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

by Grace Callaway

  His thinking was not helping matters down south. He reminded himself that the point of tonight’s excursion was to demonstrate that he meant to woo her with more than lust. So he hadn’t exactly proved his thesis… but, then again, she wasn’t exactly complaining.

  He hid a grin. Bent and kissed her nose. “I’d best be going before we get caught.”

  Sitting up, he was reaching for his shirt when her hand slapped against his chest. She’d risen, kneeling beside him. “Wait just one minute,” she ordered.

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  “It’s my turn.”

  “Er, your turn?”

  “Fair’s fair, Carlisle.”

  He was about to remind her to call him Richard—but his breath left him in a sharp whoosh. Her fingers were fumbling with the placket of his trousers, the movements an exquisite torture.

  But he didn’t want her to think that reciprocity was required. “Sweet, your pleasure is enough—”

  He bit off a groan as his erection fell into her waiting hands. His randy cock had no scruples whatsoever. It twitched eagerly at her touch, the bulbous head nudging at her palms. With paralyzing pleasure, he watched as her slender fingers petted the thick, veined beast.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  “Hmm?” God, he loved her hands. They were meant to frig him.

  “You know what you did to me beneath the wardrobe?”

  Devil and damn. She couldn’t mean…

  Swallowing, he said, “Which part, lass?”

  “You know… when you kissed me… down there?”

  She did mean that. Lust roared over him. “When I kissed your pussy, you mean?”

  Pink-cheeked, she nodded. “Could I do the same… for you?”

  Christ. Fierce arousal gripped him as he struggled for a proper response. His cock, being more forthright, showed its enthusiasm by releasing another droplet of seed. They both gazed at the pearly bead… and then, as if all this were happening in some fevered fantasy of his, she bent her head and licked it off.

  Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

  Pleasure punched him, reverberating in every sinew, bone, and cell of his being. Her licks were tentative, whisper-soft, and they made him harder and hotter than he’d ever been. This was the sort of thing he’d only paid for, never expected from a lady—and one who he meant to make his viscountess, no less. But watching Violet’s little pink tongue lap at his turgid shaft, feeling the indescribable bliss of those velvety lashes, he knew there was no going back.

  If she was open to this, hell, who was he to argue? Like he’d said to her, who was to say what was proper or not between them? They would make their own bloody rules.

  He planned to teach her all sorts of sports. Why not begin with this? With brimming anticipation, he threaded his fingers through her silken tresses and guided her lips to the head of his cock.

  “Take me in your mouth,” he said huskily. “Suck me.”

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. Her lips closed around his crown, and she proceeded to drive him out of his ever-loving mind. She took to fellatio like a fish to water; what she lacked in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm and, goddamn, native ability. His fingers tightened against her scalp as she bobbed on his shaft, taking him deeper and deeper. Closer and closer to the point of no return.

  Heat frothed in his bollocks, and he knew he was close.

  He didn’t want to come alone.

  In a swift motion, he moved so that he was lying fully on his back, pulling her hips to straddle his head. Her surprised gasp puffed against his erection as he yanked her pussy down onto his waiting mouth. He licked her dripping slit, spearing her tight sheath with his tongue while his fingers diddled her pearl. She went wild for him, riding his mouth, cramming his cock into her own as if she meant to swallow him whole.

  It was too much. Beyond pleasure. Beyond anything.

  “Lass, I’m going to spend,” he gasped in warning. “Move aside…”

  But she wouldn’t be dislodged. Instead, she took him even more eagerly, his eyes rolling back in his head when he butted the silken end of her throat. Hot ecstasy stabbed through his balls. Seed geysered up his shaft, and then he exploded in her mouth. At the same time, her honey squirted against his lips, and he feasted on that rare nectar like a starved man, growling as his climax rocked him to the core.

  Afterward, he gathered her in his arms, kissing her reverently. The taste of himself on her lips was intensely erotic… and a little worrisome.

  “Violet, was that… all right?” he ventured.

