One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(34)

Before Bellamy could recover, Spencer changed the subject. “What do we know about Leo’s death?”

“Seems like I should be asking you that question.”

Spencer shrugged off the implicit accusation. “Has the prostitute been found yet? The driver of the hack?”

Bellamy shook his head warily. “Spent all night combing the louse-ridden pig’s arse that is Whitechapel. I’ll be headed straight back when we’re through here. Don’t suppose Your Grace cares to come along?”

“Not particularly.” Spencer beckoned the groom with a nod, then passed him the stallion’s lead. Reaching into his breast pocket, he withdrew an envelope sealed with the Morland crest and extended it to Bellamy.

The man stared at it with resentment. “What’s that?”

“The reason you’re here.” He pushed the envelope into Bellamy’s hand. “Guard it well. Inside, you’ll find the bank draft for twenty thousand pounds.”

Bellamy stared at the letter, his sneer fading.

“Use it to hire every runner and investigator in London. Search every seedy tavern and grimy hole; question every prostitute and footpad. Perhaps you’ll discover some long-lost relations in the process, but you’ll find nothing connecting me to Harcliffe’s death.”

“We’ll see about that.” Bellamy grasped a corner of the envelope and tugged.

Spencer kept his grip on the other edge. “When the killers are found, the remainder goes to Lily. The token comes to me.”

He let go, and Bellamy accepted the envelope with a begrudging nod.

Ashworth spoke up. “I don’t have that kind of coin, but when it’s muscle you need, send for me. If it’s a court trial you’re wanting, though”—his neck cracked menacingly—“I can’t promise there’ll be much left but scraps to stand before the magistrate.”

“Duly warned,” Bellamy said warily. “I thought you barely knew Leo. You’d kill for him?”

The soldier shrugged. “I’ve killed for less.”

Right. Impatient to end this, Spencer said, “If you refuse to allow me to move Osiris, I insist on sending one of my own grooms to oversee his care. I’m for Cambridgeshire tomorrow. Keep me apprised of any and all developments. For that kind of money, I expect a daily express.”

“Fleeing Town rather speedily, aren’t you?” Bellamy asked.

“I am not fleeing anything. I’ve business at my estate.”

“Honeymoon business, I’d wager,” Ashworth said. “A series of pressing engagements with the ducal mattress?”

As the two others exchanged looks, Spencer blew out an impatient breath. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really did just need a good tumble. All the more reason to end this meeting and return home to Amelia, who had both the good sense to disregard these ridiculous accusations, and the lush body to make him forget them completely.

“I still say it’s suspicious,” Bellamy said. “All of it. That hasty wedding, your leaving Town so soon.”

The already-fragile thread of Spencer’s patience snapped. “And if I remained in Town, you would accuse me of tampering in the investigation and impeding justice. Nothing I say will convince you of my innocence, because all you can see is your own culpability. You were supposed to be with your friend that night; instead you were out whoring. Now the guilt’s eating you alive, and until Leo’s killers are found, you’re going to make my life miserable. So much is clear.” He jerked on his gloves. “I don’t care what the devil you think of me. Just find the killers. I want to see them brought to justice every bit as much as you do.”

And I want that token more than you could possibly understand.

“Find them,” he repeated, staring Bellamy down. “Find the token. And then we’ll meet to discuss the future of this club.”

A low rumble of laughter dispersed the angry tension in the air.

“Sorry,” Ashworth said, still chuckling, “It’s just amusing, don’t you think? The three of us, comprising the membership of any club.”

Julian scowled. “It’s absurd, is what it is.”

“Yes, well.” Spencer brushed the dust from his sleeves and motioned to the groom for his mount. “You did say Leo loved a good joke. This one seems to be on us.”

Chapter Eight

Amelia was beginning to wonder if her husband ever intended to bed her.

When staring blankly at the lavender walls of the duchess’s suite passed tedium and strayed toward madness, she flopped back on the counterpane with a frustrated sigh and stared up at the bed’s purple canopy. It seemed to be embroidered with birds. Joyless, awkward birds with wings sprawled at odd angles. Perhaps they were meant to be cranes? To her, they resembled dead partridges ready for plucking. Hardly an inspiring vision for a new bride to contemplate whilst performing her wifely duties. She hoped the duke preferred darkness, when he came to consummate this marriage.

If he came to consummate this marriage.

They’d left Beauvale House shortly following that mockery of a ceremony. A tense, silent carriage ride conveyed them to Morland’s residence. At the door, he’d handed her off to the housekeeper with the terse statement: “Tripp will show you to your chambers. See that you rest.”