The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Read online

  The Detective Duke

  Unexpected Lords Book 1

  Scarlett Scott

  The Detective Duke

  Unexpected Lords Book 1

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2021 by Scarlett Scott

  Published by Happily Ever After Books, LLC

  Edited by Grace Bradley

  Cover Design by EDH Professionals

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by law.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.

  www.scarlettscottauthor.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note on Historical Accuracy

  Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

  About the Author

  In memory of the wonderfully funny, wonderfully wonderful Maggie L.

  Chapter 1

  Late summer, 1886 Buckinghamshire, England

  Undoubtedly, most men would have been elated by the unexpected and wholly unlikely inheritance of a dukedom.

  Hudson Stone, formerly Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, turned ninth Duke of Wycombe, was not one of them.

  Feeling grim, he stared at the ledgers and correspondence spread across the desk, the numbers and letters and dire implications of which had long since begun to blur and lose their appeal. Hell. They had never held any appeal at all, if he were honest. He had not wanted to become a duke. All his life, he had wanted to solve crimes. He had dedicated himself to being the best damned detective possible.

  And then the eighth Duke of Wycombe, a hale, hearty, and distant cousin he had not known he possessed had taken a tumble from his horse.

  “Pray tell me, if you please, in plain speech, how bloody fucked I am, Saunders,” Hudson told the young steward facing him.

  At his admittedly impolite request, the steward winced. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

  “I beg yours,” he growled. Apparently, dukes did not use oaths, at least not in the presence of their hapless stewards. “Please cease referring to me as Your Grace. I prefer Stone. Wycombe if you must.”

  Saunders extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to mop his sweating brow. “Wycombe, then.”

  “Do I make you nervous, Saunders?” he asked, curious.

  The man averted his gaze. “Of course not.”

  He was lying, Hudson thought. He had conducted enough interviews with criminals to detect when a man was not being honest. Evading a man’s stare was a clear indication of guilt.

  “Hmm,” he gave a noncommittal hum. “Does the entire roof need to be replaced on this monstrosity?”

  “There is significant leakage in the eastern wing, and the—”

  “A simple yes or no answer shall suffice,” he interrupted, consulting his pocket watch.

  “Yes,” said Saunders, wiping his brow once more.

  The last Duke of Wycombe had passed away in spring. But the line of succession had been, apparently, rather murky thanks to old family rifts between the sixth Duke of Wycombe and his son, Hudson’s grandfather. Hudson had carried on with his life, solving a very important case earlier that summer. Ultimately, no amount of praying he would not be deemed next in line had saved him, and he had been forced to leave his post and settle his life in London before arriving in Buckinghamshire to a dilapidated estate, countless debts, and severely depleted coffers.

  But there was another matter facing him, one which was due to arrive in one quarter hour, that displeased him more than becoming the ninth Duke of Wycombe had. And that was no easy feat.

  Hudson flicked his pocket watch closed and returned it to his waistcoat. “Have you any estimates on the replacement?”

  Red stained the younger man’s cheekbones. “His Grace had not made attempts. I believe he was awaiting his nuptials.”

  Ah, yes. There it was. The eighth Duke of Wycombe had been betrothed to Lady Elysande Collingwood, whose fat dowry would have been the savior of the entire affair. But the poor fool had broken his neck before doing so. Of course, Hudson had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question. It was entirely possible that breaking one’s neck was a preferable alternative to marrying her.

  “Undoubtedly, the former duke was anticipating the coin his marriage would bring,” he said.

  Saunders cleared his throat. “I did not question the former duke concerning his decision. However, Brinton Manor is not profitable and has not been in years.”

  And none of the most recent dukes had done a damn thing about it. Not the eighth duke, and nor his father before him.

  Now, it would appear Hudson was tasked with being the sacrificial lamb. Best to prepare himself.

  “If you will excuse me, Saunders, I have an engagement.”

  “Of course, Your Gr—ahem, Wycombe. Sir.”

  Hudson sighed as he took his leave. He was accustomed to intimidating others. Doing so was his job. Strike that. It had been his job. Christ, he had loved every moment of being a part of Scotland Yard.

  In the hall beyond the study, he was greeted by a harried-looking housekeeper who informed him that his guest was early. Lady Elysande was accompanied by her mother, the Countess of Leydon, and her sister Lady Isolde. They were awaiting him in the golden salon, which connected to the gardens.

  Despite its lofty name, the golden salon was hardly palatial. And the Brinton Manor gardens were thoroughly overgrown and in desperate need of a head gardener, who had apparently been sacked on account of his expense some time ago. But none of that was what troubled Hudson the most.

