Chapter Six

All things considered, Kincaid had a better chance of finding a virgin in a brothel than the stolen ring of an American. Make that the stolen ring of an American’s deceased mother. Who may or may not have received said ring from a British lord with the initials JW.

Twenty-two years ago.

It would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. And ever since he’d received eighteen stiches across the back of his skull following a scuffle with a bloke who very much did not want to be dragged in front of the magistrate, Kincaid had a particular aversion to needles.

The fact of the matter was that he never should have agreed to take the case. He certainly never should have allowed himself to become bewitched by guileless, blue eyes and a siren’s smile. But he had, and he was, and there was no going back on it now. He’d given his word. He would honor it. Then he’d put Joanna Thorncroft on the first ship setting sail for Boston and never think of her again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered to James when the cat slanted him a cool, unblinking stare from his lofty perch atop the bookshelf. “Fat lot of help you were this morning. If you’d acted like the devil I know you to be instead of preening about like a besotted idiot, we wouldn’t be in this bloody predicament. Was a tiny, little bite too much to ask?”

James yawned.

“Regardless, I am not going to make the same mistake again,” Kincaid said fervently. Standing up from behind his desk, he crossed to the window. His townhouse was only four blocks from the river. On a clear day, if he stood in the attic and squinted just right, he could make out the towering mast of a massive sailing vessel as it edged its way towards London Bridge.

As a police officer, he’d spent more time at the harbor than anywhere else in the city. It was a crowded, rat-infested den of crime that stank to the high heavens of fish and rot. He couldn’t begin to count the number of bloated bodies he’d hauled out of the water. He’d loathed that part of the job the most. The senseless loss. The stomach-twisting violence. The mindless destruction of life and limb.

Kincaid had never imagined how mindlessly cruel people could be to each other before he became a peeler. Maybe that was why, three years into the madness and the muck, he’d found himself drawn to Lady Lavinia.

Lady Lavinia, with her enchanting laugh and sweet aura of innocence. She’d been a beacon of hope in the dismal abyss of endless depravity. A chance to breathe clean, fresh air after suffocating in the stench of moral decay.

If only he’d known how unscrupulous she really was. Instead, he had been blind to her spider’s web until it was too late. Until the harder he struggled, the more entangled he became. And when it was finally over, when the smoke had cleared and the damage had been done, he had vowed to himself he would never again risk his heart for a client.

Or a client’s wife.

Kincaid jumped, startled out of his thoughts when James nudged his leg.

“What do you want?” he asked sourly, still annoyed by the cat’s betrayal. If a man didn’t have the loyalty of his own pet, what did he have? An ungrateful mouth to feed, that’s what. “I know you liked Miss Thorncroft. I did, too.”

It was true, he realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had liked Joanna. As far as first impressions went, the fearless, red-haired American had made an indelible one. Why else would he still be in his office going over their conversation hours after she’d left? Perhaps because even though she was gone, her scent still remained.

Violets. Joanna had smelled of rain and violets. Not the sort that grew in pretty, potted plants in shop windows, but the sort that sprawled across the Highlands in a wild tangle of purple petals and glossy, green leaves.

At his feet, James gave a plaintive meow.

“I told you not to look at me like that,” Kincaid said gruffly, even as he scooped the cat up and gave him a scratch behind his ear. “This isn’t going to be like it was. I’ve gone down that road once, and have no intention of traveling that way again. Not that you’d know anything about it. You weren’t even born yet, you scrawny bastard.”

His ill-fated affair with Lavinia had ended well before some arse dropped two kittens on his doorstep. While most would have given the scrawny, flea-infested little buggers away (if not drowned them outright), Kincaid had always had a soft spot in his heart for the weak and the vulnerable. Besides, he’d desperately needed the company. And while James in particular had tested his patience over the years, he didn’t regret taking them in and giving them a home.

Today being the exception.

Both man and cat turned their attention to the door when a firm knock sounded on the other side of it. A quick glimpse at the longcase clock in the corner and Kincaid mumbled a curse. He’d allowed himself to become so distracted by Joanna that he had forgotten he was expecting a visitor.

“Come in,” he called out, his deep baritone carrying easily across the office. A second’s pause, and then the door swung inward to reveal a well-dressed gentleman with black hair just long enough to touch the collar of his jacket, intelligent, gray eyes, and the large, bulky build of a boxer.

