Chapter Eleven

“What do you do when a man ignores you?” Joanna asked Evie. She sat on the edge of the sill in their shared room, a warm evening breeze tickling the curls at the nape of her neck. A heavy rain had fallen for most of the day. It had finally subsided after supper and she’d taken the opportunity to pry open a window. The wood had creaked in protest as if it hadn’t been moved in a long while but, eventually, it had given way.

With enough effort, Joanna found most things usually did.

“I don’t understand the question,” Evie replied without bothering to look up from the game of solitaire she was playing by candlelight in the middle of the bed.

Joanna pursed her lips.

Three days had passed since the thing she’d been ordered to forget had occurred in Kincaid’s office. Three days of him barely talking to her, hardly looking at her, and definitely not kissing her.

It was as if their moment of passion–make that moments of passion–had never happened. And she knew that had been his intention. To pretend he’d never stroked her to orgasm atop his desk. But she’d had no way of knowing he would actually go through with it.

Gone was the man who licked her in places that still brought a blush to her cheeks whenever she thought of them. To her immense frustration, he was as cold and standoffish as he’d been the morning they’d first met.

Oh, he was unfailingly polite. Annoyingly dignified, even. But aside from a few questions about her mother, Kincaid refused to interact, leaving her to organize his shelves and sort his paperwork while he worked silently behind the desk he’d ravished her upon.

She was at her wit’s end trying to make him notice her. Multiple times, she’d caught him staring, his hot gaze skittering across her skin like the lick of a flame. But as soon as she looked up, he scowled and looked away, a pulsing vein in his temple the only indication he wasn’t as immune to her presence as he’d like her to believe.

“Men are complicated,” she muttered, sliding off the sill to pace across the room. Her shadow painted a silhouette of a woman in a flowing nightdress, hair hanging in a thick braid down the middle of her back, narrow shoulders rigid with annoyance.

“Men are simple,” said Evie, still studying her cards. “You’ve just never met one who didn’t fall in love at first sight.”

Joanna’s mouth opened.

Closed.

“That’s not true,” she argued, but even to her own ears her protest lacked conviction.

“It is.” Evie tapped a card against her chin. “For reasons that honestly escape me, you’ve been pursued since you turned sixteen. How many engagements have you turned down?”

“I…” Joanna trailed off as a guilty flush crept into her cheeks. It was shameful to admit, but she didn’t have an answer. How could she not know how many wedding proposals she’d received? Maybe because they’d never seemed very meaningful.

A few carriage rides, a walk through the field, and then suddenly her suitor dropped down on bended knee and professed his undying love. Except they didn’t love her. Not really. And not a single one had ever made her feel even a whisper of what Kincaid had.

“Six?” she guessed, nibbling her thumbnail.

“Eight, if you include Charles Gaines.”

“It hasn’t been that many.”

“Eight,” her sister repeated. “Eight perfectly acceptable suitors have asked you to marry them, and you refused every single one. Now, for the first time, you’re taken with someone–I’ll refrain from saying I told you so, but, well, I did tell you so–and he is not interested.”

Joanna tucked her hands behind her back. “I don’t know if I’d say he’s not interested.”

“Oh?” Evie queried. “Did something happen?”

Ordinarily, Joanna shared everything with her siblings, and they with her. But she hadn’t shared her kiss with Kincaid. She didn’t know why, exactly. Only that it seemed…private. A secret to be kept between the two of them. Which made her feel guilty, because the only reason she was in England to begin with was because a secret had been kept from her. But she simply wasn’t ready to tell Evie the truth. Especially since she was still figuring out what the truth meant for herself.

“Not…exactly. I told you what he said to me the night we went searching for you at the pleasure gardens.”

“That he wouldn’t have to ask permission when he wanted to kiss you.” A sly smile stole across Evie’s lips. “Yes, I remember. The scoundrel.”

Kincaid was, indeed, a scoundrel.

At least, part of him was.

A part Joanna had been desperately missing these past three days.

“I thought…after that….he might…” Her shoulder lifted in a shrug. “You know.”

“Admit he cannot live another second of his life without you?” Evie suggested.

Joanna rolled her eyes. “Not exactly.”