  “I’m not sure.” She gave him a dreamy smile. “Maybe we should try it again?”

  With a relieved chuckle, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He tucked her in.

  “Don’t go,” she mumbled. “Stay with me, Richard.”

  “Time for you to sleep, love.”

  “I’m not tired.” She yawned. “We could… stay up and talk…”

  He stroked her cheek. “Rest, lass. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Her answer was a soft wisp of a snore.

  His lips twitched. Because he’d gotten the last word… finally.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, Richard accompanied Kent to Garrity’s room. They arrived just as another one of the guests, a respected member of parliament, was leaving. The nobleman kept his eyes averted, mumbling a greeting as he passed.

  A pair of burly guards flanked the entrance to the moneylender’s suite. The one with a scar on his chin took Kent and Richard’s names and told them to wait. He disappeared into the room.

  “’Tis easier to get an audience with the king,” Richard muttered.

  “Aye.” Kent took out his notebook, rifling through it idly. “I have a feeling this interview will require stamina. I trust you rested well last night?”

  Richard’s jaw heated; did the other suspect his nighttime activities? But, no, Kent was scanning his notes, clearly just making small talk.

  “Tolerably well, thank you.” Richard cleared his throat. “You?”

  “Slept like the dead.”

  The cutthroat returned, waving them in. “Mr. Garrity will see you now.”

  The spacious suite assigned to the moneylender attested to his power and status. The silk-covered walls, enchanting vista of the surrounding fields, and majestic balcony suggested that this might have been a state bedchamber at one point. Garbed in a burgundy velvet robe de chambré, Garrity looked like a king in his high-backed chair by the fire.

  He waved them into the adjacent seats.

  “Gentlemen,” he said pleasantly, “what may I do for you?”

  Although Richard had met the other once before—during the tense visit he’d paid to Garrity’s office to speak about Wick’s debt—the moneylender showed no sign of their having a previous acquaintance. Richard was relieved that the other’s famed discretion held up in the present situation. He had no wish to rattle his brother’s skeletons in front of Kent.

  “Billings has asked me to follow up on the matter of Madame Monique’s passing,” Kent said.

  Garrity’s dark brows inched upward. “I thought it was an accident.”

  “I’m speaking to anyone who had a connection to the deceased. Tying up loose ends,” Kent said easily.

  “I see. And you wished to speak to me because…?”

  “I’m given to understand that you had a longstanding professional relationship with Monique de Brouet.”

  Garrity steepled his hands. His expression was as smooth as silk. “I don’t speak about my professional relationships, Mr. Kent.”

  “In this instance, I’m sure you can make an exception. Seeing as how your client is dead.”

  “I make no exceptions. That is how one runs a successful enterprise.”

  “Another way to run a successful enterprise is to avoid being suspected of murder.” Although Kent’s voice was calm, his manner conveyed steely resolution.

  “So the acciden
t has now become murder.” Garrity sounded more resigned than surprised. “How… unfortunate. And you think I am somehow involved?”

  “I am here to gather facts, sir. I will make no conclusions without them.”

  Garrity drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Very well, then. I will speak in hypotheticals, and you may draw whatever conclusion you wish. If Monique de Brouet was my client—and had been for a goodly number of years—why would I kill her? One does not slaughter a goose that lays golden eggs.”

  Richard spoke up quietly. “What if she didn’t pay her debts?”

  “Anyone who didn’t pay their debts, my lord, would not be my client for very long.” Garrity’s smile was razor-sharp, his meaning even more lethal. “As for my long-term patrons, they are a select bunch. I consider them investments. Like prize crops, they yield bounty time and again, and thus I tend to them, ensure that they continue to produce.” He paused. “Indeed, certain exceptional clients become my ambassadors of goodwill, so to speak, spreading word of my services to echelons that might otherwise lay out of my reach. In return, I reward them with a reduction of their loan or even a small commission for any business that they bring to me. A woman such as Madame Monique, with her access to Society, would have been, hypothetically speaking, a valuable asset. Killing her would be cutting off a valuable stream of income—something I assure you I would not do,” he said coolly.