Despite his size, Sterling Nottingham, Duke of Hanover, moved lightly on his feet as he walked into the office. A grin lit up his face when he saw Kincaid and the two men were quick to embrace, their hands slapping loudly on each other’s backs before they pulled apart.

“Kincaid. As I live and breathe. How long has it been?”

“Too long.” Kincaid had met Sterling–as he preferred to be called by his closest acquaintances–when he’d still been just a constable. The duke’s sister had been kidnapped by highwaymen and was being held for ransom. Sterling had immediately paid what they were asking, but when his sister wasn’t delivered as promised, he turned to Scotland Yard (as it was better known now) for help. Thankfully, the story had a happy ending, with Kincaid and Sterling striking up a friendship despite their differences in class and fortune.

They’d maintained contact over the years, occasionally exchanging a letter or meeting for a drink whenever their paths happened to cross. Sterling had even stuck by him when the rest of London turned their backs on him. But in all that time, Sterling had never reached out in a professional capacity, which was why Kincaid had been so surprised to receive a note from the duke requesting a private meeting.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing at the same chair Joanna had sat in just a few hours ago. Leaning back against his desk, he thumbed through his journal to an empty page. “I hope this has nothing to do with Sarah again.”

“No, no.” Sterling shook his head as he settled his large body into the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. His black leather Hessians were splattered with mud, indicating he’d walked rather than taken a carriage as would be expected of a duke. But then, Sterling had never fully come to terms with his title or the tragic event that led to him inheriting it.

The younger of two sons, he should have been the spare. But when his brother was killed in an illegal duel, Sterling became Duke of Hanover.

Most would have secretly celebrated such an accession.

Sterling had been devastated.

One night, when he was long into his cups, he’d confessed to Kincaid that the title felt like a bloody yoke around his neck. He’d never wanted to be burdened by all the responsibilities that came with such a lofty rank. But more than that, the title was a constant reminder that his brother should have been the duke. After all, Sterling was the one who had goaded him into the duel…never dreaming in his worst nightmares that Sebastian would actually go through with it. He carried the weight of that loss to this day, but was always quick to hide it behind an engaging grin or a quick jest.

Were Kincaid not so attuned to the nuanced expressions of those around him, he might have thought as others did: that the Duke of Hanover was nothing more than a renowned rake, womanizer, and ne’er-do-well. But he knew a thing or two about facades, which was how he was able to see so clearly past Sterling’s.

Sterling may have been a rake, and a womanizer, and all right, yes, a ne’er-do-well. But he was also a good man, and a good friend, and Kincaid would do whatever he could to help him.

“Sarah is fine,” Sterling continued. “Better than fine, actually. She is engaged to be married.”

“Please be sure to pass on my congratulations.”

“I will.” The duke hesitated, then shook his head, a bemused smile twisting his lips. “I suppose there’s no way around it. I’ve come to you today because I have an…unusual problem I’d like your help in solving.”

Intrigued, Kincaid reached for his pen. “What kind of unusual problem?”

Sterling grimaced. “I’ve been accused of murdering my mistress.”

“I’m sorry,” Kincaid said politely. “You’ve what?”

“I didn’t do it.” His grimace deepening into a scowl, Sterling surged to his feet. “Do you have anything to drink that doesn’t have cat hair in it?”

“I wouldn’t think that you did. And there’s a bottle of brandy in that cabinet there. Might as well pour two glasses.” Ordinarily, Kincaid would never share alcohol with a client, but there was nothing ordinary about a duke being accused of murder.

Filling a glass to the brim and placing it on the edge of Kincaid’s desk, Sterling reserved the bottle for himself. He did not return to his seat, but rather went to the window, his gray gaze unreadable as he stared out through the glass at the dull, dreary sky beyond. “I didn’t do it,” he repeated before he tilted the brandy to his lips and indulged in a long, liberal swallow that had Kincaid’s brows rising. “Admittedly, Eloise and I had a tempestuous relationship at times, but I would never cause her physical harm.”

Kincaid pressed the tip of his pen to parchment. “Eloise is…”

“Was my mistress,” Sterling said darkly.

“Can you describe her?” Part of being a good detective was knowing when to calm a client down and when to incite them. Given the rigidity of Sterling’s broad shoulders, it was clear what the duke required. And there was no better way to cut through tension than with talking.

“Eloise was gorgeous, of course.” His tone wry, Sterling glanced back at Kincaid. “I’d never take up with anyone plain.”

