Page 5 of The Not So Perfect Duke

No, it cannot be.

The fates wouldn’t be that ironic, would they?

The detective was tall, close to six feet or maybe an inch shorter, with sandy hair, more golden than brown, light blue eyes, and sharp cheekbones. His gaze darted from the detective to his dead father and back again as there was a decided resemblance. The jawline, the shape of the eyes. Or it could be Damon’s overactive imagination.

Notwithstanding, this was not the time to bring up such a sensitive subject. “I thought the City of London Police would be attending this,” Damon stated distantly.

Evercreech shook his head. “This town house is just over the boundary, my lord. You will be dealing with the Metropolitan Police.”

“What transpired here, or do I want to know?” Damon asked.

“The young woman claims they were about to indulge in one of the duke’s favorite games, oxygen depletion, or as it’s known in certain circles, erotic asphyxiation. They had sex multiple times, and according to this woman, she no sooner placed the belt around his neck and attached it to the bedpost when he groaned and went very still. A heart attack, it’s assumed. We will know more once the police surgeon has a look at him.” The detective pointed to the woman cowering in the corner. “Do you know her, my lord?”

“No. My father had many sexual partners. I have never seen her before. Why do you conclude it was a heart attack?” It was surreal standing here having a conversation with his dead father, only a few feet away.

“There are no ligature marks around the throat or other signs of strangulation. So, it may have occurred, as the woman states. Sorry to question you here in the room, my lord, but I needed you to observe the scene so I could ask relevant questions.”

“And is that normal? An aroused state even in death?” Damon waved his arm toward the bed. Typical of his dissolute father, if nothing else.

“It can be, my lord. A doctor explained it to me once,” Evercreech replied, completely unruffled at the sight of the late duke. “Blood settles in the lower extremities when a person dies, swelling the dead tissue. Plus, he was no doubt in this state when he expired. It can happen to men when they are hanged. I’ve seen it, and it’s often referred to as angel lust.”

“Leave it to my father to die in such a way,” Damon muttered. Better to go in your sleep, in your eighties or even nineties. If a person was fortunate to live that long.

Not—this.

How humiliating. If Damon ever needed a reason to stem his nocturnal debaucheries—this was it. Not that he had been seeking such pleasures lately, and that stark and disturbing image of his dead father would haunt him for years. What a way to end one’s life.

“We will take a few photographs, then take the body to the morgue,” Evercreech said, pulling Damon from his morbid thoughts. “If you wish, my lord, you may have your father’s personal physician in attendance for the examination.”

“Yes, I will contact him.”

It struck Damon that he could involve Althea’s investigative agency immediately. Didn’t she and her sister have a competent police surgeon for such inquiries? “I may also have another doctor look into this. How do I contact you to make arrangements?”

Evercreech passed him a card. “I would be swift about it. We will be taking the corpse to St. Thomas’s Hospital, my lord. Or I suppose I should be addressing you as Your Grace?”

“It doesn’t matter. I suppose it is Your Grace, seeing he’s dead. I will make arrangements immediately. No one is to touch the body until my doctors attend. And the manner in which he was found is to be kept secret.”

The detective shrugged. “We try, but these things have a way of slipping out, Your Grace. Best be prepared for the scandal.”

“Scandal and I are old friends, Evercreech.”

Evercreech turned to attend the photograph session and confer with the other police officers. Damon stared at his father, waiting to feel anything.

Regret. Hate. A hint of sorrow.

There was nothing.

Damon backed up several steps until he rested against the wall. The bedroom door was ajar, voices drifted in from the hallway, and Damon leaned in to listen. The butler, MacClery, was talking to one of the uniformed coppers.

“His nibs will no doubt move in here. The Chellenham town house is larger and entailed.” MacClery stated. “And things will go on as before, for the son is near as bad as the father for depravity. You’ll be back here in no time at all, mark my words.”

The constable tsked in response.

“They are all alike, these nobs. One as bad as the other,” MacClery added. His Scottish burr was evident while conversing with the constable.

“True, that,” the man murmured in reply.

“I couldn’t stand the duke. He was a cruel, unfeeling bugger. And you can quote me on that. But I tolerated his verbal lashings, for he paid well for my silence. Well, he’s dead now; who bloody cares? The worms will get him soon enough,” MacClery spat.