Stanley had reported the earl was currently in funds, having received a large windfall the previous year. Stanley, in view of their suspicion that one of the five officers they were investigating might have been paid to carry out the murder, was still looking into exactly where that money had originated.

  But Sterling would hazard a guess that the earl’s obvious pleasure in his own interest in Elizabeth grew from the fact the older man saw a way in which he might receive another monetary windfall.

  God knows their endeavors so far had shown the man seemed to enter into one bad investment after another.

  Two years ago, Whitlow, like many other greedy men, had believed the false rumor that Napoleon was defeated and the Bourbons back in power in France. To that end, the earl had bought heavily into government securities on the ’Change. Only to have those prices sink within the day once news of the deception became public knowledge.

  Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, a group of unscrupulous men had quietly bought up government securities at a low price before releasing the rumor of Napoleon’s defeat, allowing them to then sell their securities at a deceptively inflated price. As a result, many gentlemen, including the Earl of Whitlow, had lost thousands of pounds in a single day.

  The men responsible, to their own shame and that of their families, had eventually been caught and prosecuted. But none of the money of the investors had been recovered. Including Whitlow’s.

  The timing, almost a year ago, of when Stanley reported that the earl’s bank account had been in receipt of a large amount of money caused Sterling to speculate whether perhaps the father and son had acted together in regard to Plymouth’s murder.

  In any case, the earl still enjoyed making questionable investments, ones that usually failed, so it was reasonable to think it would not be long before the earl was once again in need of funds.

  Was it possible Whitlow was considering whoring out his son’s widow? No doubt with a view to requesting suitable remuneration from any gentleman seeking to share her bed.

  It was disgusting behavior, if that should prove to be the case, but Sterling believed Whitlow was altogether a very unpleasant man.

  Even with the knowledge of the other man’s possible scheming, and despite Sterling’s own inner warnings not to allow his attraction toward Elizabeth to blind him to his purpose here, he knew he had been thrumming with the anticipation of seeing Elizabeth again this evening from the moment they parted in the street earlier today.

  He had tried to talk himself out of the inconvenient attraction on his ride to Bristol Manor.

  Elizabeth Marshall was still in mourning for her husband, if only for two more months.

  She was the daughter of an impoverished lord and daughter-in-law to one of the most despicable men in England.

  And although she had been polite to him, Sterling hadn’t sensed that she was afflicted with the same burning lust for him as he felt for her.

  More importantly, she was currently a part of Sterling’s investigations.

  All of them very good reasons why he should not attempt to pursue his attraction toward her.

  Unfortunately, his libido, fully roused and centered only upon this one woman, refused to listen to him. As did his rebellious cock, which had still been hard and throbbing inside his pantaloons when he arrived at Bristol Manor and was greeted by the waiting household staff.

  Sterling kept only a skeleton household staff at the Manor, a full complement of servants being unnecessary when he usually only visited the estate once every couple of years. But, as he had known would be the case, what servants there were in residence had been organized by Rogers into bustling about for several hours in anticipation of Sterling’s arrival. To the extent a bath was immediately provided, and within half an hour of being informed the duke was expecting guests for dinner this evening, the cook had provided him with a suitable menu.

  Not enough so that Sterling could provide Elizabeth with a taste of the delicious chocolate mousse he’d once eaten in France, but he believed she would enjoy the meringue served with fresh fruits he had requested instead just as much.

  Sterling didn’t give a damn whether or not the earl enjoyed the food they ate at dinner. Indeed, if he could, Sterling would not have invited the earl to join them this evening at all, but instead enjoyed Elizabeth’s company to the exclusion of all others. Most especially that of her machinating father-in-law.

  After hearing the man’s bullying of her, Sterling could only guess at the unpleasantness Elizabeth had been forced to endure from her father-in-law since her husband’s death ten months ago.

  Although, from what Sterling remembered of Captain Lord Thomas Marshall, the other man had not been particularly forceful in nature at the best of times. Possibly the bravest thing the younger man had ever done was to elope with Elizabeth when she had been Miss Ames.

  What Sterling now needed to know was if Marshall had been in possession of enough of that same courage a year ago, so as to make him responsible for Plymouth’s murder.

  With such an aggressively domineering father, it was highly possible Marshall could have taken money to carry out the murder. Not necessarily as a way of recouping the money his father had lost through greed the previous year, but with the intention of using that money to set up a separate establishment for himself, his wife, and young son, far from the household of his unpleasant father.

  Sterling now believed one of those two reasons to be a valid enough motive for Thomas Marshall to have carried out the despicable deed.

  But with Marshall dead, he was going to need actual proof of the other man’s guilt before he could make that accusation. His father had certainly been in receipt of a large sum of money the previous year.

  Sterling knew that Marshall had returned home from Waterloo with a bullet wound to his arm, which had severely incapacitated him for several weeks after his return.

  A part of Sterling sincerely hoped Plymouth had been able to inflict that wound before the other man struck him down with his sword!

