Читать книгу Temptation & Twilight - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 10

“NOW, LARABIE,” Black growled as he came to his feet behind Alynwick. “This is uncalled for. Allow us to emerge from the carriage, and your second and myself will commence with officiating this duel—utilizing the proper rules.”

“Why should I?” Larabie snarled as he kept the barrel of the pistol raised to the spot between Alynwick’s eyes. “The bastard has never played by the rules before. Defiling a man’s wife,” he grunted. “I should shoot off your bollocks instead of your head.”

“Larabie,” Alynwick drawled, “let us see if you’re man enough. Pull the damn trigger.”

“I wouldn’t,” Larabie’s second advised. “At that range, you’ll have the bastard’s brains splattered on your coat.”

Larabie’s slow smile was downright chilling. “Good. I’ll have my wife wash her lover’s blood and guts from the wool. Would serve the bitch right for what she’s done to me.”

“Gentlemen …” Black’s voice sounded much too resigned, and dare Iain say it, bored. “At this close range, we shall all be sprayed with Alynwick’s grey matter, considering he has some, of course.”

If Iain hadn’t been watching Larabie’s trembling hand, and the softly bobbing barrel of the duelling pistol aimed at his head, he would have turned and sent his friend a glare.

“Let us be reasonable,” Black murmured as he carefully shifted his tall body forward, filling up the door space of the coach. “A few paces out into the pasture, and then we may commence.”

Larabie suddenly whirled, warning Black away. That was when Iain saw his chance and took it, wrestling the pistol from his opponent. He had not expected it to be loaded—and he had certainly not expected to hear the ear-shattering crack of a bullet blast in the silence of the night.

Time seemed to shift, to stall, as Larabie’s jowled face grew white. With a smile born of arrogance, Alynwick waited to watch the earl’s expression turn from shock, to pain, to terror. It didn’t. Instead, Iain felt the burn of his own skin being torn apart. Then the heat of his blood seeping out, onto his shirt. The force of the bullet threw him back against Black, who caught him, covering his body with his own.

“You ass,” Iain rasped as he clutched the sleeve of Black’s coat. “Isabella will hang me by my bollocks if you get hurt.”

“Shut up,” Black muttered as he efficiently placed Iain on the damp ground. “The doctor!” he ordered, and Iain saw the tips of Larabie’s boots and those of his second move back, making way for the physician.

His body burned, the pain was substantial, and he suddenly was thankful that he had sat in his carriage for hours, drinking himself into a stupor. It had numbed the pain somewhat, and made it so he had not cried out, either in surprise or discomfort. He would not give that fat, fucking Larabie the pleasure of his weakness.

“I trust you are satisfied,” he said, trying to breathe as normally as possible.

“Honour was met,” Larabie’s second announced, and Black all but flew between the small space that set them apart, confronting the man with his fist knotted in his cravat.

“Honour was not met,” he snarled. “Larabie shot him in cold blood. None of the rules were adhered to. It wasn’t a fair duel.”

“It wasn’t fair of him to bed my wife!” Larabie roared, and Iain, not wanting to hear the earl’s pompous voice a second longer, rasped and waved his friend back over.

“Let it go,” he murmured as Black knelt down beside him. “I don’t think it’s fatal, anyway. Besides, I plan on playing this up to the lady. Surely she will see to it that I am well compensated for this business.”

“Damn you, this plan of yours is going to hell.”

Iain shrugged and winced in pain as a tearing burn made its way down his left arm. “Shoulder, I think. Bloody bastard is lucky it’s my left.”

“Make way, gentlemen,” the physician ordered. He set his black bag down on the damp grass beside Iain’s head. Alynwick’s coachman had taken a carriage lamp and was holding it over them, allowing its soft glow to illuminate the scene. Above him, Iain could see Larabie’s jowls quivering. To his left stood Black, his expression the colour of his name. The doctor pulled at Iain’s coat, revealing the soaked shirt beneath.

“Well, will the bastard live, or shall I make plans to leave for the continent tonight?” Larabie muttered.

“Shoulder wound,” the physician announced. “There’s no need to flee the scene, my lord.”

“Lucky bastard. Like a cat, he is. But one day, Alynwick, you’ll use up those nine lives, and I hope that when you are on the ninth and final one, it is my bullet that sends you straight to hell. Come along, Sheridan,” the earl ordered. “It is time to return home to deal with my wife.”

