The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (26 page)

“You’re a bigger man than I am. A better one too.” Wick dragged a hand through his windswept curls, the signet ring gleaming on his hand. “That is why I wasn’t truthful to Violet about my debts, you know. I was ashamed of myself. And… envious of you.” He exhaled. “Because I’m not as good as you and never will be.”

Violet had been right about his brother’s motives for lying.

With a sigh, he said, “That’s not true, Wick. You have much to recommend you and a bright future ahead. You can change the path you’re on, have a fresh start. And you’re doing the right thing by courting Miss Turbett.”

“Too little too late, but it’s better than nothing.” Wick’s smile was lopsided. “Enough about me. So you and Violet… it’s serious?”

He nodded. “All I have to do is convince her to marry me.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult. The two of you are a perfect match.”

Richard thought so, and he hoped he was beginning to convince her of the fact. Using sports to lure her had been a masterful stroke, if he did say so himself. The truth was that the possibility of spending a lifetime playing with Violet, being with her, filled him with wonder… and embarrassing eagerness.

He reined himself in. He was a grown man, not some greenling. Moreover, he’d come to the conclusion that Violet’s insistence that they “like” each other stemmed from her uncertainty about him rather than vice versa. It was obvious
he
liked
her
; hell, he’d said it outright. How much clearer could he be?

Thus, the true trouble, he reasoned, must be that
she
hadn’t yet committed her feelings to him. His history reared its ugly head again: securing a lady’s devotion had never been his forte. But he told himself that Violet was different, that her uncertainty was understandable given their early antagonism. How many times had she accused him of being stodgy and traditional… a blasted stuffed shirt?

“If only I could get her to see that we’re a fit,” he muttered.

Hephaestus had managed to accomplish a similar feat. After he’d parted ways with Aphrodite, the humble god had somehow convinced Aglaea, the goddess of vitality, to take him on. But that was mythology; this was real life. How did one go about convincing a beautiful, spirited young woman that one wasn’t boring and tedious?

“I assume you’ve tried the usual strategies of persuasion?” Wick said.

Richard didn’t know there were any. “Er, usual strategies?”

“You know. Poetry and poesies, that sort of thing. A trinket to symbolize your affection.”

Wilted daffodils blazed in his head. He’d never been good at gifts. Neither Lucinda Belton nor Audrey Keane had been impressed with the trifles he’d presented them with… and reciting poetry?

Out of the question. He had to respect himself in the morning.

Apparently sensing his unease, Wick said hastily, “The gift itself doesn’t matter. With Violet, it’s the thought that counts. I’m sure she’ll appreciate anything you give her.”

The tips of Richard’s ears burned as he realized that he hadn’t given Violet
any
tokens of his esteem. Their courtship had consisted mostly of arguing and lovemaking. Even he knew that a man ought to go wooing with more than lust in his pocket. But what could he offer her…?

Inspiration struck him like a hammer against an anvil. The certainty of it resounded within him. He knew the
perfect
gift for Violet—and how to deliver it in a suitably romantic fashion.

“Uh oh,” Wick said under his breath.

Kent had entered the room and was heading over.

“Time to make myself scarce,” Wick muttered. “You’ll keep me apprised?”

Richard nodded, and Wick went to find refuge amongst his cronies just as Kent arrived.

“How did the meeting go?” Richard said by way of greeting.

“As expected.” Kent’s rawboned features looked weary. “On the bright side, the magistrate plans to follow my recommendation and send his men to local stations that sell tickets to Gretna. If Wormleigh was telling the truth about the lovers he overheard, there might be a record in a ledger somewhere of the couple. It’s a long shot, but I believe in leaving no stone unturned.”

Not for the first time, Richard was impressed by the other man’s diligence and clear thinking. He respected Kent, liked the man. Liked all of Violet’s family, actually.

“I admire your thoroughness, sir,” he said.

“It’s part of the job,” Kent said. “Where are the others?”

“Miss Kent is with some family members, I believe. Their Graces are taking a nap.”

