The Duke Who Knew Too Much (20 page)

Marianne was waiting in bed. Even after eight years of marriage, her beauty struck him anew. With her platinum hair loose around her slim white shoulders and her vivid eyes glowing with love, she was an angel. And he was one lucky bastard.

Setting aside her book, she smiled at him. “Asleep?”

“Aye. Poor fellow.” Removing his robe, Ambrose got into bed and took her into his arms. Settling them both against the pillows, he said, “I hope he outgrows the night terrors soon.”

“Did he ask about the monsters?”

“I told him they weren’t real.”

“Not the kind he fears, anyway.”

At his wife’s pensive tone, Ambrose turned his head to look at her. He saw the shadows in her gaze, as if she were recalling the monsters of her past. Monsters he’d done everything in his power to slay.

“Sweetheart?” he said quietly.

She touched his jaw. “I’m not thinking of my own demons, darling, but of yours.”

“Mine?” he said in surprise.

“Monsters come in all guises. Evil people, harrowing events—even something as ordinary as not being able to protect the ones you love.”

His muscles tensed. “What are you saying?”

“Ambrose, you’re a wonderful brother, but Emma is a grown woman.” Marianne’s perceptive eyes searched his face. “You cannot protect her any longer, and you
must
not blame yourself for those times when you could not.”

The memory of those times rose within him. Those years when he’d barely been able to feed his younger siblings ... when Emma, as the next eldest, had been forced to shoulder all the burdens of their family while he earned a living in the city. One time, she, a sixteen-year-old girl, had travelled all the way to London on her own because calamity had struck their family, and she’d had no one to turn to ...

Old knots tightened in his chest. “She’s missed out on so much. She’s never had a chance to be young,” he said roughly. “She deserves to be happy.”

“Yes, she does. But only she can decide what will make her so.”

“You can’t think Strathaven is a good decision,” he said in incredulous tones.

Marianne said softly, “Why not? Because he’s a duke? He’s rich?”

“No, because he’s a
rake
.”

“The gossip isn’t all true. His dead wife spread some vile rumors about him. And Annabel says that he’s got a good heart—that she and Mr. McLeod are in his debt.” After a pause, Marianne said, “I know what it’s like to be misjudged by Society.”

Ambrose tightened his arms around her. “That was different. Your actions were prompted by your desire to find Primrose. You were blameless, sweetheart.”

“How do you know Strathaven is not as well? Whatever his past, he cares for Emma.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Marianne’s lips formed a wry curve. “Why else would he concoct this plan to have her investigate the
ton
? He’s keeping her away from the true danger—and saving her from herself, I might add.”

That insight did not sit well with Ambrose. Even if Marianne was right, he didn’t trust Strathaven’s motives. Didn’t want a dissolute libertine entangled with his innocent sister.

Stiffly, Ambrose said, “Even if he didn’t kill Lady Osgood, he was having a salacious affair with her—a married woman. He is morally corrupt.”

His spouse made an amused sound.

“What is so humorous?” he said, frowning.

“You, darling.” Still smiling, she kissed his jaw. “By your standard, no gentleman would be good enough for Emma. What man hasn’t had an
affaire
or kept a mistress?”

“I haven’t,” he said.

“You are the exception. That is why I adore you.” Her hand glided down his chest, and he felt himself hardening, responding as ever to his wife’s touch. “You want to handle Emma with care. You don’t want to push her away.”

“I can’t talk about my sister when you do that,” he said hoarsely.

Marianne smiled her siren’s smile. “Will you consider what I said?”

In his work, he prided himself on considering all the evidence before drawing any conclusions. He supposed he ought to do the same in this instance. Objectivity could be dashed difficult, however, when one’s own family was involved.

“I will try,” he conceded.

“Thank you, darling.”

His wife’s lips caressed his neck, her hand wandering lower still. Fire ignited in his loins, and rolling her onto her back, he took her mouth in a hungry kiss. She sighed with pleasure, her ardor obliterating his thoughts, and for the next little while at least, all worldly troubles scattered to the winds.

Chapter Twenty

Two days later, Alaric found himself in his carriage with his brother. They were outside Palmer’s, a small establishment tucked between Covent Garden and St. Giles. From the window, Alaric saw the weathered sign above the door which bore the gun shop’s emblem of a pineapple. Will, seated on the opposite bench, held up the torn cartridge wrapper.

