“Please let me help,” she blurted.
“Don’t worry your head over it, Em,” he said. “The agency is doing fine. Our clientele is expanding—we’ll keep the Hilliards happy.”
“But you could use an extra pair of hands. I know Strathaven’s case has taken up much of your time. I’ve been thinking,” she plunged on, “about ways I could contribute. For instance, if you’d give me a chance to interview his staff—”
“We’ve been through this. I don’t want you involved.” Though quiet, Ambrose’s tone possessed an edge of steely finality. “Especially with the Duke of Strathaven.”
“I—I’m not involved with him.” Her cheeks heated.
“I see the way he looks at you,” her brother said flatly. “He’s a rake, Emma, an unsavory sort. You’re too innocent to understand, but I assure you his intentions are not honorable.”
A foreign and mutinous urge crept over her to tell her brother that she not only knew what Strathaven’s intentions entailed, she’d already experienced them. Twice.
Instead, she bit her tongue and said, “I owe him, Ambrose. After how I misjudged him—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Frustrated, she stared at her brother. “You used to trust me.”
Surprise flickered in his amber eyes. “I do trust you. But this is men’s business, rife with danger. I won’t allow you to get hurt.”
“There’s nothing I can say to convince you to let me help?”
Why are you treating me like I’m useless?
“None at all, though I appreciate the offer.” He came over and patted her on the shoulder. “Run along, Em. I’m sure you can find something to do at home.”
***
Emma had never willfully disobeyed her brother before, and her heart and head were in turmoil as the hackney entered St. John’s Wood. She felt guilty over defying Ambrose, yet her sense of resolution was stronger. She knew that both he and Strathaven needed her help, and she couldn’t stand by wringing her hands. She was a Kent, after all.
In this case, she would have to act first, apologize later.
Follow the wisdom of your heart.
That advice brought her to Alaric’s “cottage,” a luxurious Italianate villa nestled within a bucolic setting of woods and flowering plants which seemed a world away from the city. As the hackney rolled up the long drive, she observed the privacy afforded by the towering trees and hedges.
When she rang the bell, a woman in her middling years answered. Her black taffeta dress and firmly secured knot of grey hair announced her as the housekeeper.
“How may I help you, miss?” she said.
“I am Emma Kent.” Squelching her guilt, Emma handed over the business card she’d filched from Mr. Hobson’s desk on her way out from the office. “Kent and Associates was hired by his grace to investigate the matter of Lady Osgood.”
Frowning, the good lady looked at the card, then at her.
Emma assumed her most professional expression.
“Those gentlemen from your firm were here earlier this week,” the housekeeper said.
“I’m following up,” Emma improvised. “I have a few more questions.”
The woman scrutinized her for a few more moments before standing aside. “I am Mrs. Millbury, the housekeeper, and I’ve already told the gentlemen what I know about Lily Hutchins, which is very little. If you must, however, you may speak to the maids again.”
Emma could barely contain her excitement. “Thank you, Mrs. Millbury.”
She was brought to wait in a salon, which had been decorated with an exotic flair. Bronze bamboo-patterned silk covered the walls, and the furnishings were upholstered in a rich shade of Oriental blue. The overall feeling was one of decadence. Thinking of the guests Alaric must entertain here, Emma felt her chest tighten with a foreign feeling ... jealousy?
Surely not. She had no attachment to him, no claim.
You’re here to find a murderer. So focus.
Two maids entered, a plump brunette and a ginger-haired girl. Both bent their knees.
“Good mornin’, Miss Kent.” The brunette was bran-faced, with dimpled cheeks that hinted at a jolly disposition. “Mrs. Millbury said you wanted to speak wif us?”
“Yes, Miss …?”
“I’m Jenny.” Clearly the leader, the brunette jerked her chin at her companion. “And this ’ere is Gretchen.”
Gretchen ducked her chin shyly.
“Won’t you both sit down?” Emma said.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Jenny plopped herself on the divan while Gretchen perched on its edge.