  Garrity’s explanation made sense. While Richard had no doubt the moneylender was as cold-blooded as they came, his instincts told him that Garrity was not a man to turn down a profit for, well, any reason. If what Garrity said was true, then not only did he have no motive to kill Monique, but it was in his best interests that the acrobat lived to spread the gospel of his services.

  “Is that why you came to the party?” Kent said. “To keep an eye on Madame Monique—your, er, hypothetical investment?”

  “My dear sir, at any given party—on any street in London, I daresay—I run into more than a few investments,” Garrity drawled. “But the answer to your question is no. Although doing some business has been unavoidable during my stay, my primary objective here is not to gain new clients.”

  “Then why are you here?” Richard said.

  “Pleasure, of course.” A calculating gleam entered Garrity’s eyes. “Even a man as busy as I am must occasionally make time for diversions.”

  “Thank you for your time, sir.” Kent rose, and Richard followed suit. “I’ll be in touch if I have further questions.”

  Garrity inclined his head. “Let me know if I can be of assistance. Whoever killed Monique de Brouet stole a valuable asset from me.” His gaze met Richard’s. “It is my policy to ensure that debts are paid.”

  The subtle threat stayed with Richard even as he returned to the main house with Kent.

  “Well, there’s another dead end,” the investigator said. “This case is full of them. My gut tells me we’re missing something… but what?”

  Richard ruthlessly shoved aside his guilt. “Any luck in finding the missing yellow pillow?”

  Kent shook his head. “The servants were told to keep an eye out, and no one’s reported anything. It’s possible the killer burned it or hid it somewhere outside the house.” After a pause, he added with obvious frustration, “I can only hope my colleagues are having better luck in London.”

  They parted ways at the house, Kent going off to another meeting with the magistrate. Richard entered the dining room just as the luncheon was starting. Spotting Wick with the Turbetts, Richard headed over; he wanted to give his brother his moral support—and to put a rein on Wick’s cronies, Parnell and Goggs, who were seated at the same table. At half-past noon, the pair of troublemakers already looked well into their cups, and the last thing Richard wanted was for them to offend Wick’s future father-in-law.

  On the way over, he saw Violet at another table. Their gazes met; she smiled, and damn, if the sight of her sweet, curving lips didn’t make his insides hum with lust.

  Later, he promised himself.

  Greeting everyone at Wick’s table, he took the empty seat between Parnell and Turbett. He was halfway through his lobster soufflé, listening to Turbett boast about mercantile exploits, when Parnell said loudly, “Surely there must be a more scintillating topic than your piles of blunt, wot? Ruining my appetite, if you must know.”

  Bloody hell.

  Turbett stiffened. “Your digestive state might be better helped by practicing some abstemiousness, my lord.”

  Lifting his wine goblet, Parnell took a deliberate gulp. “Better to be plump with grape than shriveled like a prune. Don’t you agree, Goggs?”

  “Absolutely, Parnell.” Goggs slurped from his glass.

  Richard set down his fork. “I’m certain there is another subject matter we could all find—”

  “Do you smell something, Goggs?” Parnell stuck his long, noble nose in the air.

  Goggs’ round face creased with confusion. “Er, what, Parnell?”

  “I think… yes, I do believe it is the smell of shop…”

  Turbett threw down his napkin. “I’ll not stay and be insulted by a pair of penniless ne’er-do-wells! Come, Amelia, we’re going.”

  He dragged his daughter off.

  “Well, thanks a lot,” Wick said sarcastically to his friends.

  “You ought to be thanking us.” Parnell took another sip of wine. “We’re saving you from a future of disgrace.”

  Wick spoke before Richard could cut in. “I won’t have a bloody future if I don’t get my vowels back.”

  You tell them, brother. Richard gave an approving nod.

  Parnell rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Murray. You don’t see Goggs and I panicking, do you? Our debts are at least as big as yours.”

  “Then perhaps you ought to be heiress hunting as well,” Wick retorted.

