“Give her a chance to explain, McLeod.” Ambrose’s tone held an edge of warning.
William McLeod nodded, but the fire didn’t leave his eyes. “Go ahead and explain then, Miss Kent,” he said grimly. “Tell us why you would accuse my brother of murder.”
Chapter Four
“You have visitors, your grace.”
At the sound of Jarvis’ voice, Alaric’s deerhounds, Phobos and Deimos, stirred from where they lay dozing by the fire. They cocked their grey, grizzled heads; noting no promise of food or an outdoor romp, they settled back onto the plush Aubusson. At his desk, Alaric put down the mining report that he’d been reading to distract himself from darker thoughts and gave his ancient butler a hard stare. Stooped and wrinkled, Jarvis returned his regard with unconcerned eyes.
“I gave you instructions to say that I’m not at home,” Alaric said.
“I thought you might want to make an exception in this case.” The old retainer’s weathered face was set in its usual imperturbable lines. “’Tis Mr. McLeod who has come to call, and I’ve put him in the main drawing room.”
William. Just bloody perfect. As if I don’t have enough to plague me.
Alaric slapped the sheaf of papers down onto the blotter and shoved irritably away from his desk. “In the future,” he said acidly, “I’d advise you to think less and follow orders more.”
Jarvis didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’ll see to the refreshments for your guests.”
“Wait a minute. Guests—as in plural? Who the devil...”
Jarvis had already exited. The butler pretended deafness whenever he didn’t want to hear what Alaric had to say. His selective hearing ought to have gotten him dismissed, but both he and Alaric knew that would never happen. Jarvis had served the Strathavens all his life, his loyalty as steadfast as the rock upon which Strathmore Castle had been built.
During the years of the prior duke’s reign, Jarvis had broken with his master’s rules in only one arena as far as Alaric knew: the butler had shown kindness to a sick boy. With his antipathy toward any kind of weakness, the old duke had tried to cure Alaric’s “malingering” by forbidding all pleasures from the sickroom. Windows were bolted shut, diversions removed. Meals of gruel and water were eaten by the light of a single candle.
By smuggling the occasional treat onto the supper tray or a book under Alaric’s pillow, Jarvis had won Alaric’s loyalty forevermore.
“Doesn’t make him any less of an interfering codger,” Alaric muttered.
In canine agreement, Phobos made a chuffing noise and rolled onto his back.
Letting out an aggrieved breath, Alaric stalked toward the drawing room. His foul mood deepened with each step. He could scarcely credit the hellish events of the past two days. Helpless rage burgeoned within him at the thought of Clara. She’d been murdered under his roof—because of him.
Someone had laced his whiskey with poison. Because the decanter had been smashed, its contents lost, he couldn’t prove it, but it was the only explanation he could think of. With his one customary drink, he’d gotten ill and lost consciousness. With her three, Clara had paid the ultimate price.
Who had killed Clara? Who wanted him dead?
Possibilities whipped through his mind. Like any powerful man, he had his share of enemies, yet only one had threatened his life: Silas Webb. Alaric’s fists clenched as he pictured the portly bastard with the piggish face, sparse black hair, and spectacles.
Around four months ago, Alaric had taken over a failing mining company. He’d formed a consortium of investors and sold stock in the company to raise additional capital. Within weeks, he’d turned United Mining around, and the venture was now poised for success. In the process of overhauling the dilapidated company, Alaric had fired its longtime man of business, Silas Webb. Webb’s overwhelming incompetence—which had ranged from inaccurate ledger keeping to heinous expenditures—had sabotaged the already floundering enterprise.
Webb had been none too happy about his dismissal. He’d uttered threats as he’d been forcibly ejected from the premises. The week after Webb’s dismissal, a rock had shattered the front window of the office.
To Alaric’s mind, Silas Webb was the prime suspect in the poisoning, and he’d given the man’s name to the investigating magistrates.
Fat lot of good that has done, he thought in disgust.
It had been two days since Clara’s death, and the magistrates had made no progress. Their post-mortem examination had yielded “inconclusive” results on the cause of her death. Nor could they find any trace of Webb, who’d apparently gone missing. Finally, they’d failed to capitalize on the other possible lead: Lily Hutchins, one of the maids at Alaric’s cottage, hadn’t shown up for work since the murder, and none of his other staff knew of her whereabouts. Her sudden disappearance was too much of a coincidence to be overlooked.
Grimly, Alaric knew that he would have to take matters into his own hands and hire his own investigators. As if finding a killer wasn’t enough, now he had to deal with his sodding half-brother.
Shoulders tensed, he entered the drawing room. Will stood by the windows facing the outside square. As always, the sight of his sibling stirred up a potent mix of emotions he didn’t care for. Yet he cared even less for the shock of seeing Miss Emma Kent sitting there. Dressed in yellow, she looked as fresh as a daffodil on his green velvet settee.
What the devil is she doing here?
She appeared deep in discussion with the gentleman sitting beside her. They had their dark heads bent together, and Alaric couldn’t make out their conversation. Whatever they were talking about, he didn’t like the intimacy of their pose.
“To what do I owe this sterling pleasure?” he drawled.
