The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  The world faded away, and there was only Carlisle and her, the rightness of the moment. She’d never been more at home in her own skin than now, moving as one with him. Wrapped up in the lush music, the smoky intensity of his eyes, she had a sudden recognition.

  The joy she was feeling came not from recklessness but… trust.

  The wild dances with Wick couldn’t hold a candle to the perfection of his brother’s partnering. Carlisle was so steady and in command: he would never let her crash or fall. Knowing that his strength was a match for hers made it easy to let go. When she relaxed fully into the beauty of the moment, it was as if an invisible source of resistance dissolved. She was frictionless, flying across the floor with him in the most exhilarating dance of her life.

  She never wanted it to end.

  Alas, the music slowed, and Carlisle took her into one last, dizzyingly perfect spin. When her senses recovered, she saw that he’d led her out onto one of the balconies.

  “How did we end up here?” she said breathlessly.

  “I wanted a moment alone. If that is all right with you?”

  She nodded because she, too, wanted whatever privacy they could find before her sister came looking. She rested her arms on the balustrade, and he followed suit. They stood side by side in companionable silence. Diamonds glittered in the black velvet sky, lamps flickering in the shadowy buildings that circled the courtyard below. The beauty of the moonlit scene struck her… along with a stab of poignancy.

  Monique would never see such a view again.

  He slanted her a glance. “Are you recovered?”

  “Yes, I slept all afternoon.” She cleared her throat. “What did you do?”

  “I talked to Wick’s cronies. Since none of them had seen him since the performance yesterday, I went to look for him in the village.”

  “Any luck?”

  He shook his head, weary lines etched around his mouth. “I never thought he’d stay away this long. I don’t know where he could have gone.”

  Worry trickled through her. Like Carlisle, she hadn’t expected Wick would be gone for this long. She hesitated before voicing the possibility that had to be addressed.

  “Do you think he might somehow be involved? In Monique’s death?” she whispered.

  Silence stretched between them, incongruously filled by the buoyant notes of the orchestra.

  Carlisle’s big hands gripped the stone railing. “Wick would never hurt someone… knowingly.”

  She swallowed because she’d been thinking the exact same thing. “But what if he and Monique were together and... an accident happened? And then he ran because he was afraid?”

  Moonlight couldn’t hide the pain that flashed in Carlisle’s gaze.

  “I’d trade my soul,” he said in low, hoarse tones, “for that not to be true.”

  He looked so grim, so in need of comfort, that she reached out a hand to his lean cheek. The bristly beginnings of a night beard quivered beneath her palm.

  “You’re a good man, Carlisle,” she said. “A good brother.”

  “I failed Wick. Father’s parting words were to look after the estate and the family, and I’ve done a shoddy job of both.”

  So he had lost the family fortune… just as Wick had claimed. From the interaction with Turbett, she knew that he’d arranged for Wick to marry Miss Turbett, too. Wick had been telling the truth about Carlisle forcing him to wed.

  Seeing the self-blame in Carlisle’s eyes, however, she didn’t have the heart to take him to task. Clearly, he regretted his behavior toward Wick. Moreover, she was beginning to see just how heavy his mantle of duty and responsibility was. He’d been left in charge of everything and everyone. Like a lonely giant, he shouldered the weight of his entire family.

  “No one’s perfect,” she said softly.

  “If anything happens to Wick, it will break our mama’s heart. He’s always been her favorite. By not protecting him, I’ve failed her too.”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” she protested. “Who made you king of everything?”

  “Er… pardon?”

  “King of everything,” she repeated. “You know, someone who thinks he rules everything in his sphere. Who takes responsibility for everything… even when it’s not his to take.”

  He blinked at her. At least she’d succeeded in halting his spiral of self-recrimination. Wanting to draw him out further, she said impulsively, “I used to have other names for you, too.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Well, they were names I only called you in my head. And maybe once or twice aloud in front of my sister Polly,” she amended. “When I was really angry.”

  “Now I’m not sure I want to know.” He seemed fascinated. “But go ahead. Tell me.”