“A nap.” Kent’s voice had a wistful edge. “Well, I shan’t disturb them. By the by, I ran into Billings on the way in. I informed him about Garrity and Burns, and he was adamant that we not approach the former on our own. He’s making arrangements for us to have an ‘audience’ with Garrity tomorrow morning.”

“He’s that afraid of Garrity?”

“Apparently, the moneylender is a man one doesn’t want to offend.” Kent sighed. “But it’s just as well. I have no desire to cut a swath through Garrity’s cutthroats just to talk to him.”

“That leaves Burns. Shall we go find him?”

“No need. Speak of the devil.” Kent lifted his chin toward the doorway.

Burns had made an entrance. Even as ladies swarmed the blond performer, he had a distracted expression. He craned his neck as if looking for someone… then he spotted Richard and Kent, his gaze widening. Extricating himself from his adoring female horde, he hurried out.

Richard and Kent took off after the juggler. In the hallway, Richard saw Burns’ wiry figure disappear into the billiards room. He and Kent exchanged a wordless nod; he strode toward the farther door while the investigator took the closer one. Between the two of them, they would block off the exits to the room.

Richard entered—and Burns nearly ran into him.

“In a rush?” Richard said.

“N-no, my lord.” Burns backed away from him. “I was just, er, looking for my partner, Miss Ashe. We have to practice our act—
oof.
”

The juggler had stumbled into Kent, who’d been waiting silently behind him. As most of the male guests were still out shooting, the three of them were the only ones in the room, the scent of cigar smoke and leather heavy in the air. Darting a nervous glance between his captors, Burns retreated to the billiards table occupying the center of the chamber.

Richard and Kent followed, facing Burns across the green baize.

“We’d like to talk to you, sir.” Kent’s tone was even. “Regarding Monique de Brouet’s death.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Burns said quickly.

“Not too torn up over your colleague’s death?” Richard inquired.

The performer flushed beneath his tan. “Course I am. Terrible business. I only meant to say that it came as a shock—a complete surprise.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with the deceased?” Kent said.

“It was purely professional.” Grabbing an ivory ball, he rolled it around on the table, his movements nimble. “As you know, Monique and I were colleagues at Astley’s.”

“From what we understand, you wanted to be more than mere colleagues,” Richard said.

“Now that’s a bleeding lie.” Burns’ eyes blazed. “I had no personal interest in Monique. My preference is for gently-bred ladies, not strumpets.”

“What I meant was that you wanted to be Monique’s partner—in an acrobatics act.”

The fire left the juggler; he looked ill at ease again. “Nothing came of that. It was just an idea. A way for the both of us to benefit from combining audiences.”

“But the benefit would have been mostly yours,” Kent said, “as Monique had the greater fame.”

“Either way, I asked, she refused. End of story.”

Richard quirked a brow. “You harbored no animosity after she turned you down?”

“Look, business is business. Monique was looking after her own interests, and I don’t blame her for that.” Burns gripped the edge of the table. “I understand how difficult it is to fight one’s way to the top—to have ambitions that exceed one’s grasp. I might have envied Monique de Brouet, but I also respected her.”

“So you had nothing to do with her frayed tightrope?” Kent said.

Burns’ laugh surprised Richard. “Let me guess. That maid of hers mentioned it?”

Kent gave a terse nod.

“The old mort’s got a screw loose. Thought the world was out to get her and her mistress.” The juggler crossed his arms. “Ropes fray; it was naught but an accident. I was definitely not involved.”

“One last question.” Kent pinned the man with a stare. “Do you know of anyone who wanted Monique dead?”

Burns swallowed. A tremor entered his voice. “No, I do not.”

They let the juggler go.

“What do you think?” Kent said.

Richard shook his head. “For an innocent man, Burns seems to have a case of the nerves. But I can’t say for certain that I think he did it.”

“Agreed. He stays on the list.” Kent sighed. “Hopefully we’ll have better luck with Garrity in the morning.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Later that night, Marianne Kent was reading in bed when her husband came in. She felt a pang of worry at how tired he looked. His handsome face bore lines of tension, and his hair looked as if he’d dragged his hands through it repeatedly.

She put down her book and went to him. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, my darling?”

“It hasn’t exactly been the most relaxing of vacations,” he said dryly.

