A Duke Like No Other

by Valerie Bowman

  Wincing and nearly passing out again from the pain, he pulled himself up on his forearms, exhausted from that effort alone. His breath came in short, hard pants. He couldn’t turn his head. He focused on the facts. They served to distract him. France. He was in France and so was Nicole. But Nicole was in Paris and he was on the outskirts of the city in a camp along the river.

  Would he ever see Nicole again? Or would she merely receive a note, informing her that her husband had died? She’d probably never know how he died. The fact that he was a prisoner was a secret and might remain that way. Cade would tell her. Cavendish would find her and tell her the truth. Would she even care?

  Mark still loved her. He always would. He would love her until his dying day … which just might be today.

  * * *

  Nicole pulled up the sheets to cover her chest. “How is the investigation going?” she asked to change the fraught subject of whether they’d thought about each other over the last ten years. The way Mark’s head jerked when she asked it made her think she’d startled him from some deep memory. She suppressed a wince at the way her cheerful, conversational tone shattered the thick intimacy that had been hanging between them. “Do you still suspect Cartwright or Hillenbrand?”

  Mark shook his head and hesitated before he spoke. “Hillenbrand is beginning to look better and better.”

  “I spoke with Miss Lester,” Nicole ventured. She might as well admit it. If he became angry with her for participating, so be it. She’d never done his bidding before, and she wasn’t about to begin now.

  “Miss Lester?” Mark’s voice held a note of surprise. “What did she say? Seems a mousy little thing.”

  “She is,” Nicole replied. “But she did say something interesting. Something about Lord Hillenbrand.”

  “Really? What?” Mark’s tone was interested. He leaned up on one elbow.

  “She told me Hillenbrand did something peculiar the night John died.”

  The outline of Mark’s attentive features was illuminated in the hint of light from the adjoining room.

  “She said he brought the wine and insisted they all drink it,” Nicole continued. “Apparently everyone was surprised.”

  Mark rubbed a hand along her arm, his brow still furrowed. “Surely John had plenty of good wine.”

  “Precisely.” Nicole’s fingers crept up to trace the sharp edge of his jaw as if they had a mind of their own. “But according to Miss Lester, Hillenbrand wouldn’t allow anyone to refuse the wine he’d brought with him.”

  “That is interesting,” Mark replied, “and it matches what Cartwright told me.”

  Nicole searched Mark’s face. “Which was?”

  He reached up and pushed a wayward curl behind her ear. “He said Hillenbrand was more jealous than he let on about Lady Arabelle refusing him.”

  “Was he?” Nicole tried to ignore the tingle that shot through her at the caress.

  Mark arched a brow. “Sounds like both the perfect reason and opportunity to commit murder.”

  “You’ll need proof, of course.” Nicole bit her lip. “I can help you get it. If I investigate a bit more, that is.”

  Mark groaned. “Oakleaf and I are perfectly capable of—”

  She reached out and traced the line of his eyebrow with her fingertip. “No one said you’re not capable. I merely said I can help.”

  “Looking to return to your old profession?” Mark asked wryly. “Perhaps hoping to spend more time with Daffin?”

  “Pardon?” Nicole’s brow furrowed. She snatched her hand away from his face. “Are you quite serious?”

  “You said you’re an admirer of his.” Mark’s words were light, but she sensed the edge behind them.

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re jealous?”

  “Absolutely not.” He fell back against the pillow and folded his arms beneath his head.

  “Yes you are.” The urge to laugh stole over her. “You’re jealous of Daffin. And it’s ridiculous because I’m not the one who fancies him.”

  Mark’s scowl was thunderous. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Regina can’t seem to keep her eyes off him, and I’m certain the attraction is mutual.”

  Mark turned toward Nicole again and pushed himself up on his elbow. “No. Truly?”

  “Yes, truly. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it yourself. You pride yourself on recording details and nuances between people. Where is your famed eye now, General?”

  “Sitting in a cupful of jealousy, apparently,” Mark replied, groaning.