“It’s called rejection.” Finally ending her game of solitaire, Evie swung her legs over the edge of the bed and regarded her sister with an air of sympathy. “I’ve never experienced it myself, naturally. But I imagine it isn’t very pleasant.”

Rejection?

Was that what this heavy knot of emotion was in the pit of Joanna’s throat? It tasted bittersweet, like the dandelion tea her grandmother forced her to drink whenever she was starting to come down with a cold.

“No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t very pleasant.”

“Do you want to marry Kincaid?”

“What? No,” said Joanna emphatically even as her flush deepened. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she willed the warmth to subside. Marry Thomas Kincaid? She didn’t want to marry him. The idea had never even crossed her mind. All right, maybe once. Or twice. Three times at the most. But she had never considered it seriously.

“Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “I just…”

“Want his tongue to hit the floor when he looks at you?”

“Maybe not the floor. But a chair would suffice.” As her blush faded, she dropped her arms with a sigh. “At this rate, I’d even settle for a bookshelf.”

“Thorncroft women do not settle,” Evie declared. “If Kincaid is too foolish to see how wonderful you are then surely that is his problem, not yours. Chin up, sweeting. Soon, we’ll find Mother’s ring and be on our way back to Boston. Then this will all be nothing but a distant memory.” Her nose wrinkled. “The number of eligible dukes in London has been greatly exaggerated. I’ve yet to meet a single one under the age of sixty.”

“Have you tried looking in trees?” Joanna said innocently.

“Don’t make me throw another pillow at you.”

With another sigh, Joanna flung herself onto the bed with the sort of dramatic flair usually employed by Evie. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Carrying a candle to the mirror above the dressing table, Evie held the light up and inspected her reflection with a critical eye. “It rains far too much here. Does my skin appear sallow to you?”

“Evie!” Glaring, Joanna sat up on her elbows. “This is important.”

“So is my complexion. All right, all right,” Evie said when Joanna inhaled sharply. She set the candle aside and met her sister’s gaze. “You want this detective’s attention, and he isn’t giving it to you. Is that the crux of the matter?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very important.”

“Matters of the heart always take precedence over practical feelings.” Evie paused. “Did I make that up, or read it in a book? Regardless, do you even have a plan for what you are going to do with Kincaid’s attention once you have it? You said you had no intention of marrying him.”

“I don’t know if I have no intention.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”

“But you wouldn’t seriously consider it,” Evie said with a tittering laugh.

Joanna sat up. “Why not?”

“Because he isn’t even titled.”

“Neither is Charles Gaines.”

“Yes, but titles don’t matter in America.”

“I am not going to be in England forever.”

“You will if you marry an Englishman.”

“What about an affair, then?” Joanna asked.

Evie stared at her. “Now I know you’re jesting.”

As a flicker of excitement stirred within her breast, Joanna stood up and began to pace the room. “What if I wasn’t? Kincaid may not be acknowledging it at the moment, but there is an undeniable spark of attraction between us.” To put it mildly. “Affairs are very common in this day and age.” As the idea took root, her excitement grew. “We would be discreet.”

“Absolutely not!” Evie cried.

Joanna stopped in front of the window. “Why?”

“Should I list the reasons? Fine.” Extending her arm, Evie began tick off her fingers one by one. “You will ruin your reputation.”

“Only if we’re caught.”

“You’ll ruin yourself for marriage!”

“That is an antiquated notion based on the idea that virginity holds some sort of monetary value,” Joanna said dismissively. “I should think a husband would prefer his wife to have a little experience.”

Evie threw up her hands. “There’s no reasoning with you.”

“Because you do not have a valid counterargument.”

“You need to learn to curb your impulsivity.” A black curl slid across Evie’s temple as she shook her head in exasperation. “It always leads to nothing but trouble.”

Joanna leaned against the sill and set her jaw. “I’m not impulsive.”

“Not impulsive?” said Evie incredulously. “You were the one who wanted to sell Mother’s ring instead of marrying someone who was perfectly practical in every way. Then you dragged us halfway across the world on a moment’s notice! You’re constantly throwing yourself into situations without thinking of the consequences, and Kincaid is no different. How could you possibly even think of having an affair? Let alone an affair with a complete stranger!”

“Kincaid isn’t a stranger.” Joanna may not have known his secrets. But she did know the taste of his mouth. The feel of his hand skimming across her bare flesh. The weight of his body pressing against hers. “And Charles may have been suitable, but he wasn’t suitable for me.”

