The Confessions of a Duchess Read Free Page A

persuaded to allow him some much-needed leave. But Liverpool had another plan.
    “Need you to go to Yorkshire and deal with some damned murdering criminal,” Lord Liverpool had said, snapping a quill pen irritably between his fingers and casting the parts aside with a muttered curse. “You remember the death of Sir William Crosby, Anstruther?”
    “Yes, my lord,” Dexter said. Sir William Crosby, a Yorkshire magistrate, had shot himself whilst out hunting a month before. “I thought,” he added, “that that had been an accident?”
    Lord Liverpool shook his head. “Murder,” he said, with gloomy relish. “It was dressed up to look like an accident but Crosby was left-handed and the angle of the bullet made it impossible for him to have tripped and fallen. Blasted nuisance, but the fact is that these black-guards can’t be allowed to get away with it.”
    “Quite, my lord,” Dexter said. “But if it is a straightforward case of murder, surely this is a matter for the local constable rather than the Guardians—” He stopped as Liverpool shook his head crossly and reached for another quill to decimate.
    “Can’t allow some bungling local official to deal with this, Anstruther,” he had barked. “It’s complicated. Warren Sampson may be involved. Crosby was investigating some business that implicated Sampson when he died. Convenient, eh?” Dexter pursed his lips on a soundless whistle. That did put a different complexion on matters. For several years there had been rumors that Warren Sampson, a disgustingly rich Yorkshire mill owner and businessman, was involved in stirring up civil unrest and sedition in the North of England. Sampson was clever about it and there was nothing that could be pinned on him; he worked through intermediaries and it was thought that he encouraged mill riots so that he could steal business from his rivals and that he had perpetrated various insurance frauds and other swindles. Lord Liverpool was near apoplectic because the authorities had been unable to trap Sampson.
    “There is a rumor that one of Sampson’s henchmen is a member of the local gentry,” Liverpool said disgustedly. “The bored son of some rustic squire looking for excitement and extra cash, perhaps. He may well be the murderer, Anstruther. The whole thing is a damned nuisance, but the case needs careful handling.”

    Dexter had sighed. “Do we have any idea of the location of this aristocratic delinquent, my lord?”
    “Sampson owns land around Peacock Oak and Fortune’s Folly,” Lord Liverpool said, “and Crosby lived close by. The trouble is that every petty criminal in the country is hanging out there at the moment. Natural enough when that dashed fool Monty Fortune has put about town the fact that he has made the place the marriage mart of England. The town is crowded with visitors and every villain for miles around wants to get their share of the spoils.”
    Dexter saw the problem. Even the impecunious fortune hunters who flocked to the village might have a watch or a snuffbox worth stealing and the homes of the rich heiresses would yield fine pickings. It was a temptation many criminals would not wish to resist and in amongst the petty thieves might lurk a more dangerous malefactor with Warren Sampson pulling his strings.
    “Whilst you are there you could also turn your attention to finding yourself a rich wife, Anstruther,” Lord Liverpool had added. “Don’t think that I don’t know your family finances are in a parlous state. Your mama can no more retrench than she could swim the Thames, your sisters need to be launched into society and your brothers are damned expensive to educate. You need to wed an heiress. Penniless men are vulnerable to blackmail and I cannot have that in a man working so closely with me.”
    “I would not dream of succumbing to blackmail, no matter how desperate my situation, my lord,” Dexter said coldly. He clenched his hands into fists to prevent himself from