“Into the carriage, my lord,” the physician instructed. “I shall follow in mine. The bullet must be removed and the wound cleansed.”

“I thank you,” Iain growled as Black hefted him up from the wet grass, and none too gently, either. “My man will see to it.”

“You keep a surgeon at the ready, do you?” the physician said with offended hauteur.

Iain laughed at the thought. Sutherland was no doctor. He was barely a valet. But he was a hell of a villain, when Iain found himself in need of one.

“Well, then,” the doctor muttered with a snap of his leather satchel. “I shall bid you good-night.”

“You shouldn’t have ordered him away,” Black snarled as he all but dragged Iain up the carriage stairs. “Your injury is extensive. What if Sutherland can’t manage it?”

“Then I should think that butler of yours,” he gasped as he fell onto the carriage bench, “would do nicely.”

“Billings is at home with my wife, keeping her safe. I am not having him removed to tend you and your stupidity.”

“Fine, then,” Iain said as he let his head fall back against the squabs. Dawn was slowly rising in the distance, and he closed his eyes as blood continued to pump from his shoulder. “Take me to Sussex House,” he said, his voice sounding distant to his ears.

“Sussex House?” Black enquired. “What for? Patch yourself up first before we descend upon Sussex.”

“Damn you, man!” Iain roared. “Honour a man’s dying wish. Take me to Sussex House, to Elizabeth,” he heard himself murmur. Thankfully, he passed out before he could hear Black’s response.

ON THE EDGE OF Grantham Field, amongst the trees and the fog, stood a town coach with four gleaming black stallions. No one saw it, for he did not want them to. He was not ready for them yet. But soon … Soon the Brethren would be his.

“Did you expect this?” his companion asked as she smoothed her delicate hand up the length of his thigh.

Indeed, he had not. Alynwick was always the wild card in the troika that made up the Brethren Guardians. A hotheaded Scot, and a man who barely had any control over his base desires and his animal rage.

He had thought the marquis would simply blow the earl away, but instead, Alynwick had been wounded.

A measure of glee swam inside him. Alynwick was wounded—considerably so. It would make things that much easier with Alynwick out of the picture, even temporarily.

Patience, he told himself as the placket of his trousers fell open, and he was gripped by a knowing, skilled hand. Patience always paid off in the end. He had waited a long, long time for this. And soon, he would be rewarded.

Soon, the Brethren would belong to him—to Orpheus.

“Take me,” she whispered, and he rapped his walking stick against the carriage, sending the vehicle lurching forward.

“Soon, pet,” he mumbled. “I have something to do first. A little surprise for His Grace.”

“It’s not like you to be so kind,” she murmured as her lips worked their way down his neck.

“I’m in the giving mood,” he mumbled, thinking of what he would do. “And Sussex will be the benefactor.”

IN THE END, Black ignored his request, which was so typical of him. The bastard always did whatever he wanted. Instead of taking him to Sussex House, Black carried him, half-conscious, from the carriage and into Iain’s own town house, past his shocked butler, whose harsh, indrawn breath echoed off the fourteen-foot-high ceiling, and all the way up the ornately carved, curving staircase to Iain’s bedroom, where he dropped Iain onto the bed as though he were a sack of grain. Only then did Black rouse Sutherland.

Shortly after, his valet stumbled into the room, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “And what scrape have ye gotten yourself into this time, my lord?”

“What does it look like?” he growled. “I’m bleeding onto the sheets.”

Sutherland grunted when he saw the extent of the wound he was expected to work on. “Won’t be a pretty sight after I’m done, my lord.”

“He’s too pretty now,” Iain heard Black state in his characteristic sombre voice. “A little mark to remind him of his arrogance should be his reward for this night’s business. Patch him up, Sutherland.”

“The ladies will only find the scar more endearing, I’m afraid.”

“Yes. Peculiar how many ladies find something of merit in Alynwick.”

“I’m awake and can hear every damn word you’re both saying.”

“Good,” Sutherland muttered as he tore the blood-soaked shirt from Iain’s chest. “Then you know I’ll make a botch of this shoulder. But you’ll live.”

“Scotch,” he demanded, before saying, “I don’t give a damn what it looks like, just stop the bleeding.”

“You won’t be saying that once you have a look at my handiwork, I’ll wager.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sutherland, I’m not a vain man.”

“I wonder if you’d be claiming that if it was your face I was to work on.”

“Well, then I’d look like the devil on the outside, just as I am on the inside, wouldn’t I?”

