Citit - Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle

Author:Liz Carlyle [Carlyle, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2007-05-02T21:00:00+00:00

The Vicomte de Vendenheim-Sélestat stood at the deep window of his office and looked down at the crush of traffic in Whitehall. In his left hand, he clutched a letter, while his right was braced firmly on the window frame. London was suffering the last of a hot, damp summer, and even the horses looked wilted.

Feeling rather wilted himself, de Vendenheim turned his back to the window and thrust the letter into the light. Again, he read it. “Mr. Howard!” he bellowed to the front office clerk.

Howard came in at once, his spectacles sliding down his nose. “Yes, my lord?”

“When did this bloody letter come?”

“J-Just this morning, my lord.”

“Very well,” he said. “Is the Home Secretary in?”

“Yes, sir,” said Howard. “Do you wish to see him?”

“I am afraid, Howard, that I must.”

Five minutes later, he stood before Mr. Peel’s desk, two letters in hand. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, de Vendenheim laid the first letter—an unsigned letter—down. “I am afraid some old debts are being called in,” he said. “George Kemble asks a favor.”

“Indeed? Of what sort?” Peel glanced down at the perfect, angular penmanship.

“Kemble is helping with a murder inquiry,” said de Vendenheim. “A private case, for the people who own Neville Shipping. He needs someone to hold a little fire to the local justice of the peace.”

Peel’s eyes were sweeping over the letter. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “And this is to be Kemble’s kindling, is it?”

De Vendenheim nodded. “It simply states that Mr. Kemble acts on your behalf in this matter,” he said. “And it strongly encourages the justice’s full cooperation.”

Peel smiled faintly. “Expecting trouble, is he?” But he took up his pen and, in an instant, slashed his signature across the bottom. “Now, what second small favor does Kemble ask? Out with it.”

De Vendenheim tried not to exhale aloud. “Do you know Lord Litting?”

Mr. Peel shrugged. “Socially, a bit.”

“The dead man is Litting’s uncle by marriage.”

Some of the confusion fell away from Peel’s face. “Yes, the Duke of Warneham’s death. There were some nasty whispers, I recall. But it was finally ruled an accident, was it not?”

“Yes, and it probably was,” said de Vendenheim. “But the rumors and questions have not died down, and Kemble wishes to pursue it, just to make certain. He wants me to speak with Litting, who was in the house, apparently, on the night of his uncle’s death. Sir Harold Hardell accompanied him.”

“Hardell.” Peel smiled a little grimly. “Is either a suspect?”

“Not so far as I know,” said the vicomte. “I’d like to question the nephew. But I may have to send him through the mangle a time or two, in order to press out what little information he may have.”

“Yes, well.” Peel coughed discreetly and reached for his pen. “I’m sure he will be a better man for it.”

De Vendenheim smiled grimly. “Perhaps, but it will likely make him angry,” he warned. “Still, we do owe Kem for his work in that smuggling case.”

“Pray do not give it a second thought.” Peel drew a sheet of letter paper from his drawer and began to scratch out a note.

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