  This time Nicole rose up to look at him, clutching the sheet to her breasts. “You admit it?”

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  To her utter astonishment, faint color warmed the ridges of his cheekbones. It was the first time she’d ever seen him blush.

  “Hearing you and Oakleaf express your mutual admiration for each other this week has done little to keep my jealousy at bay.” He waved a fist in the air in mock ferocity. “He’d better have honorable intentions toward Regina or I might have to call him out.”

  Nicole laughed and fell back against the pillows. “I don’t think it’s Daffin you need to worry about. I get the distinct impression Regina’s intentions toward him are not honorable in the least.”

  Mark grinned and rolled atop her. “Just like my intentions toward you.” He took her smiling mouth in another long, drugging kiss.

  * * *

  An hour later, after having been thoroughly made love to again, Nicole watched as Mark slipped out of bed, whistling, and made his way into the adjoining room to prepare for dinner. Nicole snuggled into the deep, soft mattress and pulled a pillow over her head, splaying both arms wide. The man was ungodly good in bed, handsome, and charming. The last couple of nights with him had been amazing, but she shouldn’t allow herself to enjoy it as much as she had. She must not lose her heart to him, no matter how much pleasure he gave her, and her heart was already slowly but surely slipping into the fray. Which could only mean one thing. One bad thing. She bit her lip. She was headed down the path of her own destruction.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The next morning the entire household, including many of the servants, stood somberly on the small grassy area next to the family cemetery at Colchester Manor. Two strapping footmen had carried out the duke’s chair and set it up next to the grave. The two young men had returned to the house to assist the old man in his long walk to the spot. The entire assembly waited for him.

  The vicar from the church in the nearby village was there. John’s coffin had already been placed in the ground overnight. The duke said a few words and Lord Anthony gave a small speech as well. The vicar blessed the grave and spoke of John’s childhood and what a good man he’d been. When it was over, there was hardly a dry eye among the crowd.

  Mark couldn’t bring himself to cry. He was there to do a job. He couldn’t allow emotions to get in the way. He and Oakleaf, along with Cartwright and Hillenbrand, were the only ones who weren’t crying. Besides, he was the stone man, wasn’t he? He couldn’t help wondering, if he’d grown up knowing his cousin, would things be different now? Would he be devastated? Upset at least? Instead, he felt like an intruder on this family’s misery. He shook his head. It was too late for regrets. He had a job to do.

  He surreptitiously watched each of the guests as they listened to the eulogy. Specifically, he kept an eye on Hillenbrand and Cartwright. Both men wore solemn expressions. Hillenbrand’s was more resigned, while Cartwright’s seemed angry. Lady Arabelle appeared overcome with grief, as did her mother, while Miss Lester and her mother periodically dabbed at their eyes with their black handkerchiefs.

  When the ceremony was over, Regina and Lady Harriet each placed a white lily on the gravesite and the duke stooped down and placed his hand on the mound of dirt that covered the body of his only son. Mark swallowed.

  It wasn’t until the duke was being helped back to the house and all the others, save Oakleaf, had turned to make their way ba
ck as well, that Mark stopped the next person he meant to question.

  “Lord Hillenbrand,” he called. “May I have a word?”

  Hillenbrand turned and narrowed his eyes on Mark. “I was wondering when you’d come for me,” he said in an impatient voice. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The others slowly walked toward the house in a group. Oakleaf wandered not far away to a small flower bed on the far side of the graves, while Mark remained next to the cemetery gate. He intended for his conversation with Hillenbrand to be private. “It shouldn’t take long. I have a few simple questions.”

  Hillenbrand glared at him, a fist on his hip. “You want to know if I killed him.”

  Mark eyed him carefully. “Did you?”

  “Of course not.” Hillenbrand slashed an arm through the air. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Mark studied the nobleman. His instincts told him that with this particular man, being direct would be the best tactic. “I’ll be honest with you.” Mark strolled a few paces away and casually brushed away debris from a high, mossy obelisk. “John’s wine was poisoned and I hear you brought the wine that night.” He stole a calculating look at the other man.

