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

by Grace Callaway

  “How did you find out…?” Wick’s bewildered gaze turned to Violet. “You swore you wouldn’t tell your brother about my ring. You promised,” he choked out.

  “Wick, I didn’t tell him anything,” she said in a trembling voice.

  “Ring?” Kent swung to face his sister, his expression thunderous. “What bloody ring?”

  Seeing the panic in her eyes, Richard intervened swiftly.

  “It’s not her fault. It is mine,” he said. “We found Madame de Brouet’s body exactly as we described, but we neglected to mention that… Wickham’s signet ring was in her hand. I knew my brother had nothing to do with it—he wasn’t even at the house during the time she was killed—but I feared that such evidence would be falsely incriminating. To protect Wick, I decided to conceal the fact of the ring. Miss Kent had nothing to do with that decision whatsoever.”

  “Richard,” Violet whispered, “you know that’s not true—”

  “Stay out of this, Violet.” Hellfire blazed in Kent’s gaze.

  She bit her lip and fell silent.

  Turning to Richard, the investigator snarled, “I ought to have you dragged in front of the magistrate along with your brother. You’ve aided and abetted a murder suspect, and you’ve involved my sister in this mess!”

  “The m-magistrate?” Wick’s chin quivered. “He knows about me?”

  “Yes, I told him,” Kent snapped. “It’s my duty to aid in the apprehension of criminals.”

  Fear tangled inside Richard, but he kept his composure. “Wickham is no criminal. He didn’t kill Monique de Brouet,” he said with quiet vehemence. “It is true that they were once lovers, and she kept that ring as a memento of their affair. But you’ll recall that Dr. Abernathy found that broken chain? Well, whoever killed her must have seen her wearing the ring on the chain, tore it off, and put it in her hand to frame Wick—”

  “And did they also place the murder weapon in your brother’s room?” The rejoinder came from the brown-haired McLeod whose arms were crossed over the wide girth of his chest. “Because you ken we found that too.”

  Frost spread over Richard’s insides. “What murder weapon?”

  “The missing pillow. The yellow fabric matches the fibers found by Abernathy on the victim, and the pillow is stained with blood,” Kent stated. “An hour ago, we found this pillow stuffed beneath your brother’s bed.”

  Richard’s heart thudded in his ears.

  “I-I don’t know anything about that damned pillow,” Wick stammered. “I didn’t put it there!”

  “Then Lugo and McLeod arrived from London. With this.” Kent withdrew a leather bound journal. “After searching Monique de Brouet’s home, they found her diary, which gives a detailed account of her relationship with Wickham Murray. With this, she could have blackmailed your brother, put a dint in his plans to marry a respectable young heiress to pay off his debts.” As if reading Richard’s thoughts, Kent said in a steely voice, “Yes, I know about your arrangement with Turbett. He’s been less than discreet about his willingness to buy himself a son-in-law from a noble family.”

  Richard was paralyzed by helplessness, unable to think or do anything to protect his brother.

  “And now,” Kent said with quiet lethality, “we discover that your brother’s ring was found on the dead woman’s body, and you concealed this fact from the authorities. Do you realize how guilty this all looks?”

  “No,” Wick whispered, backing away. “No.”

  Before Richard could stop him, Wick sprinted for his horse, panic imbuing him with uncanny speed. He mounted, spurring his horse, racing down the drive. Dimly aware of the investigators’ shouts, Richard ran for his own horse, intending to halt his brother’s desperate flight which would only make matters worse—

  His boot wasn’t even in the stirrup when a fleet of constables rode up, blocking Wick’s escape route. They circled him, a black carriage pulling up behind them.

  Magistrate Jones stepped out from the equipage, his black coat swirling.

  “Wickham Murray,” the magistrate said in sepulchral tones, “I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Monique de Brouet.”

  Richard surged forward; Lugo and McLeod held him back.

  “Calm yourself.” Lugo spoke for the first time, his accented baritone resonating with warning. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

  “He’s my brother. And he didn’t do any of it,” Richard shouted.

