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

by Grace Callaway

  “Not too torn up over your colleague’s death?” Richard inquired.

  The performer flushed beneath his tan. “Course I am. Terrible business. I only meant to say that it came as a shock—a complete surprise.”

  “How would you characterize your relationship with the deceased?” Kent said.

  “It was purely professional.” Grabbing an ivory ball, he rolled it around on the table, his movements nimble. “As you know, Monique and I were colleagues at Astley’s.”

  “From what we understand, you wanted to be more than mere colleagues,” Richard said.

  “Now that’s a bleeding lie.” Burns’ eyes blazed. “I had no personal interest in Monique. My preference is for gently-bred ladies, not strumpets.”

  “What I meant was that you wanted to be Monique’s partner—in an acrobatics act.”

  The fire left the juggler; he looked ill at ease again. “Nothing came of that. It was just an idea. A way for the both of us to benefit from combining audiences.”

  “But the benefit would have been mostly yours,” Kent said, “as Monique had the greater fame.”

  “Either way, I asked, she refused. End of story.”

  Richard quirked a brow. “You harbored no animosity after she turned you down?”

  “Look, business is business. Monique was looking after her own interests, and I don’t blame her for that.” Burns gripped the edge of the table. “I understand how difficult it is to fight one’s way to the top—to have ambitions that exceed one’s grasp. I might have envied Monique de Brouet, but I also respected her.”

  “So you had nothing to do with her frayed tightrope?” Kent said.

  Burns’ laugh surprised Richard. “Let me guess. That maid of hers mentioned it?”

  Kent gave a terse nod.

  “The old mort’s got a screw loose. Thought the world was out to get her and her mistress.” The juggler crossed his arms. “Ropes fray; it was naught but an accident. I was definitely not involved.”

  “One last question.” Kent pinned the man with a stare. “Do you know of anyone who wanted Monique dead?”

  Burns swallowed. A tremor entered his voice. “No, I do not.”

  They let the juggler go.

  “What do you think?” Kent said.

  Richard shook his head. “For an innocent man, Burns seems to have a case of the nerves. But I can’t say for certain that I think he did it.”

  “Agreed. He stays on the list.” Kent sighed. “Hopefully we’ll have better luck with Garrity in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Later that night, Marianne Kent was reading in bed when her husband came in. She felt a pang of worry at how tired he looked. His handsome face bore lines of tension, and his hair looked as if he’d dragged his hands through it repeatedly.

  She put down her book and went to him. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, my darling?”

  “It hasn’t exactly been the most relaxing of vacations,” he said dryly.

  She helped him with his jacket, easing the material off his broad shoulders. “How did the meeting with Magistrate Jones go?”

  “As expected. He’ll be breathing down my neck until the case is solved.” Ambrose tugged off his cravat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “But he’s the least of my worries.”

  As Marianne watched her husband pull off his shirt, a tingle passed through her. Over a decade of marriage and he still affected her this way. The sight of his whipcord lean torso, the tough planes and ridges of muscle, made her nipples harden beneath her silk robe. Her gaze followed the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband, and her sex quivered.

  It had been too long since they’d had intimate time alone. Of late, it seemed that they were always dealing with some domestic catastrophe or another. She’d hoped that the house party would be a vacation of sorts for them—but instead it had turned out to be work. She could see that Ambrose was exhausted, and she didn’t want to take advantage of him.

  At least, not until he’d had a chance to unwind.

  “Why don’t you lie down and tell me all about it while I give you a back rub?” she said.

  His amber eyes lit up. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  He removed the rest of his clothing, and, Lord, she couldn’t help but wet her lips. Even at rest, his cock hung large and thick between his thighs, his bollocks swaying with visible heft as he walked over to the bed. Pulling back the covers, he sprawled face down onto the mattress.

  For a minute, Marianne just enjoyed the view. Heavens, he was beautiful.

  She clambered over him, settling her knees on either side of his narrow hips. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and began to knead the taut muscles.

  “God, you don’t know how good that feels.” His voice was muffled by the mattress.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind,” she murmured.

  “Violet, to start. Carlisle asked me for permission to court her today.”

  Hearing the disgruntled edge in her husband’s voice, Marianne said, “And you don’t approve?”

  “I don’t know what to think. One moment they seem like they can’t stand one another and the next he wants her to be his wife? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Poor Ambrose. He did like his logic.

  “Love rarely makes sense, darling. Remember how you and I started off?”

  He groaned with pleasure as she attacked the knots in his neck. “That was different. There were mitigating circumstances. We each had our secrets to keep—for good reason, at the time.”

  “Perhaps there’s more going on with Violet and Carlisle than we realize.”

  Given the undercurrents she’d picked up between the two, Marianne suspected there was a lot more… but she didn’t want to throw fuel on Ambrose’s fire. He loved his sisters and, like any big brother, had a tendency to be overprotective.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. With Violet, one never knows what is really going on. All these years… and I don’t think I truly understand her.”

  Marianne knew what he meant. Violet’s façade of merriment hid a certain skittishness, a reluctance to reveal her true emotions. Even Ambrose, one of the most astute men Marianne knew, had trouble reading his middle sister.