  Finally given leave to ride again, Marshall had unfortunately fallen from his horse and broken his neck.

  All of which would have allowed him little opportunity to use his ill-gotten gains to set up a separate household for himself, his wife, and son, away from his father’s influence.

  Was it possible Elizabeth might even have been desperate enough to escape her father-in-law’s household to have been complicit in Plymouth’s murder?

  Oh, not in those woods at Waterloo, but because men had been known to do much worse things than murder in order to gain favor with a conniving woman. A woman who was perhaps refusing to live under her father-in-law’s roof for a moment longer than she had to?

  Was Elizabeth, beneath that air of serenity and ethereal beauty, such a woman?

  If so, then her husband’s death had left her even more under her father-in-law’s unpleasant rule, with little chance of escape.

  “The Earl of Whitlow and Lady Elizabeth Marshall, Your Grace,” Rogers announced. For the length of their visit, he had taken on the role of butler as well as valet.

  Sterling turned to greet his guests, knowing his time for brooding speculation must now come to an end.

  He ceased thinking at all when the sight of Elizabeth, her golden hair swept up in a cluster of curls, and wearing a simple, high-necked, long-sleeved gown of dark gray silk with only those pearl earbobs as added adornment, was enough to take his breath away.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was very aware of the way in which her father-in-law was quivering with rage as he escorted her into the Duke of Bristol’s blue salon. She also knew the reason for it.

  She had spent the afternoon at the beach with Christopher, enjoying their usual entertainment of shell-seeking and building of sandcastles. She had then taken tea in the nursery with him, before assisting with his bath, reading him a story, and then sitting with him until he fell asleep. Something she did every evening.

  After which, Elizabeth had deliberately contrived to be late in coming downstairs from her bedchamber, already wearing a silk cloak the same color as her gown when she joined the earl as he impatiently paced the entrance hall of Whitlow Grange. He made no effort to hide his irritation at being forced to wait for her, once again grasping her arm, the one that was already bruised, the moment she reached the bottom of the staircase, before dragging her outside to the waiting carriage.

  Whether the earl believed he had browbeaten her into obeying him, or he simply believed she was too stupid to dare go against his instruction, at no time during their journey to the neighboring estate had he troubled himself to check on what gown she was wearing beneath the cloak.

  His fury a few minutes ago, once Bristol’s butler had taken her cloak and Whitlow had been able to see the demure style of her dark gray gown, had been palpable.

  His muttered threat as the two of them followed the butler across the lit entrance hall, “You will answer to me later for your disobedience,” had sent a shiver of apprehension down the length of Elizabeth’s spine.

  Despite having threatened to do so many times, the earl had not yet administered physical chastisement for her behavior, real or imagined. But the baleful glitter in his eyes now indicated that situation might possibly change the moment they arrived home this evening.

  Elizabeth wondered, and not for the first time, how her mild-mannered and attentive husband could ever have been related to such an unpleasant man.

  She had known, of course, that the earl would be upset she had not carried out his instructions in regard to the gown she wore this evening.

  But how much more upset would he have become if she had decided to wear a gown that left her arms bared, at least, and so revealed the myriad bruises on the paleness of her skin where his fingers had earlier dug so cruelly into that tender flesh?

  Bruises which had no doubt been added to when he dragged her out to the carriage earlier this evening.

  Bruises that, if seen, would lead to questions and no doubt open speculation from the earl as to how they so perfectly resembled the indentations of four fingers and a thumb.

  In any case, Elizabeth considered her defiance well worth whatever the price she might have to pay when she saw the open admiration and approval for her appearance in the Duke of Bristol’s crystalline green gaze as he lifted and bowed low over her lace-gloved hand. “You are looking ravishingly beautiful this evening, Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured huskily.

  “Thank you.” Much as she would have liked to return the compliment—the duke looked devilishly handsome in black evening clothes and white linen—Elizabeth did not wish to add to the gleam of sly satisfaction she could see in the eyes of her watchful father-in-law.

  Instead of releasing her hand, the duke tucked it securely into the crook of his arm before turning to face the older man. “Your appearance appears a little liverish tonight, Whitlow,” he commented in a hard voice.

  Elizabeth caught her lips between her teeth to stop herself from laughing at how the earl’s expression changed to one of indignant fury at the bluntly delivered insult.

  Adding to that liverish appearance.

  “I assure you, I am in perfect health, Bristol,” the older man bit out irritably.

  The duke gave an inclination of his head. “If you say so.”

  “I do,” the earl snapped. “No doubt, as has proven to be the case with my own son, I shall outlive many men far younger than me.”

  The duke’s brow lowered to a scowl. “Indeed?”

  “I—”

  “Oh, what a beautiful piano,” Elizabeth admired lightly as she deliberately cut into the increasingly tense conversation between the two men. The earl’s last comment even seemed to have been bordering on a threat of some kind. “Do you play, Your Grace?”