“And a detective is?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “But I think I’d like to find out.”

* * * *

The Pickled Pig was dark, dingy, and reeked of cheap ale and piss. In short, it was the perfect meeting place for a man who didn’t want to be noticed. Which the Duke of Hanover most decidedly did not.

Sterling entered the pub with his hat pulled low over his brow and a stern frown bracketing the edges of his mouth. Waving off a whore’s lewd attempt at solicitation, he quickly located who he was meeting at a table in the corner blanketed by shadows.

“Bloody hell,” he complained as he took off his coat and sank down into a wooden chair that was stained with beer and God only knew what else. “It stinks in here.”

Kincaid looked up from the potato stew he’d been mindlessly shoveling into his mouth. “You said you needed somewhere discreet.”

“The Ivy Bridge in Hyde Park is discreet. Cremorne Gardens after dark is discreet.” Sterling watched dubiously as a barmaid carrying ale to a nearby table paused, tilted the pitcher to her lips, and took a long drink. “This is unsanitary.”

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’t my American.”

“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 I want is 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 the ton were 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 the real murderer, 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 have her. 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 learned nothing from 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?”

“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’t parted 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 hated himself for 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. The ton.” 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.”

“On a first name basis, are we?” Gray eyes holding a glint of amusement, Sterling lowered his arms and took a casual sip of ale. “I thought you didn’t fancy her.”

“I don’t,” Kincaid said shortly. “But that doesn’t mean you get to.”

As far as he was concerned, no one did. Joanna wasn’t his. He didn’t claim her. He didn’t want her. But neither could anyone else have her. If they tried, he’d kill them. Including Sterling. It was as simple–and bloody complicated–as that.

Scowling, he reached for his ale. Only to grunt in annoyance when he realized he’d already finished it off.

“Here,” Sterling said, sliding his tankard across the table. “Have mine, although I don’t know how you drink the stuff. Tastes like lukewarm piss.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s troubling. Speaking of piss, I’ll be right back.”

While Sterling went to relieve himself, Kincaid finished off the remainder of the ale and considered his soup, but the talk of Lavinia had soured his stomach.

She was a dark spot he couldn’t scrub out. A stain he couldn’t erase. A blemish he couldn’t fix. If only he’d never met her. Never tried to help her. Never fallen in love.

In a way, however, he supposed it was good that he had. The consequences of his affair had taught him a valuable lesson. A difficult lesson, but a valuable one nevertheless. Because of Lavinia, he knew how easily a man could be destroyed from the inside. Because of Lavinia, he knew the sharp, slicing pain of betrayal. Because of Lavinia, he knew he could never give the broken shards of his heart away. Not even to Joanna. Which was why he had been trying his damned best to ignore her.

And failing miserably.

A man could no more ignore Joanna Thorncroft than he could his next breath. A single kiss, and he craved her lips as much as he craved oxygen to breathe. He wanted her. He needed her. Which was exactly why he couldn’t have her.

Need was an opportunity for exploitation.

Need was a vulnerability.

Need was a weakness.

And he’d made himself a promise. A promise that he would never be vulnerable or weak ever again. A promise that he intended to keep…no matter how strong the temptation was to break it.

He rubbed the sides of his temples where a dull ache had settled. The only solution, as he saw it, was to find Joanna’s ring and get her the hell out of England. With an ocean between them, maybe he’d finally be able to stop thinking about her every bloody second of every bloody day. Because he couldn’t go on like this.

Not unless he wanted to drive himself completely mad.

When Sterling returned, complaining of the ungodly stench radiating from the water closet, Kincaid’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t yet made any headway on tracking down the ring or the man who had given it to Anne Thorncroft. The Queen Mary’s manifest hadn’t given him any clues, nor had his usual connections turned anything up. But his connections only extended so far, and given the ring’s presumed origin, it may have simply been that it was in the hands of someone too far above his reach.

“I may need your help with something,” he told Sterling. “A case.”

“A case?” Visibly intrigued, the duke slid into his chair. “What sort of case?”

“The one that brought Joanna Thorncroft and her sister here.”

“There’s a sister?”

“No.”

“But I haven’t even–”

“No,” Kincaid said firmly.