  He struggled against the men’s hold, but between the pair of them, they held him fast. He could only watch as Wick was dragged from his horse, irons clamped on his wrists. One of the constables shoved Wick into the carriage.

  “Wick,” he shouted at his brother’s disappearing back, “don’t panic. Just hold on. I’ll find the true killer, clear your name…”

  The carriage drove off with the convoy of constables.

  When the dust cleared, Lugo and McLeod released him. Panting, Richard battled hopelessness and despair. He looked for Violet—only to see that she’d been loaded into a waiting carriage with the other Kent girls, the door closing.

  “Violet! Wait—”

  He sprinted toward the moving conveyance only to have Kent and his partners block his path.

  “From here on in, stay away from my sister,” Kent said in tones that brooked no refusal. “Go near her, and you and I will be meeting at dawn.”

  Richard’s chest constricted. “But I love her—”

  “I don’t give a damn. You’re a liar and a scoundrel, and I won’t have you near her.”

  As Kent stalked away, flanked by his partners, Richard couldn’t argue—because the man was right. He was a scoundrel. He’d failed his brother and Violet. Standing alone once again, he watched the carriage disappear into the darkening night, carrying his dreams along with it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Inside the carriage, Violet slumped against the squabs. Her mind swirled with worry over Wick and Richard, and her own disgrace was like an uninvited guest in the cabin, muting conversation and camaraderie. Rosie, sitting on the opposite bench with Marianne, was devoid of chatter for once, staring out into the passing darkness, and beside Vi, Polly fiddled listlessly with the strings of her reticule.

  Vi could stand the oppressive silence no longer.

  “Why do we have to leave?” she burst out. “I need to be at the estate—to help Wick. Why won’t Ambrose give me a chance to explain things?”

  “Do not blame your brother,” Marianne said sharply. “He’s trying to minimize the scandal you’ve caused. The whole party is abuzz with how Carlisle has ruined you, and the longer the two of you are under the same roof, the bigger this disaster is going to get. Even with Emma and Thea staying to control the damage, there’s no telling if you’ll have any reputation left after this.”

  “Right now, my reputation is the least of my worries—”

  “If you don’t think of yourself, think of Ambrose.” Her sister-in-law expelled a breath. “Do not test your brother, Violet. If you force his hand, he will call Carlisle out.”

  Horror and shame collided in Vi. By Golly, she’d made a hash of things. The truth was that, even if Ambrose was willing to listen, she didn’t know how she could explain her scandalous behavior.

  Although she’d always been a creature ruled by impulses, her sudden arousal had taken her entirely by surprise, a storm without any warning. One moment she’d been angry at Richard’s unfounded accusations… and the next they were kissing… and more.

  Even now, a bewildering hum of lust lingered in her—which made no sense given the enormity of the disaster that had befallen those she loved. Her throat cinched. Wick had been dragged away in chains, his future hanging precariously in the balance. Richard had been left alone to deal with the mess, and, if her present exile was any indication, Ambrose might try to separate her and Richard for good.

  “It’s not Richard’s fault,” she said desperately. “I was a full participant.”

  “To wha
t are you referring to, precisely? The concealing of evidence,”—Marianne’s brows arched— “or your public ruination?”

  “Um, both?” Vi said in a small voice. “He took responsibility because he’s a man of honor, but I wanted to protect Wick as much as he did—”

  “And so you lied to your brother. Through your actions, you not only betrayed Ambrose’s trust, but you put his professional integrity and reputation at risk.” Her sister-in-law’s face tautened with disapproval. “If word ever got out that a member of his own family sabotaged a murder enquiry, how do you think that would make him look?”

  There goes the idiot sister again, making a mull of things… Only it wasn’t some prank this time, some silly scrape. She’d caused a true and utter catastrophe.

