If there was anything Alaric despised, it was the sick bed.

He’d spent half his youth in one, the boredom and helplessness nearly as bad as the illness itself. He’d hated the quacks; summoned by Aunt Patrice, they’d arrived to Strathmore Castle in droves, vials of potions rattling in their carrying cases. Some supposed cures had actually made matters worse; after being dosed with a tincture of belladonna, he’d retched for hours. Writhing and shivering in his own sweat, he’d prayed for an end to the suffering.

Lady Patrice had nursed him tirelessly through it all. Having lost her own son to scarlet fever, she wasn’t taking any chances with her new ward. Between her, the stifling sickroom, and uncontrollable episodes of pain, he’d felt like an osprey stuffed in a canary cage.

Like Ares imprisoned in that bloody jar.

His gaze went to the painting on the wall, which brought that mythological scene to life in darkly exquisite oils. He’d commissioned the work from an Italian master, and it showed the God of War, his muscles rippling and fists raised against the curved walls of his cell. The artist had captured Ares’ expression admirably, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. It wasn’t meant to be.

To Alaric, it was a reminder: he’d never let himself be trapped again.

“How are we doing today?” came a bright, female voice.

Annabel McLeod entered the room, Will trotting at her heels. The two had showed up after the shooting—summoned by Jarvis, the old betrayer—and proceeded to nurse Alaric, who’d been too weak to fend them off.

Now he glared at his sister-in-law. She had pulled back the sleeve of his robe without so much as a by-your-leave and was fussing with the dressing on his right arm.

“Are you trying to finish off what the assassin started?” he said.

Annabel narrowed her violet eyes at him. No tepid lass, his brother’s wife. Her temper could flare as brightly as her hair. The Scotsman in him respected a woman who could give as good as she got. Of course, this made him think of Miss Kent.

Did she know that he’d been shot? If she did, would she care?

Only insofar as she’d like to finish the job.

“If you’d hold still instead of thrashing like a lamprey, I’d have an easier time of it,” Annabel said tartly. “Dr. Abernathy said to check the wound at least once a day.”

“He may be Scottish, but he’s still a quack,” Alaric grumbled.

“You keep your tone civil, or I’ll take my leave and my wife with me,” his brother growled from the other side of the bed.

Turning his head on the pillow, Alaric inquired, “Oh, you’re still here?”

“You bloody ingrate—”

“Enough, you dunderheads.” Annabel peeled away his bandage with enough force to make him inhale sharply. Her auburn brows knit together as she peered at his injury. “The wound’s oozing, but it doesn’t look infected. The mold paste appears to be doing its job.”

“The paste was a fine touch, lass,” Will said. “Brains as well as beauty. I’m a lucky fellow.”

Seeing the smug expression on his brother’s face, Alaric thought he might be ill again. For all his brawn, Will was naught but an oversized pup when it came to his wife. What a chump.

Although Alaric had to admit that Annabel had proved rather handy in this instance. The daughter of a country physician, she’d been the one to suggest smearing his wound with the concoction of fermented bread, an infection preventative that her father had used with great success. Dr. Abernathy had been intrigued in her fount of knowledge, and the two had had quite a time of it, debating ways to treat Alaric’s injury. He’d felt like a side of beef with two chefs arguing over which was the best way to serve him up.

“I’m the lucky one.” Adoration shone in Annabel’s eyes as she gazed at her husband.

Devil take it, the two should just find a bedchamber and be done with it.

She set a tray over Alaric’s lap. “As for you, Your Grace, you’d best eat something if you hope to regain your strength.”

His stomach churned at the sight of the gruel; it brought back memories of the old duke’s punishments. Of the tasteless mush he’d been given to cure him of his “malingering.” He’d sooner starve than eat a spoonful of such shite again.

“I’m not hungry,” he said testily. “I’d like rest and privacy, if you please.”

Fists on her hips, Annabel looked ready to argue, but Will intervened. “Not until we talk.”

“About what?” Alaric said.

“Who’s out to kill you, for starters.”

“That’s none of your affair.” In a moment of weakness—which he chalked up to blood loss—he’d told his brother everything, from the poison in his whiskey to the shooter last night.

Will glowered at him. “We’re kin. Of course it’s my affair.”

Jarvis’ wizened head poked into the room. “Your Grace, Mr. Kent has arrived.”

“Send him up,” Will said before Alaric could answer.

Jarvis—or should he say Judas—shuffled out to do Will’s bidding.

“What the devil is your partner doing here?” Alaric demanded.

“I asked him to come. He’s the best investigator in London.” Will folded his arms over his chest. “And something tells me your particular predicament calls for the best.”

Before Alaric could argue further, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a minute later, Ambrose Kent strode in. He wasn’t alone. Miss Kent followed and mayhap Alaric was hungrier than he realized for she looked luscious in a dress the color of summer peaches. An odd spasm hit his chest when he saw the genuine worry in her eyes.

