To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  “Well, judging by the number of billet doux that I receive…”

  “Your arrogance is astounding,” muttered Kate.

  “Now, now, be nice, Kate.” Marco reached out and tucked a wind-loosened curl behind her ear. “After all, we are now partners in crime, if not in bed, so don’t you think that we ought to agree to a cordial working relationship?”

  “Cordial.” Her lips thinned, then slowly curled up at the corners. “Very well. I shall do my damnedest to be nice.”

  Kate willed her heart to stop hammering against her ribs. But somehow her body was blatantly ignoring the signals from her brain. From the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, she seemed to be thrumming from the same strange vibrations.

  Lud, were her knees really trembling? Only the silly heroines in a novel gave way to girlish emotion. Not tough-as-nails Kate Woodbridge, who had confronted some of the scurviest scoundrels in the world without batting an eye.

  So what was she afraid of? Kate blinked, uncertain of the answer.

  “Thank you. That is, no doubt, a great concession,” said Marco dryly. “Now that we have established the ground rules, perhaps we ought to begin examining the facts of the case. I assume from your earlier statement that you didn’t murder poor Von Seilig.”

  “No. I did not.” She lifted her chin. “Do you believe me?”

  He nodded gravely. “In fact, I do.”

  Kate was surprised at how relieved she felt on hearing him say so.

  “You see, I had a chance to examine the body.”

  “Charlotte and I were hoping for a look, but he had already been taken away to the coroner.” She hesitated. “Will an autopsy prove me innocent?”

  “Not likely,” replied Marco frankly. “There is nothing clear-cut, to use an unfortunate term. However, I happen to be familiar with violent death and all the subtle ways that one can commit murder. I saw a number of little things that make me quite sure it was not you who killed him.”

  “Really?” Scientific curiosity overcame her personal worries. “What sort of things?”

  Marco gave a soft laugh. “Most females would be swooning in shock, rather than demanding the gory details.”

  “By now it should be obvious that I am not like most females.”

  “Quite.” His expression was unreadable as his lazy, lidded gaze locked on her face.

  She felt herself turning uncomfortably warm under the scrutiny. Which Kate Woodbridge did he see? The eccentric bluestocking? The hot-tempered hellion? The bold-as-brass thief?

  The tawdry jade who had just offered herself on a platter?

  To hell with what he thought. She lifted her chin. “And no doubt you find my behavior sinks me beneath contempt.”

  “Who am I to judge?” he said softly. “It seems to me that you have shown admirable resourcefulness and courage in dealing with some very difficult situations.” His mouth twitched. “Considering my own flouting of Society’s rules, it would be awfully hypocritical to condemn you for doing the same.”

  “Most gentlemen would not be so egalitarian,” she said.

  At that, a glint of amusement lit in his eyes, sun-flecked sparks dancing across the deep topaz hue. “By now it should be obvious that I am not like most gentlemen, Kate.”

  True—no other man had such beautiful brandy-hued eyes. Dark, sensuous. Mysterious.

  “Speaking of observation,” she finally managed to say, “I’m anxious to hear what you noticed. About Von Seilig, that is.”

  “To begin with, he was not killed by your knife.”

  She frowned. “But the magistrate said that the blade had pierced the colonel’s heart. Surely he could not be mistaken about that.”

  “A sliver of steel was shoved between his ribs,” agreed Marco. “But the wound did not bleed overly much. I’m quite sure that he was already dead when he was stabbed.”

  Her consternation deepened. “Then why would someone go to the trouble of stealing my knife?”

  “Actually, I believe you left it in the herb basket,” answered Marco. “As for why someone would use it, I should think that would be obvious to someone of your intelligence.”

  “But why?” A numbness seized her, making it difficult to speak. “Why would someone want to frame me for murder?”

  “A good question. Let us hope we can uncover the answer.”

  We. The simple word was like a lifeline thrown into a storm-tossed sea. And at the moment she felt a desperate need to cling to some strand of assurance that she wasn’t alone.

