The Duke Who Knew Too Much (25 page)

Palmer gasped, “Bloody ’ell, stop ... I give ...”

“Who paid you to kill me?” Alaric slammed Palmer against the wall. “Give me his name.”

“Don’t ... know.” Blood streaked down Palmer’s face, trickling into his scar. “’E ne’er told me. Just paid me five ’undred quid ... for the job.”

“What did he look like?”

“Black ’air, pudgy face—like a babe’s. Wore sp-spectacles.”

Silas Webb.

“Where can I find him?” Alaric demanded.

“If I tell you, you’ll let me go ...”

“If you don’t, I’ll kill you.” Alaric squeezed Palmer’s throat.

“He will, you know.” This came from Will, who now stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “We Scotsmen keep our word.”

“Alright ... alright,” the bastard choked out. “I followed ’im once—like to know where my blunt is comin’ from. ’E’s got a place ... in Whitechapel.”

“Take us there,” Alaric said.

***

The tenement was part of a sagging pile of misery at the heart of the East End.

“That’s the room.” His hands manacled behind his back, Palmer could only jerk his head toward the peeling door of the apartment. “I remember it on account o’ it being next to the stairs.”

“Take him back to the carriage,” Alaric said to Cooper. “Keep an eye on him.”

The guard nodded and hauled Palmer away at gunpoint.

Kent tried the knob. The easy click raised the hairs on Alaric’s nape.

Wordlessly, Kent withdrew a pistol from his greatcoat, and both Will and Alaric followed suit. Kent pushed the door harder, and the squeal of rusty hinges spurred Alaric’s heartbeat. Darkness greeted them, the air musty and dank, and there was an indistinct noise ... a buzzing. An unsavory odor caught Alaric’s nose, and his stomach gave a queasy surge.

Kent held up his lantern, and shadowy light spilled over the cramped interior.

“I think we’ve found our man,” he said in grave tones.

A figure lay face down on the table in the middle of the room. As he approached, Alaric saw the flies swirling, the stain beneath the head. Will lit another lamp, and brightness flared above the dead man’s head—what remained of it anyway. A gaping hole had been blown out the back; a pistol lay on the ground near the man’s dangling hand.

With a detached professionalism that Alaric could only admire, Kent turned the corpse’s head to the light.

“Silas Webb?” the investigator asked.

Alaric grimaced. “Aye.”

“By the state of decomposition, I’d say it’s been several days since the bastard blew his brains out,” Will muttered. “Damned messy way to go.”

Bending, Kent fished a sheet of paper from the pocket of Webb’s jacket. Creases deepened around the investigator’s mouth. “It’s a signed confession. Webb says he acted out of revenge but now repents.” Kent passed Alaric the note. “Can you verify the handwriting?”

Alaric scanned the brief lines. “It looks like Webb’s signature.”

He wondered why he didn’t feel relieved. As he looked around the room, he didn’t see signs of anything untoward—no evidence of a struggle, of this being anything but what it appeared to be: a sinner succumbing to his conscience. Yet Webb had never struck him as a man of strong morality or the type to end his own life.

Alaric took a step forward, intending to look around, and something crackled beneath his boot. Bending, he found wire spectacles, the lenses cracked—and the glint of something else in the shadows. Reaching beneath the table, he retrieved the small object nestled against Webb’s boot.

“What have you found?” Kent asked.

Alaric showed him the cuff link. Made of onyx and gold, its workmanship fine, the expensive piece was clearly out of place in the dingy environs.

Swiftly, Kent checked the corpse’s wrists; both brass links were intact. The three men commenced searching through Webb’s meager belongings, and to no one’s surprise, the twin to the onyx cuff link did not emerge.

Icy premonition gripped Alaric’s gut. “The cuff link didn’t belong to Webb. Someone else was here.”

Kent’s gaze matched the brightness of his lantern. “So it would seem.”

“Over here,” Will called.

They went to join him by the hearth where he’d unearthed the charred remains of a ledger.

“Looks like an appointment book,” Will said.

When he opened it, ashes drifted to the ground.

“My guess? The true murderer destroyed this to hide his identity,” Kent said. “Do you know of any men Webb might have had dealings with, your grace? A wealthy man. One with a penchant for fine accoutrements such as the cuff link?”

Alaric shook his head. “As far as I knew, Webb had worked solely for United Mining for years. Until I dismissed him, that is.”