She was concerned ... about him?

“Your Grace. I do hope we’re not inconveniencing you.”

Alaric’s gaze shifted to the owner of the sultry, feminine voice. He hadn’t noticed the regal silver blonde who had followed Miss Kent in, though by all rights he ought to have. Mrs. Kent, the former Lady Marianne Draven, was an Incomparable after all. She performed an elegant curtsy. Hastily, Emma followed suit, and her unfussy little bob made him want to smile.

Schooling his features, he tried to discern if Miss Kent’s family had any inkling about the escapade at Andromeda’s or her visit last evening to his home. Given the fact that her brother wasn’t throttling him or calling him out, he guessed she’d kept their encounters under wraps.

Her discretion was surprising—and irritating. Any other virgin would be clamoring for him to do the right thing. But not Emma Kent, the stubborn, high-minded chit. He, a bloody duke, wasn’t good enough for her. The question flitted into his head—what the hell did she desire in a husband?—and he shoved it out just as quickly.

He deliberately turned his attention upon her sister-in-law. “Mrs. Kent,” he drawled, “beauty such as yours is never an inconvenience. I’m afraid I’m rather laid up at the moment. Otherwise I’d pay you proper homage.”

“You had better not,” Will said under his breath.

Alaric got his brother’s meaning. Although he’d judged his brother’s partner to be a calm, reasonable fellow, the warning scowl on Ambrose Kent’s face suggested otherwise. Which went to show that even a rational man could be made a fool over a woman.

Well, if Kent and Will didn’t know the difference between idle flirtation and actual intent, then that was their problem. The truth was that it required effort to keep his attention upon Mrs. Kent when all he wanted to do was look at Emma. Surreptitiously, he continued to monitor her.

She was taking in his private sanctuary, a line furrowing between her fine brows as her gaze hit the painting. He wondered what she was thinking. To him, she looked deliciously out of place in the masculine bedchamber. Against the backdrop of the striped forest green silk walls and heavy mahogany furnishings, she appeared more like a fresh, juicy fruit than ever.

An image burst upon his brain: Miss Kent naked and tied to his big tester bed, moaning as he buried his face between her thighs ...

Beneath the covers, his cock stirred against his thigh. Get a bloody hold of yourself, man. Thank God the tray hid his disgraceful state.

“It seems I owe you an apology, Your Grace,” Kent said stiffly. “We Kents have misjudged you, and I have come to make amends. The services of Kent and Associates are at your disposal, with my compliments.”

Alaric was tempted to tell Kent to take his free services and go to hell ... but as much as it galled him, he did need help. Someone was out to kill him, and the Runners he’d hired were proving worthless. They were flummoxed by the shooting, had made no progress on the poisoning either.

His instincts told him that Kent was a man who could be trusted. And, despite the longstanding animosity between him and Will, the truth was that he knew his brother would never stab him in the back ... however much he might deserve it.

“Your Grace.” Miss Kent approached the side of his bed. Fingers knotted together, she said, “I am terribly sorry that my actions led to you being harmed, and I hope you will be willing to forgive the past.”

Her beseeching eyes and sincere apology hit him like pellets of sunshine. His antagonism slowly melted. When it came to the misunderstanding over Clara’s death, he found he couldn’t hold a grudge against Miss Kent any longer. It would be churlish to do so when, in truth, she’d made an honest mistake, and his own actions hadn’t been blameless.

“Think no more of it. You didn’t shoot me—some blighter did,” he said brusquely.

He was rewarded by her tremulous smile.

“Do you know the identity of the shooter?” Kent drew his attention to the business at hand.

“No. But he had a scar. Like this.” Alaric drew a finger down the middle of his face, mimicking the zigzagging disfigurement. “It was dark, and I didn’t get a good look at the rest of him.”

“That’s a start.” Kent had removed a small notebook and was scribbling in it. “Onto suspects, then. Who might want you dead?”

“A charming fellow like him?” Will snorted. “You’ll need a bigger book.”

“Very droll, Peregrine,” Alaric said in icy tones. “As a matter of fact, only one person comes to mind. His name is Silas Webb, and he used to work for the company I acquired.” He related his history with Webb. “The Runners I hired haven’t been able to find any trace of him.”

“We’ll look into it.” Kent tapped his pencil against the page. “Might you have any other enemies related to your mining venture or other business dealings? In my experience, money is a prime motivation for murder.”

“Anyone who has invested in my scheme has become richer for it. If blunt were the measure, I’d be rolling in friends,” Alaric said.

“Speaking of personal relationships, do you have any, um, intimate acquaintances who might have an axe to grind?” Miss Kent put in. “I’ve heard it said that poison is a woman’s weapon, you see—”

“We’re not discussing my private affairs,” he said.