  “Thank you,” she blurted out. “I confess, I am very grateful for your offer of help, Lord Ghiradelli. It’s very… noble of you.”

  Marco leaned in close, and for the hitch of a heartbeat she thought he was going to kiss her.

  But instead, his mouth remained hovering a hairsbreadth from hers. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking me noble, cara. I am not.” The earthy scent of him swirled around her, forcing the air from her lungs. “I’m an amoral scoundrel, and you must never forget that.”

  Kate touched the tips of her fingers to his cheek. He flinched but she didn’t draw them away. “And yet, Il Serpenti, it seems to me that your fangs are not quite as sharp as you would have everyone believe.”

  “Serpents are cold-blooded creatures, ruled by a primitive brain,” he said in a rough whisper. “They strike without warning.” With a flick of his hand, he thrust her away. “Don’t get too close, Kate. I’m poison.”

  She slowly rubbed at her wrist.

  “Go back inside and take Lady Charlotte up to her rooms. I’d like a little time to dig around in the conservatory, and it would probably be best if I did so alone.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but turned on his heel and cut across the swath of lawn.

  Kate watched his wind-whipped hair dance around his shoulders, suddenly reminded of Medusa and her head of writhing snakes. Dangerous, dangerous. The very air seemed to hiss a warning.

  Then the clouds scudded over the sun, and his shape was swallowed in shadows.

  Chapter Nineteen

  What the devil do you think you are doing in here?”

  Charlotte straightened with a start from the conservatory walkway, nearly dropping her brass-handed magnifying glass. “Really, sir!” she huffed, her face flushing in indignation. “Must you creep up on me like that?”

  “I can hardly be accused of ‘creeping’ in my own residence, Lady Fenimore,” said Cluyne stiffly.

  “A residence that is now home to a murderer,” she pointed out.

  His nostrils flared as he drew in a sharp breath. “Which is all the more reason for you to be ensconced in the safety of your rooms, rather than wandering around alone, looking for trouble.”

  “Trouble?” she sputtered. “I am looking for any evidence that might help prove Kate innocent of the crime.”

  The duke pinched at the bridge of his nose. “You—you don’t think she did it, then?”

  “Of course she didn’t! How could you think that?”

  “Don’t ring a peal over his head, Charlotte.” Kate stepped out from the cluster of arica palm trees. “His Grace can’t be blamed for thinking the worst. He doesn’t know me.”

  Cluyne’s expression crumpled as Charlotte scowled at him. “And whose fault is that?” she asked.

  “I…” He hesitated, looking uncertain. But as she waggled her brows, he lurched forward and gathered Kate awkwardly in his arms. “Lady Fenimore is right to rail at me. I have only myself to blame,” he murmured against her hair. “Forgive me, Kathar—Kate. This is all my fault.”

  Kate stiffened, then let herself soften in his embrace. “No, it isn’t,” she said weakly. “I haven’t exactly been a pattern card of propriety. I’m sorry you had to hear such sordid things.”

  “I should have shielded you from the harshness of life earlier, but I was too deucedly proud.” Remorse shaded his face. In the filtered light, the lines around his eyes looked as though they had been gouged with a chisel. “If you will let me, I will tr
y to help now.”

  To her dismay, tears were coursing down her cheeks. She couldn’t seem to stem the tide.

  “Of course she will,” said Charlotte, while Kate was still struggling to find her voice. “It’s never too late for love to take root,” she added decisively.

  “I’ve turned into quite a watering pot of late,” sniffed Kate. “The head gardener need not send his bucket brigade to this section of the plantings.”

  Cluyne offered her his handkerchief—after he had dabbed at own his eyes.

  “Thank you.” She blew her nose. “Sorry. I’m afraid that your cravat looks like it’s been hit by a tidal wave, sir.”

  “You are welcome to dampen every starched length of linen in Cluyne Close,” said the duke, his voice a little watery at the edges. He cleared his throat with a cough. “I hope… that is, perhaps one day you will consent to call me something other than ‘sir’ or ‘Your Grace.’ ”

  “Cluyne.” It felt a little strange on her lips, but Kate decided she could get used to it. “Thank you, Cluyne.”