  Leaning forward, Marianne pressed her palms into her husband’s back. “With Violet, I think you have to let her find her own path… and her own husband. Carlisle may end up being just what she needs.

  “You think so?” Relaxation slurred Ambrose’s voice. He had his head turned to one side, pillowed by his folded arms.

  “He’s her opposite. Steady, somber. He’ll anchor her when she gets too outrageous, and, in turn, she’ll lighten him up when he gets too serious.”

  “Mmm.”

  Continuing to massage him, Marianne mused, “And in some ways they’re the same. Strong-willed, independent… and both of them enjoy physical activities.”

  “Mmm.”

  And speaking of physical activities… Marianne moved off Ambrose, kneeling at his side so that she could work the hard curves of his buttocks, the taut sinew of his thighs and calves. Soon desire was thrumming impatiently in her blood, and she’d had enough of the foreplay.

  Sliding up, she murmured in his ear, “Why don’t you massage me now… inside?”

  No response.

  Frowning, she said, “Ambrose?”

  He let out a snore.

  He’d… fallen asleep on her?

  For a moment, she teetered between exasperation and wifely concern. The latter won out. With a sigh, she drew the covers over his slumbering form, climbed in next to him, and doused the light.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That night, Violet had trouble finding sleep. Despite the soothing pitter patter of a light rain that had begun after supper, she found herself tossing restlessly against the pillows. The evening had been a mellow one, with many guests going up to bed early. She hadn’t seen Richard and wondered where he’d gone. She�
��d had a chance to catch up with Wick, however, the two of them chatting briefly in the atrium.

  “Am I forgiven, Vi, for lying to you about my debt?” he’d said quietly.

  The shame and remorse in her friend’s eyes had compressed her chest. She knew why Wick had lied. He’d felt that he couldn’t measure up—and she understood the feeling all too well. It wasn’t easy comparing oneself to one’s clever and capable siblings.

  “Of course I forgive you.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze. “But it’s not my forgiveness you ought to be seeking out.”

  “I already talked to Carlisle. We made peace.”

  “I’m glad. He cares about you a great deal, Wick.”

  “You as well.” His knowing gaze made her blush. “So am I to understand that we’ll be brother and sister in fact as well as in spirit?”

  The return of their old camaraderie made her heart swell and allowed her to disclose her uncertainty. “I don’t know, Wick.”

  “You do like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes… of course. But we’re so different.”

  “Take my advice, and don’t let that stop you. God knows he can be a bit blunt and overbearing at times, but you won’t meet a finer man.” Wick hesitated. “Even if he hasn’t had the best of luck with females.”

  “He told me about his past,” she admitted.

  “He did? There’s a first.” Wick sounded surprised. “He must really like you.”

  Hope burgeoned. “Do you think so? Because you know me, Wick, and I can’t change who I am.” She bit her lip. “Let’s face it, I’m a hoyden who forgets proprieties all the time. I’m prone to scrapes, acting without thinking… what if I disappoint him?”

  Wick stared at her… and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so amusing?” she said, stung. It wasn’t often that she tried to share her innermost feelings.

  “You are. Dear Vi,” he said with affection, “don’t you understand? Richard is drawn to you because you’re different from him. He needs your spirit and joie de vivre. Otherwise, he’ll end up an old stick-in-the-mud. Trust me on this.”

  Now, moving restlessly amidst the bedsheets, Violet mulled over her friend’s words. Could it be true that Richard needed her? He seemed so strong and self-assured. But then she recalled the hints of vulnerability she’d glimpsed in him. How surprised he’d been when she said that she found him attractive. How lonely he’d seemed bearing his family’s burdens—and how he’d said she was an ease to him. Her insides melted.

  Rap. Rap.

  The sound startled her from her thoughts. She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Was someone at the door?

  The double knocks came again… not from her bedroom door, but from… the balcony? She jumped out of bed, hurrying over. She parted the drapes, and her eyes widened at the sight: Richard was standing outside. Hastily, she yanked open the glass-paned doors. The rain-speckled wind billowed the curtains and whipped against her night rail.

  “Gadzooks, what are you doing there?” she exclaimed.

  “For God’s sake, lower your voice, or everyone will know I’m here. Could I explain inside?” he said tersely.

  She pulled him into the room. Once she had the doors closed, she turned to look at him. Moisture glazed his stark features, his hair curling against his forehead in wet whorls. He was rumpled and wet from head to toe, his clothes dripping water onto the floor.

  She repeated in hushed tones, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to give you something.” Looking thoroughly disgruntled, he said, “Do you mind if I dry off in front of the fire first?”

  “By Golly, you must be freezing. Here, let me help you with your jacket.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to pry off the sodden garment. After hanging it and his waistcoat to dry on the back of a chair, she went to fetch a towel for him from the washing stand. When she returned, he’d built up the fire in the hearth and was standing on the carpet in front of it, warming his hands.

  The firelight cast his features in harsh relief. His damp shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the hard-paved contours of his chest. He’d shucked his destroyed cravat, and the open vee of his collar revealed the strong line of his throat and a glimpse of the hair-dusted muscle below. He’d removed his boots and socks; his soaked trousers molded to his powerful legs like a second skin. The sight of his large bare feet sent a quiver through her.