Taking the adjacent wingchair, Emma pulled out a pencil and notebook from her reticule. “I understand that both of you knew Lily Hutchins. Would you describe her to me?”
“Ash-blond ’air, ’azel eyes, the kind o’ female gents take notice o’, if you catch my meaning.” Jenny snorted. “Lily started work ’ere about a month ago, but as I told the other investigators, she was too hoity-toity to rub shoulders with the likes o’ me and Gretchen. Myself, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were the one that done the poisoning.”
“Why do you say that?” Emma said swiftly.
Jenny tapped her temple. “I know people, miss. Worked in more than a few ’ouseholds in my time, and there was somefin’ not right ’bout Lily.”
“What wasn’t right about her?”
“She didn’t know things, for starters. Once, I caught ’er using silver polish on a copper pot.”
“When a dash of salt and lemon juice would have sufficed,” Emma said, her brow scrunching. Any housemaid ought to know that.
Jenny gave her a woman-to-woman look. “’Xactly. Lily made plenty o’ other mistakes, too, but got away wif it on account o’ ’er charms. ’Ad Billy—’e’s the second footman—running in circles doing ’er chores.”
“Do you think Billy might know her whereabouts?”
“Nah.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “’E was just a pigeon and didn’t know ’e were getting plucked. Cried like a babe, ’e did, when Lily up and left.”
“Did she mention any places she frequented, anywhere she might have gone?”
Jenny shook her head. “Quiet as a clam, that one. Lily ne’er breathed word ’bout ’erself.”
“Actually … she did mention something once,” a timid voice said.
Emma’s gaze shot to the other maid, whose cheeks now matched the color of her hair.
“Why didn’t you mention it before?” Jenny demanded. “To the master or the investigators?”
“I couldn’t say it in front o’ gentlemen. It’s embarrassing,” Gretchen mumbled. “Besides, I’m certain it isn’t important.”
“Anything you remember could be helpful, Gretchen.” Emma gave her a reassuring smile. “Please, I’d like to hear it.”
Fingers twisting her skirts, Gretchen said haltingly, “Me and Lily, we were cleaning up ’is grace’s bedchamber this one time. Suddenly, she curses—on account o’ snagging ’er stocking, you see. Since it was just us two, she pulled up ’er skirts to take a closer look, and bless me, if my jaw didn’t drop at what I saw.”
Emma’s spine tingled. “What did you see?”
“’Er stockings, miss. Made o’ the finest silk they were, with clocking that stretched from calf to knee.” The girl’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. “She must have seen me staring, for a strange smile came over her face, and she said, I’ll bet a little maid like you hasn’t ever seen something so pretty in all your life, have you? I told ’er, No, Lily, I ’aven’t. And then she … she showed me something else.”
“Yes, Gretchen?” Emma leaned forward.
The maid bit her lip. “She made me promise to keep it a secret.”
“If she’s a murderer, you best not be keeping ’er secrets,” Jenny said in stern tones.
In a small voice, Gretchen said, “She let me see … ’er petticoat. Lord, it was beautiful.” Her voice hushed with wonder. “Embroidered with bumblebees and vines an
d all sorts o’ fancy flowers.”
Emma’s pulse sped up. What was a maid doing with such expensive undergarments?
“Do you know where Lily got the petticoat and stockings?” Emma said.
“Come to think o’ it, she did mention a name.” Concentration lined Gretchen’s forehead. “When I said ’er petticoat looked fit for a queen, Lily laughed and said, ’Tis a king’s ransom Madame Marieur charges, but for me, she offers a special discount.”
Madame Marieur. A lead.
With thrumming excitement, Emma said, “Can you recall anything else, Gretchen?”
“That’s it, I swear. I—I didn’t think talk o’ undergarments was important.” The maid’s bottom lip trembled. “Am I in trouble, miss?”
“On the contrary, you have been extraordinarily helpful,” Emma said. “My thanks to both of you, and now I must take my leave.”
Because she had a suspect to find—and a trail to follow.