  His features softened in a tentative smile.

  “Sentiment is all very well,” said Charlotte briskly. She once again brandished her magnifying glass. “But we have a murder to solve.”

  “I’ll send to Bow Street for the best Runner money can buy,” began the duke.

  “No!” exclaimed Kate. “That might only open Pandora’s box. If he delves too deeply into the past…” She let her voice trail off. “I beg you, let me try to resolve this myself,” she added, after taking a moment to order her thoughts. “I’m innocent, so there must be a way to prove it.”

  “My dear, I understand your concerns, but this is far too dangerous to undertake on your own. Your neck is more important than your reputation,” said Charlotte. “We can weather any past scandal.”

  The duke nodded.

  “No, you don’t understand. And please don’t ask me to explain.” Some things were better left unsaid, thought Kate. “I am not unaware of the dangers. I have asked Lord Ghiradelli for his aid, and he has agreed to help uncover the truth.”

  Cluyne let out a low snort. “That does not make me rest any easier. The man appears to be interested in naught but wine and women. What possible help can he be?”

  “Yes, Ghiradelli is a rake and a reprobate,” agreed Kate. “But our friend Alessandra, who is his cousin, has hinted that he has hidden facets to his character.”

  “True,” corroborated Charlotte, her mouth pursing in thought. “I am under the impression that he is involved in some clandestine activities for the government, but it is all very secret.”

  The duke looked unconvinced. “Well, he does a deucedly good job of appearing an indolent fribble.”

  “He’s already determined that Colonel Von Seilig was not killed by my knife.” She went on to explain why.

  “How very clever of him to have noticed such a thing,” mused Charlotte.

  “He appears to have a brain buried inside that pretty head,” conceded Cluyne. “But clever or not, it still doesn’t bring us any closer to the real culprit.”

  “I’ve not yet finished my search,” said Charlotte.

  “And I would rather that you didn’t.” Before her friend could protest, Kate went on. “There is an old adage about too many cooks spoiling the broth. If we are all tripping around Cluyne Close searching for clues, we will only alert the murderer of our suspicions. For now, I think it best to appear willing to let the magistrate handle the investigation.”

  Charlotte made a face, but the duke gave a grudging nod. “I suppose that makes sense. Though I have no great faith in Sir Reginald to see that justice is done in this case.”

  “It seemed obvious to me that there is no love lost between the two of you,” said Charlotte. “Normally, one would expect a baronet to show some deference to a duke. Is there a reason for the animosity?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid there is,” admitted Cluyne. “A year ago, Sir Reginald asked me to appoint his nephew to the living of a lucrative parish on my lands in Derbyshire. However, after meeting with the young man, and making inquiries about his character, I had enough reservations that I could not agree to the appointment. Sir Reginald has been bitterly resentful ever since, and I daresay he will use this opportunity to punish me and my family.”

  The duke passed a hand over his face and heaved a mournful sigh. “It is yet another way that my imperious actions have come back to hurt you, Kate.”

  “You did what you thought was best,” she replied. “That is all any of us can do.”

  “Let us leave regrets and recriminations in the past, along with the old mistakes,” added her friend. “We must concentrate our attention on the present. And the future.”

  “A wise suggestion, Lady Fenimore,” said Cluyne. “Shall we move on to the library? If we are to sit back and wait for now, we might as well put the time to good use. I’ve found several books on Far Eastern medicinal herbs among the manuscript collection that I think both of you would find very interesting.”

  “Very well,” agreed Kate, though she had no intention of abiding by the rules she had spelled out for the others. One of the first lessons she had learned after embarking on a life of seafaring adventure was that she had to look out for herself.

  “You go on,” said Charlotte. “I’ll join you shortly.”

  Kate narrowed her eyes.

  “No need to give me that basilisk look. I’m not up to any mischief. I’m just going to put my tools away and then fetch my sketchbook. I left it yesterday on the potting bench by the Brassavola nodosa specimens.”

