One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(99)

“Perhaps that’s because the killer isn’t in Town,” Bellamy said, his voice tight. “Perhaps that’s because the culprit’s been hiding out in Cambridgeshire.”

Ashworth groaned. “For God’s sake, can we move on from this? Morland isn’t a killer. It’s not in him.”

“How would you know?” Bellamy said.

“Because if he were, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d have died fourteen years ago.”

The room went silent.

Spencer stared at the scarred, hulking warrior. “Are you talking about Eton?”

He remembered the way their fight had dragged on, blow after blow, while boys ringed them and cheered and the schoolmasters stood passively by—helpless to stop it, since both he and Rhys were larger and stronger than any adult there. They were both big youths, but Spencer’d had the advantage of age and the force of grief and anger behind his blows. But no matter how many times he smashed Rhys to the dirt, the mad bastard wouldn’t stay down. He’d kept dragging his bleeding carcass off the ground and coming back for more. Until he hadn’t even been throwing punches of his own, just lumbering forward on shaky legs to receive Spencer’s next punishing blow. At the time, he had interpreted Rhys’s persistence as foolish pride, and as he’d been in the mood to keep dealing blows … foolish pride seemed as worthy an offense as any.

But when Rhys staggered to his feet yet again, with one eye swollen shut and his chest hunched over broken ribs—on his last blow, Spencer had heard them cracking under his fist—he just couldn’t stomach the idea of hitting the idiot one more time. It had become a matter of his own pride, to walk away.

Rhys’s expression told Spencer they were recalling the exact same scene. “I wanted you to kill me,” he said.

Around the table, eyes widened. Wineglasses tipped.

“Pardon the bluntness.” Rhys addressed the group in a diffident tone, forking another bite into his mouth. “I never did master the art of genteel dinner conversation.”

“You wanted me to kill you,” Spencer repeated.

“That’s why I kept getting up. I wanted to die, and I knew if I kept putting my face in front of your fist, you had the strength and fury to do me in.” He looked to Bellamy. “But he didn’t.”

“That’s disgusting,” Spencer said. “You would have left me with that guilt all my life, believing I’d murdered you in cold blood? What the devil is wrong with you?”

Rhys shrugged. “Too many things to list tonight. You were the first I tried that with, but not the last. Took me a long time to give up on the strategy of picking fights in hopes of getting pummeled into my grave.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.” Rhys cocked his head. “Until a month or so ago? In the infantry, they kept decorating me for it. Finally realized only the good die young. At any rate, Bellamy, I can assure you His Grace isn’t capable of murder.”

“That was years ago,” Bellamy said. “It doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

“Perhaps not. But this does.” Spencer drew Leo’s token from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it onto the table. “It’s his,” he said, answering the silent question. “I’ve seven more upstairs, if you want to count.”

“I knew it,” Bellamy said, his face going red. “I knew you—”

“It was me,” Jack said. “I mean, it wasn’t me who killed Leo. But I found that token. It was in the possession of a wh—”

Spencer threw his fist down on the table. “Not now,” he growled, casting a look at Claudia. For God’s sake, he suddenly realized they’d been discussing violence and murder right in front of her. They weren’t going to discuss whores, too. “We’re not having this conversation in front of the child.”

“I’m not a child!” Claudia protested, banging a fork against her plate. Her eyes swam with tears. “When are you going to realize that?”

“Eat your salmon,” he told her.

“I’m not going to eat the dratted salmon.” She stabbed it with her fork and muttered, “I hate you.”

Spencer sighed. He didn’t suppose that comment was directed at the fish. He looked to Amelia, hoping she would intervene and use her hostess’s charm to rescue this wreck of a dinner. But his wife wouldn’t meet his gaze. She was staring down at her own salmon, wearing a puzzled frown. All evening, she’d been strangely preoccupied.

Bellamy said, “Send the girl to bed if you must. But I’ve been slaving day and night for the past month to find the men who killed Leo, and if anyone at this table has information, I want to hear it now.”

“I found the token,” Jack said. “It was in the possession of the wh—” He absorbed Spencer’s cutting glare. “Of the witness to Leo’s attack. The one who called for the hack and delivered him to your house.”

“When did you recover it?”

“Just the day after his death.”

“And you told no one?”

Jack shrugged. “At the time, I didn’t know you were looking for it, or even that it was Leo’s. I met with her in Covent Garden, but I suppose she’d made a special excursion to Whitechapel that night for the boxing match. Anyhow, when I tried to find her again, she’d disappeared. I’d given her a guinea in exchange for the token. Seems she’d decided to take a holiday with her windfall and gone to visit her mother in Dover.”