Harder.
On this, they both agreed.
In a world that preyed upon the weak, one must turn his encumbrance into power, or be consumed by it.
Consummation. Now there was a concept upon which he’d rather not dwell. Though, he had been. For three years past he’d been obsessed by the memory of a very specific consummation.
Except for last night. A new and unsettling beauty had diverted his thoughts, abducted his dreams. For so long he’d been the devotee of nostalgia. But now a lovely, outspoken idealist had absconded with his closely guarded reminiscence and replaced it with new and distressing interactions upon which to reflect.
Lady Anstruther. Imogen.
Cole took many liberties with her in his thoughts, the very least of which was her name.
Why was it that he couldn’t seem to conjure Ginny’s face, no matter how hard he attempted it? But the intrepid countess’s features inserted themselves into every moment since they’d parted, waking or otherwise.
He knew the answer, of course. Not only because she’d kissed him, but because she’d seen him. There in her garden, she’d used the moonlight to illuminate him, and she’d asked him if he was all right. Not like most posed the question, as though they’d queried a thousand people a thousand times. But as though she wanted the answer. Like it meant something to her.
Like he’d meant something to her.
And he’d wanted to tell her, hadn’t he? That he, in fact, resembled nothing close to all right. That he seethed one moment, and was completely numb the next. He wanted to confess that he hated the entire world. That he hated himself, most of all. That he remembered how to survive, but not at all how to live.
He’d wanted to give voice to his greatest fear, that he’d be this … this shadow of a man until he finally decided to end his own life. Because there were no fresh wonders left. Nothing to conquer. Nothing worth protecting. Nothing to fight for.
Nothing to live for.
That the night would only ever be too dark and full of remembered suffering. That the day would only ever be too bright and too loud. That all his moments would bleed into the next and time would steal his memories, just like it did that of Ginny’s face. And he’d forever yearn for what he’d never again attain. Because not only was he not worthy. He was not capable.
He’d wanted to say all of that. To confess his weaknesses to her. Because weakness didn’t seem to be something that concerned Lady Anstruther in the least. While she wasn’t as delicate as some, she was a small woman. He’d felt her fragility beneath his hand, her susceptibility to be easily broken. It had stirred in him something he’d thought lost to the world. Some strange and disquieting instinct he was loath to name. Something possessive. Protective.
In a base world where people were easy to read and even easier to predict, a woman like her was a rare find, indeed. She was truly an enigma. Someone who, after amassing a fortune, seemed intent upon giving it away and asking others to do the same.
But for what purpose? There was no such thing as an altruist, everyone knew that. So why couldn’t he figure her out? She was as rare and puzzling as the mighty Grecian Sphinx.
He’d told her all the reasons he didn’t want her to procede with this charitable scheme of hers.
All but one.
That being the risk to her own safety.
Because while he had no love for the woman, he was starting to think he had less contempt for her than he initially determined. She’d been kind. Until he’d pushed her past the level of her own tolerance. Which, if he was honest, had always been a particular talent of his.
Then she’d been shockingly impetuous. Incredibly carnal.
Cole didn’t think himself capable of shock anymore. He’d been a rake in his younger days, and even worse since his tragedies.
He’d sought to drown his emptiness in pleasure, and found that the more he tried to fill it, the more fathomless the void became.
Propelled by a sense of shame, Cole stalked to the sideboard and reached for the Scotch, something he’d been doing with alarming frequency these days.
Argent’s familiar voice reached him through the open window.
Her window. The portal to the Anstruther garden.
What the devil? Seized by curiosity, he looked down to see not only Argent’s wide back standing by the satyr fountain, but facing him, a man he also recognized on sight. Sir Carlton Morley, a knight and a marksman he’d briefly known maybe a decade ago. If memory served, he was now the chief inspector at Scotland Yard. Was he a supporter of Lady Anstruther’s schemes?
