Read The Duke Who Knew Too Much for Free Online

me. Because I didn’t do the right thing ...
    “What are you talking about, Em?” Ambrose’s tones pierced her dazed state. “And why are you pale as a ghost?”
    She took a shaky breath, gripping the back of a chair. Whatever promise she’d made to Lady Osgood was null and void. The lady was dead ... there was no more need for secrets.
    I failed her once. I cannot fail her again.
    “Ambrose, we need to go to the magistrates,” she said, her voice trembling.
    “What? Why?” Her brother frowned.
    “I have proof,”—she pushed the words through her constricted throat—“that Strathaven did indeed kill Lady Osgood.”
    “The devil you say.”
    Her gaze bounced to Mr. McLeod. Gone was the good-natured gentleman she knew. In his place was a fierce Scotsman who looked ready to do battle.
    She exhaled. “I witnessed an incident. Two nights ago, between Strathaven and the victim.”
    “Give her a chance to explain, McLeod.” Ambrose’s tone held an edge of warning.
    William McLeod nodded, but the fire didn’t leave his eyes. “Go ahead and explain then, Miss Kent,” he said grimly. “Tell us why you would accuse my brother of murder.”

Chapter Four
    “You have visitors, your grace.”
    At the sound of Jarvis’ voice, Alaric’s deerhounds, Phobos and Deimos, stirred from where they lay dozing by the fire. They cocked their grey, grizzled heads; noting no promise of food or an outdoor romp, they settled back onto the plush Aubusson. At his desk, Alaric put down the mining report that he’d been reading to distract himself from darker thoughts and gave his ancient butler a hard stare. Stooped and wrinkled, Jarvis returned his regard with unconcerned eyes.
    “I gave you instructions to say that I’m not at home,” Alaric said.
    “I thought you might want to make an exception in this case.” The old retainer’s weathered face was set in its usual imperturbable lines. “’Tis Mr. McLeod who has come to call, and I’ve put him in the main drawing room.”
    William. Just bloody perfect. As if I don’t have enough to plague me.
    Alaric slapped the sheaf of papers down onto the blotter and shoved irritably away from his desk. “In the future,” he said acidly, “I’d advise you to think less and follow orders more.”
    Jarvis didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’ll see to the refreshments for your guests.”
    “Wait a minute. Guests—as in plural? Who the devil  ... ”
    Jarvis had already exited. The butler pretended deafness whenever he didn’t want to hear what Alaric had to say. His selective hearing ought to have gotten him dismissed, but both he and Alaric knew that would never happen. Jarvis had served the Strathavens all his life, his loyalty as steadfast as the rock upon which Strathmore Castle had been built.
    During the years of the prior duke’s reign, Jarvis had broken with his master’s rules in only one arena as far as Alaric knew: the butler had shown kindness to a sick boy. With his antipathy toward any kind of weakness, the old duke had tried to cure Alaric’s “malingering” by forbidding all pleasures from the sickroom. Windows were bolted shut, diversions removed. Meals of gruel and water were eaten by the light of a single candle.
    By smuggling the occasional treat onto the supper tray or a book under Alaric’s pillow, Jarvis had won Alaric’s loyalty forevermore.
    “Doesn’t make him any less of an interfering codger,” Alaric muttered.
    In canine agreement, Phobos made a chuffing noise and rolled onto his back.
    Letting out an aggrieved breath, Alaric stalked toward the drawing room. His foul mood deepened with each step. He could scarcely credit the hellish events of the past two days. Helpless rage burgeoned within him at the thought of Clara. She’d been murdered under his roof—because of him.
    Someone had laced his whiskey with poison. Because the decanter had been smashed, its contents lost, he couldn’t prove it, but it was the only explanation he could