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Kent.”
    “His grace and I have met,” she said.
    The hostility in her voice, in her big, tea-colored eyes sliced into him. The reason for her presence dawned upon him. Incredulity spread like frost over his insides.
    The bloody chit wouldn’t dare.
    “If memory serves, I didn’t extend an invitation to call at our prior meeting,” he said icily.
    Miss Kent lifted her chin. “This isn’t a social call.”
    “I asked the Kents to come.” Will came toward him, bristling with temper. “To help you, you stubborn bastard!”
    It never failed to amaze him that he and Will shared a father; in looks and temperament, they were nothing alike. Will was the golden child, the one everyone had fawned over. Robust and sturdy as a lad, he’d grown into a strapping Scotsman with a hot temper to match.
    Alaric, on the other hand, had learned to control his impulses with a cool head. No one had spoiled or coddled him; like the god Ares of Greek lore who’d been trapped for years in a bronze jar without his parents noticing, no one would have missed Alaric if he disappeared. He’d been the dark horse all his life, and, aye, he knew how to play the role well enough.
    Alaric infused his tone with amused condescension. “Why would I need their help?”
    “Lady Osgood.” Will spat the name, his hands on his hips.
    “What about her?”
    “You were found with a dead woman, Alaric—bluidy hell, it’s all over the papers!”
    The papers, as far as Alaric was concerned, were full of shite. The half-truths were worse than lies. Gossip raged about Clara’s death; nothing was said of the attempt on his own. Since there’d been no witnesses and he’d suffered no lasting effects from his single shot of the adulterated whiskey, the world’s collective ignorance of the facts wasn’t surprising.
    The magistrates had advised him to keep silent about his poisoning and not add fuel to the wildfire whilst they conducted their enquiry into the matter. He’d done so, not out of compliance with the useless bastards but because he wasn’t going to sink to the level of the gossips. He was a nobleman; he wasn’t about to give credence to scandal, plead his innocence to the ignorant masses.
    Nonetheless, the rumors that he might somehow be involved in Clara’s death infuriated him. The notion of Miss Kent adding to the misconceptions made red flicker at the edges of his vision.
    He iced his temper. Strolling over to the hearth, he propped one arm against the mantel in a deliberately indolent pose. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read, little brother.”
    “’Tis only because I am your kin that I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Will said darkly. “Miss Kent has told me she witnessed an incident two nights ago. ’Twas at my behest that she agreed to come today and clear up the misunderstanding instead of going straight to the magistrates.”
    “There is no misunderstanding, Mr. McLeod,” Miss Kent said.
    Her conviction tested his self-control. Stupid, meddling chit.
    “Then why are you here?” he said scathingly.
    “To say what I ought to have said that night.” Though her cheeks were pale, she lifted her chin. “’Twas my fault for not insisting that Lady Osgood report you to the authorities. I was swayed by her fear for her reputation ... and my own fear that she would succumb to hysterics and do something she might regret. But I was wrong, and she is dead. And now the only thing left for me to do is see justice served.”
    His jaw ticked. “How, precisely, do you hope to accomplish that?”
    “By demanding your signed confession,” she said steadily.
    By God, the termagant had pushed him too far. He stalked toward her. Kent blocked his path, but she held her brother back.
    “Let his grace say what he has to say to my face,” she said.
    “You want the truth, Miss Kent?” Alaric said with lethal softness. “Here it is for the last bloody time. I’ve never hurt Clara. I most definitely did not kill