  He hadn’t the slightest inkling what he was meant to do with guests. His grandfather’s lineage may have been aristocratic and born in the purple, but Hudson had cut his teeth in the ugly heart of London, and he had spent his time as an investigator in the seamiest parts of the East End, rising through the ranks.

  “What shall I do with them, Mrs. Grey?” he asked the housekeeper.

  “What shall you do with what, Your Grace?” she asked, looking as perplexed as she sounded.

  Not another Your Grace.

  He allowed himself the luxury of grinding his molars for a moment before responding. “The guests, Mrs. Grey. I confess I am not accustomed to hosting a countess and her daughters.”

  Hell, he was not accustomed to hosting anyone. He preferred solitude. His bachelor residence in London had not been large enough in size to host a damned mouse, even if he had wished it. Which he most certainly had not, and hardly because he fervently loathed rodents. Rather, quiet and peace and order
soothed him. People did not.

  “You will take tea with them of course, Your Grace,” said his housekeeper now.

  “Of course,” he agreed solemnly.

  And then what?

  Perhaps his confusion showed in his countenance, for Mrs. Grey added, “And then perhaps a turn about the gardens.”

  “The gardens resemble nothing so much as an overgrown thicket,” he pointed out.

  “There is yet a gravel path, Your Grace,” his housekeeper countered.

  So he supposed there was. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Grey.”

  He was meant to thank her, was he not? Curse it, he had no notion of how he was supposed to conduct himself. He was in Hades. It was certain.

  He turned on his heel and began striding toward the golden salon.

  “The salon is in the opposite direction, Your Grace,” Mrs. Grey called helpfully after him.

  He stopped, taking a moment to look around.

  “So it is.” He spun on his heel. “Thank you, madam.”

  Even neglected and in severe disrepair, Brinton Manor was damned massive. He still had yet to grow accustomed to the location of its nearly one hundred chambers. Nettled, Hudson stalked to the golden salon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he simply bolted over the threshold unannounced and stood there, watching the countess and her two daughters engaged in low, heated conversation. The countess was a handsome brunette dressed in lavender silk while one of her daughters possessed midnight hair and the other a lighter shade of brown.

  He swore he detected something that sounded remarkably like he cannot be as bad as rumor suggests before he cleared his throat, bringing attention to his presence in his own fashion.

  All three faces turned toward his, and he found himself falling into a pair of warm brown eyes. Striking eyes. Eyes which met and held his gaze.

  “Your Grace!” exclaimed the elder woman, drawing his stare back to her as she dipped into a flustered curtsy.

  The ladies flanking her followed suit.

  He held still for a moment, then bowed. A ducal bow? He thought not. Rather, his was the abbreviated bow of a man who was busy and possessed precious spare time for trifling matters such as social calls. However, he had to remember he was no longer Chief Inspector Stone.

  The reminder felt like a death itself.

  His death. Or at least, the death of the man he had been.

  “My lady,” he said. “Lady Elysande, Lady Isolde.”

  Lady Elysande, he presumed, was the one dressed in gray half mourning to honor her betrothed. Six months. Long enough, one supposed. If true, the intriguing gaze belonged to her. The other sister was dressed in pink, her gown bedecked with at least a dozen silk roses. Beside the subdued dress of her sister, Lady Isolde appeared frivolous.

  “We are very pleased to make your acquaintance at last,” the countess said, smiling.

  He wondered if she referred to his absence at the funeral, necessary since he had not been aware of the previous duke and most certainly not his death. But never mind any of that. There was a tension in the air. The countess and her daughters had paid this call not because they wished to exchange polite pleasantries amongst neighbors from nearby estates. Rather, they had done so for a reason.

  A very good one.

  The last Duke of Wycombe had died before Lady Elysande had become his bride. Now, she had arrived to betroth herself to the next duke.

  “Will you take tea?” he asked abruptly.

  “We would be delighted,” said the countess smoothly.

  Mrs. Grey, for all that her continued wages were not assured, was diligent. A tea tray appeared and tea was served. Hudson found himself ringed by three aristocratic females, arse on the edge of his seat, pretending to swill a beverage that was loathsome to him. Give him coffee—or whisky—any day instead.

  A stilted conversation ensued during which he was sure he said the wrong thing at least half a dozen times. The countess steered the conversation for her daughters. Lady Isolde was quiet. Lady Elysande studied him from beneath lowered lashes, lips pursed. They were pretty, those lips, but he did not like noticing. This entire affair left a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the tea and everything to do with finding himself forced into marriage.