  He was so deliciously primal and gorgeous, the very epitome of what a male ought to be. But what on earth had motivated him to climb her balcony in the middle of the night during a rainstorm? Her heart thumped, a honeyed awareness trickling through her. Wordlessly, she handed him the towel.

  He dried himself off with efficient movements. With the towel draped around his neck, he slanted her a look. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was awake. I’m, um, not a good sleeper.” Why did she suddenly feel tongue-tied?

  Strained silence descended.

  “I hope I didn’t startle you,” he said abruptly. “This morning, you said we could arrange some time alone together. I took you at your word.”

  As he spoke, ruddy color rose up his jaw. His shoulders were tense as if he was… nervous?

  “I’m glad you came,” she blurted.

  His lashes flickered. “You are?”

  “I, um, didn’t get a chance to talk to you this evening. To find out how things went with Burns.”

  “Oh.” His brow furrowed. “In a nutshell, he seemed a havey-cavey sort of fellow, but neither your brother nor I believe he was the killer.”

  “And Garrity?”

  “We’re scheduled to talk to him in the morning.”

  “Oh. That’s… good.”

  Awkward silence stretched once again. Her pulse was racing.

  “I brought something for you,” Richard said suddenly.

  Going to his jacket, he plucked something from its pocket. Returning, he thrust a damp, paper-wrapped package at her as if he couldn’t be rid of it quickly enough.

  “Um, what is it?” she said.

  “Open it, and you’ll see.” His voice was grim, strangely resigned.

  She took the package; it was as long as her forearm and oddly shaped. She unwrapped it with care—and blinked at the revealed objects. One item consisted of two sticks of wood tied together in the shape of a T. The ends of a short cord were connected to the top of the T, the middle section pulled back tautly and hooked onto a wooden latch on the body of the T. Nestled in the paper were also three little arrows, their tips blunted and made of wood.

  Recognition dawned.

  “Thunderbolts,” she breathed. “A miniature crossbow. Where did you get such a thing?”

  “I used to fashion them for Wick and me when we were boys,” he said starkly. “We hid them beneath our desks and drove our tutors mad by shooting at things during our lessons.”

  She was so filled with emotion that she couldn’t speak.

  His shoulders hunched. “I thought since you liked to shoot… never mind. It’s a stupid thing to give to a lady—”

  “I love it!”

  She placed the precious gift on a chair and then launched herself at him. In her enthusiasm, she didn’t check herself and probably would have felled a lesser man. Richard didn’t budge an inch, his arms closing around her like steel bands.

  “You do?” His voice was hoarse… hopeful?

  Tipping her head back, she told him fervently, “It’s the best present anyone has given me.”

  And it was. Not merely because she loved shooting, but because of what the crossbow represented. He understood her. Accepted her foibles and eccentricities. He truly liked her after all!

  The feeling inside her was too vast to contain. So she shared it with him.

  As soon as her lips touched his, desire combusted between them. They sank onto the carpet, tongues and limbs entangled, tearing at each other’s clothes. Before she knew it, her night rail was tossed aside, her bare back pressing agai
nst the carpet. Hanging over her, he gazed down at her naked body. Her embarrassment dissipated at the undisguised wonder in his eyes.

  “By Jove.” His voice was as deep as the night. “You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

  She trailed her fingers over the granite-hard contours of his chest; in the tussle, she’d managed to get his shirt off. “I was about to say the same thing,” she said reverently.

  Flecks of ore surfaced in his eyes. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  She grinned, about to make a quip, but he lowered his head to her breasts. The hot, wet suction on a taut peak made her spine arch off the carpet. She bit her lip to stifle a moan.

  “Your nipples are so pretty,” he said huskily. “Sweet and ripe against my tongue. I’ve dreamed of kissing you here, suckling to my heart’s content.”

  His words inflamed her almost as much as the decadent flicks of his tongue. He licked and sucked, the drugging pulls causing the place between her legs to flutter and dampen.

  When his fingers stroked through those needy folds, a groan rumbled from his chest. “You’re so wet for me, lass.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “I… I can’t help it.”

  “Devil and damn, I don’t want you to. I want your pussy soaked for me.” His eyes grew smoky. “Aye, that’s it. Drench me with your dew, sweeting.”

  She moaned as he pressed deeply, her moors on reality beginning to slip. Then he found that little knot of sensation, rubbing it as his fingers pumped fiercely into her. When he lowered his head, suckling hard at her nipples, she broke free of earthly restraints and shattered into ecstatic pieces.

  ~~~

  His chest heaving, Richard stared down into Violet’s flushed face. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, sated, her womanly dew slick upon his fingers. Satisfaction flowed through him; at the same time, his cock was an iron ridge in his trousers, throbbing with an acuity that bordered on pain.

  The gentlemanly thing to do would be to take his leave. He’d come to give her a present… and now he’d given her two. He couldn’t say which was sweeter: her response to the crossbow (a success rather than an unmitigated disaster, thank God) or the tight clench of her pussy around his fingers when she’d found her climax.