The Duke Who Knew Too Much by Grace Callaway

ignorance. Devil take it, she ought to have fainted after a minute or two. Or slapped his bloody face.
    Instead, she’d tempted him ... melted for him.
    He still couldn’t believe that he’d kissed her, couldn’t believe how close he’d come to doing much more. If the bawd hadn’t interrupted, he might have found himself well and truly caught in the Parson’s snare for even his tarnished sense of honor wouldn’t permit him to deflower a virgin without accepting the consequences.
    He’d assumed that she’d come tonight to demand that he pay the matrimonial piper. The notion of being manipulated by her feminine wiles had enraged him. Savagely, he’d recalled how Laura had seduced him with virginal glances and shy smiles. Aye, he’d paid dearly for losing his head over a so-called innocent, and he’d sworn never to do it again.
    But apparently Miss Kent wasn’t interested in marrying him.
    This ought to have improved his disposition. For some reason, it infuriated him more .
    What does the chit have up her sleeve?
    ’Twas best to know one’s adversary. Waving a hand to the divan by the fire, he said caustically, “By all means, shower me with your pearls of wisdom.”
    With a huff, she went and perched on the cushions. He followed and took the adjacent wingchair. Despite his suspiciousness, he couldn’t help but notice how her velvet cloak set off her creamy skin and rosy lips—lips that he’d sampled. She’d tasted as delicious as she smelled, like an apple tart, wholesome and spicy sweet ...
    “I have a plan,” she announced, and he instantly grew warier. “For the last several months, I have been working at Kent and Associates, and I’ve learned something of the trade.”
    What the devil?
    He stared at her. “You have been employed ... as an investigator ?”
    She cleared her throat. “Not exactly. I was assisting my brother in more of, er, an organizational capacity. I have, however, learned the ins and outs of detection work. In fact, I recently solved a case on my own.”
    The chit was unbelievable. Cracked. Possibly unhinged.
    “As a female investigator,” she went on in a determined manner, “I may be uniquely positioned to assist you.”
    Specific positions in which she could assist him flitted through his head.
    Scowling, he said, “That is the most demented thing I’ve ever heard. What special female talents do you bring to bear, Miss Kent? Your skill wielding a reticule as a weapon? Or perhaps your remarkable ability to jump to the wrong conclusions?”
    “I already apologized for my mistake and have rectified it with the magistrates.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you always this difficult when someone tries to help you?”
    “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the experience,” he said shortly.
    He didn’t trust it either. The only one who’d ever tried to do anything for him was the dowager duchess, and he didn’t know which had been more stifling, his illness or Aunt Patrice’s overbearing anxiety.
    “That can’t be true,” Miss Kent said with a frown. “Everyone has relied upon another at some point. What about your mama?”
    “She died when I was young,” he said curtly.
    “Your papa then—”
    “I do not discuss my family.”
    She looked as if she might argue ... and apparently thought better of it. “Well, I am trying to help you,” she said, “and I’ve been thinking: according to the papers, Lady Clara was poisoned. Poison is oft said to be a woman’s weapon. Given that the victim was a woman as well, it seems that a female perspective is warranted in this case, don’t you agree?”
    He couldn’t resist bursting her little bubble. “The poison wasn’t intended for Clara. It was in my whiskey. She had the misfortune of drinking with me.”
    She blinked. “ You were poisoned too? But you’re ... not dead.”
    “Disappointed?” he said acidly.
    “The papers never mentioned—”
    “The fewer who know the better. I don’t want the