A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  The crack of a twig behind the mews made his head snap up. A different type of tension tightened their embrace, one of alarm. He carefully, reluctantly set her on her feet. His hands lingered at her waist long enough to ensure she was steady, then he stepped away from her, his breath coming in hard pants, staring at her as if she was a magical being.

  She lifted her hand to touch her bruised lips and stared back at him in a similar state of wonder. “Thank you,” she said inanely.

  His smile returned, slowly, this time with the smallest hint of shyness to it. “I should be thanking you.”

  “I’ve never been kissed before,” she continued. “And that was quite … quite … extraordinary.”

  He was quiet for a moment, his gaze darting above her head before he focused on her face again. “I wasn’t joking when I said I didn’t come out here to kiss you.”

  “Neither was I.” She took a deep, fortifying breath. She wasn’t certain she would ever be the same again after that kiss.

  They stared at each other and exchanged smiles as if they’d both discovered something astonishing.

  “I should take you back into the ballroom now,” he said at last. “You’ll be safe there.”

  She studied the sharp, handsome lines of his face. “I feel perfectly safe here with you.”

  * * *

  Nicole sighed. Her first kiss with Mark had been unexpected and magnificent. They’d kissed once more before she’d rushed back into the ballroom, asking him to call upon her the next day. He had.

  She closed her eyes tightly and when she reopened them she refocused her attention on the blasted empty sheet of vellum in front of her. She decided to take a break from the exhausting task of writing and go down to the kitchens to see if there were any more of the delicious raspberry tarts she’d been served for breakfast. As she stood from her desk, a sharp knock on the door interrupted the silence.

  “Come in,” she called, expecting to see Louise or Susanna. She’d asked Susanna to serve as her personal maid and all morning the girl had been making excuses to come by and ask how she liked her hair and her wardrobe. The young maid was obviously pleased with her new position. Nicole thought it was adorable.

  The door opened and Mark strode inside. The look on his face told Nicole something wasn’t right. She studied him, clutching the back of her chair with white knuckles. “What’s happened?”

  “I need your help.” His voice was tight.

  She rushed over to him to study his face more closely. “Of course. Anything.”

  He took a deep breath and scrubbed the back of his arm across his forehead. “Bow Street suspects John was murdered.”

  “No,” Nicole breathed. She clasped her hand over her mouth, bile rising in her throat.

  “Poison,” Mark said grimly.

  “Oh, God, no.” Nicole shook her head. Then she clenched her jaw and turned up her face to look him in the eye. “Do you have a list of suspects?”

  A muscle ticked in Mark’s cheek. “Yes, and by God, I intend to find out who did this.”

  “What do you need from me?” Surely he hadn’t come to ask for her assistance in the investigation, but a glimmer of hope remained. Did he want her help?

  “I need to inform my uncle.” Mark cleared his throat. “I’d like you to come with me.”

  The glimmer died a short death, replaced with the determination to help him share this awful news with his poor uncle in the kindest way possible. “Yes, of course.”

  It was touching, actually, that Mark had stopped by to bring her with him. He had some faith in her. Either that or he didn’t want to face his uncle alone. She discarded that thought. Mark was no coward. He’d asked her to accompany him for his uncle’s sake. He knew the man liked her and felt comforted by her presence.

  She lifted her skirts and rushed toward the wardrobe. “I’ll get my pelisse and meet you downstairs.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Mark’s coach again pulled to a stop in front of the duke’s house. The same somber butler opened the door for them. “His Grace has been waiting for you, my lord.”

  “No, not ‘my lord.’ I am not ‘my lord,’” Mark insisted, glowering at the servant.

  The butler’s long face darkened into a frown. “There must be some mistake. His Grace specifically told me you are now the Marquess of Coleford.”

  Mark brushed past him into the foyer. “Not yet. Not officially. I’m not a lord.”