  Hanging her head, Violet whispered, “I’m sorry. I was only trying to do the right thing. I never intended to deceive Ambrose for as long as I did. At first, I just wanted to find out the truth from Wick before going to Ambrose with the ring… but then Magistrate Jones entered the picture, and I knew he wouldn’t be the type to listen to Wick’s explanations, not when the evidence seemed so damning. And I knew if I told Ambrose about Wick’s ring, he’d feel duty-bound to tell Jones—and I didn’t want to put him in a bad position. So, in a way, I was trying to protect Ambrose too,” she finished miserably.

  “Oh, Violet, your brother is perfectly capable of making the right decisions.” Some of the chill left Marianne’s voice. “Now you must trust him to do the right thing.”

  “Wick didn’t kill Monique. I know he didn’t—not only because he’s my friend but because he wasn’t even at the house. He was out drinking and passed out in the woodcutter’s cottage. Why, he didn’t even know Monique had died until Richard and I told him the next evening. Please,” Vi pleaded, “you’ve got to convince Ambrose to keep looking for the true murderer. Or an innocent man is going to hang.”

  A notch formed between Marianne’s brows. “Ambrose is the best investigator in all of London. You must trust his judgement.”

  “I do. I know now that I made a grievous mistake in not trusting him from the start,” Vi said earnestly. “But I can’t change what I did, and once Ambrose calms down, considers all the evidence and clues, he’ll know that Wick isn’t the criminal. And he’d hate himself if he played any part in the wrong man being convicted—”

  “Say no more.” Sighing, Marianne said, “We’ll be staying overnight at the nearest inn, and I’ll write him a note then.”

  “Oh, thank you—”

  “Thank me by not causing any more trouble this trip, all right?”

  ~~~

  With his head in his hands, Richard sat on his bed, trying to sort out his jumbled thoughts.

  What should I do next? How can I help Wick? Win Violet back?

  The sounds of chatter and bustling came from the hallway. Gossip was running rampant with news of Violet’s ruination and Wick’s arrest for murder. With the case closed, many of the guests were making preparations for departure the next morning. Apparently, they’d had enough of the house party from hell.

  Fear churned in Richard’s gut, and he dug his fingers into his scalp, wanting the bite of pain to clear his mind. For once in his life, he had no way to fix the situation—no way to help his own kin. The only one who might be able to clear Wick’s name was Kent. But that bridge had been burned to ashes.

  A knock made Richard raise his head. He didn’t know who would be paying a visit. At the moment, he was persona non grata: despoiler of an innocent and brother of a murder suspect.

  “Come in,” he said.

  It was the Blackwoods. Richard rose as they entered, closing the door behind them.

  “How are you faring, old boy?” Blackwood said.

  Richard didn’t realize how much he’d needed to see a friendly face until that moment.

  “I’ve been better,” he said quietly.

  “We know everything. And we’re here to help,” Lady Blackwood declared.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Humbled, he said, “That means more than you could know.”

  “We were talking to Kent just now. He has his doubts about your brother’s guilt. As a matter of fact, he’s sent his partners to investigate some other possibilities.” Blackwood’s words ignited a spark of hope. “But he felt duty-bound to inform Jones about the ring and the pillow and, well, the magistrate took matters from there.”

  “I understand that Kent only did his duty. It was my mistake for hiding evidence in the first place.” Hunching his shoulders, Richard said gruffly, “I respect the man for doing what is right despite what his personal feelings must be.”

  “Make no mistake, Carlisle, you are not his favorite person at the moment,” the marchioness said dryly. “The concealing of evidence aside, what possessed you to take such a risk with Violet’s reputation this afternoon?”

  Other than the fact that I’m an ass?

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “I mistook an innocent moment between her and my brother for a … a tryst. I was angry and snapped at her.”

  “You forced yourself on Violet?” The marchioness’ voice was sharp as a blade.

  “No. No, it wasn’t like that.” Flushing, he tried to explain the baffling events. “My behavior was abominable, but she was… willing.”

  More than willing, in truth. Violet had been incredibly, unbelievably aroused. And she’d been that way before his arrival. He recalled how she’d looked when he came upon her and Wick: her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, her bosom heaving. Seeing her thus had fed his jealous rage, catapulting him to the wrong conclusion. But if she and Wick hadn’t been up to something, then what had caused her to be that way…?

  “Why would she be willing if you were maligning her?” Lady Blackwood demanded.

  Good bloody question. What had Violet said? I wasn’t feeling well… might have been that cider Wick gave me… tasted a bit off. Richard frowned; Wick had mentioned something about the cider, too. Might have made her foxed, he’d said.

  One cup of cider? And Violet hadn’t been acting foxed, exactly, more like she’d been…

  The answer slammed into Richard’s brain.

  “Drugged,” he said.

  “Pardon?” Blackwood said.

  “I think Violet might have been drugged. With one of those infernal powders that heighten the senses…”

  Frowning, Blackwood said, “An aphrodisiac, you mean?”

  “Aye.” It would explain Violet’s symptoms, her odd behavior. Why she’d been so randy…

  “She was flushed? A bit groggy? Her eyes dilated and glassy?” Lady Blackwood said.

  For a lady, Richard thought the marchioness had rather worldly knowledge.

  “Aye, and she said she’d drank some cider that tasted strange,” he said.

  “Who gave her the cider?” Blackwood said.

  “Wick—but he wouldn’t drug Violet,” Richard said quickly.

  “Then who did it? And why?” Lady Blackwood’s violet eyes were narrowed.

  Richard’s gut told him that Violet’s drugging was no coincidence. “I think it may be related to the murder and the theft of the necklace,” he said slowly. “First, someone frames my brother, and now Violet, who has been making headway in the investigation, gets ruined. Discredited.”

  “Distraction and diversion are two of the best strategies for obscuring the truth,” Lady Blackwood agreed. “The question is who committed these vile deeds?”

  Again, it occurred to Richard that Lady Blackwood’s shrewdness was odd for a gently-bred female. He glanced at Blackwood, who didn’t look surprised by his wife’s acuity. In fact, the other looked proud—and not a little besotted.

  The way I feel about my lass.

  Fire reignited in Richard.

  “I’ll start with Wick’s cronies,” he said. “They were with him at the tavern. They might know who came in contact with the cider.”

  “You do that, and we’ll go explain things to Kent,” Blackwood said. “Ge
t him on board.”

  Richard was heading to the door. “Thank you, my friends. I need all the help I can get.”

