The Duke Who Knew Too Much (15 page)

Her brother had been busy in the last week, making many enquiries on Strathaven’s behalf. Leafing through, she found the record of the visit to the duke’s cottage and memorized the address in St. John’s Wood. Hearing footsteps, she quickly closed the book and dashed to the other side of the desk, plopping herself into a chair. Her pulse thudded guiltily.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Em,” her brother said as he entered.

“Is everything alright?” she said. “With the Hilliards, I mean?”

Ambrose sat across the desk from her, his expression rueful. “As long as we make our monthly payments, they’ve no basis for complaint.”

Emma’s guilt doubled as she saw the strain on her brother’s face. He was a man who disliked debts; such a large one must sit uneasily on his broad shoulders. She felt an acute yearning for the old days, when he’d shared his burdens with her. When they’d been a team.

“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 and 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.