Ripped by Shelly Dickson Carr Page A

Duke of Twyford, was gazing out the window. He gulped down a large snifter-full of amber liquid, then a second, and a third, giving Katie time to scan the room.
    The ceiling of the duke’s study was high, with big windows overlooking a garden. In the center of the room stood a broad desk littered with papers, pipes, ink jars, quills, keys, cigars, banknotes, and loose coins. Around the walls, above the wainscoting, ran a line of medieval weapons—spears, war clubs, and devil masks—as well as big game trophies. Over the fireplace, where a steady blaze glowed, was a rhinoceros head, its marble eyes reflecting light from the flickering flames. Perched on either side of the chimney shelf sat two stuffed birds, a vulture and an eagle.
    Katie gave a little gasp of recognition. The vulture and eagle were the same ones collecting dust in an old trunk in Grandma Cleaves’s attic. Bald in patches and moth-eaten, they had been toys for Katie and Courtney when they were younger.
    When the duke swiveled around to face her, bitterness flared so intensely in his watery blue eyes, and his jowly, wrinkled face held such a sour expression, Katie forgot to curtsy.
    â€œSo it’s you,” he wheezed. “Spitting image of your mother.” He lowered his great bulk into a leather chair by the fire and motioned for her to take the seat opposite.
    Katie stepped over a pile of open ledgers on the floor covered in tobacco ash and sank into the massive club chair, the seat cushion of which sagged almost to the floor.
    â€œSinkhole of a chair, eh? Bloody nuisance.” The duke snatched up a black cigar from a side table and began examining it end to end. He bit off the tip, and with a loud grunt, spat it into the fireplace. “Do y’know the difference between a hyena and a police bobby?” he poked the unlit cigar in her direction.
    Katie kept her gaze fully directed on the duke and shook her head.
    â€œHumph!” He glowered. “The hyena has the more exalted moral character. Which is why”—he raised a clenched fist—“that son-of-a-sloth will never marry my granddaughter, not whilst there’s an ounce of breath left in me! What d’you say to that, eh?” He clamped watery blue eyes on Katie, as if daring her to contradict him.
    â€œMajor Brown will roast in hell before I allow him to marry my granddaughter. I’ll foil his every move, thwart him at every turn, that’s what I’ll do.”
    â€œBut you gave your word—” Katie blurted, then dug her fingernails into the leather armrests of the chair. “Er . . . um . . . I mean . . .”
    â€œDon’t gibber, girl! I detest gibbering. Doesn’t amount to a tinker’s curse what I promised the sorry son of—” During the thunderclap of silence, they stared at each other. “I told you that, did I?” he demanded suspiciously, and when Katie nodded, he made a face as though smelling a rotten egg. “Bah. I talk too much. Means nothing.”
    He rose and poured himself another drink from the crystal decanter by the window. “The unctuous blighter hasn’t a pauper’s chance in hell of rising in the CID. He’d have to solve an unsolvable case or catch a notorious criminal. What are the odds of that, m’girl, eh?” He ran the bulbous stopper of the decanter across his grey-whiskered chin.
    â€œBut we mustn’t underestimate Major Gideon Brown, no indeed,” the duke continued, brandishing the decanter above his head like a torch. “Tenacious as a bulldog and methodical to a fault— don ’ t I know it ! ” He swung the bottle back down and poured another drink. “Odds are, Major Brown is plotting a course of action as we speak. But we’ll beat him at his own game, eh?”
    In one gulp, the duke drained his brandy snifter, ending with a noise that sounded like “ Haaaaaa-ah ! ” as if he’d