  “My favorite was ‘Viscount Killjoy.’ ‘Lord High Horse’ or its variation ‘Lord High and Mighty’ came a close second,” she said candidly. “And, of course, there was the old standby.”

  His lips twitched. “And that was?”

  “‘Pompous prig’,” she informed him.

  He threw his head back and laughed.

  The rich, rusty sound reached all the way to her toes, curling them.

  Eyes gleaming, he inquired, “No ‘Tyrannical Troglodyte’?”

  “An excellent suggestion.” She grinned. “I’ll have to add it to the list.”

  “By Jove, you are an ease to me, Violet.” There was a note of wonder in his voice.

  It was the second time he’d said such a thing to her, and her heart burgeoned. She realized she’d never been that to anyone before, never felt… needed. Blood rushed beneath her skin, desire mingling with something deeper, headier.

  They looked into each other’s eyes. He bent his head slowly toward her. Before their lips could meet, something flashed over his right shoulder, distracting her. She blinked and instinctively shifted her head away to get a better look. A moving light in the courtyard below… a man with a lamp.

  “Er, Violet?”

  “Wick,” she breathed.

  “What did you call me?” Carlisle scowled.

  “Not you. It’s actually Wick. I think I see him in the courtyard!”

  He spun around, and they both rushed to peer over the balcony. It was Wick, she saw with relief. His movements were furtive as he made his way down the walking path. A minute later, he turned into the amphitheatre.

  “What’s he doing?” she said.

  Carlisle’s eyes blazed with hellfire. “I don’t know, but I’m bloody well going to find out.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Richard shoved open the door of the amphitheatre. He was alone; Violet had been waylaid by her chaperone, and for once he was glad for it. He was about to deal with his little brother, and he didn’t want Violet around if things got messy—hell, he didn’t want Violet involved in this business at all. But she’d been dragged into this mess by her loyalty to Wick.

  Wick had a lot of explaining to do, and Richard meant to get answers, one way or another.

  In spite of the dim lighting, he spotted his brother right away. Wick was sitting at the center of the stage, his back slumped against what appeared to be a massive oak wardrobe. His clothes looked bedraggled, as if he’d slept in them, and he’d lost his cravat, his collar hanging open. He seemed to be staring out at nothing as he lifted a silver flask to his lips.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?” Richard snapped.

  Wick’s head jerked up. His gaze—bleary and slightly unfocused—met Richard’s. “Oh. It’s you, Carlisle.”

  “Yes, it’s me, and I’ve been looking all over for you.” Richard took the steps up to the stage two at a time. Towering over his sibling, he repeated, “Where in blazes have you been?”

  “Perdition, ol’ boy. That’s where.”

  Hearing the other’s slurred tone, Richard reached out and grabbed the flask.

  “Give that back,” Wick protested. “It’s mine.”

  “You’ve had plenty. We’re going to talk rig
ht now, Wickham. Where were you last night?”

  “What business is it of yours?” Wick retreated into belligerence. “I’m six-an’-twenty. Sick an’ tired of being ordered ’bout like a witless child.”

  Then don’t bloody act like one. Richard strove to hold onto his patience. “Listen, and listen carefully. Something bad happened last night. Do you know that?”

  “Bad… yes. Very.” Wick hiccupped. “I was verra, verra bad.”

  Sleet coated Richard’s gut. “What do you mean?”

  Wick crooked a finger at him.

  His skin prickling, Richard crouched so that they were eye to eye.

  “Broke in,” Wick said in confiding tones.

  “Where?” Please God, don’t let him say the library…

  “Woodcutter’s cottage. Or maybe it was the gamekeeper’s. I dunno,”—Wick shook his head sadly—“somewhere out in the woods.”

  “You were there all night?”

  “Left before supper. Couldn’t stand to be here.” Before Richard could feel relieved, Wick added sullenly, “Didn’t want to see him, did I?”

  “You mean Garrity?”

  “Who else? Bastard.”

  “Did he approach you?” Richard demanded.