  Hillenbrand’s face turned bright red. “I … I … yes, I brought the wine, but that doesn’t mean I poisoned it. We all drank from the same bottles. I drank it myself.”

  Mark narrowed his eyes on the slightly shorter man. “Why were you so hell-bent on providing the wine?”

  Hillenbrand clenched his jaw. “I’d just received a shipment. A new case from France. It was a lovely Burgundy. I wanted to share it with my friends. By God, man, you can’t think that alone makes me guilty of murder.”

  Mark contemplated him. Hillenbrand was right. The simple act of bringing wine didn’t prove anything. French wine had become increasingly prized since the wars had ended and the English were allowed to freely order it again. It was still suspect, however, that Hillenbrand had brought the wine that was later found to be poisoned, and according to Cartwright, Hillenbrand had a reason to be angry with John.

  “What about Lady Arabelle?” Mark prodded. “Weren’t you jealous because she accepted John’s suit and rejected yours?”

  Lord Hillenbrand snorted. “I was peeved at first, but I hardly spent time stewing on it. There are plenty of lovely young women in London.”

  “Like Molly Lester?” Mark countered.

  Hillenbrand tugged at his lapels, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Uh … no. She’s not precisely my sort.”

  Mark nodded. Something told him Hillenbrand was telling the truth. “One more thing. Did you see anyone else with the wine? Or anything else questionable that night?”

  The man hesitated. Mark got the impression he was about to say that he had. But then, “No. I … I saw nothing.”

  Mark narrowed his eyes. “If you remember something, I do hope you’ll bring it to my attention immediately.”

  “Of course.” Hillenbrand nodded. “May I go now?”

  Mark nodded toward the slowly moving crowd. “Yes, you’re free to leave.”

  After Hillenbrand stalked away to catch up to the others, Oakleaf strolled over to meet Mark at his spot next to the gate. “What did he say?”

  “He denied it, the poisoning, that is. He admitted bringing the wine, however.”

  Oakleaf arched a brow. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” Mark expelled his breath. “All signs point to Hillenbrand, but there’s something about it that’s not sitting right.”

  “Agreed,” Oakleaf replied with a firm nod.

  “What about you? Any luck questioning the others?” Mark asked.

  Oakleaf gave a humorless smile. “Lord Anthony was so overcome with grief he wasn’t particularly helpful, and Lady Arabelle’s mother was only concerned for her daughter. Neither of them remembered anything odd about the evening. I don’t have much to report, I’m afraid.”

  Mark elbowed Oakleaf in the ribs. “Perhaps you should ask my cousin Regina to help you?”

  Oakleaf’s eyes widened, then his expression settled into a smirk. “Careful there, I just might.”

  Mark opened his mouth to argue, but Oakleaf interrupted. “Speaking of ladies, how are things with Nicole these days? Have you two kissed and made up?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Mark scrubbed a hand across his face. “Why in the devil’s name would you think I’d tell you?” Not only had he and Nicole “kissed and made up,” they were having a hell of a time in bed. Mark couldn’t stop thinking about her. He found it deuced difficult to concentrate on the case, actually. Falling back into bed with Nicole, being part of her life again, had been surprisingly simple and it made him uneasy because he suspected falling in love with her again could be just as simple.

  Oakleaf shrugged. “Well, you’re a fool if you don’t clear up the nonsense between you.”

  Mark growled under his breath. Oakleaf’s words were too much along the same bent as Mark’s thoughts. Had he been crazy all those years ago to give her up?

  “I knew Nicole was special from the moment she walked into my offices at Bow Street demanding to work there,” Oakleaf continued.

  Finally something he could argue. “Yes, well, she failed to tell her husband she had that position.” Mark had wanted to kill Oakleaf last night. Today he’d been feeling more kindly toward the runner, but bringing up Nicole’s past with him wasn’t helping.

