“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!”
CHAPTER FIVE
SUSSEX WAS FIRST TO REACH the kitchen, with Iain hard on his heels. Alynwick had the very unsettling image of Elizabeth lying crumpled in the back garden, her body twisted in an unnatural position. It made him want to run to find her, to knock Sussex out of the way out of fear and desperation. Iain’s throat was dry, his breathing ragged, and in his mind he frantically called her name. Beth …!
The garden door was open wide, and a wheelbarrow heaped with dried leaves and twigs sat on the flagstone path.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sussex growled, his boots ringing shrilly as he ran. When he reached the barrow he stopped, frozen. Blue satin spilled from it, rippling in the early morning wind. Iain closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude. It was not Elizabeth.
Sussex brushed the leaves away, and the face of a woman was revealed, pasty white and bruised, and unfortunately, dead. “Anastasia,” he whispered.
Iain heard Lucy gasp behind him. Saw over his shoulder that Elizabeth, still wearing her morning gown and wrapper, was hastily making her way down the hall with her pregnant spaniel waddling beside her, guiding her mistress away from a rosewood table. On top was an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers and a silver salver filled with correspondence that sat precariously near the corner of the table, where it might catch on Elizabeth’s sleeve. Stepping back, Iain went to her and took her arm none too gently. He was trembling, still thinking of the vision of her lying dead on the flagstones. Her damnable independent streak would be the ruin of her, not to mention the ruination of his sanity. “Unhand me, Alynwick!”
“How did you know it was me?” he asked incredulously, unnerved, and more than curious about how she was able to discern it was him from all the others present.
“I can smell you, if you must know!”
Something primal and visceral ran through him as the intimacy of her words hit him. “You know my scent?”
He hadn’t meant for his voice to be almost a growl, nor had he meant to pull her roughly to a stop. But now that he had her, her elbows cupped in his palms, her lace wrapper smashed up against his chest, he wasn’t going to apologize.
Looking down at her upturned face, he saw surprise and wariness in her gaze. How long it had been since he’d allowed himself to look deeply into her eyes? They were perfect, a stormy grey, the black pupils large, the left one a bit larger than the right. A lush sweep of curved black lashes blinked slowly. He could see himself reflected in her eyes, and selfishly was relieved that she could not see his lovelorn expression—the hope that something more than animosity might grow between them.
“How do I smell?” he asked, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse. She softened, yielding the slightest fraction, and he bit his lip at the way her breasts pressed against him. Resisted the urge to wrap his arm around her waist and slip his free hand beneath her wrapper to cup her, to pull at her nipple, preparing to draw it into his mouth.
“Like the woods,” she said, her voice not at all steady and sure, “at twilight. Musky, earthy, with the taste