Chapter Fifteen
Alaric stood before the cheval looking glass in his dressing room. While his valet fussed with the folds of his cravat, Alaric’s thoughts returned to the letter he’d received from the dowager duchess. Lady Patrice’s spidery cursive had spilled over several pages, with words like “Catastrophe,” “Doom,” and “Rescue” written in underlined capitals.
His aunt had always had a flair for the dramatic.
The idea of her coming here, filling his house with her nervous, overabundant concern, made him cringe. He’d sent off a reply assuring her that he was fine and telling her to stay put in Lanarkshire. Although he was indebted to Lady Patrice—she’d done her best by him, after all—her constant worries about his health and happiness were draining to say the least.
His plan to find himself a new duchess was, in part, a means to ward her off. Since Laura’s death, the dowager had offered tireless support, once again taking over the mistress’ duties at Strathmore Castle. Having run the household during her husband’s reign, she’d declared it was no trouble at all. Alaric’s gratitude had quickly transformed into an intense desire for escape.
Hence, he’d arrived at the solution: find himself a new wife and retire his aunt to the dowager house for good.
Of course, finding a lady who could rub along with his aunt wouldn’t be easy. Laura and Patrice had fought like two well-bred cats, polite in public, hissing and clawing in private. An idea had germinated over the last few days, and for an instant, he allowed himself to consider it: how would Emma and Lady Patrice get along?
His ethereal, nervy aunt would likely expire from the shock of Emma’s arrow-straight directness.
Yet as mad as the notion was, the idea of making Emma his duchess held a certain ... appeal. Once the possibility had nudged itself into his head, he couldn’t help but ponder it. Thanks to her meddling, his search for a wife had been thwarted. Her testimony against him had tainted his reputation, and, even with its retraction, the scandal would take time to fade. He didn’t want to waste another Season looking for a wife.
Not when he had a perfectly good candidate staring him in the face.
“The jade or gold cufflinks, your grace?”
“Jade,” he murmured.
Hell, Emma had made a hash of his marriage plans; she owed him a duchess. And marriage would actually give him control over her. She would carry his name. Eventually his child.
His loins stirred at the thought.
Aye, that was the most compelling reason of all: he would no longer have to deny his sexual attraction to her. He could bed her as often, as thoroughly as he wished. Night after night, he could bring about her passionate surrender.
As his valet helped him into his jacket, Alaric told himself not to rush things. Because there would be clear drawbacks to marrying Emma as well—the main one being that he’d never have a moment’s peace again. She was the most headstrong, tenacious woman he’d ever met ... yet he had to admit that she was generally not underhanded about it. When Emma defied him, she did so to his face.
In retrospect, he knew it had been unfair to call her manipulative, his reaction triggered by his experiences with Laura. By his dead wife’s deviousness, her ability to slyly twist him into knots of guilt and anger.
Despite the dark memory, his mouth suddenly quirked.
One could accuse Emma Kent of being many things but subtle? Not so much.
The valet stepped back. “Your grace?”
Pushing aside his musings, Alaric flicked a look at his reflection. His arm had healed nicely, the bandage barely visible beneath the sleeve of the cutaway. He looked and felt almost as good as new.
“That’ll do, Johnston,” he said.
The valet bowed, departing as Jarvis shuffled in.
The butler held out a note. “A message arrived, your grace. From Mr. Cooper.”
Alaric’s senses prickled. Richard Cooper was one of the guards he’d hired at his brother’s recommendation. Like Will, Cooper had been a scout for the 95th Rifles, and recognizing the stoic ex-soldier’s skill immediately, Alaric had assigned him to a special purpose.
Alaric scanned the brief message. The hairs shot up on his nape.
Christ’s blood, I’m going to wallop her until she can’t sit for a week.
With mingled fury and fear, he pushed by the startled butler, shouting for his carriage.
***
“How may I assist you ... Mademoiselle Kendall, was it?” The buxom, black-haired proprietress arched a thin eyebrow.
“Um, yes. Eloise Kendall. That’s me,” Emma said.