Sutherland quirked a thick auburn brow. “Yer in one of those moods tonight, I see.”

“Get on with it, or I’ll drag myself out of this bed and find someone more inclined to work, instead of prattling like a maid.”

The sound of the crystal stopper popping out of the decanter was music to his ears. However, the roar he let out when Black poured a good measure of the liquid gold onto his shoulder was not.

“Like bloody hellfire,” he gasped between gritted teeth, stiffening under the burning onslaught. “And there’s cheaper stuff to be used for medicinal purposes. That’s a twenty-five-year aged single malt, Black, and you’ve pissed it away for no good reason.”

“I assumed saving your hide from a stinking purulence would be reason enough.”

“The inferior brands can do that as well as any of them.”

Black merely raised one laconic brow as he peered down at him from the side of the bed. “I’ll leave you to your duties, Sutherland. Nothing more to drink for his lordship, no matter what he says or threatens you with. I’m tired of lugging him about tonight. I want him to walk into Sussex House on his own two feet.”

“Right, my lord.”

Iain glared at the door as it slammed behind Black, then turned to give his valet a wrathful glare. “Cease coddling the damn wound and sew it shut. Or better yet, heat the poker and singe it closed.”

It would match the brand on his chest, the one that had been seared upon his flesh when he had been anointed as a Brethren Guardian. Iain had stoically endured the pain, making his father press the glowing brand harder into his skin, trying to break him. But Iain had always been as stubborn as a mule and had refused to do anything but look up into the spiteful eyes of his father and dare him to do his worst. He had suffered silently beneath his initiation. He could withstand the same now.

“I will not burn you,” Sutherland said with disgust. “Barbaric thought. I’ll sew you up good and tight and hope for the best.”

“Much more expedient with the poker. Use it.”

Sutherland ignored him as usual. And unable to provoke a fight to give himself something to fix upon other than the pain, Iain thought of pleasure. His thoughts drifted back to the hours before—at the Sumners’, when he had clutched Elizabeth’s voluptuous curves to his hard body.

A man could make a meal out of her. He certainly wanted to. An image took hold, and he barely felt the straight needle prick him, diving under skin and tissue, grabbing more flesh before being pulled tight, tugging the ragged edges of his wound together.

Closing his eyes, he thought of Elizabeth, her long, sable hair unbound, spilling in velvet waves upon a glistening mahogany dining table. Naked, pale, full curves outlined against shining veneer, beneath the delicate glow of a chandelier. She was surrounded by wine goblets and tiered plates of grapes and strawberries.

He sat at the end of the table, sipping a dark merlot, studying the landscape of her body, the way it arched and curved before him. He would wait—would make her wait—as he watched her. He would talk to her, suggest wicked, lascivious things he wanted to watch her do. She would respond to his voice, would be helpless to stop the movement of her body along the table. Her lips would move and part, her breasts … He groaned, not in pain, but pleasure, as he thought of the way her breasts would bounce and sway. He’d have her on her knees, palms planted on the table as she crawled to him, amidst rolling grapes spilling from overturned silver dishes, and streaming rivulets of red wine snaking from toppled goblets. He would watch her, unable to take his gaze off her breasts, the turgid nipples, the way her shining hair moulded to the sway of her full, rounded hips.

“Lower” he would command, and she would respond, as she had once responded so beautifully to his voiced commands. In this fantasy, it was no less true. Lower … And she would raise her hips, lower her breasts till they just scraped the table with their pointed tips. He’d watch the red wine cover her nipples as she crawled, and the wine drip from them.

Licking his dry lips, Iain watched his fantasy play out in his heated mind, the drops of crimson wine slipping from elongated nipples, the slow, seductive crawl on her knees to him, the feel of his cock, so hard, so throbbing, released from his trousers, his hand fisting it…. Then the movement of his body, the lowering of his head, his lips beneath her breast—so close, waiting for the next drop of wine to slip effortlessly onto his tongue. Her sigh when he drew her into his mouth and suckled, as he pleasured himself … He could come just imagining it.

“I believe, my lord, that we are all finished.”

Reluctantly, Alynwick pulled himself from the fantasy to see his shoulder bandaged in white cloth. One glance down the length of his body to his tented kilt made him close his eyes with a groan.

“Whatever you were thinking about, my lord,” Sutherland said knowingly, “it worked. You didn’t flinch once.”

TWO HOURS LATER, Alynwick sat in a large chair before the Duke of Sussex, with yet another tent in his kilt as he thought of the images that had flowed through his vivid, fevered imaginings while Sutherland worked over him.

