Seated at a worn wooden table outside of the Goat and Goose, the fickle sun warming his face as he nursed a pint of ale, Alex could convince himself all was right with the world.
That morning, he’d persuaded his friend, the Marquess of Darberville—Darby to Alex—to accompany him to a reputable shop on Crawford Street where he placed an order for a new coach. Mr. Dodd’s conveyances were widely touted as the finest in all of London.
And yet the coach Alex had commissioned from the same man a mere three years ago was likely being used for kindling at that very moment. Little had been salvageable after his accident—only a heap of splintered wood, bent wheels, and broken axles remained. It was a miracle that he, the driver, and one of the horses had survived. Alex had to put down the other animal—a memory that would forever haunt him.
But the possibility that someone else could have been traveling in the coach with him that day troubled him even more. Darby could have been accompanying him, or his grandmother … even Miss Lacey.
He’d joined his grandmother and her feisty companion for breakfast that morning and nearly scalded himself with coffee when his grandmother announced that his new vehicle should be a vivid shade of purple, a royal and therefore supremely respectable hue. She ultimately—and fortunately—had a change of heart and settled upon midnight blue. Miss Lacey may have helped him dodge that particular bullet by commenting that she thought dark blue to be both classic and perfectly masculine.
In any case, the coach was ordered, and the least he could do was buy Darby a couple of drinks.
As Alex rolled his shoulders and took a long draw on his pint, he contemplated telling his friend about the intriguing Miss Lacey—that she was his grandmother’s new companion and that he’d made a devil’s bargain with her. But doing so would likely spark a host of questions Alex wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. It wasn’t that he kept secrets from Darby—in fact, he trusted no one more.
But he didn’t feel like sharing Miss Lacey just yet. Especially not with an affable, highly eligible bachelor who’d probably never suffered the humiliation of a minor blemish, much less ghastly burn scars.
As it turned out, Darby launched the conversation first—in an entirely different direction.
“Have you figured out who the hell’s trying to kill you?” His friend grinned as he swiveled his torso and looked around the otherwise empty courtyard. “Or should I don my armor and raise my shield while in your company?”
Alex shrugged. “Do what you must. It’s every man for himself.”
His friend guffawed. “Until you require help.”
Alex nodded. “Exactly.” Alex stared at the thin ring of foam floating on his ale. “I’ve been thinking. What are the chances that my illness and the coach accident were mere coincidences?”
Darby snorted. “Not bloody likely. First, you’re poisoned at the club. Then, your coach axle mysteriously breaks a few weeks later? Something sinister is afoot.”
“Maybe I wasn’t really poisoned. The brandy I was drinking might have turned bad, or I might have simply taken ill.”
“Balderdash. A valiant attempt to explain away unpleasant facts. You’re as healthy as an ox, and the symptoms came on too suddenly to blame sickness. Besides, my drink came from the same decanter as yours.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Darby leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You were green and convulsing, for God’s sake. Face it. Someone slipped something foul into your drink.”
“I remember.” He didn’t, actually, but he’d take Darby’s word for it. Alex had felt like death for three straight days, and the doctor had said he was lucky to have survived.
Alex thought he was rather unlucky to have been poisoned.
Once he’d finally managed to haul his ass out of his sickbed, he’d gone back to his club, searching for witnesses and possible clues—but turned up nothing.
“I’ll admit poisoning is the most likely cause,” Alex said, “but the coach accident—”
“Was no accident.” Darby stared thoughtfully into his ale. “You saw Dodd today. I thought the vein in his forehead was going to burst at the mere suggestion that an axle on one of his coaches could have been faulty. His reputation is solid. If there was a problem with your axle, someone must have tampered with it.”
Alex cursed. “My staff would never allow such a thing.”
“Anyone could have sneaked into your coach house at night,” Darby countered. “Or, some miscreant could have taken a hacksaw to it while you were at a house party or the opera or some bloody ball. There’s no telling how long you were driving around with it on the brink of snapping.”
“True. Alfred, my driver, inspected it regularly, but his eyesight’s not what it used to be.”
“Jesus, Alex. You have a driver with bad eyesight?”
“I recently saw him offering a bowl of fish scraps to a rat in the stables—he called it Kitty. But he’s been a loyal employee for years. I can’t cast him aside just because he doesn’t see as well as he used to.”
Darby raised his brows, disbelieving. “You might consider a different position for him—or buy him some damned spectacles.”
“I offered, but that only got Alfred’s feathers ruffled.”