  “Didn’t give ’im a chance. I ran off.” Self-pity infused Wick’s voice. “Like a damned mongrel with his tail between his legs.”

  “As long as Garrity knows you intend to make your payment on time, he has no reason to intimidate you. You have nothing to fear as long as you follow through on the plan to marry Turbett’s daughter.”

  “Nothing to fear… and nothing to live for.” Wick’s voice hitched. “If I have to marry that cold fish—”

  “It’s either that or face Garrity. Your choice,” Richard said bluntly. “Now focus because I have something very important to ask you…” He turned, hearing footsteps.

  Violet was hurrying down the aisle toward the stage, her golden dress sparkling in the gloom.

  Hell and damnation. “What the devil are you doing here?” he said.

  “Hello to you, too,” she said pertly. “I told Emma I had a megrim and needed to lie down.” Clambering onto the stage, she passed him, kneeling on his brother’s other side. “Where have you been, Wick? We’ve been so worried…” Her nose wrinkled. “Gadzooks, are you pickled?”

  “He got soused and passed out at the gamekeeper’s cottage,” Richard cut in.

  “Woodcutter’s,” Wick mumbled.

  “Whatever. The point is,” Richard addressed Violet, “he wasn’t here.”

  She let out a sigh of relief. “So he’s innocent.”

  “Wouldn’t say I’m innocent, Vi”—Wick waggled his brows—“if you know what I mean.”

  Richard was tempted to punch his brother in the face. “Stop leering at her, you idiot—and her name is Miss Kent. You’ll address her with respect.”

  Violet rose, facing him. “He can call me what he wants. He’s my friend.”

  It irked him that she took his brother’s side when he was the one defending her honor. “That’s not an excuse for him to treat you shabbily.”

  “He’s not.”

  “I say he is. For God’s sake, Violet,” he bit out, “I’m looking out for your best interests.”

  “Trust me to be the judge of what that may be,” she retorted.

  “Did you just call her Violet?” Wick said.

  He and Violet turned, saying simultaneously, “Shut up.”

  “Fine. But hand me my flask, will you?” Wick said sardonically. “If I must be submitted to this domestic drama, at least let me do it drunk.”

  Richard inhaled for patience. Collecting himself, he was about to address Monique’s death, but Violet beat him to it.

  “Wick, where’s your ring?” she said.

  Wick’s cheekbones reddened. “Er, which one?” he said unconvincingly.

  “The bloody signet with your initials,” Richard said. “When was the last time you had it in your possession?”

  “Why do you care about my damned ring?”

  “Because it was found on a dead woman’s body,” Richard snapped. “Monique de Brouet had your ring clutched in her hand when Violet and I discovered her in the library this morning.”

  Wick stared at him. “Monique… she’s dead?”

  “Yes, and unless you can explain how she got your ring, you might find yourself the goddamned suspect in her murder,” Richard gritted out.

  “I would never hurt her.” Wick sounded dazed. “Never. I… I cared for her.”

  Devil take it. Just as Richard had feared.

  Violet said quietly, “You and Monique knew one another?”

  “We met last year. For a time, we were… friendly. She’s really dead?”

  Richard heard the shock in his brother’s tone. “Focus, Wick. Your ring. How would it have ended up in Monique’s possession?”

  “I gave it to her.” Wick’s words were hoarse, barely audible. “When I broke things off with her a fortnight ago. It was supposed to be a memento of our time together.”

  God. Wick had been involved with the dead woman just two weeks ago.

  “Why did you break things off?” Richard said.

  “Because you said I had to marry Miss Turbett to pay off my debt to Garrity. You said that was the only way. And you were right.”

  “Hold up. Your debt? To Garrity?” Violet’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “That is why you have to get married?”

  Wick slid her a look that Richard couldn’t quite interpret and nodded.

  “Never mind your debt for now,” Richard said impatiently. “How did the parting go with Monique?”

