neither did I.” He stood up straight and flashed a grin at her.

  She took a tentative step toward him. “Since we’ve already done it, might we not do it again?”

  He seemed to contemplate her words for a matter of seconds before he reached for her and pulled her to him again and then oh, that delicious, dangerous mouth was claiming hers again, drawing a moan from her throat even as passion drew the breath from her lungs. She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to capture more of his lips. He lifted her in his arms, molding her against him to better position her to receive his kiss. She’d never known a man’s body was so unyielding. His arms were like a cage she never wanted to escape.