  He turned toward her. “Unfortunately not, but I have made a point of installing a piano in each of my homes, as well as ensuring they are always tuned. I have a cousin, Gwen, whom I have only became acquainted with in recent years, but who very much enjoys playing whenever she and her husband visit me.”

  Elizabeth felt curious as to why Bristol had only recently met his cousin.

  But the earl spoke before she was able to voice that curiosity. “Would that be the cousin who is married to a parson?” Whitlow made no effort to hide his scorn.

  Bristol’s gaze turned glacial. “To my knowledge, I have only the one cousin.”

  Elizabeth winced as the conversation once again deteriorated, and rapidly, into one of challenge, if not outright insults. Indeed, she wondered at Bristol having invited them to dine with him at all when he obviously had no liking for the earl.

  She refused to believe such a haughtily toplofty gentleman as the Duke of Bristol was genuinely interested in her. No doubt he was only using that pretense of interest as another way to enjoy baiting the older man.

  A supposition which must surely bring Bristol’s honor into question, when his reputation said he valued honor above all else?

  He certainly seemed to harbor a genuine affection for his cousin Gwen, despite her marriage rendering her as being of far lower social status than he was.

  Elizabeth had also heard that the friendship between the Ruthless Dukes was of such a steadfast nature, they had withdrawn even more from Society after one of them had been killed during the battle at Waterloo the previous year.

  Two things that surely confirmed Bristol valued friendship and family.

  Then why did it seem, at times, as if he might be flirting with her?

  A gentleman who was normally socially cold and remote and known for never flirting with any woman.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sterling knew within seconds of looking at Elizabeth again that all of his earlier self-chastisement had been a waste of his time. She really was, without a single doubt, the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever set eyes upon.

  And it was damned inconvenient that he felt that way when he was here to ascertain if Thomas Whitlow had murdered Plymouth, not to seduce and fuck the man’s widow!

  But his aroused cock didn’t care about any of that. That, it seemed, only wanted what it wanted.

  And he, Sterling reminded himself forcefully, was in control of his own body, including his cock.

  Wasn’t he?

  Sterling was instantly irritated by the fact that even that little voice of doubt had dared to enter his thoughts. But how could it be any other when his cock had engorged the moment Elizabeth walked into the room?

  Surely, the reason he felt this raging lust for Elizabeth Marshall had to be because it had been some months since he last found sexual relief in the willing body of a lady of the demimonde? That he was simply in need of a good fuck?

  He decided to ignore the fact that he could not recall ever feeling a raging lust for any woman before now.

  Because no matter the intensity of his desire for her, Sterling needed to be sure of the innocence or guilt of Elizabeth’s husband before he acted upon that emotion. If Marshall should prove guilty, then Sterling also wished to know what Elizabeth’s role had been, if any, in that despicable deed.

  But for this evening, at least, his lungs and his senses were filled with the scent and sight of her. Her unique feminine perfume. The exquisite luster to her skin. The beauty of those violet eyes. The fullness of her sensual and moist lips—

  Rogers’s appearance in the doorway drew Sterling’s attention, putting an end to the torment of his inner thoughts.

  The other man gave a slight nod as indication dinner was ready to be served.

  Sterling had thought it best to instruct Rogers they would be eating in the formal dining room this evening rather than the smaller, more intimate room reserved for family. He wouldn’t want to give Whitlow the wrong idea.

  But as he escorted Elizabeth down the hallway to that formal room, held back the chair for her himself, and then pushed it forward as she became seated, Sterling found himself cursing the fact that she was sitting so far away from him. The two men were sitting at either end of the twelve-foot-long table, with Elizabeth placed exactly in the middle on Sterling’s right side, as was fitting for a female acquaintance.

  Except the very last thing Sterling wished to look at all evening was the Earl of Whitlow.

  Unfortunately, good manners dictated that he must at least try to make conversation with the other man. Which he painstakingly did, on the subjects of horseflesh, the unseasonable weather, and their neighboring estates.

  The fact that Whitlow slurped and smacked his lips noisily through the soup course, then spoke with his mouth full when they moved on to the fish—having belched and farted his way through both without apology—made it extremely difficult for Sterling to keep up that politeness.

  In between that eating and slurping, the earl made constant comments to Elizabeth cautioning her on how much she ate as she was in danger of becoming fat.

  Sterling had never heard such nonsense, and he pitied Elizabeth for having to live in the same house and eat her meals with this abominable creature. It was obvious, despite the earl’s comments regarding Elizabeth’s family, she was by far the better mannered of the two.

  Sterling was feeling slightly ill from being unable to completely avoid seeing Whitlow’s yellowed teeth—the few that he had—masticate each mouthful of food from the huge pile he had asked to be served to him as Rogers circled the table with each of the meats and vegetables which had followed the fish.

  In contrast, Elizabeth ate sparingly and never quite finished any of those tiny portions.

  Sterling leaned forward slightly to gain her attention. “I believe you will enjoy the dessert I have chosen for us.”

  “I don’t like or eat puddings,” the earl answered before Elizabeth was able to do so.