Kincaid’s lips stretched in the ghost of a smile. “Spoken like a true aristocrat.”
“Regarding the pleasure gardens, you haven’t been there lately by any chance, have you?”
“Why do you ask?” he said guardedly.
“It seems the Duke of Telford had an unfortunate run-in with an American chit and her protector. Ended up with a broken nose. Messy affair.” Sterling cocked a brow. “Not that I blame whoever set Telford back on his heels. Bloke’s a right twat. In fact, if I knew who it was, I’d buy him a drink. Your cup’s looking a little empty there, Kincaid.”
“I have no idea who punched Telford, if that’s what you are asking.” Lifting his tankard of ale, Kincaid finished it off then nudged it to the edge of the table. “But I’ll take another.”
“You sly bastard,” Sterling grinned. “Things must be going well with your American if you’re taking her to Cremorne.”
Kincaid tensed. “She isn’tmyAmerican.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Sterling gave an amiable shrug. Then his expression turned horrified. “Good God. That barmaid just dropped an entire pork leg on the floor and put it back on the plate.”
“You wanted to meet somewhere you wouldn’t be recognized,” Kincaid reminded his friend.
“What Iwantis to not get typhoid.” His gray eyes hardened. “And to clear my name. Have you any leads on who might have killed Eloise?”
When Sterling had first revealed he stood accused of murdering his mistress, Kincaid had been understandably shocked. Despite his tragic past—or perhaps because of it—Sterling could no more harm a woman than he could a fly.
Let alone bludgeon her to death in her own bedchamber.
But if the growing rumors in thetonwere to be believed, that was precisely what he had done. Then he’d dismembered the body and dumped it in the Thames. Or buried it on the grounds of his estate in Sussex. Or left it out in the woods to be devoured by wild animals. The exact details varied depending on who was telling the story. But while no one could reach a general consensus on how Eloise’s body had mysteriously disappeared, they all agreed on a single fact: the Duke of Hanover was a murderer.
And now it was Kincaid’s job to prove he wasn’t.
Since the House of Lords wasn’t yet in session, no official charges had been brought, and that gave them some time. Had Sterling stood accused of anything besides murder, parliamentary privilege would have exonerated him. Unfortunately, it did not apply in this case. If Kincaid couldn’t track down therealmurderer, it was only a matter of weeks before Sterling would be arrested and put on trial before a jury of his peers.
“No, I haven’t found anything yet. But that doesn’t mean I won’t,” he said when Sterling muttered a curse and slumped back in his chair. “It’s been less than a week.”
A week that felt like a bloody year.
Ever since Miss Joanna Thorncroft had marched into his office and demanded Kincaid take her case, the hours had started to blur together. It wasn’t long before he didn’t know yesterday from tomorrow or the past from the present.
Her arrival had dredged up all sorts of things—emotions, feelings, memories—long believed forgotten. Things he didn’t want to remember. Things he’d locked in a box before tossing the box into the deepest, darkest pit of his mind where it had remained…until Joanna showed up holding a key.
Joanna, with her eyes the color of the sky right before the last autumn leaf fell. Joanna, with her sharp wit and mischievous smile. Joanna, with her soft lips and skin that smelled of sunshine and violets.
Kincaid stirred his stew. Chunks of meat were beginning to congeal on the surface. He wasn’t necessarily hungry, but he could not remember the last time he’d eaten. And while it was tempting, a man couldn’t survive on passionate kisses alone. Particularly when he had banned himself from said kisses.
Being in the same room as Joanna these past three days had been pure, unadulterated torture. He was like a starving orphan with his face pressed to the window of a sweets shop. He could see the chocolate. He could almost taste it. But he couldn’t have it. He couldn’t haveher. Even though all he wanted to do was drag her head back until those cornflower blue eyes saw him, only him, and then he wanted to kiss her again until the stars in the sky burned to ash.
“You seem distracted, old chap,” Sterling commented.
Kincaid dropped his spoon and lifted his gaze. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve asked you the same question three times and you haven’t responded.” The duke leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “If you do not believe there is a way to prove my innocence, best tell me now. I’d rather hear it from you than the damned magistrate.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s…bollocks.” Kincaid gave a short, irritated shake of his head. He should have been focusing exclusively on Sterling’s case. A case that was literally a matter of life and death.
Instead, he was dreaming about Joanna like some sort of lovesick fool. Had he learnednothingfrom Lavinia? The evil bitch who had gleefully torn his heart out of his chest, ripped it in half, and then shoved the bleeding organ back inside. He’d sworn he would never again blur the lines between his personal and professional life. Yet here he was, four years later, on the brink of doing precisely that.
Wasn’t that the definition of madness? Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result. Best lock himself up in bedlam now, for surely an insane asylum would be preferable to peeling the scars off his heart and exposing it to even more hurt. The kind of hurt he never wanted to feel again.
“It’s nothing,” he snapped. “She means nothing.”
Sterling’s brows lifted with interest. “She?You mean your American?”