  Nicole watched the exchange with ill-concealed amusement. Strictly speaking, Mark was correct. He would not officially be the Marquess of Coleford until the paperwork had been reviewed and approved by the House of Lords and signed off on by the Lord Chancellor. His uncle had obviously seen fit to begin using his title before all that happened, however, which was not uncommon.

  In heavy silence, Nicole and Mark followed the butler up the stairs and down the corridor to the duke’s bedchamber. The butler rapped only once upon the thick wooden door before pushing it open and stepping inside.

  “The Marquess of Coleford,” the man announced while Mark narrowed his eyes at him and growled under his breath.

  Nicole swept in behind them. This time the sickroom held more light. The heavy dark curtains had been pulled back and the windows had been opened. The room still smelled of peppermint tea and turpentine, but there was also a lemony scent as if the furniture had been freshly waxed.

  “Come in, my boy,” the duke said from the middle of the bed. He was sitting up, with pillows propped behind him, motioning for both Mark and Nicole to come closer.

  A nurse, different from the one who’d been there last night, stood from a chair in the corner and marched toward them. “Nothing to upset him,” she whispered with a stern glare as she left the room. Mark and Nicole gave each other an uneasy glance.

  “Come in, come in,” the duke repeated, waving for them to sit in the two chairs placed next to his bed.

  Nicole took a seat closest to the duke, a knot tightening in her chest as she contemplated what the old man was about to hear. Mark remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Have you any news from the doctor? Do they know what caused John’s attack?” the duke asked eagerly before launching into a coughing fit. He feebly held a handkerchief to his lips.

  Mark cleared his throat, waiting for his uncle’s fit to subside. “Yes,” he said simply. He was not one to sugarcoat such news. “I spoke with Bow Street this morning. There’s no easy way to tell you … they suspect foul play.” His voice was clipped and direct.

  “Foul play?” The duke repeated the words in a confused whisper, his breath rasping from his lips.

  Mark straightened his shoulders. “They believe John was poisoned, Your Grace.”

  “No.” The old man’s craggy voice was broken. He screwed his eyes shut and tears dripped from the sides of them.

  Nicole dug a fresh handkerchief from her reticule and held it out to the old man. She leaned forward and grasped his hand. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. So very sorry.”

  “I intend to do everything in my power to find out who is responsible,” Mark promised, his voice edged with anger.

  The duke opened his eyes again and took three heaving breaths. Nicole waited on tenterhooks, worried he might have another attack himself. Finally, the old man’s eyes focused, a determined look in their blue depths. It was a look she’d seen many times in Mark’s eyes. “You must promise me you’ll avenge him,” the duke whispered.

  Mark nodded curtly. “I promise I will find his killer and bring him to justice.”

  “What can I do to help?” the duke asked, a faint blush tingeing his pale cheeks. He was old, but he was still a man. It had to be difficult for him to be so near the end of his life and confined to a bed during such a fraught time. Nicole lightly squeezed his frail hand.

  “Our investigation will proceed more quickly if we can gather everyone who was at John’s dinner table last night in one place,” Mark replied without missing
a beat. It warmed her heart to see him trying to give his uncle something to feel proud about, something to grasp onto, something to do.

  The duke struggled to sit up straighter. Nicole stood to help him. She rearranged the pillows behind his back and helped him settle himself.

  “You want me to bring them together?” the duke asked. “Here?” Another coughing fit ensued.

  “No,” Mark replied after his uncle stopped coughing. “We’ll need to question them over a period of time. A few days or more. The sooner the better. You should invite them all to your country house for a memorial.”

  “Perfect,” the duke intoned. He clutched Nicole’s handkerchief to his chest. “But what if any of them refuse?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Mark replied. “I suggest you also inform them that after the memorial, you intend to … name the next heir. You must imply it may come as a surprise.”

  “Brilliant,” the duke breathed.

  Nicole faced Mark. She spoke quietly. “Do you think such an event is wise, given your uncle’s health?”