How easy it was to conjure the image of a fair Elizabeth, naked, crawling toward him, red wine staining her body. In his mind he had been seated like a sultan before a harem girl, studying her—his possession. He loved to watch, and there was no woman he found more fascinating than Elizabeth York, with her exterior of innocence, and the eagerness of a harlot. He’d once watched her in the grass, watched the undulations of her body beneath his roving hand as he made her come with slow, knowing caresses and whispered words that were far too indecent for any well-bred young lady’s ears.

She had been younger then, less full than she was now. She’d been beautiful to his eyes, but now … Now he’d give what remained of his soul to see her body, all full, voluptuous curves and soft planes, with secret places for his hand to touch, his lips to caress. He’d had only a glimpse of it last evening, and he wanted more. So much more. To say he was hungry for her was an amusing understatement. He was starved for her.

He groaned, wiped his palm along his unshaved face. He was damn hard, sitting before Sussex while thinking lurid thoughts of the duke’s sister. He really was an unrepentant rake to debase the innocent sister of his friend with his lascivious dreams and erotic wishes.

“What’s with you?” Black demanded of the silent duke. “Are you ill?”

For the first time, Iain took in Sussex’s haggard appearance, and felt some measure of pleasure. His Grace looked nearly as worn as he did this morning.

When he and Black had barged into Sussex’s study not more than ten minutes before, they had roused the duke from his sleep on the couch. Sussex had nothing to grumble about; he had not been shot in the shoulder. It was then that Alynwick recalled he had some unfinished business with his friend.

“What the devil d’ye think ye were doing, fobbing me off at Grantham Field?” he asked indignantly, his anger getting the better of him and allowing him to slip into his brogue. “Ye were supposed ta be me second!”

“No,” Sussex growled impatiently, “one of us was supposed to be your second, and because you showed up at the Sumners’ musicale drunk and itching for a fight, I had to bodily remove you from said musicale. Ergo, I was not able to perform as your second, since I wanted to shoot you my goddamn self!”

“I wasna drunk,” Alynwick grumbled, wishing he could forget about the scene he’d created at the Sumners’. “Itchin’ fer a fight, aye, but no’ drunk.”

“Careful,” Black said with some amusement, “your cultured English accent is giving way to your heathen Highland one.”

Black was hardly helping. And the bastard seemed to be taking an extraordinary amount of enjoyment out of it all. Iain rarely allowed himself to fall victim to his brogue. All the more evidence that something was ruling him, and it was not the coldhearted calculations he was notorious for.

Sussex’s steel-grey eyes settled on him once more. “Surely you did not believe that it was the thing to do to be your second after the stir you caused at the Sumners’? Everyone saw what happened, and how I had to remove your arm from Sheldon’s throat!”

“Get at yer point, ye windbag,” he snapped, hating the earl’s name being mentioned. Iain had purposely tried to forget that Elizabeth had been in that room hanging on to the arm of another man. And by the looks of things, bloody well enjoying herself.

“My point, you infuriating brute, is this. We are not supposed to be friends, or even acquaintances, in the eyes of the polite world. We’re to pretend that our own private circles do not cross, so no one will suspect that we are acquainted—in ways we have all vowed never to reveal. And then you stroll in and force my hand, making my sister the object of ridicule and gossip, and you wonder why I didn’t come and perform as your second? The reason, you Highland ninny, is simple—because no one would believe it! No one would think it plausible that we were out for a pint, met up and I just merrily agreed to travel at dawn to some godforsaken farmer’s field to aid you in putting a bullet hole in someone, when not four hours before you were importuning my sister and nearly killing the Earl of Sheldon!”

Black’s gaze volleyed between them, then he groaned as the truth of Sussex’s revelations sank in. “Alynwick, you didn’t. Good God, you did, didn’t you?”

Iain was not chastised, and more to the point, he was ready to fight again. “You didn’t force me away from anything,” he sneered. “I allowed you to tear me off that piece of trash.”

“And how do you know anything about Sheldon,” Sussex growled, “when your face is constantly gazing into the bottom of a whisky decanter?”

Iain lunged over the desk, ready to tear his friend apart, but Black caught him by the coat and hauled him back. “None of that, now,” he grunted as he tossed Alynwick into the chair. “Stay!” he shouted, pointing at Iain as if he were a biddable canine when he tried to stand up again.