That didn’t seem likely; from what he remembered, the man was a stern and stoic traditionalist. A gentleman of militaristic focus and priestlike self-control who could shoot the eye of a needle at fifty paces. He always wondered why Morley should become a lawman, seeing as they didn’t carry firearms.
Morley moved to the side, inspecting the fountain. In doing so, he uncovered a sight that sent Cole’s heart slamming against its cage.
Morning light glinted off pale hair. A prone woman in a bright dress askew among the wildflowers. Her skirt bunched to her knees.
Cole had seen enough of death to recognize it. Without thinking, he bolted, reaching the door before his tumbler of Scotch spilled to the carpet.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Imogen had suppressed her tears for so long, her throat ached and her head throbbed. Her home, her sanctuary, and the refuge she had been trying so long to build for others had been infiltrated, desecrated by death and brutality.
Perched on the shaded bench she’d shared with Trenwyth the prior evening, she watched as Inspectors Argent and Morley conducted their investigation.
Imogen refused to look in the fountain, where the evidence of sexual brutality floated on the surface, stitched with sullied white lilies.
Poor Lady Broadmore. How terrified she must have been. Did she try to call for help? Had her ordeal been quick or drawn out? Had she been violated before her death? Or after? Imogen put her head in her hands. She’d slept through someone’s assault and murder. How would she ever forgive herself? She’d been so angry. So heated and then humiliated by Cole that she’d spent the rest of the night attempting to salvage the evening, and had barely given the absent Lady Broadmore another thought.
She’d gone up to bed after everyone had left and all donations had been tallied with a sense of smug satisfaction. Despite Trenwyth’s dire fit of public temper and Lady Broadmore’s ignorant comments, she’d done better than she’d ever predicted. A small, spiteful part of her had wanted to make sure they knew of her success. To prove that she would neither be intimidated nor dissuaded. That she’d moved others to action and charity despite their best efforts to sabotage her.
She should have looked for her missing guest. She might have noticed, then, that Lady Broadmore’s cape and pelisse were still in the cloakroom, but the woman was nowhere to be found. The villain had been in her home as she’d gone to sleep, blissfully unaware of the ghastly crime being committed on her own property.
Imogen blinked up, unable to believe her eyes for a moment as Trenwyth materialized across her garden. Where he came from, she could only guess. She was sitting by the garden door and surely would have seen him arrive from the house.
Hair and eyes blazing like burnished ore, he surged against Argent’s and Morley’s restraining holds until his wide, restless gaze latched upon her, and the flame flickered out upon an expression she’d almost identify as relief.
Dear God, what was he telling them? Why did the way he was looking at her now make her want to clutch her robe closed to the throat? She felt so exposed to him, even in her modest nightgown and wrapper. It was easy to fear that the force of his masculinity gave him some sort of inhuman capability. She absurdly worried that he could see through not just her clothing, but also the secrets that shrouded her very existence. She’d been naked in front of him once before.
But never truly exposed.
Though,
she’d been unutterably stupid last night, kissing him like she had. It had been a dangerous move. One born of impulse and anger. And it could have cost her everything.
What if he’d remembered her from her kiss? He and Ginny had never kissed like that. But that had been before. Before he’d been captured. Before she almost killed a man.
Before a woman was murdered in her garden.
Imogen stood on quivering legs and made her way toward them. Why should he look so wild and concerned when he’d made his feelings about her irrevocably clear? Where had he come from?
Strange and precarious suspicion lanced her as she sidled around the horrific scene. Had their interaction pushed him past the edge of sanity? Could he have been the one to—
Trenwyth’s head snapped up at something the chief inspector said, his temper sparking from his eyes as though Morley’s last words had been a blacksmith’s hammer, and he the tempered steel on an anvil.
With a burst of strength and speed, he shoved past the two men and stalked to her, the inspectors quick on his heels.
“You think I did this?” he thundered at her.