The half oval with the squiggly lines was a perfect match for the fruit on the sign.

“This is the place,” Will said with satisfaction. “Kent’s on his way from The Cytherea. Once he arrives, we’ll go in and question the owner.”

Alaric hesitated. A part of him wanted to praise his younger sibling’s scouting abilities. Another part felt ... awkward. Too much had passed between them, bricks of hostility and misunderstanding forming an invisible wall.

Yet Will
was
his brother. His only sibling.

He settled for a compromise. “How did you manage to find the shop? It was no small feat, I imagine. There must be dozens of gunsmiths in the city.”

“Compared to tracking down spies and scouting enemy terrain, this is child’s play.”

Pride gleamed in Will’s brown eyes nonetheless—and threw Alaric back into a memory. Of the two of them as boys, trespassing on their neighbor’s property. The McGregor had been the stingiest, meanest man in the county, and the wagers amongst the village lads oft involved his infamous tree, which boasted bright red apples the size of small melons.

Any lad who could show a McGregor apple would win undying respect from his peers, and at age nine, Alaric had craved that respect more than his next breath. A single apple was guaranteed protection against the taunting and beatings of the other boys; he’d been prepared to filch the fruit or perish trying. What he hadn’t been prepared for was his little brother’s insistence on tagging along.

If you don’t let me go, I’ll tell Ma
, Will had said.
Da’ll whip you for trespassing.

In the end, he’d had no choice but to let Will have his way. At first, things had gone well; using a ladder, they’d made it over the tall stone fence, racing through the waving grass fields undetected. Alaric had climbed the tree and tossed the apples down into Will’s waiting arms.

I told you I could help,
Will had called proudly.

Without warning, a shotgun had fired.

The idyllic summer afternoon exploded with cries of panicked birds. The next instant, Alaric jumped to the ground, hissing
Run
at his paralyzed brother. When Will didn’t move, Alaric yanked him by the arm, dragged him back through the fields, apples scattering as they ran for their lives. When Will stumbled, crying, Alaric hauled him up and towed him along.

The fence came into sight, the promise of safety. Just as Alaric reached the top, he heard his brother’s whimper behind him.

It’s too high.
Will’s chubby fingers slipped against the stones, and he slid to the bottom, his eyes wide and shimmering.
I can’t get over.

Cursing, Alaric dropped to the ground. Going down on one knee, he linked his hands and boosted his brother over.

It worked—
too
well. Will had gone sailing over the top, landing hard enough to break his arm. Alaric could still see the accusing looks on their parents’ faces.

What were you thinking, involving my boy in your shenanigans?
his stepmother had cried.

By God, you’re a bad seed,
his da had spat.
No son of mine would hurt his own kin
.

Alaric had received the whipping of his life.

Not only that, but he hadn’t even an apple to show for it.

“Kent’s hackney just pulled up.” Will’s voice pulled him back to the present. “You’re certain you want to go in with us?”

Jaw taut, Alaric said, “I’m not hiding in the carriage like some lily-livered coward.”

“Suit yourself.” Will shrugged. “Stay close, and I’ll take the lead.”

His brother might have been a pain in his arse during their youth, but Alaric had to admit a growing respect for the adult William’s expertise. Will looked as seasoned and fierce as one of their ancient Highland ancestors as he led the way from the carriage, his eyes roving in a ceaseless scan, his brawny posture ready for anything.

Kent descended from a hackney and joined them. From the investigator’s terse greeting, Alaric assumed that the other hadn’t yet come to terms with Alaric’s involvement with Emma.

Too damn bad for him.

Entering the shop, Alaric was assailed by the scent of oil, leather, and gunpowder. It was a humble, rather gloomy premises compared to Manton’s on Davies Street, the gun maker favored by the
ton
. Here, dust blanketed the counters, and pistols hung in crooked lines over the walls.

A round-faced clerk greeted them at the front counter. “Afternoon, gents,” he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “How may I be o’ service?”

Will placed the torn cartridge wrapper on the counter, tapped his gloved finger on it. “This one of yours?”