“I’m no’ a bloody mongrel to heed yer commands.”

“Really?” Black straightened his waistcoat and resumed his seat. “You look like something that’s been roaming the street for weeks. Where did you go after I left you in Sutherland’s care?”

He’d gone to find Lady Larabie, that’s where. But he’d been too deep in thought to do anything but regale the lady with the gossip of his fight with her husband. Contrary to Larabie’s boasts, the man had not returned home to deal with his wife, but instead made his way to his club in St. James’s. That had left the lady free to dally, but dallying had been the last thing on Iain’s mind. In a strange mood, he had sought out Georgiana for something else entirely. Comfort perhaps. Solace. She’d provided nothing of the sort—only petulance that he did not seem inclined to pleasure her. He was literally sickened by it, sitting in her overly ornate little parlor fending off her roving hands, when all he really wanted was to lay his head in her lap and feel her feminine fingers run through his hair while he pretended he was with Elizabeth. But it had all been to no avail. The lady was not capable of solace, and he had left, disgusted with himself for desiring such a thing. Iain Sinclair did not need anything from anyone—most especially sanctuary in a woman’s arms.

With a sigh, he answered, “You doona want t’ know where I was.”

“By the stench of you, I think I already do.”

Iain sent Black a glare, aware that he appeared debauched. But he wasn’t. He was restless, mindless. There was a sickness ruling his thoughts, and if he had the courage to look through the darkness inside him, he’d be able to name the illness. He was heartsick, his soul crying out for the one remedy that could cure his illness. Elizabeth.

But she did not want him, or the love that he could no longer deny.

Sliding deeper into the chair, Iain allowed his hands to riffle through his hair. He wanted his bed, the cool, crisp sheets, and he wanted the images of Elizabeth burning his brain. In his fantasies he could have anything. Even Elizabeth back again.

“Good God, Alynwick, what the devil were you thinking, coming to the Sumners’ and stirring up that scene?” Sussex continued, his considerable arrogance pricked. “It’ll be in all the gossip rags this morning, and we don’t need that kind of exposure. Damn you!”

Sulking, Iain stared out the window, thinking of last night and the scene that had greeted him. A smiling—glowing—Elizabeth standing beside a man who was looking down upon her with far too much interest. “A provocation, I believe.” He was under control now, his brogue banished. “I was never good at resisting taunts.”

“Taunts?” Black asked quizzically as he looked from Alynwick to Sussex. The duke shrugged.

“I told you,” Alynwick growled with quiet menace, “to leave her out of this.”

“We’re afraid, old boy, that neither of us understands a damned thing coming out of your mouth,” Black drawled.

“Yes, whom are you referring to, and what was this taunt?”

“Elizabeth!” Iain said it with such a snarl that Sussex sat back in his chair. “Damn you both, don’t you know the trouble she can get into? It could make matters worse for us. She has no place in this affair. She should be at home, beneath a wool blanket, sitting by the fire, where nothing and no one can touch her!”

Black and Sussex stared at one another, confusion written all over their expressions, but Iain didn’t give a damn. So be it if they discovered that he was unable to think of anything other than Elizabeth this morning.

“Dear me,” said a sweetly feminine voice from the doorway. “All this roaring and fighting has awakened the entire house.”

Iain stiffened at the sound, but kept his gaze focused on the grey streaks of daylight breaking through the rain clouds. He was not yet ready to see her, to feel the onslaught of emotions when he looked into her lovely and haunting grey eyes.

“Elizabeth, do come in,” Sussex ordered.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” Iain muttered, while he rose.

“Really, Alynwick, don’t be so childish. Do you think I am naive? I know exactly what you think of me, my infirmity and my limited skill in aiding your cause. You don’t have to go slinking off because I’ve overheard you talking about me.”

It was like a knife to his heart. He never wanted to hurt her. Never again. “My apolo—”

“I don’t require that, either,” she said. “Because it’s a lie. You aren’t sorry. It’s what you feel. Don’t bother to deny it.”

“You have no idea what I fe—”

With a slight wave of her hand, she effectively cut him dead, and he knew the expression on his face was one of shock and outrage.

“Do carry on,” Elizabeth ordered. “I only came for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hammond claims to have brought you a tray, and I don’t want to wait for another tray to be sent up.”

Black did the honours pouring, and Iain watched as his friend carefully passed her the cup and saucer. Her morning gown, a crème-colored silk-and-lace confection with long, fluttering sleeves, was at once prim and proper, yet so damn enticing. It made him want to slowly pull the tie of her wrapper loose to discover what wicked thing she wore beneath.

