The Duke Who Knew Too Much (24 page)

Meeting Polly’s aquamarine eyes, she said, “Would you mind if I did?”

“No,” Polly said. “I like him.”

Her youngest sister’s approval buttressed Emma’s own feelings. If there was anyone whom she trusted as a judge of character, it was her baby sister. Gifted with an intuitive nature, Polly was wise beyond her tender years.

“The question is whether or not
you
like the duke, Emma,” Thea said gently.

“I do.” It was a relief to admit the truth. “He can be stubborn and overbearing, and he
always
thinks he’s right. Yet beneath it all he has a good heart.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Vi said, grinning.

“Who?” Emma said.

Her sisters looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Emma rolled her eyes. “That’s different. You lot required a firm hand. I
had
to be managing to keep you in line.”

“We know that, dear.” Thea’s eyes sparkled. “But let’s face it, you’re no wilting violet. You need someone with a will to match yours—and his grace certainly fits the bill.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean the duke and I are destined to a lifetime of locking horns.”

“Father always said love involved compromise,” Thea said.

“Well, Strathaven and I
are
learning to negotiate and work together,” Emma mused, “and he even supports my assisting in his case.”

“I think it’s smashing that you’re working with Ambrose. I wish he’d let me help, too,” Violet said.

Uh oh. What have I started?

Seeing the spark in her sister’s eyes, Emma said, “I, er, thought you were enjoying your lessons and the delights of Town.”

“I am, but what you’re doing sounds
more
fun.”

“It isn’t a game,” Thea chided gently. “The duke’s life is at stake. You mustn’t pester Ambrose and distract him from serious work.”

“You’re such a spoilsport.” With a good-natured sigh, Violet went to fetch Emma’s ball gown from the dressing screen.

Emma had the feeling that the conversation was not quite finished. Like the pot, however, she couldn’t very well call the kettle black. Perhaps Violet’s sudden interest would go the way of so many of the dear girl’s impulses. A while back, after seeing a performance at Astley’s, Vi had decided to become an acrobat.

Whatever the case, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there
, Emma thought.

Thea said, “Well, I, for one, am happy that you’ve found someone who appreciates you, Em. And you’ll make a fine duchess.”

“How difficult could that be?” Vi returned with the eggshell satin cradled in her arms. “All you have to do is wear a hideous turban on your head and refer to yourself in the first person plural.” She mimicked in a nasal tone, “
We do not find the dessert to our liking. We are not amused at being served plum pudding when we specifically requested a chocolate gateau.
”

Polly giggled.

Even Thea’s lips twitched as she helped Emma into the gown.

“I don’t care about being a duchess. I care about ... him.” Emma tried to put into words what she knew in her heart. “I can’t explain it, but I thinks he needs me. From what I’ve gathered, his first marriage was rather horrid. And his mama died when he was young and then he was separated from Mr. McLeod at an early age. I don’t think he’s ever felt a part of a true family.”

“Gadzooks,” Violet said with sympathy.

“Poor man,” Thea murmured.

“He’s lonely,” Polly whispered.

If there was anything a Kent understood, it was the importance of family.

“Well, if you marry him, then he’ll become a member of
our
family,” Vi said stoutly. “No one’s ever lonely when we’re around.”

“Thank you, dear, but nothing is settled yet. We have a murderer to find. Moreover, I need to be certain that we truly suit and can live in the same world.”

“Turn around and look in the mirror,” Thea suggested.

Emma did—and her breath stuttered.

The ivory gown left her shoulders bare, the bodice glimmering with the subtle sheen of seed pearls embroidered in a swirling vine pattern. The waistline followed the current trend, nipping in at her waist and flaring subtly at her hips. The hem was caught up at regular intervals by ribbons fashioned to look like tiny, magenta butterflies, the bright splashes of color echoing the brilliance of the necklace.

Bemused, she said, “I do look different, don’t I?”

“Oh Emma,” Polly said, “you look like a
duchess
.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dusk had fallen, making the alleyway in the Seven Dials even darker. The stench of human waste filled the fetid air, tempting Alaric to cover his nose with a scented handkerchief. The only reason he didn’t was because he wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction. Parked against the adjacent wall, Will was monitoring the tavern across the street.