“We’ll come back in the morning,” Kent said decisively, “and canvas the neighborhood. Perhaps someone saw Webb with our mystery man.”

“I appreciate your diligence,” Alaric said.

“We Kents do not concede until the matter is resolved.” An unexpected hint of a smile relieved the somberness of the other man’s expression. “I believe you know something about that, your grace.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

As
ton
affairs went, this ball was definitely better than Emma’s first experience.

Emma had no doubt that Alaric had pulled strings to make her feel comfortable at this lavish affair. The hosts, Lord and Lady Blackwood, personally greeted her and Marianne as if they were longtime friends.

Lady Blackwood, whose raven-haired beauty suited her name, kissed the air near Emma’s cheeks. “What a divine necklace,” she said warmly. “From Rundell and Bridge’s, is it not?”

“Er, yes. I believe so,” Emma mumbled.

“It was a gift,” Marianne said smoothly.

“Ah.” Lady Blackwood’s gaze turned speculative.

“Now don’t go giving my wife any ideas,” Lord Blackwood said wryly. With short hair of polished bronze, he possessed a soldier’s bearing and kind eyes. “Lady Blackwood is prone to extravagance as it is.”

“For that comment, I shall expect a bracelet to match the emerald earrings I purchased,” his wife said saucily.

“I am ruined.” Blackwood regarded his lady with clear affection.

“As if a bracelet could ruin you, my dear.” Lady Blackwood turned to Emma. “Well, let’s not keep you in the corner, Miss Kent. Shall I introduce you to some of the other guests?”

“Yes, please,” Emma said, more than ready to embark on her mission.

For the next hour, under Lady Blackwood’s wing, Emma circulated amongst the glittering throng. She made an effort to converse; after all, her goal was to determine if any of these guests could be guilty of murder, and to do that, she needed to establish rapport. To her surprise, some of the lords and ladies were not as haughty as she had previously assumed.

Some ladies even discussed such mundane topics as household remedies and unruly children, and Emma found herself quite naturally contributing to the conversation. At the request of a dowager, she provided her recipe for joint salve; at that of a countess with a fussy, two-month-old babe, she shared the tonic she’d used to calm Polly’s colic.

It was quite strange to find herself fitting in.

Two hours of conversation and dancing passed pleasantly enough, yet Emma discovered nothing even remotely suspicious. She headed for the refreshment table, the oasis of gossip at any social gathering. Accepting a cup of champagne punch from a footman, she discreetly posted herself behind a potted palm and eavesdropped on the surrounding voices. Alaric’s name soon cropped up, and she peered through the fronds at the backs of the chattering trio.

“ … it appears as if Strathaven truly is Croesus,” said a grey-haired gentleman. “The price of stock in that joint venture of his has increased threefold in the last week. Everything he touches turns to gold.”

“Should have bought shares myself,” said a short balding fellow.

“I wouldn’t act too hastily.” The drawl came from a tall blond man whose black jacket was meticulously fitted to his figure. “You never know what will happen with speculation. As I understand it, Strathaven doesn’t have his investors’ confidence. If the vote to expand the venture doesn’t go through in a fortnight, the shares will plummet once more.”

Obviously, the man doesn’t know Alaric
, Emma thought. Strathaven would never leave something like a vote up to chance.

“Speculation is a young man’s game,” Grey Hair said. “I’ve always said that the only wealth a gentleman can depend upon comes from land.”

As the men’s talk drifted to other topics, Emma found her attention hooked by another conversation, this time between a gaggle of ladies standing by the champagne fountain to her left. Emma had a clear view of their bobbing plumes as they spoke in titillated tones.

“They say Strathaven means to resume his duchess hunt,” said a plump brunette.

“Given his scandal of late, I wonder at his temerity,” said her friend in rose silk.

“He’s never lacked for temerity and well you know it.” The arch tones came from a third lady with a smirking expression. “I have no doubt he’ll get what he wants—he always does, after all. Anyway, his search for a wife is old news. What intrigues me is when he will be on the market for Clara Osgood’s replacement.”

“Lady Julia, how perfectly wicked of you!” the first lady whispered in delight.

“You were thinking the same thing, Lady Lauren.
I
just said it aloud.”

“Well, I confess I am intrigued by rumors of his prowess. You have heard what they say about his personal, ahem, endowments?” Lady Lauren giggled. “Apparently they match his financial ones.”

