Page 33 of My Deceitful Duchess
Oh, but she worried over far more dire things than those.
∞∞∞
Mr. Nathaniel Beckett appeared at his door the next day, while Jenny was still asleep, and he slipped in Sebastian’s door with nothing more than a short, “What news, then?”
Jenny was a sound sleeper, and Sebastian doubted that the visit would wake her, but still he found himself annoyed that Mr. Beckett had invited himself inside. The slap of the man’s aggravated stride upon his floors irritated his senses. “Not much,” he said, voice clipped with annoyance. “It seems that peers don’t care to discuss their financesorany possible murderous inclinations.”
“You said you’d narrowed it down,” Mr. Beckett said with a scowl. “Lord Pendleton is beside himself, and there’s still a murderer on the loose. At any moment, the villain might—”
Sebastian scoffed. “Hardly. It’s been in all the papers. He’d be a fool to act again so swiftly.” And whoever it was, he was no fool. “Like as not, anyone who feels their valuables are at risk has got them locked up tight. It’ll be some time before the furor dies down enough that the villain will feel himself safe enough to attempt another robbery. And besides—he cleaned Lady Pendleton’s jewelry out entirely.” He might as well have, given that if the robbery hadn’t been discovered, themurdercertainly would. “Given the value of the items stolen, it’ll be some time before he’s in need of funds again.” London was secure—for the time being, at least.
“I’ve had the Runners all around to every known fence,” Mr. Beckett said. “Nothing. Not so much as a damned ring has turned up.”
“It wouldn’t. Can you imagine a lord handing off a string of stolen diamonds to a fence? And he’d receive at most a tenth of the value of them, besides. No; it’s likely the jewels have been repurposed.”
“Repurposed?”
“Removed from their settings, the metals melted down. Possibly recut, or otherwise refashioned into new.” Much simpler to sell an item that hasnotbeen reported stolen, when no one could possibly know its provenance. “It’s unlikely the gems will ever be recovered.”
Mr. Beckett swore. “Then how are we to find the thief?”
“Process of elimination. There are some on my list who are hiding their insolvency—poorly. Others…well, they’ve got more money than they likely should. I need to determine who has acquired their newfound wealth through nefarious means, the ones whose turn in fortune has no other explanation.” Which sounded so much simpler than it was. “I’ve been interviewing other victims. Determining who might have been present around the time their jewelry went missing. It’s narrowed my list considerably.”
With a rough sound, Mr. Beckett turned for the door. “Fuck the list, Knight.Findthe man.” The door slammed on his way out, and Sebastian stifled a wince at the sharp sound which stung his ears. He could hardly blame the man for being anxious to apprehend a killer—but the sound had reverberated through the house, and he’d heard Jenny stirring upstairs, disturbed by the noise.
The Duke of Venbrough was on his list. A man more flush in the pocketbook than he ought to be, if Jenny’s sources were to be believed. He and his sister had frightened Jenny somehow. He hadn’t told her, but twice now in her sleep she’d—said things. Just vague murmurings, things he’d very nearly missed as she tossed in the grip of a nightmare. But enough for him to know that there was some history there. What did they have over her? Was she being blackmailed somehow? He’d promised not to press her—but he had not promised not to pressothers.
Chapter Fifteen
“How did you become interested in crime?” Jenny asked, lifting her arms above her head in a sinuous stretch. She had awakened perhaps twenty minutes ago, and had indulged herself in the rare opportunity to watch Sebastian as he worked. His expression had been intent and contemplative as he had sifted through papers and scribbled notes, occasionally tugging his fingers through his disheveled hair or jogging his knee; absent little gestures that seemed to soothe an anxious mind.
“I’m not certain,” he said, retrieving a coin from the edge of his desk and working it through his fingers. “Perhaps because I did not understand it, I endeavored to attempt to.”
Fascinating.“And do you understand it now?”
He gave a small shrug. “Perhaps a bit better than I did. The mechanics of it, at least. Crimes are like puzzles. You have to collect the parts, assemble them, and only once every bit has been pieced back together does the full image form.” He gave a small sigh, and a frown lingered just at the corners of his mouth. “As a child, I often read reports of crimes printed in papers. I enjoyed watching information reveal itself beneath investigation. Crimes of passion, crimes of wrath and greed—they all provide insight into human behavior.”
“A bit macabre for a child.” But she could easily imagine it; a miniature version of him, riveted to the pages of a newspaper as he scoured it for bits of mystery, of shock and scandal. She crawled up onto her knees, dragging the rumpled bedclothes with her as she slid toward the foot of the bed.
“So thought my father,” he acknowledged wryly. “Andmy brother. They’d have much preferred I had taken an interest in something less unsettling.”
“Your mother?” Her toes touched the cool surface of the floor, and she padded across it toward his desk.
“No complaints, provided I refrained from mentioning autopsies at the dinner table.” He let the coin drop at last back to the surface of the desk, and his gaze caught along the edge of the sheet, which she had let slip to just above her breasts. “In fact, no autopsies, no murders, and no bodily fluids of any kind. She says it’s upsetting to the digestion. But she has never been so severe as Father—she gave me an old hatbox in which to store my newspaper clippings. Probably so that I’d have a place to put them rather than leaving them strewn about the house.”
“She sounds lovely.”She rather liked the thought of a woman who indulged her child's interests, however unnerving she might have found them herself.
“She is. You would like her, I think.” He turned toward her in his chair as she approached, papers forgotten upon his desk. “She has no stomach for such things, but she has never tried to steer me from them.” He shifted somewhat uncomfortably as the sheet slipped further still, tucked loosely around her. The hard ridge of his arousal was visible through the thin linen trousers he wore. “Most people have no stomach for such things,” he said. “Regrettably, I have the tendency to talk altogether too much about them. You must tell me if I do.”
“Must I?” She sank to her knees, laying one hand upon his thigh and feeling the muscles twitch beneath her fingers. “Why?”
“I shouldn’t like to bore you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Sometimes I can go on for hours. I forget that others do not often find the same fascination in such things as I.”
“I like to hear you talk. Even about murders,” she added, with a soft laugh. And it was true—he had such a passion for his work, and it was a delight to listen to him, to witness his animation, his enthusiasm. Her fingers meandered up the inseam of his trousers. “You’ve never once bored me.”She let the sheet fall free, enjoying the anguished little sound he made deep in his throat as it floated to the floor, revealing her nakedness beneath it.
“But you’ll tell me. If I do.” His breath rasped across his lips as she slipped the buttons free of the fall of his trousers. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sure you could make an educated guess. You’re a clever man.” Perhaps the cleverest she had ever known. Her fingers curled around the hard length of him, coaxing a deep, rumbling groan from his throat as she eased him free of his trousers and held him in the tight grip of her palm. His thighs tensed; the air wheezed from his lungs—he hadn’t the experience to be restrained, to be anything but honest in his reactions.