  ~~~

  After going through the public rooms and seeing no sign of Parnell or Goggs, Richard went to the rakehells’ bedchambers. He didn’t find Parnell but cornered Goggs in his room. Goggs looked flustered, his thin brown hair disheveled; from the heap of clothes and open valise on the bed, it appeared he was attempting to pack.

  “Thought I’d get a start on things. Everyone’s leaving on the morrow now that…” Goggs’ pudgy cheeks reddened. “I’m, er, sorry about Wick. I can’t believe he would… that is, if there’s anything I can do…”

  “Today at the fair, I saw you with Wick,” Richard said without preamble. “At the tavern.”

  “Me and some of the fellows, yes. We were having a few rounds.” Goggs wetted his lips. “To pass the curst dull time, you know.”

  “When Wick left to speak with Violet, he took a cup of cider with him. Do you recall?”

  Goggs blinked. “I, um, think so.”

  “Who came in contact with that cup?”

  “In contact? Don’t follow, old boy.”

  “Do you know who was in possession of that cup? At any time.”

  The other’s forehead wrinkled. “Why does it matter?”

  Richard was losing his patience. “Just answer the bloody question.”

  After a second, Goggs said, “Well, Wick had it.”

  Damn and blast. I’m getting nowhere—

  “But I think it was Parnell who bought it. Yes, I remember now,” Goggs said slowly. “He thought Violet might be thirsty and suggested Wick bring it over to her.”

  Parnell. Richard wouldn’t put drugging—or murder and theft—past the bastard.

  “Where is Parnell now?” he demanded.

  “He, er, decided to spend the night in the village.”

  Seeing Goggs shift uncomfortably, Richard said, “Spit it out.”

  “If you must know, he was in the mood for some bedsport. Said he fancied sampling the local fare.”