  “Papa will take care of it.” Parnell shrugged. “If not, I’ll deal with my obligations in the time-tested tradition of gentlemen. We’ll flee to the Continent, won’t we, Goggs?”

  Goggs’ eyes darted nervously between his two cronies. “Er, whatever you say, Parnell.”

  Shaking his head, Wick left the table, and Richard joined him.

  “You handled that well,” Richard said.

  His brother sighed. “Let’s go find the Turbetts and smooth things over.”

  After that task was accomplished, Richard left Wick to search out Violet. Since the inclement weather had kept the guests inside, plentiful indoor entertainment was provided. There was a magic performance in the amphitheatre, some sort of experiment with an electrifying machine in the library, and a game of quoits in the atrium.

  Richard found Violet chatting with the Blackwoods in the card room.

  “Ah, Carlisle, now that you are here, we have enough for a game of whist,” Lady Blackwood declared. “Do say you’ll play.”

  He concurred, and he, Violet, and the Blackwoods located an unoccupied table in the corner. Lady Blackwood declared that it would be the ladies versus the gentlemen, and Violet volunteered to be the dealer.

  As she deftly shuffled the cards, she murmured to him, “Any luck this morning?”

  He gave a faint shake of his head. “What about you? What were you up to?”

  “I was showing Polly and Rosie the crossbow.” Her tawny eyes danced. “We practiced shooting at apples, and now both of them want crossbows, too.”

  “Crossbows?” Lady Blackwood said. “That sounds dangerous.”

  “It’s a miniature one. Made for fun more than doing harm,” Violet assured her. “Although it did pack enough of a wallop to knock an apple off the table.”

  “Wherever did you come by such a thing?”

  “It was a present. Carlisle made it for me,” Violet said proudly.

  “Did he now?” Lady Blackwood gave him an amused look.

  Blackwood, the bastard, chuckled. “How very, er, charming of you, Carlisle.”

  Heat crawled up Richard’s jaw.
“Are we playing whist or not?”

  A grin tucked into Violet’s cheeks. There was a merry glint in her eyes as she distributed the cards over the green baize. The game commenced.

  After three rounds in which he and Blackwood were summarily slaughtered, Richard began to suspect foul play. He watched Violet shuffle the cards with practiced dexterity, and his gaze narrowed.

  “Shall I deal this round?” he said abruptly.

  “Oh, I don’t mind being the dealer.”

  Her tones were casual. Too casual. He was starting to read the vixen’s tells. Of course, being a gentleman, he couldn’t accuse her of cheating outright, so he sat back and waited for her to deal.

  Again, Violet expertly passed out the cards, each landing precisely before the player.

  Richard lifted the edge of his first card. A two of clubs. Lowest of the suit.

  To his left, Lady Blackwood made an odd, choking sound when she looked at her card.

  “Is everything all right, my dear?” Blackwood’s gaze was also narrowed.

  “Oh, it’s splendid.” The marchioness’ violet eyes shimmered. “Absolutely splendid.”

  Richard’s second card was another two, of diamonds this time.

  When he saw his third card—a two of hearts—he couldn’t hold himself back. “Now wait just one minute, you little minx—”

  Violet burst into laughter, Lady Blackwood along with her.

  Across from him, Blackwood said dryly, “I do believe we’ve been fleeced, Carlisle.”

  Lady Blackwood dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “It took the two of you long enough to figure it out.” She flipped over her cards, showing them the three aces Violet had given her.

  “Bloody hell. How did you learn to deal like that? Wait… never mind.” Richard shot her an exasperated look. “Your infamous brother Harry, I take?”

  “He’s a fount of useful information,” Violet said cheerfully.

  “I’ll say. With such skills, the lad could finance his entire education at Cambridge,” Blackwood said.

  “Harry wouldn’t cheat for money.” Violet performed an impressive, and rather cheeky, one-handed shuffle. “For him, it’s a scientific exercise. And, he says, a way to keep his senses sharp.”