“All right,” Sterling muttered. “What can I do?”

In short order, Kincaid explained the ring’s history. How Joanna’s mother had traveled to England when she was a young woman, and had an affair with a man who then gave her the priceless ruby before she’d returned to America and married Jacob Thorncroft.

“Wait,” Sterling interrupted. “Then Joanna is really the illegitimate daughter of a British nobleman?”

Kincaid gave a clipped nod. “Yes. Given the ring’s value, that is my working theory. I believe it is an heirloom that the family never had any plan of giving up or else they wouldn’t have gone to such pains to retrieve it after more than two decades.”

“Fascinating,” said Sterling. “Absolutely fascinating. But you’ve had no leads?”

“None.”

“Hmm.”

“What is it?”

“I just find it interesting that you’ve hit such a wall when ordinarily you’re quite good at all this detective business.” Sterling drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Is it because you’ve genuinely exhausted all possibilities, or you secretly want your American to remain in London for as long as possible?”

“If you call her that again, I’m going to pick up this tankard and bash you over the head with it,” Kincaid threatened.

Sterling clucked his tongue. “Striking one duke is an isolated incident, but striking two is the beginning of a pattern. Should I tell the Duke of Avalon to be on the lookout?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If he’s as big of an arse as you.”

There weren’t many people in London, or all of Great Britain, for that matter, who would dare deliver such an insult to a man of Sterling’s station. But he didn’t appear insulted. If anything, he looked amused.

“That’s a crown I wear alone, I’m afraid.”

“If I could find the ring and send Joanna home on the next ship bound for Boston, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Maybe if he said it out loud, Kincaid thought, it would make it true. “But if the ring is being held by a family of great means, I haven’t the resources to root it out.”

“Which is where I come in, I suppose.” A dark wave of hair slid across Sterling’s brow as his head canted to the side. “A ruby in the shape of a heart, you said?”

“Surrounded by diamonds.”

“It should be unusual enough to stand out. And the initials inscribed on the band?”

“JW.”

“That narrows it down some.”

“But not enough,” said Kincaid.

“No,” Sterling concurred. “Not enough. If only the name James wasn’t so damned popular. And the W could refer to either a surname or a title.”

Kincaid had come to the same deduction. “Short of stealing into every manor in Grosvenor Square under the cover of darkness, I’ve no way to ascertain the ring’s whereabouts. But you rub elbows with the ton every day.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sterling grimaced. “As it happens, there’s a ball coming up at the end of the week. A prestigious affair to celebrate the Countess of Beresford’s seventieth birthday. Her gout has rendered her unable to travel, which means the ton will be flocking in en masse from their country estates. I can get you in invitation, if you’d like.”

Kincaid’s gaze sharpened behind his spectacles. “It’s expected to be well attended?”

“Everyone who is anyone will be there,” the duke confirmed.

Which meant that Kincaid might not get a better opportunity to discover the identity of the elusive JW and the whereabouts of the ring before the London Season resumed in January. Five months from now. His teeth gnashed together. He couldn’t have Joanna here for five more months. He didn’t even want her here for five more days. His self-control was already hanging by a thread. Another encounter like the one in his office, and it would snap entirely.

Then all hell would break loose.

Sweet, sweet hell.

The kind a man wouldn’t mind burning in.

“I’ll take that invitation.” Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet and reached for his coat. “I need this finished.”

Sterling stood as well. “What is it about this American that you dislike so much?”

Kincaid shoved his hands into his pockets where they curled into fists. “She’s far too impetuous.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is when you lack the common sense to avoid danger.”

“Ah.” Sterling nodded in understanding. “The poor thing’s a bit daft, is she? I find the pretty ones usually are.”

Kincaid snorted. “Hardly. If anything, she’s too intelligent for her own good. But she’s also headstrong. Doesn’t listen to a damned thing I say.”

“Then why take her case?”

“A moment of temporary weakness that I’ve since regretted a thousand times over.”

“Personally, I’ve always been fond of bold, headstrong women.” A dimple that had made hearts flutter from London to Leeds flashed in Sterling’s left cheek. “Especially in bed. It was what first drew me to Eloise. That, and her laugh. Like wind chimes in the breeze.” His smile faded. “I need to find out who did this to her, Kincaid. For her sake as much as my own.”

