Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(77)

And finally, Leland had bumped against him as he’d left the room to whisper that instruction to come to Leland’s house today. He might’ve slipped the note to Raphael at that point.

Always assuming that someone else entirely at the ball hadn’t put the note in his pocket.

Raphael blew out a breath in frustration.

In any case the note was not at all useful. It didn’t mention a name. Whoever had scrawled it had been in a hurry and fearful—the Ts had been crossed twice.

Raphael pondered that point as he pulled on his shoes.

If the note had been written in the study, perhaps it was a warning about one of the other men: he wasn’t as innocent as he seemed.

Or the note could’ve been written by the Dionysus himself or an agent of the Dionysus purely to confuse him.

Raphael’s mouth twisted sourly on the thought. If that was the case, the note was working admirably.

Regardless of the note, he was willing to take Hector Leland up on his invitation to talk. Leland was always about, always on the fringes, but never spoke without Andrew and Royce nearby. Alone, Leland might be more forthcoming—about Dockery and the Dionysus.

He’d go to Leland’s house … but not without his Corsicans.

Having made that decision, Raphael finished dressing and descended the stairs. He met neither Iris nor Zia Lina, but that wasn’t surprising. They were probably breaking their fast together.

A braver man would bid the ladies good morning.

But he’d already demonstrated his inability to resist Iris.

Best to stay away.

So Raphael called for three horses to be brought to the front of the house and then found two of his men.

Fifteen minutes later, he was mounted and riding to Leland’s town house.

London was wet and dreary, matching his mood as he rode, Valente and Bardo trailing behind on their own horses. The streets were crowded and the journey slow.

By the time they came to Leland’s house—wedged into a cramped corner of an older street—Raphael had the feeling that he had missed his opportunity to question the man.

An elderly woman stood on the step of the house, talking with a man who, judging from his bobbed wig and the black case he carried, must be a doctor. Beside them was a sobbing maid who couldn’t yet be twenty, and an elderly butler, white faced and shaking.

Raphael dismounted. “Wait here,” he murmured to his men, giving Valente the reins of his horse.

He approached the tableau on the steps.

“Who might you be?” asked the doctor, peering over tiny spectacles perched on the end of a pointed nose.

“I am the Duke of Dyemore,” Raphael said coolly, “and a friend of Hector Leland.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m the bearer of very sad tidings,” said the doctor. “Mr. Leland met with an accident while cleaning his dueling pistol this morning.”

“Wretched boy,” said the elderly lady. She wore a huge lace cap tied under her chin. Her mouth was an unpleasant, lipless line, and her eyes narrowed to unlovely slits. “And my poor niece Sylvia with two babes and another on the way. What a wicked thing to do. I did tell her that she shouldn’t marry Hector Leland. ‘He’s a bounder through and through,’ I said, and now look what it’s got her. Disgraceful, is what it is.”

Two houses down, a door opened, and a maid stepped out to openly gawk.

“I’d like to see him,” Raphael said.

“He’s dead,” the doctor said bluntly.

“Nevertheless, I insist.”

“You won’t thank me for it. Gunshot makes a terrible mess.”

Beside them, the maid shrieked, and the older woman tutted and led her rather brusquely inside, the butler trailing.

The doctor watched them, then turned to peer at Raphael suspiciously.

Whatever he saw in Raphael’s face seemed to make up his mind. The doctor shrugged. “Very well. Be it on your shoulders.” He led the way back inside. “You’ll see soon enough why I have no doubt of the cause of death.”

Leland’s study was on the first floor at the very back of the house, overlooking a meager garden.

“The maid found him there”—the doctor pointed to a desk holding blood-splattered papers—“and I moved the body here after I was called to the house.”

“Here” was a table, probably brought in from another room. Leland was stretched out, wearing his nightshirt and stockings and with half his shaved head blown away.

“Dead,” repeated the doctor. “Told you so.”

“Mm.” Dyemore looked over the body. “You’re sure he did it himself?”

The doctor’s bushy gray eyebrows flew up his forehead. “Slumped at his desk, pistol in his hand, shot in the side of his head. All the house’s doors locked and no outcry in the night. Nothing at all in fact until early this morning, when the maid came to clean the grate.”

A letter on the desk caught Raphael’s eye. The contents weren’t interesting—it appeared to be addressed to Leland’s father-in-law begging for more money—but the handwriting was.

All the Ts in the letter had been crossed twice.

Beside him the doctor was continuing his monologue. “You don’t think his lady wife would do such a thing, do you? It beggars belief. Only reason we’re saying ‘cleaning his dueling pistol’ is to save her sensibilities. You ought to know that, man.”