No, he wouldn’t. Because that might mean he would be forced to see past the superficiality of his lover’s physical appearance, and Kincaid knew that Sterling would rather eat rocks for the rest of his life than become engaged in a personal relationship. Which was also why he knew, deep in his gut, that the Duke of Hanover really was innocent. Not because they were friends, but because Sterling simply didn’t care enough about any other human being to bother with murdering them.

Any genuine emotion Sterling had once possessed had disappeared when his brother was killed. What remained was a caricature of whom the ton wanted him to be: a devilish duke with a penchant for fast horses and beautiful women.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“Could you be more specific?” Kincaid asked, tapping his pen against the side of his jaw.

“Silky black hair, straight as a pin. Big blue eyes. The nicest tits I’ve ever seen.”

“Black hair, blue eyes, large breasts,” Kincaid muttered as he took notes. “Any distinguishing characteristics? A scar, or a birth mark…”

“A freckle, here.” Sterling pointed to the middle of his collarbone. “She also had a slight accent. Her mother was a French courtesan, her father a British diplomat. She was brought to England when she was a girl, and raised in the country by governesses. When she was seventeen, she came to London and quickly made a name for herself on the stage. I’ll never forget her performance in Shakespeare’s Cleopatra.”

“She sounds like she was a very talented young woman.”

“She was,” the duke said wistfully. “The things she could do with her thighs–”

“I’m sure were extraordinary,” Kincaid interrupted. “Why are you being accused of her murder?”

Sterling’s expression shuttered. “Because the night she was killed, I was the last person to see her alive. And we argued. Screamed at each other, more like.”

Kincaid’s pen stilled. “That’s not good.”

“Well, not when you say it like that.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“Nothing important. I got caught up at the tables, and was nearly two hours late coming to see her. Had I been there when I was supposed to be, I doubt we’d have fought at all. Or maybe we would have.” Sterling gave a shrug. “It was our way of communicating. Foreplay, if you will.”

“And after you were done fighting, you…”

“Fucked,” the duke said bluntly. “Then I left.”

“Did anyone see you leaving?”

“It was late. The servants had all gone to bed.”

Kincaid closed his journal and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have to interview your driver. The staff. Your mates at the club. Anyone and everyone who can corroborate the events of that night as you’d told them to me.”

“Then you’ll take my case?”

“I will.”

“And you believe we’ve a fair chance of proving my innocence?”

Kincaid hesitated. “I do.”

For the first time since he’d entered the office, Sterling’s mouth, always more prone to smirks than sneers, stretched in a grin. “I hope so. Lord knows I’m far too handsome to hang.”

****

After a long night of rain, the morning dawned bright and clear with nary a cloud in sight. Her waning spirits bolstered by the weather–and the knowledge that she was soon to be in Kincaid’s company again–Joanna carefully avoided a line of puddles on her way to her new place of employment.

Tucked between two larger homes, the detective’s townhouse maintained a gruff sense of charm, not unlike its owner. White paint was beginning to peel off the brick exterior, but the flower boxes in the windows were blooming with color and the large slabs of slate leading up to the blue front door had been freshly swept of debris. While the chimney was a tad crooked and could have used some repair, the balcony jutting out from the second floor looked like a lovely place to sit on a warm summer’s evening and watch the sun set over the Thames.

Letting herself through a metal gate that squeaked on its hinges, Joanna walked briskly–she had never perfected the art of small, ladylike steps–up to the front door and lifted the gold door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Three successive whacks and, from somewhere within the house, she heard Kincaid beckon her inside.

Taking off her frock coat and bonnet, (“It’s London, you absolutely have to wear a hat,” Evie had chided when Joanna had tried to sneak out without one) she laid them neatly over her arm, then turned her focus to the foyer. It was the first room a client would see when they walked through the door. It should have radiated warmth and invitation. But despite Kincaid’s office being an eclectic hodgepodge of disorder, the rest of his house–and the foyer in particular–was cold and barren.

There were no paintings on the white walls. No rugs on the oak floors. No benches to sit on. No magazines or books to read. What was a person supposed to occupy themselves with while they waited for their appointment? Stare at the cracks in the ceiling?

“This won’t do,” she murmured as she opened a door to her left and peered into a larger room that was just as empty save a rectangular table and a single chair. “This won’t do at all.”

Returning to the foyer, she opened another door and discovered the kitchen which led into a small parlor. The parlor, at least, had a sofa and footstool in front of the fireplace. But both were covered in a thin layer of dust, indicating they hadn’t been used in quite some time, which led her to assume Kincaid lived exclusively upstairs.