The clerk peered at the paper. “Aye, that’s from a cartridge for our double-barreled flintlock. I can tell by the quality o’ the paper.” He pinched it between finger and thumb. “Extra heavy, see, to carry the weight o’ the powder and shots. Costs extra, but it’s worth the—”

“And this?” Will set down the pair of bullets Kent had found. “Yours too?”

“Could be. But harder to say—shot ain’t that distinctive.” The clerk’s expression grew wary. “Er, what was it that you said you wanted?”

“We’re looking for the customer who bought a double-barreled flintlock and that cartridge. A fellow with a scarred face,” Will said.

The clerk’s gaze jumped nervously, his face reddening. “I’m sorry, sirs, I didn’t sell nothin’ to a scarred gent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work ...”

“Babcock, you lazy bugger, what are you jawing about?” A man with stringy salt-and-pepper hair emerged from the backroom.

“N-nothing, Mr. Palmer,” the clerk stammered.

Palmer’s eyes formed slits as he regarded Alaric and the others. “Who’re you?”

Kent stepped forward. “Ambrose Kent, at your service.” He handed over his calling card. “My colleague and I are investigating a crime. We’re looking for a man with a scarred face who might have purchased a double-barreled flintlock and cartridges to go along with it.”

Something slithered through Palmer’s eyes. He crumpled the calling card in his grease-stained fist.

“Didn’t see no scarred man,” the gunsmith said. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a business to run.”

Will jerked a thumb at Alaric. “Do you know who this is?”

Palmer eyed him up and down and sneered, “Some nob, by the looks o’ ’im.”

“The nob happens to be the Duke of Strathaven. And someone, using your shot and your gun, attempted to assassinate him a week ago. So, unless you want to be carted off to Newgate as an accomplice,” Will growled, “you will tell us what you know.”

“Already told you. Don’t know nothing,” Palmer said belligerently.

Alaric noticed sweat trickling down one of the clerk’s temples. “You—Babcock, is it?”

“Y-yes, your lordship.”

“Have you seen a disfigured man in the shop? One with a scar down the middle of his face?”

Babcock darted a terrified gaze at his employer. “N-no, sir—I mean, your lordship.”

“That’s a bluidy lie,” Will said, his hands balling.

Alaric held his brother back. “If either of you remembers anything, there happens to be a sizeable reward,” he said coolly.

The clerk wetted his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Ain’t nothin’ for us to remember,” Palmer spat. “Now get out o’ my shop afore I toss you out.”

***

As the carriage rolled off, Will said in frustrated tones, “Both of them were lying through their teeth. I could have gotten the truth out of them.”

“By beating them?” Alaric smoothed his gloves in place. “Palmer still wouldn’t talk. My guess is that he has some personal connection to the shooter.”

“We’ll have Palmer tailed,” Kent said. “He might lead us to the suspect.”

“If Babcock doesn’t come to us sooner.” Alaric’s instincts told him the clerk was more than ready to fly his employer’s coop. “He wants that reward.”

“Blunt doesn’t buy everything,” Will said.

“Anyone who believes that doesn’t have enough of it,” Alaric replied. “Kent, any progress at The Cytherea?”

“I confirmed that Lily White was indeed an actress there—the term “actress” being applied loosely,” the investigator said. “By the look of things, the theatre is a step up from a bawdy house, with skimpy outfits and skimpier talent.”

“Got a good look, did you?” Alaric drawled.

“I have no interest in such depravity.” Kent shot him an irritated look. “According to the manager, Miss White up and left the company around the time she started as a maid at your cottage. No one at the theatre has seen her since, and they haven’t any notion where she might have gone. Apparently, she kept to herself.”

“That’s what my staff claimed as well—until Emma somehow got them to talk.” With an odd mixture of ruefulness and pride, Alaric had to acknowledge the truth: his future wife was a force to be reckoned with. Fortunately, he knew how to put her energies to good use.

“Do
not
bring my sister into this,” Kent said through his teeth.

“She’s already in it.”

“Aye, and I don’t like it.” The investigator glowered at him. “What are you up to, Strathaven? Why are you sending Emma on a wild goose chase through the
ton
?”

“You have a better idea for keeping her out of trouble?”