Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(44)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Are you insane?” Makepeace hissed as Trevillion limped in. “Who’s this?”

“Trevillion, the man… I was telling you about.”

Makepeace looked outraged. “This man betrayed you!”

“I didn’t,” Trevillion replied with stiff dignity.

“Indeed?” Makepeace thrust out his face, a sarcastic smile twisting his lips. “Then why, pray tell, are you here, only hours after ’Pollo had to flee for his life from Harte’s Folly? How do you even know where I live when I’d never heard your name before this morning?”

“ ’Tisn’t my fault you’re not well informed,” Trevillion replied, his upper lip curling.

Apollo nearly banged his head against the wall. Naturally Trevillion would rather antagonize than explain. But with Trevillion’s next breath he was proven wrong.

“As for your first question,” Trevillion continued, “I’m here because a man who was under my command four years ago, when I arrested Lord Kilbourne, came to me. He informed me that he’d heard there’d been a raid on Harte’s Folly this morning, but that Lord Kilbourne had escaped. I arrived at your door, hoping you would know of Lord Kilbourne’s whereabouts, and,” he said, casting a significant glance Apollo’s way, “as it turned out, you did.”

“So you could arrest him anew!” Makepeace shouted.

“Had I wanted him arrested, he’d be languishing behind bars now,” Trevillion replied, hard.

Apollo stiffened at how easily Trevillion talked about putting him behind bars.

The door to Makepeace’s rooms opened and the Duke of Montgomery strolled in as casually as if he were entering an afternoon musicale.

“I say,” the duke drawled, “am I interrupting?”

“No, but you’re barging in uninvited to my rooms,” Makepeace snapped.

“It’s so tedious,” Montgomery sighed, “to have to wait for invitations and, I find, they often don’t come when you most want them to. Much easier to simply disregard formal invitations altogether. Good Lord, man,” he continued in the same bored tone, “haven’t you anywhere for guests to sit in this pigsty?”

“Invited guests are welcome to sit on the bed.” Makepeace pointed. “Uninvited guests are welcome to—”

“What are you… doing here, Your Grace?” Apollo asked hastily before Makepeace could finish his sentence—perhaps disastrously.

Montgomery slowly pivoted to him. “You’ve regained the use of your voice, Lord Kilbourne.”

Apollo impatiently inclined his head.

“How very fascinating,” Montgomery said as if Apollo were an exotic animal he’d never seen before.

“You’ve not answered… my question.”

Montgomery spread his elegant hands wide. “I heard you were in trouble and naturally I came to help.”

“You wanted to… help me,” Apollo said, flat.

“You are, after all, the gardener with the grand scheme for my pleasure garden.” Montgomery cocked his head whimsically.

“My pleasure garden,” Makepeace interjected.

Montgomery cast him an amused glance, but addressed Apollo. “Helping you, I admit, helps me as well, but I see no problem with that.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Apollo muttered.

“How did you know about Lord Kilbourne’s difficulties, may I inquire, Your Grace?” Trevillion asked quietly.

“Oh,” Montgomery murmured, bending to peer at the mechanical hen, “one hears these things.”

“Usually only if one has paid informants,” Trevillion said, very dry.

“They do help.” Montgomery straightened and smiled sweetly. “Now, if we’re done with the pleasantries, I suggest we discuss how we’re going to prove Lord Kilbourne’s innocence so he can get back to work on Harte’s Folly. I really must insist my garden be open for business by next spring, and this… hiccup… threatens to put the whole thing back months.” He made a moue of discontent. “I really shan’t have it.”

“My garden,” Makepeace muttered, but his heart was obviously no longer in it. He fetched the steaming teapot. “Right. Trevillion sit there”—he indicated his vacated chair—“you”—he pointed at the duke—“can sit on the bed or not at all. Now, who’s for tea?”

And a few minutes later they all had steaming—if mismatched—cups of tea in what had to be the oddest tea party Apollo had ever attended.

“Now then.” Makepeace slurped noisily at his teacup merely, Apollo suspected, to annoy the duke. He’d dumped half the contents of a rather fine gilded sugar bowl into his tea and it must have been like drinking treacle. “Let’s hear it. What’s your grand plan?”

Montgomery sniffed cautiously at his tea and took a very small, very delicate sip. Immediately his eyebrows shot up and he hastily set the teacup down on a pile of books. “Obviously we must find and expose the real murderer.”

“Obviously,” Makepeace drawled back.

The duke ignored that. “Am I to assume from Captain Trevillion’s presence that you’ve already made some inquiries?”

Apollo exchanged a glance with Trevillion and Apollo nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace, I have done some investigation into the matter.” The captain cleared his throat. “It seems Lord Kilbourne’s uncle, William Greaves, is in some debt to his grandfather’s, the earl’s, estate.”

Montgomery, who had been poking at his teacup, looked up at that. “Splendid! We have a viable candidate for a substitute murderer. Now to simply alert the authorities with a well-placed hint—”

“A hint about what, exactly?” Makepeace exploded. “We don’t have a scrap of real evidence that ’Pollo’s uncle did anything.”

“Oh, evidence is easily manufactured, I find,” the duke said carelessly as he dropped a marzipan orange into his tea. He watched it sink with interest.

There was a short, appalled silence.

The duke seemed to realize something was amiss. He glanced up, his blue eyes wide and innocent. “Problem?”

Fortunately it was Trevillion who replied. “I’m afraid we can’t simply manufacture evidence, Your Grace,” he said calmly but firmly. “We must discover the evidence naturally.”

“How tedious!” The duke actually pouted before assuming a rather alarmingly crafty expression. “It’ll take much less time my way, you comprehend.”