She wondered what his bedchamber was like. A hapless mess like his office? Or was it as sterile and unwelcoming as the foyer? Did he neatly make his bed every day, or leave the sheets in a rumpled pile that smelled of him?

Sandalwood and citrus, she recalled, her cheeks pinkening with another damnable blush as she unwittingly envisioned Kincaid’s long, lanky body sprawled from one end of the mattress to the other, his scowl lost to slumber as his chest rose and fell with each heavy breath.

His scent was sandalwood and citrus.

And she had absolutely no business imagining him in bed.

After waiting for the redness in her cheeks to subside (any more blushing and she’d turn into Claire), and then waiting some more for Kincaid to come out of his office, Joanna made up her mind to go in. She knew the rules of polite society dictate she wait for an invitation, but she had a feeling she would be waiting for a very long while. And Joanna waited for no one, least of all a man.

Even ones that made her tingle.

Rapping her knuckles against the door to give fair warning of her impending entrance, she let herself into Kincaid’s office without bothering to wait for a reply and found him sitting behind his desk, his brow furrowed as he studied something he’d written in the leather journal she’d seen him carrying yesterday.

“Miss Thorncroft.” Visibly startled by her appearance, he rose halfway out of his chair, amber eyes widening behind his spectacles. “I was…I was coming to let you in.”

“Alas, here I am. Regrettably, patience is not a virtue of mine.” She flashed him a smile as a peculiar fluttering filled her belly. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she had swallowed a butterfly and the poor thing was flying around inside of her trying to find a way out. Make that twenty butterflies, she thought silently when Kincaid raked his fingers through his unruly hair and a brown curl tumbled across his brow.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but it seems punctuality is. I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

“You told me to return in the morning,” she pointed out, folding her hands behind her back after she’d hung her coat and bonnet on the hall tree shoved into the corner.

“Yes, but I didn’t…” He glanced at the window, where the sun had barely crept above the horizon and the sky was still turning from orange to blue. “Never mind. I suppose it’s a good thing I am an early riser as well, or you might have walked in on me only half-dressed. Wait.” His tone turned slightly panicked while Joanna tried–and failed–not to picture Kincaid without his shirt on. “That’s not what I meant to say. I…do have a seat, Miss Thorncroft. Would you care for some, uh…coffee?”

Her nose wrinkling at the sight of the cold, brown sludge sitting in a clear pot, Joanna gave a firm shake of her head. Sweeping her skirts to the side, she sank gracefully into the same chair she’d occupied the day prior. “This is exactly why you need a secretary, Kincaid.”

“I will admit, the idea never occurred to me,” Kincaid revealed as he sat down at his desk. “But we did have one at Scotland Yard.” His gaze swept across Joanna and the corners of his mouth tightened imperceptibly. “A quiet, elderly widow who made the best sugar biscuits I’ve ever tasted.”

It was clear by the flicker of disapproval in his eyes that Kincaid would have preferred a secretary who fit those qualifications. A doddering old grandmother type who patted him on the head and said things like, “There’s a good lad” and “Have another treat, my boy, you’re much too thin”.

Instead, he had…well, he had her. A brash American who was rarely quiet, often spoke before she thought, and couldn’t bake a sugar cookie to save her life.

If only he knew how lucky he was.

“How long were you a policeman before you became a detective?” Joanna asked.

A shadow darkened Kincaid’s countenance. “Long enough to decide I’d rather work for myself. Miss Thorncroft, let’s begin by reviewing your–”

“What drew you to such a job?” she interrupted. Having never met a detective–crime wasn’t exactly rampant in quiet, sleepy Somerville–she was naturally curious as to why Kincaid had chosen such a dangerous, demanding line of work…and what had made him leave it to become a private investigator.

“Because I wanted to help people,” he said curtly. “Do you have a picture of–”

“Why did you leave the police force?”

Brandy-colored eyes burned into hers. “Miss Thorncroft, I have agreed to take on your case in exchange for your secretarial skills, as unproven as they are. If you wish to begin our agreement by asking prying questions which I’ve no obligation to answer, then I’d just as soon show you the door.”

Well, then.

She’d certainly been put in her place, hadn’t she?

How unfortunate (for Kincaid) that she had no intention of staying there. Still, it wouldn’t do to be sacked on her first day. Especially when she found her employer so very intriguing.