“I never said that.” Imogen put an ineffectual hand up, as though to ward off an attack. To her utter surprise, it worked. He stopped a few paces from her, his hand curled tightly at his side, and his prosthetic gleaming like pewter in the morning sunlight. “I only told the inspectors the truth. That you were the last person I was aware of in this garden, and that you threatened to make certain my venture failed.”
“This is certainly one way to see to that,” Morley remarked, his alert blue gaze making studious calculations of Trenwyth’s every move and expression.
“Yes, but not my way,” the duke managed from between clenched teeth. “I would never—how could you even think—” He blinked, his hard mouth pressing into a hyphen.
He was remembering what he’d done to her in the garden, Imogen was certain. His hand at her throat. His body against hers. The menace he’d used to attempt to frighten her away from her current path. The way he’d dominated her with his kiss.
His gaze flickered over to the fountain, but not before she noted a lick of regret behind the temper. Perhaps even shame.
Good. He should be ashamed of his behavior.
“No one is accusing you of rape and murder, Trenwyth.” Argent’s dry inflection broke the tension of the moment.
“Not as of yet,” Morley amended, earning him a sharp look from both men.
“We’re establishing a timeline,” Argent continued. “Could you tell us how long you tarried in the garden after Lady Anstruther left you alone?”
They didn’t remark on the scandal that would be caused by the very fact they’d been in the garden alone together, and for that, Imogen was unfailingly grateful.
“I left immediately,” he clipped, lifting a brow at her. “As it was made abundantly clear I was no longer welcome on the premises.”
“A definitive that remains unchanged,” Imogen stated, folding her arms over her breasts as something made them tighten painfully. A chill in the morning air, not the one in his glare, surely.
“Lady Anstruther, can you think of anyone who has recently expressed displeasure with you?” Morley asked.
“With me?” Imogen blinked, unsure of his meaning.
“Any enemies or antagonists you’re aware of?” he prodded gently.
“You mean aside from the one standing right next to you?” She gestured to the duke with her chin, unwilling to uncross her arms. Not only was she shielding herself, but she felt as though her own grip might be the only thing keeping her together.
Thunder rolled in the distance, as though Trenwyth had conjured it by the storm building in his countenance. The sound matched the violence in his posture. “I can prove I didn’t kill Lady Broadmore.” His glare reminded her of the glint of light on a lethal blade.
“By all means,” Argent invited.
Trenwyth stalked to the body and bent one long knee. “Look at the finger marks here.” Without hesitation, he laid his fingers over the bruises on Lady Broadmore’s neck. Not only did it demonstrate that his hand was much too large to match the perpetrator’s, but … “Whoever strangled this woman used both hands.”
Nearly blown over by a tempest of relief, Imogen stared down at his skeletal silver left hand, not because of the anomaly, but because it illustrated the changes in the man standing in her garden. Once, that hand had been upon her. Warm and gentle. Then hot and demanding. Now it was gone, replaced by a cold and unyielding object, shaped by fire and force and unimaginable things. Who knew what it was capable of? Because, it seemed, it had about as much warmth and feeling as the man who wielded it.
At least he was no murderer. Well … not last night, at least.
“Lady Anstruther.” Morley interrupted her troubling thoughts. “Was there anyone else in attendance at your charity ball last night who you think could have been capable of something like this?”
Oh dear Lord, it was the question she’d been dreading. “Well … um. What do you mean exactly by ‘capable’?” she hedged.
The sound Trenwyth made could have turned the Thames into a desert wasteland. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Argent, but last night was a veritable Who’s Who of London’s vicious and bloodthirsty.”
Imogen huffed. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say—”
“Take your pick, Sir Morley,” he interrupted. “The Blackheart of Ben More. The Demon Highlander. Along with various and sundry of their contacts and associates.” He directed a look full of unsavory meaning at Argent. “Also, according to the countess here, the entire household staff consisted of cutthroats and criminals.”
Morley’s fair brows climbed his forehead. “Is this true?”