  At long last, the countess suggested he take Lady Elysande on a brief stroll through the gardens. Lady Leydon would, naturally, remain behind with Lady Isolde, watching from the windows for propriety’s sake.

  Propriety.

  What a bloody lark that was.

  As if he were an automaton, Hudson rose, offering Lady Elysande his arm. Together, they left the stilted atmosphere of the shabby golden salon in favor of the late-summer sun and the overgrown gardens of Brinton Manor. They walked in silence until they reached a fountain which was not currently functional and stopped. Saunders had mentioned something about broken pipes, but then, nearly everything at Brinton Manor seemed to require replacing or fixing.

  In the absence of their shoes crunching on the gravel walk, the silence was almost deafening. Nothing but the call of birds. A breeze brought her scent to him, and it was pleasant. Lily of the valley, he thought.

  “The fountain does not work,” he announced.

  What the devil was he meant to do? Chief Inspector Hudson Stone did not squire ladies about in gardens. He did not press his suit or attempt to woo.

  But he supposed the Duke of Wycombe would.

  Pity he was now the latter instead of the former.

  “It is a beautiful fountain,” Lady Elysande said, the most words she had strung together at once since tea had begun.

  Her voice was pleasing. She seemed cordial enough. How to broach the topic of an unwanted marriage which was necessary to save this crumbling pile and all its people from penury?

  “It would undoubtedly be better if it contained water,” he observed.

  “But there is no water, and it is beautiful as it is. Why fret over the water’s absence?”

  He cast a glance in her direction, studying her profile. Everything about Lady Elysande was faultless. Almost too perfect. Her voice was well-modulated and sweet. Her gown was demure, her figure delightfully curved in all the right places. Her face was undeniably lovely.

  He did not like her.

  Hudson turned back to the fountain. “That is not pragmatic of you, Lady Elysande. One must fret over water where there should be some and things that are broken which require repair or replacing.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not intend to vex you.” She turned toward him with a sunny smile pinned to the lips he had grudgingly admired over tea.

  She was impeccably pleasant. He felt like an ogre in comparison. Her continued politeness and cheer nettled. Best to get this business done. He hardly had the time to tarry in the ruined gardens.

  “I need to marry,” he told her abruptly.

  She did not appear surprised. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  What was this nonsense with the forms of address? He disliked it immensely.

  “You were betrothed to the former Duke of Wycombe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you an understanding with anyone else?”

  She was still smiling, her beauty taking on an ethereal quality.

  This, too, annoyed him.

  “I do not, Your Grace,” Lady Elysande said.

  Good enough, he supposed, tamping down his resentment. “Would you object if I spoke to your father?”

  The smile deepened, and she was even prettier now. He had the vague impression her previous smiles had been false and that this one alone was real.

  “That would be wonderful, Your Grace.”

  Wonderful was not how he would describe the prospect of such an interview. An ill feeling settled in his stomach. He had to do this, he reminded himself. He had no choice.

  “Shall we return to your mother and sister?” he asked, flicking another glance toward the empty fountain, a symbol of why he had proposed marriage to a lady h
e had only just met.

  “Of course,” she obligingly agreed.

  But then, everything about Lady Elysande was so bloody obliging. Fortunately, he had no intention of having a real marriage with her. When they were wed, they could happily carry on with their separate lives.

  He escorted her back to the golden salon in grim silence.

  The carriage ride back to Talleyrand Park began in silence punctuated by the rumbling of the carriage wheels on the terribly pitted Brinton Manor drive. The thoroughfare, like the rest of the estate, was in a tragic state of decline. But that was why Elysande had come.

  Life, like a machine, was composed of parts. The parts needed to be aligned, the outcome not assured until all components functioned together. But even then, nothing was certain. Through a series of trials, errors, prototypes, testing, and trying anew, the ultimate objective was achieved.

  That was one of the many life tenets Elysande had learned from her father.

  The components in this instance were clear. A ruined manor house. A squandered fortune. A newly inherited duke who was every bit as forbidding, brooding, and ragged about the edges as the rumors had suggested. Not just a London man, but a man who had lived a common life—the utter scandal! Not that Elysande particularly cared about the latter. Éclat did not concern her.

  But her future did, and so did her sister’s future. Isolde wanted to marry her beloved, The Honorable Mr. Arthur Penhurst. But to do so, she needed to wait until Elysande was settled. There is a proper order for everything, Papa had told Elysande when she had objected to her parents’ antiquated edict that she must marry as eldest Collingwood daughter before Isolde could. But she was also excellent at solving problems, and she had settled upon the solution for The Marriage Dilemma, as she had come to think of it, when the former Duke of Wycombe had come to call at Talleyrand Park.