“We’ve been through this before,” Alaric said coldly.

On the other side of his desk, the pair of magistrates shifted in their seats.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The one on the right was named Dixon, and he was plump and prone to sweat. He patted a handkerchief against his shiny pate. “In light of new information, however, we’d like to ask you a few more questions, if we may.”

New information—supplied by Emma Kent, no doubt.

A muscle ticked in Alaric’s jaw. The blasted chit had wasted no time in making good on her threat. Thanks to her testimony, the magistrates’ office was now interrogating him instead of investigating Silas Webb or other possible suspects. Before the authorities had merely been incompetent; now they were actively wasting his time.

Alaric’s temples throbbed, anger and frustration battering at his self-control. It didn’t help matters that he’d slept poorly for the past three nights. Images of Clara, unmoving upon the carpet, made him toss and turn. That he could understand; he wouldn’t rest until he saw justice done for her.

What he couldn’t comprehend was Emma Kent showing up in his dreams as well. He’d woken up sweating, his fists clenching the bedclothes. His heart pounded with fury while his erect cock tented the sheets. In the crazed twilight, he hadn’t known what he yearned for more: to wring her neck or fuck her senseless.

What the devil is the matter with me? Why do I lust for a chit who’s done nothing but wreak havoc in my life?

His obsession with her was madness itself.

“Get on with it,” he clipped out.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Dobbs, the other magistrate, was tall and thin, his papery-looking skin stretched tight over his bony features. He held a notebook and pencil in hand. “How would you describe your relationship with Lady Osgood?”

“Be more specific.”

“Would you say you were on good terms with the victim?” Dobbs rephrased.

For Christ’s sake. I’d just fucked her. Is that good enough terms for you? “Yes.”

“No trouble of any kind between you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have an altercation with Lady Osgood at,”—Dobbs consulted his notebook, “Lady Buckley’s ball earlier that evening?”

Goddamn Emma Kent. This is all her fault.

Alaric’s fists clenched under the desk. “I did not. I will consider any rumors to the contrary slanderous—and take legal action against all who repeat such libel.”

“Understood, Your Grace.” Clearing his throat, Dixon said, “And there were no witnesses during the time you and Lady Osgood were, ahem, together at the cottage? No servants who might have noticed anything?”

“As I’ve said before, the purpose of the cottage is privacy. The staff leaves at dusk and does not return until noon.”

“Beg pardon, Your Grace. We were just confirming that there were no witnesses to the victim’s poisoning—or, ahem, yours,” Dobbs said.

Incensed by the speculative glances exchanged between the pair, Alaric said cuttingly, “You do not need witnesses. You have my word as a peer of the realm. Now have you made any progress on the missing maid or Silas Webb?”

“No, Your Grace.” Dixon wiped his brow. “That is, we’ve nothing new to report on Miss Hutchins. We have, however, searched Mr. Webb’s office.”

“And?”

“It appears he has vacated the premises—and rather hastily, I might add. He didn’t take much with him, and, according to the landlord, he left no forwarding address.”

“We’ll keep looking for him, of course,” Dobbs mumbled.

Capital. Now I can sleep at night. Disgusted, Alaric stood to signal the end of the interview.

The pair of blundering idiots scrambled to their feet.

“Thank you for your time, Your Grace—” Dixon began.

“Then do not continue to waste it,” he snapped.

After the magistrates’ departure, Alaric stood, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out the window at the immaculate green square surrounded by townhouses. Typically the sight calmed him, reminded him of how far he’d come. Once he’d only dreamed of such privilege; now, through a combination of fate and hard work, he had an ancient title, estates in England and Scotland, and the power and wealth to do anything he wanted.

So why did peace still elude him?

Why was he always under siege? Why did everyone—his family, Laura, the ton, even these magisterial lack wits—try to bring him down? What was so loathsome about him that he invited continual attack?

Bitterly, he wondered if contentment was destined to remain beyond his reach. Perhaps happiness was a mirage, the way Strathmore Castle had appeared like a refuge ... and Laura had seemed like love. As he looked out into the empty green expanse, a pair of well-dressed children—a dark-haired boy and girl—entered his field of vision. They skipped ahead of their nanny, laughing as they ran past the gate into the park. A pair of happy, pink-cheeked imps.

Something in his chest throbbed. An old bruise that never healed.

Or a foolish longing that wouldn’t die.

Cursing, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Pull it together, man. Being targeted for murder was no excuse to turn into a maudlin fool. The world be damned: he would take matters into his own hands as he’d always done. If he’d learned anything, it was that the only one he could rely upon was himself.

Take control and take action: that was his motto.

He’d already retained Runners to hunt for Silas Webb and the missing maid. He’d hired on extra footmen for personal security. At this point, there was naught to do but carry on; he wasn’t going to let the threat of murder interfere with his routine.

He was considering a stop at Gentleman Jackson’s or the newer Apollo’s Academy for a round of boxing when a carriage led by matched grays stopped in front of his steps. The man who descended was tall and fit, dressed with puritanical severity in a dark jacket, trousers, and an unadorned waistcoat. The only note of color was the tawny hair curling beneath the brim of his plain hat.