  “Don’t dally,” admonished Cluyne. “If you don’t come soon, I shall return and carry you bodily from this place.”

  Giving a huff of indignation, Charlotte shook her trowel at him. “Hmmph. I should like to see you try.”

  The exchange brought a ghost of a smile to Kate’s lips. Cluyne and Charlotte? It seemed an odd mix. But as Ciara—her fellow “Sinner” and chemistry expert—had once said, when one combined volatile ingredients and then added a spark of heat, the results were often unpredictable.

  “Come, Cluyne.” Touching his sleeve, she urged him forward. “I am sure Charlotte will be quick about it.”

  “Hmmph,” he echoed, but allowed himself to be led away.

  Curious, Kate could not help remarking, “I hope you are not offended by Charlotte. She does not hesitate to speak her mind.”

  “So I have noticed.”

  “I know you do not approve of independent females, but she had to be strong. Her late husband ran through her money and his, leaving Charlotte with naught but a mountain of debts. It was only her own resourcefulness and refusal to be bullied by creditors that allowed her to keep her home.”

  His brows twitched together. “I don’t disapprove of Lady Fenimore. She has a tart tongue, to be sure, but it is hard to find fault with her intelligence.”

  “Very hard,” murmured Kate. “She is one of the smartest, most sensible people I know.”

  Perhaps it was merely the muted light in the corridor, but it seemed that a tinge of color had crept to the duke’s cheeks. “Well, let us hope she is sensible enough not to linger in the conservatory for any length of time. I do not like it above half that we are leaving her alone in such a deserted place.”

  A finger of fear tickled at the back of Kate’s neck. Perhaps he was right. She slowed her steps and looked back over her shoulder at the glass doors. In the deepening shadows, they appeared as opaque as polished obsidian. “Shall we wait for her here?”

  The duke did not have a chance to reply before the brass-framed glass flew open and Charlotte hurried out, her work boots drumming a brusque tattoo on the polished parquet.

  “Is something amiss?” demanded Cluyne.

  “To be truthful, I am not entirely sure.” Her friend’s voice was a bit breathless and she was wearing a very strange expression. “It may be nothing, but one of the rare jungle plants from New Guinea has also been murdered.�
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  Cupping his hands to his face, Marco pressed close to the glass and watched to make sure that the flicker of lamplight was not returning.

  “Finally,” he muttered under his breath, seeing no sign of movement through the thick foliage. He gave it a few more moments, just to be sure, before easing open the outer door and slipping inside.

  The sky was shrouded by a thin scrim of clouds, dimming the glow from the crescent moon. The air was still, and aside from the sound of dripping water close by, the cavernous space was as silent as a grave.

  An apt metaphor, he decided. Mist pooled around his ankles as he walked lightly along the mossy bricks, adding to the eerie atmosphere. He half expected to see the spectral figure of Charon glide out from the shadows, ferrying the dead across the silvery River Styx.

  Stop seeing ghosts. Marco paused to get his bearings. A cluster of tropical trees loomed large in their terra-cotta pots, their jagged jungle shapes taking on a menacing cast in the gloom.

  Phantoms. Figments of his imagination. For the space of several heartbeats, Marco lost track of why he was here.

  Helping a damsel in distress?

  His inner compass was behaving oddly, he thought ruefully, its needle swinging erratically from east to west, from north to south. No doubt Kate could explain in great detail how magnetic forces within the earth could play havoc with a delicate scientific instrument, he thought glumly.

  He didn’t need a technical treatise to define what hidden current was exerting an inexorable pull on him. Kate Woodbridge was a powerful force of nature unto herself, and much as he tried to resist the pull, it was becoming increasingly harder to hold firm.

  If only, if only… The tiny back-and-forth ticking of the compass point seemed to mock his innermost feelings, the ones he kept locked deep inside. Be damned with foolish longings that would never be said aloud.

  “Damn.” The oath trailed off into the surrounding tangle of leaves. Reversing directions, Marco made his way back to the outer pathway. Moving around the perimeter of the octagonal sanctuary would bring him to the section where Von Seilig’s body had been discovered.