Inwardly, she cringed. She hated lying, was terrible at it. Yet as she’d entered the shop located on a hidden lane in Covent Garden, her instincts warned her to keep her true identity and purpose concealed. Something about the place didn’t seem quite ... right.
She couldn’t put a finger on the reason, however. The boutique was sumptuously decorated in tones of cream and pale bronze. Its wares—ladies’ unmentionables that looked as expensive as those Lily had been described as wearing—were artfully displayed.
From all appearances, Madame Marieur ran a successful establishment.
Emma’s ears picked up a noise, and her gaze shot to the red curtain at the back of the shop. “What was that sound?”
“Just my girls hard at work. A shop doesn’t run itself, you know,” Madame Marieur said breezily. “Now how may I help you, chérie?”
The dressmaker’s polite manner didn’t mask the hard impatience in her onyx eyes.
Emma thought quickly. “I’m, um, in need of some undergarments.”
“I’m afraid we take clients by appointment only. We are very busy, you understand. Perhaps you will try the modiste on the next block ...” Madame Marieur pushed her toward the door.
Emma dug in her heels. “But ... but Lily said you would help me.”
The dressmaker halted, her eyes narrowing. “Lily White sent you? To me?”
Lily White? Was that the maid’s real name? “Er, yes.” Gretchen’s words flashed through Emma’s brain. “She said you would offer me the, um, special discount?”
“I see.” Her ploy must have worked because the impatient gleam left Madame’s eyes, replaced by one of ... interest? “I would not have guessed, petite, that you are a friend of Lily’s.”
“We met at a mutual place of employ,” Emma extemporized.
“You are an actress at The Cytherea?”
Lily was an actress? Had she been hired because of her profession to play the part of a maid in Strathaven’s household? Emma’s mind spun with new possibilities.
“I met Lily, er ... at a production,” she said with thumping excitement. “But I haven’t seen her of late. Have you?”
“That one comes and goes, non?” Madame shrugged. “I haven’t seen her in over a fortnight.”
Not since Strathaven had been poisoned. Coincidence? Surely not.
“Do you know where she might have gone?” Emma said.
“You ask many questions.” Madame Marieur’s ey
es narrowed. “You will learn, chérie, that discretion is the best policy for women of the world. And you are a woman of the world, n’est-ce pas?”
“Of course,” Emma said hastily.
“Bien.” The dressmaker’s black skirts swished as she went to the counter, crooking a finger for Emma to follow. She opened a ledger with an embossed leather cover and dipped her pen in ink. “Now what will your pleasure be today?”
“I—I’d like a corset and petticoats. And stockings, too. Like Lily’s.” The more elaborate the ensemble, the more time she’d have to try to finagle information out of Madame Marieur.
“An ambitious little bird, aren’t you? You demand the very best my establishment has to offer. As luck would have it,”—a calculating gleam entered the other’s eyes—“I happen to have exactly what you seek today.”
The dressmaker jotted something down on the page ... what appeared to be a figure—Good Lord, five hundred pounds? For unmentionables?
For an instant, Emma was sorely tempted to negotiate the astronomical figure. But Madame snapped the book shut and headed toward the curtain at the back of the shop.
“Come, petite.” She beckoned with an impatient hand. “If you wish to complete this transaction, we haven’t time to spare.”
Emma took a breath. Strathaven had said that he would pay for all expenses incurred in the course of investigation—surely his offer would apply in this situation. At the thought of how he might react to learning of the current intrigue, however, her insides quivered.
She stiffened her backbone and her resolve. You must act as you know best. You’re doing this for Strathaven’s own good. Look what you’ve discovered already.
Decision made, she went over to Madame, who parted the velvet and opened the heavy door behind it, waving Emma forward into a narrow corridor. The door closed behind them, deepening the shadows. The dancing light of the occasional taper and the deep, musky scent of roses disoriented Emma’s senses.
Madame set forth at a brisk pace, Emma stumbling to keep up.
The dressmaker said, “Le Boudoir Rouge should do nicely.”
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 12