“Former criminals,” Imogen remonstrated. “They are reformed, sir. And I’m mostly certain there isn’t a cutthroat among them.”
“Mostly?”
“Well, one can’t ever be confident of the true nature of a man, can one?” She cast a withering look of her own at the duke. If there weren’t so many witnesses, she might just be capable of murder at the moment.
“It is not my experience, Lady Anstruther, that criminals are in the habit of reformation.” Morley said gently.
Argent made an ironic noise, which he resolutely ignored.
“But I—”
“I trust you have a list of these employees?” Morley pressed.
“Of course.” Deflated, Imogen couldn’t bring herself to look over at Trenwyth. “I’ll have Cheever procure it for you.” The words tasted of bitter defeat.
“Might I inquire as to what exactly you are doing at the scene of a brutal crime?” Morley turned on Trenwyth. “Were you somehow otherwise connected with Lady Broadmore?”
Imogen wished she wasn’t as interested in the answer as the inspectors seemed to be, though she didn’t at all want to investigate her motivation for being so.
“I never met her before last night,” he claimed, shifting uncomfortably.
“How did you get into my garden?” Imogen couldn’t stop herself from demanding. “The gate is secured with a chain and the only other way is from inside the house.”
The cad had the grace to achieve a sheepish expression, and bugger if it wasn’t appealing. “Twenty-five years ago our elm succeeded in rupturing the fence.” He gestured to a giant tree that spanned the stone base of the fence. “There is a section crumbled away large enough for a man to fit through at the base. I’ve been using it to visit Lord and Lady Anstruther since I was a boy as neither they nor my parents seemed inclined to mend the rift. It’s a tight fit now, but I managed from my own garden.”
“But … why?” Imogen breathed.
Trenwyth cast the poor victim a troubled look before pointing up to his adjacent home. “My study window overlooks the Anstruther garden. When I chanced to glimpse over, I noted the body and thought—”
Imogen’s breath caught in time to the death of his sentence.
“You t
hought it might have been Lady Anstruther,” Argent finished.
Trenwyth said nothing.
Morley moved to stand next to Lady Broadmore and lifted his face to the window Trenwyth had indicated. “From this trajectory and distance, your conclusion is not remarkable. In fact, the resemblance between the deceased and Lady Anstruther is noteworthy in a case such as this.”
“It … it is?” Appalled, Imogen had to force herself to look down at the slumberous expression forever frozen upon the poor woman’s features. “How so?”
“You are both fair-haired and slight of build,” Argent assessed. “You wore dresses of comparable color.”
“Not so.” She grasped for something, for anything to crush this ridiculous train of speculation. “If you remember, my gown was apricot, and hers is most decidedly coral.”
She met a collection of blank stares and profusely cursed the entire male sex. Mostly because they’d only just established their own point. The masculine palette, famously simpler than that of the feminine, would certainly have a difficult time deciphering the difference between the colors unless one was an artist. These men were used to the assessment of only one primary color.
Bloodred.
Additionally, the moonlight had been the only illumination in the garden last night, as she’d left the gas lamps unlit to dissuade anyone from venturing into her sanctuary. Which left Imogen with no choice but to concede that Lady Broadmore’s fate may have, in fact, been meant for her.
“Oh my God.” Imogen turned away from them, and only managed to stagger a handful of steps before fainting into a carpet of unsuspecting poppies.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To Cole, carrying Lady Anstruther was like hauling a bolt of silk, limp and unwieldy, but not without its tactile pleasures.
The forensic doctor arrived just as she fell, and Cole barely even remembered offering to carry her inside until she was somehow gathered like a sleeping child in his arms. He swept her into the solarium and carefully lowered her onto a chaise. Supporting her back with his right hand, he made to slide the other from beneath her, when an unwelcome tug stopped him. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that some of the joints and bolts of his metal hand had become entangled in her hair.
The Duke Page 17