“You’re certain Babcock said The Thirsty Ox?” he said for the umpteenth time.

“There’s nothing wrong with my hearing,” Alaric replied. “Babcock told me two facts. One, our shooter’s name is Clive Palmer, and two, he visits this tavern every Friday.”

“I’m only asking because public houses can all sound the same. Coming from Mayfair, you might not appreciate the fine distinction between The Thirsty Ox, The Drunken Ox, The Thirsty Bear—”

“Christ’s blood, William, I’m a duke not a dunce,” Alaric said icily.

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“If by touchy you mean ready to pummel you with my fists, then yes.”

Will grunted. “As if
you
could pummel
me
.”

“Care to have a go?”

“Lads,” Kent said from behind them. “Can the bickering wait until after we catch the criminal?”

“He started it.” Will jabbed a finger in Alaric’s direction.

“For Christ’s sake.” Blowing out a breath of disgust, Alaric resumed the watch.

The street was crowded with people and hawkers’ barrows. Rowdy customers stumbled in and out of the tavern in a steady stream, their drab clothes making them nearly indistinguishable from one another. Luckily, the streetlamp by the entrance shed light on their faces as they passed. No sign of the scarred shooter as yet.

“Perhaps we should check in with Cooper,” Alaric said.

Cooper and other guards were posted at the back entrance. Alaric was taking no chances at letting Palmer escape. Initially, he’d proposed storming the tavern, but Kent had pointed out the risk in taking on a building full of drunk, armed cutthroats, and Alaric had conceded the other’s point.

Kent lifted the whistle that hung on a string around his neck. He’d equipped the guards with similar devices. “Cooper will sound the alarm if he has the suspect. Right now, he’s watching and cooling his heels like we are.”

Alaric did not like to wait. Especially not in this cesspool of an alley.

Will smirked. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the carriage, your grace?”

“I’m fine where I am,” he said curtly.

Silence fell again. Kent took up the main watch, and Will and Alaric hung behind him. Standing beside his brother, Alaric returned suddenly to another time they had waited together in the dark: at their father’s wake. At sixteen, Will had cried openly by the side of the casket, his grief streaming free; Alaric hadn’t shed a single tear, pain and anger bottling inside him.

Why didn’t you care for me, Da? Why wasn’t I your son, too?

Now, to his surprise, he found that his father’s indifference had lost much of its sting. The impact had faded through the years until he bore only the invisible bruises of acceptance. What did feel fresh, oddly enough, was his brother’s grief. The younger Will’s brokenhearted expression haunted Alaric here in the shadows. He knew his brother’s loss had been intensified by his refusal to take Will back to Lanarkshire with him after their father’s funeral.

At the time, he hadn’t wanted to explain his reasons. Pride had made it impossible to explain to the golden boy, the perfect son, that rejection had followed Alaric all the way to Strathmore Castle. That there must be something so despicable about him that he invited cruelty wherever he went. Nay, he hadn’t been able to say the truth aloud, so he’d done the next best thing: he’d protected Will—by pushing him away.

The old duke’s cold eyes pinned him, the belt raised.
You deserve to be punished, you deficient weakling!
Even as Alaric’s gut knotted in memory, Emma’s voice reached him through the darkness.

Family forgives,
she’d said.

His guardian and parents were all dead. His closest living kin was his brother.

Alaric glanced at Will, who was monitoring the street with an eagle eye. Who was trying to protect him despite all the bad blood between them.

Taking a breath, he said in an undertone, “It wasn’t because I didn’t want you at Strathmore.”

“What?” Will’s gaze swung to his.

“The regiment was the safer place for you to be.”

“Why do you speak of this now?” Even in the shadows, he could see his brother’s incredulous expression. “After all this time?”

Alaric wasn’t quite sure himself. He gave a slight shrug. “You deserve to know.”

“Know what? That facing down enemies with bayonets, scouting enemy terrain,” Will said with rising ire, “
that
was safer?”

Alaric’s fists clenched, yet he kept his voice low, for Will’s ears only. “Compared to living under the duke’s tyranny and suffering his brand of punishment? Aye,” he said roughly.

Will stilled. “Our uncle, he ... hurt you?”

“I’d rather have taken on an entire battalion,” Alaric said succinctly.