  “I’ll be fine,” the duke replied stubbornly, though his coughs belied his words.

  Mark stared down at his uncle, pity in his eyes. “It won’t be easy, but if you can make it to Surrey, I think having everyone there together will make a difference in the investigation.”

  “Why not invite them here to His Grace’s London home?” Nicole asked. “That way your uncle won’t have to travel.”

  “If we invite them here, they can leave if they choose. In the country they’ll be forced to stay and answer questions for a few days at least. Besides, they’ll all expect John to be laid to rest at Colchester Manor. It’s the perfect reason to invite them. The naming of the heir at the end will ensure they stay.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the duke insisted, waving the handkerchief in the air. “I agree. Just tell me, who should I invite?”

  “Four ladies and three gentlemen. Everyone who was at the dinner last night, including some of the servants if I cannot cross them off the list of suspects in time.” Mark rattled off the list.

  The duke rang for a footman. When the young man arrived at the door, the duke ordered him to send for his secretary posthaste. “We’ll get the invitations out immediately,” the duke said. The old man seemed strangely energized. Nicole couldn’t help but wonder if the determination to avenge his son’s murder had given him the impetus to go on. She patted his hand.

  Mark folded his arms behind his back and gave the duke a curt nod. “We’ll leave you to it.”

  * * *

  Mark and Nicole entered the coach again in silence. They were well on their way back home when Nicole finally asked, “You don’t think it will be too much for your uncle’s health to host a house party in Surrey?”

  “It’s not as if he’ll be doing any of the work. He has myriad servants. Besides, he said it himself. He has only been hanging on for John’s sake. I suspect now he’ll hang on to discover who killed his son. We need his help.”

  “I understand,” Nicole said quietly. “Only it’s such a pity that a sick old man should be forced to play host to a group of people, one of whom is his son’s murderer.” She shuddered.

  “I agree.” Mark stared out the coach window. His profile was stonelike. His jaw was set. “All we can do is discover the truth as quickly as possible. For my uncle’s sake.”

  Nicole pressed her fingertips to her temples. An awful headache had begun to form behind her eyes. “Of the people who were there that night, who, do you suspect?” She couldn’t help it. The investigator in her was eager to help determine the culprit.

  Mark slapped his gloves against his thigh. “As of now they’re all suspects, but Mr. Cartwright is the man who believes himself to be the next in line to the duchy.” Mark tapped a finger against the window. “That is a strong motivation for murder.”

  “You’re right,” Nicole replied, before venturing, “What of your plans for securing the position of Secretary of the Home Office?”

  “For now, they are on hold. Before we leave for the memorial, I must pay a visit to Lord Tottenham to let him know I’ll be out of pocket for a bit. He shouldn’t mind. Apparently he asked for my assistance on this case.”

  Nicole met Mark’s gaze. “What if he discovers you’re the marquess?”

  “I’m not the marquess,” Mark ground out, clenching the gloves in his fist. “I intend to ask my uncle to keep the news to himself for the time being. I haven’t decided whether I’ll renounce the title, but if I am going to be a bloody marquess, I want my promotion first.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next few days passed in a haze of preparations. The invitations to the memorial were sent by liveried messenger. No mention was made of the fact that murder was suspected. All seven accepted.

  Mark was reading a letter from an operative in the north of England when the butler knocked on the door to his study.

  Mark glanced up. “Yes.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but a trio of people are here to have a word with you. Servants by the looks of them. They say you asked them to come.” The butler’s raised eyebrows proved his skepticism.

  A trio of servants? They had to be John’s cook and two footmen.

  “Thank you, Abbott. Please show them in, one at a time.”

  Abbott bowed and left, and not three minutes later, a round, middle-aged woman with bright blue eyes and a mobcap on her head arrived at the study door.

  Mark stood. “Come in,” he intoned.

  The woman tentatively moved into the room. Her face was bright red and her eyes darted about nervously.