She liked his spectacles, which gave him an air of propriety. And she liked his scowl, which did not. She also liked the way she had felt when he touched her yesterday. That little sizzling shock of awareness that had made her breath catch and left her thinking about him long after they’d said goodbye. It made her wonder what it would feel like if he touched her deliberately...and if those proper spectacles would fog with passion when they kissed.

Joanna blinked.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lusted over a man. Charles and his pink pants hadn’t exactly invoked dreams of desire. On the two occasions she had granted him permission to kiss her (ever polite, Charles had always made sure to ask before he attacked her lips with all the fervor of a small Pomeranian yapping at the heels of its master), she’d immediately regretted her decision. But she had an inkling that if Kincaid kissed her, the last thing she’d feel was regret.

“I apologize for my questions,” she said, offering her most contrite smile. “Normally, it is my sister, Evelyn, who is the nosy one. But I must admit I find you utterly fascinating, Kincaid. I hope that is not too forward a thing to say. As we get to know each other, I believe you’ll find I have the bad habit of almost always speaking what’s on my mind.”

His scowl deepened. “I can assure you there is nothing fascinating about me, Miss Thorncroft.”

Oh, Joanna doubted that.

She doubted that very much.

If ever there was a person who was hiding something, it was Kincaid. She’d already told him all of her scandalous secrets. By the time they were through, she was determined to learn his.

One way or another.

“Should we get on with my case?” she asked brightly.

With clear relief, Kincaid nodded. “Indeed. Your case.” He picked up a pen, and briefly consulted his journal. “I’ve already requested the passenger manifest for the Queen Mary and should have a copy by the end of the day.”

Joanna sat up. “That’s brilliant!”

“However–”

“Never a good word,” she mumbled.

“–I doubt very much if the pickpocket we’re searching for will show up on it. He was most likely a stowaway, or used a different name. Which means we know the ring arrived in London when the Queen Mary made port but, after that, we’ve no way to trace it.”

“What about the inscription?” she asked. “And the initials. JW.”

“Yes.” Kincaid tapped the pen against his chin. “I’ve given that a great deal of consideration. I do believe your grandmother’s theory is correct. This was no random robbery. That boy, whoever he is, was dispatched specifically to steal your ring and bring it here. If I were to question every jeweler in Boston and the surrounding area, I should think we’d discover they were paid, and paid handsomely, to send the ring to England should it ever come to be in their possession.”

She slumped in her chair. “Then by the very act of having the ring appraised, we allowed it to be stolen.”

Kincaid put down his and pen and frowned at her. “This is not your fault, Miss Thorncroft. You, and your sisters, are the victims here. Per the inscription on the ring, you are also its rightful owners. Clearly, it was intended as a gift to your mother. It’s also clear that the person who gave your mother that ring, or someone closely associated with them, has gone to great lengths to get it back. My assumption is that they do not wish for your mother’s…relationship…with whomever gave her the ring to come to light.”

“You can call it an affair. It’s all right.” Ignoring the pang in her chest, Joanna gave her best attempt at a lighthearted shrug. “That’s what it was, after all. I suppose I should be grateful the affair happened, for had it not, I would never have been born.”

“Yes, well.” Kincaid cleared his throat. “I can assure you I will do my best to find your ring, Miss Thorncroft. As well as the identity of your…”

“Birth father,” she supplied.

“Indeed.” He stood up behind his desk and brought his pen and journal to her. “Would you be able to draw a picture of the ring? You’ve described it in detail, but a visual is always best.”

Yes, Joanna thought as she suddenly found herself eye-level with Kincaid’s nether regions. A visual was always best.

Goodness.

Who knew a man could be so well…endowed…in that area?

Maybe it was because she’d never paid much attention, having never had loins thrust in front of her. But it seemed Kincaid’s height wasn’t the only thing about him that was larger than average.

Slowly, her gaze traveled up the length of his torso, lingering on the V of flesh that was exposed by his partially unbuttoned shirt until she finally reached his face.

Their eyes met.

With a delicate cough, Joanna’s gaze flicked down, then up again.

“Miss Thorncroft, what is the–oh.” As he suddenly realized the close proximity of his groin to her countenance, Kincaid’s body went as stiff as a board.

His entire body, she noted with some interest.

“Here,” he said, all but throwing the journal and pen into her lap. “Draw the ring to the best of your ability and I’ll return shortly.”

Before she could ask him where he was going, he had quit the room.

“Hmmm,” Joanna murmured to James, who had watched the entire exchange from his lofty perch atop the bookcase. “How do you like that?”