Page 20 of Never a Duchess
Mr Sloane tugged the bell pull. “Let’s discuss the matter over a glass of hot punch. Vivienne will be down soon.”
The one-eyed butler entered, carrying a tray of porcelain tankards, each painted with a seafaring scene. Steam rose from the vessels, the potent scent of citrus and cinnamon wafting into the air.
They all took a tankard and found a seat.
Dounreay waited for her to sit on the sofa before settling into the chair opposite. He made himself comfortable, his muscular legs falling open in a sign of masculine dominance.
Lillian kept her gaze fixed on her tankard, blowing the punch while pretending she didn’t care to know what he wore beneath that darn kilt.
Vivienne Sloane entered, and they spent a few minutes conversing before Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “I’ve heard Dounreay’s account of the event. Might I hear yours, Miss Ware?”
“Certainly.”
“Begin by explaining how you became locked in a bedchamber with the duke,” Mr Daventry said, sounding more intrigued than concerned.
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Is it relevant to the case, sir?”
“Your emotional state will have significantly affected your perception.”
“I assure you, I had a full grasp of my faculties.” She glanced at Dounreay, her traitorous gaze slipping to his bare knees. The man was a damnable distraction. A fallen angel sent to corrupt the weak. “My reason for being there is a private matter.”
Mr Daventry did not press her further but asked that she begin her recount. “Let’s hope you’re less evasive when it comes to the facts.”
The previous night’s events were fresh in her mind. Her heart had raced while being seduced by the duke’s smooth repartee. It had pounded upon watching the violent tussle outside.
“The woman looked terrified,” Lillian added after giving a detailed account, “and then the rogue dragged her into the tunnel at knifepoint.”
“In your experience, do men usually become violent during a lovers’ quarrel?” Mr Daventry mocked. “Is it commonplace to press a knife to a woman’s throat and remove her with force?”
A past encounter burst into her mind, a scuffle with a rogue who’d made vile threats. “No. Instinct says we’re right to air concern. I fear the woman will survive for as long as she’s useful.”
“Indeed.” Mr Daventry reached into his coat pocket and handed her a white handkerchief. “What do you make of this, Miss Ware? Dounreay found it in the mews while searching for the victim.”
Lillian blinked in surprise as she took the silk square. Not because burgundy blood stained the lace trim. The duke had failed to mention finding any evidence.
As if party to her thoughts, Dounreay added, “A young groom saw the woman drop it before she was bundled into an unmarked carriage. I traded the handkerchief for mysgian dubh. We might have discussed it last night, but the Masters were keen to ferry ye home.”
The Masters feared her suffering any slight to her reputation.
“You can gain much from a simple piece of evidence,” Mr Daventry said, and had probably made a list a mile long. “Tell me what you determine from the handkerchief.”
Lillian sensed it was a test.
Perhaps Mr Daventry wanted to make her look foolish. To belittle her before warning against the dangers of creeping along dark corridors and sneaking into strange bedchambers.
Despite being the object of everyone’s attention, she studied the item in her hand. The delicate Chantilly lace was expensive, but she could not afford to make assumptions.
“It belongs to a lady, but not necessarily the one thrown into the carriage. Either way, the initials in the corner provide a vital clue.”
“For a reason other than the obvious?” Mr Daventry asked.
“Items bearing monograms are often sentimental. We might presume she dropped it because she wanted someone to find her.” Though that was an impossible feat with what little they knew. “It’s a cry for help. The bloodstains reinforce the point she is in danger.”
Dounreay watched her keenly as he sipped his punch. “Doubtless the villain nicked her with the knife.”
“I would wipe blood on a dark cloak before ruining a white handkerchief, Your Grace. I would suck blood off my finger before mopping it up with expensive lace.”
A slow smile formed on Dounreay’s lips. “Evidence suggests she is a reluctant participant and knows her life hangs in the balance.”