“Now, then, keep it down, if you please, or the servants will be privy to everything. I heard two maids giggling as I approached the study. No doubt they were spying. As an aside, Lucy and I will be meeting today. It’s likely she’ll come here, so I hope the three of you will make yourselves scarce, because I plan on quizzing her about matters.”

“What matters?” Iain demanded. He hated how Sussex allowed her take to part in any Brethren discussions. It wasn’t safe.

“That, my lord, is none of your concern. Seek your own clues to this case, and I will seek mine. Now, then, come along, Rosie,” she said regally. And obeying her ladyship, Elizabeth’s spaniel nudged her in the right direction, away from anything that might impede her regal exit.

“Damned female,” Iain grunted bitterly. “A curse and a pox on headstrong women who won’t be led by a man.”

“I daresay you’ll have half the women of London sporting pox marks and curses, Alynwick.”

Iain scowled at Black, but continued to watch as Elizabeth disappeared through the door. The thought of her being hurt while trying to aid them in the search for Orpheus sent fear through him. Iain Sinclair, Marquis of Alynwick, feared nothing—except losing Elizabeth. Even though she did not belong to him, and likely never would, Iain took comfort in the fact that he could see her, listen to her, stand back and quietly watch her, and think of the impossible—all the things he would do and say to her if she was his to possess. If he couldn’t see her, if she were taken and no longer a part of his world, he wouldn’t survive. His stolen looks and dreams of her sustained him.

No, Elizabeth must not be allowed to be part of this mystery that surrounded them. The danger was too real, and the thought of losing her much too painful. But before he could speak his mind, and protest her involvement, Black interjected.

“Now, then, gentlemen, if you please,” the earl murmured as he sat in the chair opposite Sussex’s desk, sipping at his tea as though he were a damned prince. “The task of the duel is done, the objective reached and our mission can commence,” he said smoothly. “I acted as second, performed a credible act, and now it is all water under the bridge.”

“Oh, go to hell, Black,” Alynwick muttered as he sank farther into the matching chair. “You’re being a self-righteous bastard, and I’d love to shove my fist into that smug face of yers.”

Black’s black brows rose over the rim of his teacup, and Sussex groaned, closing his eyes.

“Be that as it may, we need to go forward from here. What is our next move? Sussex, have you learned any more about the coins, or Orpheus?”

“As a matter of fact I have, just last night—”

“Your pardon, Your Grace,” his butler said from the doorway.

“What is it now?” Sussex groaned, sending the butler, Hastings, scurrying behind the wooden panel, only to peer around it.

“You have a caller.”

“What?”

“A caller. A visitor,” Hastings clarified.

“Now? At this hour?”

“Your Grace?” the butler discreetly cleared his throat. “Shall I send her on her way?”

Before Sussex could answer, a flurry in emerald-green velvet trimmed in black satin swam through the door, causing Sussex’s butler to grow white with horror.

“And what is the meaning of this?”

Iain watched as Lucy Ashton stormed into the room, cornering Sussex in his domain.

“I do not,” she spat, “respond to this sort of blackmail. Oh, good day, Lord Black, Lord Alynwick.” She dropped a quick but polite curtsey, then turned once more to face Sussex, before either of them had a chance to rise from his chair. Iain watched her slamming a folded piece of paper on the desk, wondering where her ire sprang from.

“You, Your Grace, may offer me an explanation.”

Sussex waved his hand, silently telling them to bugger off, but Iain was not inclined to honour his wishes. At the duke’s lethal glare, he and Black reluctantly started to leave.

They were strolling across the study when Mrs. Hammond, the Sussex housekeeper, screamed with such a bloodcurdling howl that they all went running into the hall.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hammond shouted. “Oh, good God in heaven! Your Grace! You must come!”

They found the plump housekeeper, her white linen cap askew, running breathlessly down the hall from the kitchen, her arms flailing.

“What is it, Mrs. Hammond?” Sussex enquired, catching the woman by the shoulders.

“There now, lass,” Iain murmured. “Take a deep breath and tell us. It canna be as bad as all this.”

The housekeeper’s brown eyes were wild with fear. Shaking her head, she looked from Iain to the duke. “It can, your lordships. It can be worse. Oh,” she cried into her apron. “It’s over there, Your Grace, at the door to the kitchen gardens. A dead body—oh, I shall never recover!”