He’d be damned if that Pandora’s Box was opened in front of an audience. Nevertheless, Miss Kent’s conjecture made his chest tighten uncomfortably. After Laura’s death, he’d gone on a bit of a sexual rampage. He’d had his share of affaires; some of them had not ended well. Despite his making his expectations clear, a few ladies had hoped for marriage. Would any of them try to murder him over the disappointment?

It seemed unlikely, to say the least.

“How can we solve the case if you don’t tell us everything?” Miss Kent said.

“You are not getting involved.”

He and Kent traded startled glances—they’d said the words simultaneously.

She crossed her arms beneath her bosom. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Emma does have a point.” This came from Mrs. Kent. “Relationships can be deadly. For instance,” she said, “have you considered Lord Osgood as a possible culprit? He’d have motive—against both you and Lady Osgood for making him a cuckold.”

“Excellent point, my dear,” Kent said.

“As far as I know, the Osgoods had an understanding. Lord Osgood had no problem with his wife’s ... friendships.” Seeing Miss Kent’s rapt interest, Alaric searched for a delicate explanation. “As long as she was discreet, he encouraged it because he had his own pursuits.”

“He had friendships with other ladies?” Miss Kent said, wrinkling her nose.

“Not with ladies, no.” He saw understanding dawn for everyone except Miss Kent, who continued to look confused. “My point is Lord Osgood understood and benefited from their arrangement. He wanted a wife on his arm and a marriage to show the world; he had no reason to kill Clara.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Kent said. To Miss Kent, she murmured, “I’ll explain later, dear.”

Kent cleared his throat. “As I see it, there are two avenues of investigation with which to proceed. The first is the poisoning. McLeod told me about your runaway maid, and it is a coincidence that cannot be overlooked. Your staff must be interrogated.”

“It’s been done,” Alaric said.

“Not by me.”

Said without pride, there was nonetheless a confidence to Kent’s words that inspired Alaric’s own. For the first time since this murder business began, he felt a prickle of hope.

“Now for the shooting.” Kent came closer to the bed. “After McLeod described the attempt to me, I went to the scene.”

So saying, he removed a small drawstring pouch from his side pocket and emptied the contents onto the coverlet.

In disbelief, Alaric picked up the pair of lead balls, studying them. Misshapen and lumpy, they were each the approximate size of his thumbnail. “You found the shot?”

“They were embedded in a wooden post behind where you were standing.” Kent shrugged. “So we know the weapon was double-barreled. By my guess, a flintlock.”

Shaking his head in amazement, Alaric picked up the torn segment of paper next to the bullet. “What is this?”

“Part of a cartridge wrapper, I believe.”

Alaric knew that some shops offered pre-assembled cartridges, with the gunpowder and projectile wrapped in parchment for easy loading. When he put down the paper, specks of a sooty substance clung to his fingertips.

“It was caught in alleyway debris a few yards from where you were attacked. The fact that there’s still gunpowder residue upon it suggests that the cartridge was freshly used,” Kent said.

A memory pushed through Alaric’s brain.

“As the carriage was coming toward me, I saw something fly out of the window. It could have been this.” He turned the paper this way and that and saw a symbol along the ragged edge. Part of it had been torn away; what remained was half an oval filled with squiggly lines. “Is that an emblem of some sort?”

“I believe it is part of an insignia used by the gun shop. It may lead us to the place that sold the weapon and the shooter himself. If it suits you for our firm to take on your case, I will personally pursue that line of enquiry.”

Alaric had to admit he was impressed. “The case is yours—on one condition.”

Kent quirked a brow.

“I will pay your usual rate plus any expenses incurred in the course of the investigation. I will not be beholden to anyone,” he stated.

Kent exchanged looks with Will, who shrugged.

“As you wish,” Kent said crisply. “In addition to the footmen I saw out front, I would suggest that you retain professional guardsmen for your protection.”

“I know some fellows,” Will said. “Honest, reliable men from the regiment who I fought side by side with and can vouch for. They’d be keen on the job.”

Alaric inclined his head. “Hire them on.”

“I will keep you apprised of our progress.” Kent bowed. “We will leave you to your rest.”

“Our wishes for your speedy recovery, Your Grace,” Mrs. Kent said.

“May I visit again?” Miss Kent blurted. “To inquire on your health?”

Her request surprised ... and touched him. “If you wish,” he said gruffly.

“I’ll be here in the afternoons,” Annabel chirped up. “So I could chaperone.”

Kent’s brows came together. “Emma, it isn’t safe. After all, the duke has been targeted—”

“You saw the footmen outside, darling,” Mrs. Kent cut in, “and now there’s to be armed guards as well. This place is more secure than St. James’s Palace.”

Kent looked as if he might argue further, but his wife took him by the arm and led him toward the door. “I’ll accompany Emma the day after tomorrow. Would two o’clock suit, Annabel?”

“Perfectly, Marianne.”

To Alaric, the look shared by the two ladies appeared suspiciously ... conspiratorial.