  Wick raked his hands through his hair. “When I told Monique I was planning to be married, she flew into a rage. She was irrational, swearing revenge one minute and weeping the next. I had no idea that she’d even thought that we could have a future together beyond our...”—he glanced at Violet and mumbled—“… er, arrangement.”

  A divot formed between Violet’s brows.

  Richard thought that Wick’s revelation about his peccadillo might have offended her sensibilities. Her next words proved him wrong.

  “You and Monique didn’t part on good terms? Oh Wick,” she said, “don’t you see how that might look now?”

  An echo of Richard’s own fears.

  “But I—I would never hurt her,” Wick stammered. “You must believe me!”

  “Of course we do. But we’re not the problem.” Rising, Violet paced in front of him, her golden skirts swirling. “It’s what everyone else will think.”

  “Bloody hell, are they looking for me?” Wick jolted upright. “Should I run, get away—”

  “No one knows about your ring. Violet and I have taken care of it,” Richard said curtly.

  “What do you mean you’ve taken care of it?” Hope wobbled in Wick’s voice.

  “We took it. We didn’t tell anyone that we found it in Monique’s hand.” Violet bit her lip. “Not even my brother, who’s heading the investigation.”

  Richard heard the tension in her voice. Hated that she’d been dragged into this fiasco.

  “Investigation?” Wick blanched. He reached out, grabbing Violet’s hand, making Richard’s shoulders bunch. “Dear God, Vi, if our friendship means anything to you, you must promise me that you won’t tell your brother about the ring.”

  “Bloody hell, Wickham, that’s not fair,” Richard bit out. “And for God’s sake, unhand her.”

  Wick released her hand, but his expression remained beseeching. “Vi, come on, you know I didn’t do it. Promise me you’ll keep my secret. Or I—I’ll have to run—”

  “No. You mustn’t run, Wick. If you do, you’ll only bring suspicion upon yourself and look all the more guilty.” Exhaling, she said, “I promise that I won’t tell Ambrose about the ring… until we can prove that you’re innocent. Then the ring won’t matter, will it?”

  “Thank you, Vi.” Wick gave her a lopsided smile. “You’re a tr
ue friend.”

  “Does anyone else know about you and Monique?” Richard asked.

  Wick’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t think so. She insisted on discretion, so I never told anyone.”

  Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, Richard took out the signet ring and handed it over. “Then you must stay and act normally. Do not rouse suspicion.”

  “What if someone asks where I was?” Wick’s hands trembled as he slid the ring into place.

  “Did anyone see you last night? Anyone who can provide you with an alibi?” Violet asked.

  Wick propped his elbows on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. “My sole companion was a bottle of whiskey I filched from the billiards room. I found the gamekeeper’s cottage open and let myself in. I drank all night, passed out… didn’t come to until dusk.”

  “That’s hours unaccounted for,” Violet said with clear dismay.

  Richard came to a swift decision. “If anyone asks, Wick, say you were indisposed today. Don’t elaborate on the details.” The last thing he wanted was for his sibling to construct some elaborate Banbury Tale and get snared in the details. “For now, go directly to your room and get cleaned up. Then go to the ball and act as if nothing has happened. Do you understand?”

  “I shall do my best.” Wick got unsteadily to his feet. “But what about Garrity? What should I do if he approaches me?”

  “You have three months left to pay off your debt,” Richard said shortly. “Until then, he’s not going to do anything to threaten his investment. But, if you’re wise, you’ll show your good faith by doing what you came here to do: secure Miss Turbett’s hand.”

  “You’re right, Richard.” Wick hung his head. “You always were, and I’m sorry if I’ve been… difficult. You’re a good brother to me, a better one than I deserve.”

  Richard’s chest clenched. As a boy, Wick had worn that hangdog expression too many times to count, usually after he’d engaged in some mischief or another. Back then, Richard had always been able to help his little brother. Yet now Wick was a grown man, and it wasn’t just some foolish prank he would have to answer for but murder…

  He shoved aside his worry. Clapped a hand on his sibling’s shoulder. “We’ll see you out of this trouble, Wickham. I promise you that.”