Minutes later, Alaric received his visitor in the study.

He’d met Gabriel Ridgley, the Marquess of Tremont, at Oxford, and the two had become fast friends. Back then, Tremont had been the spare to the title, and he’d left midway through his studies to live with some wealthy relative abroad. He and Alaric had lost touch; not until last year had they come into contact again. Alaric had been surprised by how somber his once mischievous friend had become.

Now Tremont didn’t game or drink to excess and dedicated himself to the restoration of his estates. Although his wife had died some time ago, there were no rumors of him taking a lover or mistress; he was either a monk—which Alaric doubted—or perfectly discreet. Owing to his exemplary behavior, the ton had dubbed Tremont the Angel Marquess.

Time hadn’t eroded all of Alaric and Tremont’s commonalities, however. They discovered an avid shared interest in business. Unlike other peers who didn’t deign to dirty their hands in business matters, the two spent many a night at their club discussing the merits of various financial schemes. When it came to money, they had a similar philosophy: the more the better.

After exchanging greetings, the men settled into the wingchairs by the fire.

“How are you, Strathaven?” Tremont said.

“I’m fine,” Alaric said curtly. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because of the scandal.” Tremont leveled a grey gaze at him. “The gossips are saying someone stepped forward with proof that you were involved in Lady Osgood’s death.”

Bloody Emma Kent. I’m going to wring her neck.

“The testimony is utter claptrap.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Tremont steepled his hands. “Unfortunately, it’s having an impact on our venture.”

Hell’s teeth. The news pierced Alaric’s gut like an arrow. Tremont had been one of the first investors he’d tapped to join the United Mining venture, and their partnership had proved fruitful. In a little over a month, they would hold a General Meeting to finalize an expansion plan that would include the purchase of several key mines in Scotland. When the vote went through, Alaric was certain stock prices would hit the roof.

Everything had been going according to plan … until now.

“How bad is it?” he said grimly.

“We’ve lost a half-dozen investors, Surrey and Burrowes amongst them.”

“Damnation.” Alaric’s hands clenched the arms of the chair at the mention of two of their scheme’s largest investors.

“That might only be the start. Noblemen catch a whiff of scandal, and they bolt like it’s a fire. No one wants to be caught in a burning house.” Tremont paused before saying bluntly, “You should know that the current business has also resurrected talk about your previous marriage.”

From the grave, Laura’s twisted beauty taunted him.

You don’t love me—you’re not capable of it! You’re selfish, cruel, and black-hearted. Her cornflower eyes glimmered with rage, her red lips taking on a malignant curve. I’m going to make sure everyone knows what a bastard you are.

Cold, unadulterated fury clawed at Alaric. Control was slipping from his grasp, chaos swirling around him. Clara was dead, a murderer on the loose. His business plans were suddenly in jeopardy. And now his past was rising like a dark tide ...

All because of Emma Kent—the lies she’d told about him.

All of this was her doing.

“I’ll see to it that my name is cleared,” he vowed. “Whoever poisoned Clara and me will be brought to justice.”

The marquess’ brow furrowed. “An attempt was made on your life as well?”

Alaric hesitated before saying, “Yes.”

Both he and Tremont were men who valued privacy, and they did not typically discuss matters outside of business. Given the scandal’s impact upon their venture, however, Alaric decided to make an exception and gave Tremont a brief summary of events.

Tremont’s frown deepened at the mention of Silas Webb. “I recall Webb was irate when you dismissed him. But would he resort to murder?”

“I intend to find out.”

“You must take care. Murder is a dangerous business.”

“Evidently so is scandal. Try to keep the investors placated. In the meanwhile, I’ll put a stop to the rumor that I killed Clara.”

Tremont’s eyebrows went up. “How do you plan to do that?”

By dealing with the cause of the fiasco herself.

Jaw taut, Alaric said, “I have my ways. Let’s leave it at that.”

“As you wish. For what it’s worth, I am sorry for your misfortune.”

If there was anything Alaric despised, it was pity.

“What do you know about misfortune?” he said in cool tones.

Tremont’s gaze darkened, grooves forming around his mouth. Standing, he executed a stiff bow. “Good day, Your Grace.”

After the marquess departed, Alaric was reminded that he and Tremont did have something other than business in common: they were both widowers. The resemblance ended there, however. Tremont’s lady had been known for her charity and kindness, and their marriage had been accounted a happy one, with an heir to show for it.

Whereas Alaric’s duchess had been a lying bitch whose efforts to manipulate him had led not only to her own demise but that of their only child. His son, Charlie ...

He felt a warning cracking inside, like the rushing of dark water under ice. The currents dragged at him, pulled him toward the vortex. He struggled for purchase, for control against the raging chaos.

No—the past is done. Look forward. Address the problem at hand.

His fists clenched. Yes, that was what he needed to do.

Fix the problem.

All he had to do was find her.