Darby swallowed the last gulp of his ale and signaled the barmaid for another. “I’m glad we took my coach today.”
Alex had bigger worries than his driver’s stubbornness, however. Until he figured out who was trying to kill him, he was going to be looking over his shoulder every time he left the house. And worrying about the safety of anyone who was with him.
“I can’t understand why someone would want me dead,” he mused. “Whoever it is should just challenge me to a duel and be done with it.”
“Maybe he fears you’d put a bullet through his head.”
Fair point, although Alex was more likely to aim for a shoulder or knee. “So he’s a coward.”
“Unless he has a good reason to remain anonymous,” Darby said. “Who are your enemies?”
“That’s a loaded question.” Alex dragged a hand down his face. He’d rankled his fair share of the ton, for a couple of reasons. First, he detested small talk. Standing around and exchanging pleasantries was akin to torture. Still, his lack of social graces, in and of itself, shouldn’t incite the kind of anger that drove someone to murder.
Second, his reputation as an unapologetic rake had infuriated—even threatened—many a husband. Yes, jealous husbands were probably the logical place to start.
“Lord Newton doesn’t like me much.” An understatement, to be sure. The viscount was under the impression that Alex had seduced his wife. Understandable, since Lady Newton herself had whispered throughout London’s ballrooms the salacious stories of Alex’s expertise at lovemaking. She claimed she’d been powerless to resist his charms—that no woman could.
Which wasn’t quite true.
But facts mattered little to the ton. What mattered was that the tale had been circulated and that it was believed to be true.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t called you out already.” Darby smiled appreciatively at the barmaid as she thrust her impressive cleavage close to his face and set a fresh pint on the table in front of him.
“And publicly admit he’s a cuckold? He’s too proud for that.”
Darby nodded thoughtfully. “Newton could be the one trying to kill you. Although, I can’t see him getting his hands dirty. He’d hire some lowlife to do the job.”
“Not exactly comforting.”
“Whoever the scoundrel is, he’s already proved he’s not the cleverest bloke. He’s botched the job twice.”
“Right. You know what they say about the third time.”
The smile slipped from Darby’s face, and his expression turned sober. “We’ll keep an eye on Newton. Who else wants you dead?”
“Haversham owes me five thousand pounds. A friendly game of vingt-et-un at his house party last month turned nasty. He played too deep one night, lost, then accused me of cheating. I reached across the table and punched him.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Darby let out a long whistle. “Must have made for an uncomfortable scene at breakfast the next morning.”
“I left that night—out of respect for Lady Haversham.”
Darby snapped his head up and quirked a brow. “Did you and she…?”
“God no. But not for a lack of trying on Lady Haversham’s part.” Alex shrugged noncommittally, and Darby chuckled.
“Five thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money.”
Alex snorted. “The bastard has plenty in his coffers.” Or at least he made a good show of pretending he did.
“So, Haversham hates you too,” Darby said, adding him to a mental list. “Wait a minute.” He blinked as though mentally scolding himself. “We’re overlooking the most obvious question of all.”
“Which is?”
“Who has the most to gain from your death? Who stands to inherit your title and wealth—which must rival Midas’s by now?”
Alex shook his head. “My second cousin, Richard Coulsen. He’s a stand-up fellow. Doesn’t even live in London.”
Darby squinted as he reached into the recesses of his memory. “Ah, yes … I know him. Claville’s steward. Decent sportsman. I met him at the marquess’s house party. But living away from London doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of orchestrating a murder.”
“Could we avoid using the word murder?” Alex said, cringing. “It’s putting a damper on my uncharacteristically good mood. Besides, I’ve never known Coulsen to be anything but honorable. In fact, he might be a little too decent for my liking.” Every man should have a few vices.
“Duly noted,” Darby said thoughtfully. “I’m merely pointing out that you are the only thing standing between him and a dukedom. Some might consider that motive enough to commit mur—er, to commit a crime. If you think him such a paragon, however, we won’t include him on the list. Even so, you’ve no shortage of detractors, have you?”
Alex smiled like he didn’t care in the least what people thought of him.
But sometimes, having people constantly assume the worst about him grew tiresome. Even Darby thought him an unrepentant seducer of innocents. It wasn’t his friend’s fault—Alex had never bothered to correct the assumptions or quell the rumors.
Because playing the part of the villain had perks. His formidable reputation served him well, and more often than not, people left him to his own devices. No one got too close or asked too many questions. No one saw beyond the carefully cultivated image of a cold, heartless rake.
And that was precisely the way he wished it.