“We will. I will.” His gaze skimmed across the crowded room, then returned to Sterling. “I’m going to question Eloise’s household staff tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with you,” the duke said at once, but Kincaid was already shaking his head.

“I won’t get the answers I need with you hovering behind me. The servants won’t talk if you’re there.” Because details were important, he removed his journal from an inside flap he’d had specially sewn into his coat and asked a passing barmaid for something to write with. She returned shortly with a pencil, worn down to a nub and chewed at the end, but it worked well enough. “Did the staff come with the house you rented for Eloise, or were they hired after?”

Sterling frowned. “How the devil am I supposed to know that? Eloise was in charge of all those matters.”

Kincaid closed his journal. “It would help move the case along if you could provide some details.”

The duke gave him a hearty slap on the back. “That’s why I hired you.” He sobered when he saw Kincaid’s resulting expression. “They’re not excellent, are they? My chances of getting out of this without being charged for her murder.”

“No,” Kincaid said bluntly. “They’re not. Unless we can find the true culprit, you’re going to be brought before the House of Lords. I’d find a good lawyer now.”

“At least we have time on our side.”

“That, and little else.” Kincaid would have liked to reassure his friend. But having once been the unsuspecting recipient of false hope, he’d always rather give the truth. No matter how hard it was to hear. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything of note tomorrow. Try to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Aye,” Sterling said dryly. “After all this joviality, I’m sure I’ll sleep like a baby. By the by, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you that not every woman is like Lavinia.”

“Duly noted,” Kincaid said, his tone unmistakably curt.

“She was awful,” Sterling went on. “There’s no denying it. And what she did–”

“I don’t care to have this conversation.”

“–there’s no excuse for it. Hell, there’s not even a good reason other than her being a scheming whore. But she’s a single fish in a large pond. Maybe it’s time you have a go at another. Who knows? You may even prefer the American variety.” The duke’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively. “Headstrong or not, I’ve heard they’ve quite a good mouth on them.”

The picture that brought to mind was not one Kincaid cared to contemplate.

Not unless he wanted to spring a cockstand in the middle of the bloody pub.

“Sod off.” He slapped a handful of coins onto the table to pay for their drinks and then walked out, Sterling’s rich laughter ringing in his ears.

* * * *

Midnight found Kincaid laid out flat on the bed in his office, scotch in one hand and regret in the other. Lifting his head, he tilted the bottle back and took a generous swallow before dropping it onto the ground where it rolled, empty, across the floorboards and under his desk.

He wasn’t a man who drank to excess. His set of skills required a sharp mind and quick wit, neither of which were conducive to drinking himself into oblivion. But once he’d finished his first glass of scotch, it seemed only right to have another, and after that was done, James, the rascal, had knocked the glass onto the floor and broken it, so what else could he have done but drink directly from the bottle?

A poor decision, that. One he’d regret more come morning, he imagined, as right now he found the heaviness of his limbs and the numbness in his skull rather pleasant. It was certainly a welcome distraction from his memories of Lavinia…and his thoughts of Joanna.

The first he understood.

The second he…didn’t.

Kincaid had always enjoyed women. Their gentle voices. Their soft curves. Their silky curls nestled between plump thighs. That enjoyment had led to the loss of his virginity at sixteen when he’d fumbled his way through tupping Betsy Graham in the hayloft above her father’s forge. Not his best performance, but he had always been a quick learner. His past mistresses certainly never had reason to complain. Suffice it to say, Kincaid considered himself to be well versed in passion.

He knew what it felt like.

He knew what to expect.

Yet his attraction to Joanna was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

Even with Lavinia.

When he and Joanna had kissed, it had been almost carnal in nature; raw and pulsing, like a carnivore demanding to be fed. A fitting analogy, seeing as he’d snarled like a wolf when her velvety core had clenched, hot and wet, around his fingers.

On a groan, his head fell back and hit the pillow. What the bollocks was he going to do?

Not think about her, he ordered himself fiercely.

If he didn’t think about her, then he wouldn’t want her. If he didn’t want her, then this war between his head and his heart could finally cease.

It was a sound plan. The best his drunken arse could come up with, at any rate. It even worked…until he fell asleep.

And dreamed only of Joanna.