  Mark gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Please take a seat. I am General Grimaldi. And you are?”

  The woman scurried to the chair and slowly lowered herself into it while keeping her eyes on Mark’s face. “I’m Mrs. Whately. I’m Lord John’s cook, er, I was his cook. Now I suppose I’m no one’s cook.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Mark’s felt a pang of regret for the poor woman. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Whately. I have a few important questions for you.”

  “Of course, sir,” the woman replied, swallowing hard. “Go ahead.” She nodded.

  “You prepared the meal the night Lord John died. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” The woman nodded more. “It were a terrible tragedy, ta be sure.”

  Mark pressed his lips together and nodded back at her. “Who served the meal?”

  “Timothy and Matthew.” Her voice wavered. “They both came wit me today but yer butler asked me to come in first.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Mark replied. He cleared his throat. “Who prepared and served the wine?”

  “The wine?” Mrs. Whately scratched at her mobcap, a frown on her face. “The wine usually comes from the cellar, sir. I remember seeing Timothy sneak a sip o’ it before he took it up to the dining room. He’s a bit o’ a drinker, but otherwise, a fine footman, sir.”

  Mark leaned back and steepled his fingers over his chest, watching the older woman. “And Matthew? Did you ever see him with the wine?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, sir. At the start o’ the meal, Matthew was helping me because like a fool, I had knocked over the soup tureen and had ta clean it up.”

  “Matthew was with you the entire time then?”

  “Yes, sir.” More nodding.

  “What did you think of Lord John?” Mark asked.

  Mrs. Whately’s eyes filled with more tears and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief she extracted from her sleeve. “He was a fine man and a fair employer, sir. We’ll certainly miss him.”

  Mark bit the inside of his cheek. His experience told him John’s cook, at least, truly liked him. “What do you know of Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Mr. Cartwright, sir?” The cook blinked at him.

  “Yes. He was at the dinner, was he not? The man rumored to be the next in line to the marquisate?”

  The cook’s eyes
widened. “Oh, Mr. Cartwright, o’ course. He seems like a right nice young man. He gave us each some coin.”

  “How much?”

  “One pound each, sir.”

  “That much? Did he say why?”

  “No, sir. He never mentioned that he was next in line. We heard that rumor from one o’ the housemaids. But we all assumed he gave us the monies to tide us over while the will and whatnot is worked out.”

  Mark pressed his lips together. “Thank you, Mrs. Whately. That will be all. Will you please send Matthew next?” Mark pulled open the desk drawer, retrieved a coin purse, opened it and tossed the cook a pound. “Thank you for your help.”

  The cook grasped the coin and smiled. Her face was full of relief as she scrambled out of the chair and rushed out the door. “Ye’re welcome, sir. Ye’re quite welcome.”

  A few minutes later, Matthew poked his head through the door. The young man was in his early twenties with dark hair and eyes. He held his hat in his hand.

  Mark began questioning him the same way, confirming that he’d been there the night John had died. “Did you serve the wine?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” the footman replied. “Timothy served it, sir.”

  “You’re certain?” Mark narrowed his eyes on the servant.

  Matthew tugged at his collar. “Yes, sir. I … I saw him sipping a small glass of it before he brought it upstairs.”

  “You’re certain of that?” Mark narrowed his eyes further.

  “Yes, sir.” The servant tugged at his collar more. “It’s … it’s something Timothy does most nights, I’m afraid. Though he’s an excellent footman, sir. Truly.”

  Interesting. Both Mrs. Whately and Matthew seemed eager to defend Timothy despite his penchant for nibbing the wine. He was obviously their friend. Most importantly, if Timothy had been drinking the wine, it stood to reason that neither the cook nor the other footman would have poisoned it. They’d have known their friend would drink it. It ruled Timothy out as a suspect as well. Unless he poisoned the wine after he drank it and before he’d taken it into the dining room. It seemed unlikely, but his discussion with Timothy might uncover the truth.