“I told you that she isn’t my American.” He needed a drink. Throwing his hand in the air, he managed to snag the attention of a barmaid and held up two fingers. She sauntered over, a curvy brunette with an ample bosom. While Sterling openly admired the view—and gave the maid a light smack on her bottom as she walked away—Kincaid took a long, quenching drink.
“I take it back,” said Sterling. “A dash of typhoid might be worth it.”
“I’m sure she’d be willing to entertain any offer you made.”
Instead of appearing pleased by the reminder that he could have whatever woman he desired, the duke looked oddly dejected. “They always are. But it’s the title they want, not me. I know that’s what Eloise wanted.”
“Which is why you killed her,” said Kincaid, carefully watching Sterling to gauge his reaction.
The duke was innocent, but that wouldn’t matter if he displayed even a hint of guilt over his mistress’ death. Thankfully, Sterling’s expression did not waver, an indication he would do well under questioning…if it came to that.
“That’s what they tell me.” Sterling sipped his ale. “Does your American know that you fancy her?”
“For the last time,” Kincaid said through gritted teeth, “she isn’t mine. And I don’t fancy anyone.”
“Really? Because I haven’t seen you this worked up since…never mind.” Realizing his error a second too late, Sterling immediately stopped talking. But the damage had already been done, and they both knew what name he hadn’t said.
“Lady Lavinia Townsend.” A muscle ticked high in Kincaid’s jaw.
“May her adulterous, lying soul rot in hell.”
“She isn’t dead.”
“I know, I saw her just this past week at the Earl of Whitefield’s garden party. I didn’t want to mention it,” Sterling said apologetically, “seeing as how you two…well, parted ways.”
Parted ways.
How pleasant that made it sound.
Rather like calling the Black Death a mild cough, or Marie Antoinette’s beheading a little nick.
He and Lavinia hadn’tparted ways.
They’d scorched the damned earth.
And then she’d tried to bury him in it.
“When the witch finally does die,” Sterling continued, “I can assure you there is only one direction she is traveling. And it’s not up.”
Kincaid’s mouth twitched. He appreciated his friend’s loyalty more than he could put into words. Society dictated the duke should have sided with Lavinia. She was, after all, the well-bred daughter of a marquess and the wife of one of Sterling’s acquaintances. They’d run in the same circles since they were children. But Sterling had always made it clear where his allegiances lay, and Kincaid was grateful for it. Especially since he knew others did not look upon him so kindly.
Courtesy of Lavinia’s lies and calculated deceit, his first year as a private investigator had almost been his last. Clients who had been with him since his first days as a peeler had suddenly acted as if he’d caught the plague, their minds poisoned against him by Lavinia’s uncanny ability to spin fiction into fact. If not for sheer persistence and a little luck, he’d have gone belly up within six months. And he would have had no one to blame but himself for being gullible enough to fall for Lavinia’s crocodile tears.
He was still deeply ashamed of how easily she’d been able to manipulate him. She hadn’t only pulled the wool over his eyes. She’d changed him into a bloody sheep, and he hated her for it. He hatedhimselffor it. Which was why he was determined that history was not going to repeat itself.
“If anyone has a pact with the devil, it’s Lavinia.” He drank his ale. “I never should have believed a word she told me.”
“No,” Sterling agreed. “You shouldn’t have. But you’re not the first man she deceived, and I’m certain you will not be the last. It’s a bloody game to her. To all of them. Theton.” Storm clouds gathered in his gaze. “There’s nothing they delight in more than ruining reputations and spinning half-truths. It is their entertainment.”
“You’re a duke,” Kincaid pointed out. “One could argue you are the very personification of that which you despise.”
“One could also argue that you are deliberately trying to steer the topic of conversation away from your new client.” Sterling leaned back in his chair, arms casually draped behind his neck. “Is she attractive, this American who isn’t your American? A change of scenery could be a welcome distraction.”
If Kincaid were a wolf, his hackles would have stood straight up. “She’s not interested.”
“Every woman is interested in a duke. It sort of comes with the territory.”
“Not Joanna.”