She helped him with his jacket, easing the material off his broad shoulders. “How did the meeting with Magistrate Jones go?”

“As expected. He’ll be breathing down my neck until the case is solved.” Ambrose tugged off his cravat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “But he’s the least of my worries.”

As Marianne watched her husband pull off his shirt, a tingle passed through her. Over a decade of marriage and he still affected her this way. The sight of his whipcord lean torso, the tough planes and ridges of muscle, made her nipples harden beneath her silk robe. Her gaze followed the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband, and her sex quivered.

It had been too long since they’d had intimate time alone. Of late, it seemed that they were always dealing with some domestic catastrophe or another. She’d hoped that the house party would be a vacation of sorts for them—but instead it had turned out to be work. She could see that Ambrose was exhausted, and she didn’t want to take advantage of him.

At least, not until he’d had a chance to unwind.

“Why don’t you lie down and tell me all about it while I give you a back rub?” she said.

His amber eyes lit up. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

He removed the rest of his clothing, and, Lord, she couldn’t help but wet her lips. Even at rest, his cock hung large and thick between his thighs, his bollocks swaying with visible heft as he walked over to the bed. Pulling back the covers, he sprawled face down onto the mattress.

For a minute, Marianne just enjoyed the view. Heavens, he was beautiful.

She clambered over him, settling her knees on either side of his narrow hips. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and began to knead the taut muscles.

“God, you don’t know how good that feels.” His voice was muffled by the mattress.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” she murmured.

“Violet, to start. Carlisle asked me for permission to court her today.”

Hearing the disgruntled edge in her husband’s voice, Marianne said, “And you don’t approve?”

“I don’t know what to think. One moment they seem like they can’t stand one another and the next he wants her to be his wife? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Poor Ambrose. He did like his logic.

“Love rarely makes sense, darling. Remember how you and I started off?”

He groaned with pleasure as she attacked the knots in his neck. “That was different. There were mitigating circumstances. We each had our secrets to keep—for good reason, at the time.”

“Perhaps there’s more going on with Violet and Carlisle than we realize.”

Given the undercurrents she’d picked up between the two, Marianne suspected there was
a lot
more… but she didn’t want to throw fuel on Ambrose’s fire. He loved his sisters and, like any big brother, had a tendency to be overprotective.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. With Violet, one never knows what is really going on. All these years… and I don’t think I truly understand her.”

Marianne knew what he meant. Violet’s façade of merriment hid a certain skittishness, a reluctance to reveal her true emotions. Even Ambrose, one of the most astute men Marianne knew, had trouble reading his middle sister.

Leaning forward, Marianne pressed her palms into her husband’s back. “With Violet, I think you have to let her find her own path… and her own husband. Carlisle may end up being just what she needs.

“You think so?” Relaxation slurred Ambrose’s voice. He had his head turned to one side, pillowed by his folded arms.

“He’s her opposite. Steady, somber. He’ll anchor her when she gets too outrageous, and, in turn, she’ll lighten him up when he gets too serious.”

“Mmm.”

Continuing to massage him, Marianne mused, “And in some ways they’re the same. Strong-willed, independent… and both of them enjoy physical activities.”

“Mmm.”

And speaking of physical activities… Marianne moved off Ambrose, kneeling at his side so that she could work the hard curves of his buttocks, the taut sinew of his thighs and calves. Soon desire was thrumming impatiently in her blood, and she’d had enough of the foreplay.

Sliding up, she murmured in his ear, “Why don’t you massage me now… inside?”

No response.

Frowning, she said, “Ambrose?”

He let out a snore.

He’d… fallen asleep on her?

For a moment, she teetered between exasperation and wifely concern. The latter won out. With a sigh, she drew the covers over his slumbering form, climbed in next to him, and doused the light.

Chapter Twenty-Six

That night, Violet had trouble finding sleep. Despite the soothing pitter patter of a light rain that had begun after supper, she found herself tossing restlessly against the pillows. The evening had been a mellow one, with many guests going up to bed early. She hadn’t seen Richard and wondered where he’d gone. She’d had a chance to catch up with Wick, however, the two of them chatting briefly in the atrium.