  “Perhaps she assumed her husband would be proud of her,” Oakleaf said, watching him from the corners of his eyes.

  Mark wasn’t about to explain to Daffin Oakleaf, of all bloody people, his fear of Nicole being killed. The man had never been in love. He couldn’t understand. “Damn it, Oakleaf, let’s get back to the house.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the estate. “We have a murderer to catch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “That’s Aunt Mary.” Regina pointed up at a large oil painting of a beautiful woman who looked ever so much like Regina herself. She and Nicole stood in the corridor of the east wing of the manor house. Regina had brought Nicole here specifically to see her mother-in-law.

  Nicole stared up at the painting with reverence, her hands folded in front of her. She could pick out small resemblances to Mark in his mother’s face. Her nose was the same as Mark’s had been once. The lines around her mouth were similar. And the smile in her eyes. Those were also her son’s.

  “She’s beautiful,” Nicole murmured.

  “She was also as defiant as the two of us,” Regina added with a grin. “I only wish I’d got to know her better.”

  Nicole smiled and nodded. “The duke said she was a woman who knew her own mind.”

  Regina glanced at her companion and rolled her eyes. “I hate it when men say that. Knew her own mind. Everyone knows their own mind, it doesn’t matter if they’re female or not. I certainly know my own mind.”

  Nicole laughed. “That you do, my friend.” She wrapped her arm around Regina’s. “And does your mind fancy Daffin Oakleaf?”

  Regina shot her a sideways wicked grin. “First, I am in mourning and that is an entirely inappropriate question.”

  “I beg your pard—”

  “And second, who wouldn’t fancy that man?” Regina’s grin widened. “He looks like he stepped out of the pages of a novel about the Greek gods.” She fanned herself with her hand.

  Nicole returned her grin. “He’s quite handsome, I’ll give you that.”

  “And he carries a truncheon and handcuffs,” Regina added, clapping a melodramatic hand to her breast as though to still a rampaging heart.

  “He has a pistol too,” Nicole said with a wink.

  Regina shivered. “I’ll wager he does.”

  Nicole’s crack of laughter echoed across the corridor. “That’s why I love you, Regina. You’re positively irreverent.”

  “What do I have to be reverent about, I ask you?” Regina sighed. “I’m absolutely sick over John’s death, but honestly it’s truly made me consider
things…”

  All the mirth faded from Nicole’s expression. “Such as?”

  “Such as how terribly short life can be. I need to change. I must pursue the things I want.”

  “Which are…?”

  “Precisely what I need to decide,” Regina said with another sigh. She shook her head. “You never told me … what happened between you and Mark … to make you leave for so long?”

  Nicole stared up at the gorgeous painting of the mother-in-law she’d never met. Memories overtook her.

  * * *

  It hadn’t been until that fateful night three months after they’d married, that all hell broke loose.

  Nicole had come home from a meeting with Daffin and Mark had been there, a grim look on his face. An open letter sat on the table in front of him, a bouquet of white roses tossed haphazardly on the tabletop.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her brow knitted in confusion.

  He pointed to the letter. “This.”

  She slid the letter off the table. It was written in her mother’s hand. She looked up at Mark. “You read a letter from my mother to me?”

  She hadn’t been alarmed. Usually her mother’s letters were filled with inane bits of gossip or boring news about the servants at the country estate. What did it matter if Mark read it?

  “It was addressed to both of us,” he intoned.

  She flipped the letter over to see the front. He was right. It was addressed to “My darlings, Nicole and Mark.”

  “So.” Alarm crept up Nicole’s back. “What did she say?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “Read it yourself.”

  She scanned the words. The first page was a lot of inane drivel as usual, but as she turned the page, her breath caught in her throat as she saw the words that would forever haunt her. “I do hope you reconcile with your family, dear Mark. We’d love to have the duke and duchess for Christmas dinner in Sussex.”

  She glanced up at Mark, her heart racing.