After a moment, his brother said in hushed tones, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t a topic for polite conversation. And we haven’t exactly been on good terms.”

“But you’re my brother. I would have ...” Will trailed off.

“Exactly. You could have done nothing. It’s over; I just wanted to clear the air.” Alaric returned his gaze to the tavern, signaling an end to the conversation.

To his surprise, Will said softly, “I had wondered why you seemed different. On the rare visit home, I mean. Ma thought it was because of your illness, but I knew you weren’t yourself.”

His brother had noticed? An odd spasm gripped his throat. “The illness was only a part of it. The sicker I was, the more the duke punished me.”

“Bluidy hell, Alaric, I never knew—”

“Attention, lads.” Kent’s furious whisper broke the spell of the moment. “Scarred man leaving the premises. Can you identify, your grace?”

Alaric pushed from the wall, strode to the mouth of the alley. He spotted the figure instantly. While the burly figure and greasy, overlong hair could have belonged to anyone, there was no mistaking the jagged mark that bisected the man’s face into two menacing halves.

“That’s him,” he said grimly.

“Do you wish to wait here?” Kent began.

Alaric didn’t bother answering. Pulling his hat down low, he started toward Palmer. Kent and Will’s bootsteps sounded behind him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw them fan out, mingling with the throng. Taking his cue from them, he slowed his pace; when Palmer suddenly swung around, Alaric halted at a barrow. He felt the other’s gaze on him, his heart thudding as he pretended to study the peddler’s offerings.

“That cup’s made o’ sterling, guv,” the gap-toothed hawker said cheerfully. “Ruin may rot your gut, but it won’t tarnish that lovely piece.”

Alaric fought not to look at Palmer. “How much?”

“A quid, guv, an’ that’s on account o’ my generous ’eart.”

Alaric risked a sidelong glance ... and saw Palmer’s back fading into the distance. He took off after him, the hawker’s voice ringing behind him. “’Alf a crown, guv, an’ that’s my best offer!”

Kent and Will were gaining on Palmer, flanking him on two sides. Alaric quickened his steps and kept to the middle of the road, pushing past drunks and painted whores, dodging carts of goods. His eyes and nose stung from the smoke of scorching chestnuts. He was almost upon the fiend, and Will and Kent were nearly parallel: their triangle formation was poised for attack.

He met Kent’s gaze, saw the other nod, and his muscles bunched, ready to propel him toward the target.

In that instant, Palmer turned his head.

Recognition flashed across the disfigured face, and the cutthroat broke into a run.

He turned right, and with beefy momentum, plowed through Kent, the investigator sprawling to the ground. The villain vanished into the nearest alleyway, Will on his tail, Alaric just behind his brother. Alaric heard the shrill of a whistle cut through the thudding in his ears before he was enveloped in darkness. The labyrinth of the rookery engulfed him, the walls widening and narrowing, a twisting path of disorientation.

“Up ahead,” Will shouted. “There’s a dead end. We’ve got him.”

That his brother knew the stews with such acuity astounded Alaric, and he could only be grateful to have the other as a guide. Energy pumped through his veins, the battle instincts of his ancestors kicking in. He
thirsted
for his enemy’s blood.

The darkness grew lighter as the low-hanging eaves gave way to the night sky. He saw a faint glimmer paces ahead: a stream of moonlight striking off stones ... a wall. Palmer scrambling to get over.

A few steps ahead of Alaric, Will raced forward, shouting, “Stop! You can’t escape.”

Palmer spun around. Steel glinted in his hands.

“Down, Will!” Alaric yelled.

He threw himself forward, knocking his brother to the ground as twin shots whizzed past him, blasting through the night. Breathing hard, he pushed to his feet in the next instant, saw Palmer struggling to reload the pistol. He charged into the cutthroat, sending the firearm scuttling into darkness. Red filled his vision as he slammed his foe into the wall. Pinning the other by the throat, he drove his fist into the bastard’s face again and again.

“No one shoots at a McLeod,” he growled.

“Strathaven, I’ve got Palmer covered.” Kent had arrived, positioning himself to Alaric’s left, panting and aiming a pistol at the villain.

Caught in the grip of bloodlust, Alaric didn’t give a damn. He drew his fist back again.