Bellamy shook his head vigorously.
“Just hear me out,” Spencer said. “The rules remain the same. Any member of the Club may send mares to be mated—”
“All the way to Cambridgeshire?” Bellamy snorted.
“My stables are the finest in the country, and I include the Royal Mews in that assessment. Large stalls, enclosed pasture. My stable master and grooms are the most capable to be had, anywhere. I also keep an expert veterinarian on my staff. At Braxton Hall, this stallion will be among his equals in lineage and ability. Fed properly. Exercised properly. Bred properly.” He reached up to smooth Osiris’s jet-black mane. “This horse belongs with me.”
“You mean the horse belongs to you.” Barely bothering to turn his head, Bellamy spat in the straw. “You believe you’re entitled to this beast, just as you believe you’re entitled to everything. What makes you so much better than the two of us? Your title? The remarkable accomplishment of being born to a noblewoman instead of your father’s favorite chambermaid?”
Oh, now Spencer was thoroughly angered. Whatever clashes they’d had in Spencer’s adolescence, his father had been a decent, honorable man. “Just because you know nothing of your own father,” he warned, “do not pretend to know something of mine.”
Hatred burned in Bellamy’s eyes. “It’s naught but luck. Simple, dumb, blue-blooded luck is all that separates a man like you from a man like me. Leo understood it. He never thought himself the better of anyone. That’s why he created this Club, made its membership contingent on the kind of good fortune that comes after one’s birth, not before it.” His glare alternated between Spencer and Ashworth. “I’ll be damned if I’ll allow the two of you to destroy that. I’ll fight you to my last breath if you try to take this horse from London.”
“You’ll lose.” Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Mark my words, those tokens will be mine, in time. This horse will be mine, in time. And if you think all that separates the two of us is simple, dumb luck …” He shook his head in contempt. “One wonders why you spend such time and effort courting the favor of people you claim to despise.”
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.”
She had not seen him since.
She had rested. She’d taken tea. She’d thought to spend the afternoon unpacking her trunks and becoming acquainted with the house, but her new lady’s maid informed her that wouldn’t be necessary. His Grace had decreed they’d be leaving for Braxton Hall tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
Confronted with that disquieting information, Amelia had sought refuge in a hot bath. She had dressed with great care for dinner, and then she had dined alone. When she finally summoned the courage to inquire after His Grace’s whereabouts, she was informed that the duke had gone out riding.
Pah. Her wedding day, and already she’d been abandoned for a horse.
Now, several hours after that solitary dinner, Amelia lay on the counterpane in her sheerest muslin shift, fingering the eyelet neckline and wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake. Her thoughts returned again and again to that morning, and to Mr. Bellamy’s accusations. At the time, she had rejected the idea instinctively. The Duke of Morland might be a disagreeable, arrogant, cold sort of man, but she couldn’t believe him capable of murder.
But then she thought of that bank draft. Twenty thousand pounds. He was willing to pay twenty thousand pounds for a one-tenth share in a racehorse—the exact same amount he’d settled on Amelia, who came all of one piece. Independent of any aspersions cast on the duke’s character, those amounts spoke eloquently of his priorities.
And then there was that breathtaking, violent punch to Bellamy’s jaw.
No doubt another lady would have found that moment thrilling, when her bridegroom sent fist crashing into face to defend her honor. But Amelia had had five brothers, each of whom had thrown punches ostensibly in her defense, and she knew better. Men hit one another because they felt like hitting one another, and the “fair lady’s honor” bit was usually no more than a convenient excuse.
If the duke had slammed Mr. Bellamy to the floor for insulting Amelia … what might he be capable of doing, if the stakes were something he truly cared about?
No, no, no. She’d been with him that night at the ball. Granted, he’d arrived after Leo was already dead, but … his behavior hadn’t been that of a murderer. Had it? Amelia had to be honest; she had no idea how a man would act after committing a murder. Might he promptly show his face in public, to allay suspicion? Become pale and ill when challenged, perhaps even abscond to a secluded terrace? Toss obscene amounts of money at the victim’s surviving family, marry the only witness to his suspicious behavior, and make hasty arrangements to leave town?
She flung her wrist over her eyes. Oh, Lord. What had he done?
What had she done?
She snapped up in bed. Perhaps it was not too late. The marriage was not yet consummated. If she could just escape this house and get back to Laurent’s, she could request an annulment. She rose from bed, threw a wrapper over her shoulders and opened the window. For an early summer night, it was quite cool. But if she could dress on her own, evade the servants, slip down to the street somehow, find a hack …
No, there was too much danger inherent in a furtive escape, and Amelia wasn’t stupid. Whatever Morland had done, she doubted he posed a threat to her life. She could not say the same for the miscreants who roamed the darkened London streets.
Maybe she could simply send a note to Laurent, and he would come for her in the landau. Yes, that was it. She would bribe a footman to deliver it without His Grace’s knowledge. Or if everything else failed, she could feign illness and demand a doctor’s attention. It wasn’t even that late yet. It was only just now—she peered at the mantel clock—
Twelve.
A latch scraped open, and she jumped in her skin.
The duke entered through the connecting door, and Amelia clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a bubble of inane laughter. What a ninny she’d been, to expect his arrival even a minute earlier.
After all, this was the Duke of Midnight.
Even she had to admit he lived up to the romantic appellation tonight. Standing in the doorway, dressed only in a shirt and loose trousers, he regarded her with unwavering, unnerving intent. He was obviously fresh from a bath, for his hair was still wet. Dark, untamed curls caught a warm gloss from the firelight. Amelia’s gaze bounced from one newly revealed piece of him to the next—his sinewy forearms, the wedge of chest exposed by the open collar of his shirt, his bare feet. He was so sinfully attractive, he could have been the Devil himself.