“And that’s to say nothing of his stamina and control,” Lady Julia purred. “I’ve heard our duke is as deliciously dominant in the bedchamber as he is in out of it. Why, it’s said that a certain Lady M. enjoyed a rollicking afternoon
on his desk
 …”

As the ladies tittered, Emma turned away, her cheeks burning. She knew, of course, about Alaric’s past and his proclivities, yet hearing other women talk about him in such an openly lascivious and covetous manner caused hurt and, yes,
jealousy
to burgeon.

Images flooded her: Alaric tying Lady Clara up in the garden ... him making love to nameless, faceless beauties on the
same desk
where he’d made love to her ...

Up until this moment, the passion she shared with Alaric, while undoubtedly wicked, had also seemed ... special. Precious. That others had known the raw intensity of his lovemaking made her chest ache. Her throat cinched, his gift suddenly heavy and constricting.

“Hello, miss,” said a hesitant voice. “I was wondering if you would mind some company?”

She turned and found herself looking into the blue eyes of a plump, ginger-haired pixie.

“I beg your pardon?” Emma said blankly.

The girl, who looked barely eighteen, turned as red as her hair. “You were standing there alone, and I’m alone ... well, not exactly, I do have my chaperone, but she’s busy with the other duennas, and I ... dash it all, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” she finished miserably. “It’s a terrible habit of mine, and Papa says it makes me awkward. As if I could be
more
awkward ...” Her self-conscious shrug caused the ribbons to flutter on the many tiers of her gown. “Never mind. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll just be—”

Emma took an instant liking to the girl. “No, don’t go. I was just woolgathering, and I’d love some company. I’m Emma Kent.”

“I’m Gabriella Billings, but everyone calls me Gabby.” The way the girl’s smile lit her face reminded Emma of Polly. “It is lovely to meet you. It’s so tiresome to be a wallflower that even other wallflowers won’t pay any attention to. Truly, I’m more of a wall
weed
.”

Emma stifled a smile. “Surely it isn’t bad as all that? You’re perfectly charming.”

“Only because you’re a decent sort. I can always judge a person’s character, you know, just by looking at them,” Gabby said cheerfully. “Being a businessman’s daughter, I’ve inherited the ability to size someone up at a glance.”

“Really?” Emma said, amused. The girl’s irrepressible spirit now reminded her of Violet.

“Take you, for instance. You have a kindly disposition, yet there you were hiding behind that palm, so I surmised that you didn’t fit in here either. I thought you might be a middling class sort like me. No offense,” Gabby added quickly.

“None taken. It’s true.”

“Your gown is delectable. And your necklace has the ladies green with envy. So even if you are a Cit like me, you have oodles more style,” Gabby said in consoling tones.

Emma had to smile. “I wouldn’t mind being a Cit. But actually I’m from the country.”

“Really?” Gabby said with interest. “I’ve never been outside London. Papa owns a bank, you see, and he’s too busy to take me anywhere.”

“What about your mama?”

“She died in childbirth. The only things I have of her are a dowry and this.” Gabby tugged on a bright curl. “Unfortunately, carrots aren’t in fashion this Season. Or ever.”

“I think your hair is lovely and unique,” Emma said.

“Truly? You aren’t just saying that?”

“Not at all. As for fitting in, my papa said that the rarest of jewels shines the brightest.”

“My father says the nail that sticks out gets the hammer.”

“Ouch,” Emma said.

“Exactly.” Gabby sighed. “Unfortunately, it seems I can’t help but stick out no matter what I do. And tonight, especially. Not that I’m surprised—I’m more or less an act of charity.”

“How so?” Emma said curiously.

“Papa has a client—a gentleman of consequence—who owed him a favor.” Gabby wrinkled her nose. “Clearly it was a
big
favor as the fellow had to secure a spot for
me
on the exclusive guest list. An invitation, however, is no guarantee of success. Papa will be quite disappointed when he discovers that I was not asked for a single dance.”

“Dancing isn’t all that it’s made out to be. My toes are still sore from being trod on.”

“You’re very kind. It would be nice, however, to have made some friends,” Gabby said wistfully. “You’re the first person who has spoken with me all evening.”

“Would you like to call upon me some afternoon?” Emma said on impulse. “I have sisters your age, and I have a feeling you will rub along famously with them.”