Death Comes to London (8 page)

“Thank you, Major.” She gathered her skirts. “If you would be so kind as to tell my aunt where I’ve gone, I would be most obliged.”

She turned away just as the dowager stood up again to confront Lady Bentley and Miss Chingford, who converged upon her.

“And what do you two want? Do you think I have time to listen to—”

With a strangled sound the dowager clutched at her throat and started to fight to breathe. Her face contorted and she fell forward, her cane clattering to the floor as she writhed and twitched like burning parchment and finally went still.

Around them the ball went on. Only those in the immediate vicinity seemed to realize that something was amiss. Robert went down on his knees and grasped the dowager’s thin wrist. He bent even closer to observe her chest and finally stared into her wide black eyes.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

Miss Harrington knelt opposite him. Robert swallowed hard and raised his gaze to hers. He’d seen many die, but not in such bizarre surroundings as a ballroom. It made the sight even more obscene.

“She’s dead.”

“She
can’t
be.”

“Fetch Broughton and his mother and see if we can find a physician.”

Chapter 5

D
espite the shock of the dowager’s death, Robert still had to present himself at Carlton House the next morning. His hackney cab pulled up at the guarded entrance to the palace. The prince’s popularity with the general population was at an extremely low ebb, and since a mob had attacked him in January, he feared for his life. Robert produced the letter he’d received from Sir John McMahon and was waved through into a more secure courtyard at the rear of the property.

He wasn’t allowed to wander, though, and was escorted through the lavish apartments of the prince’s main residence until he was delivered to the private secretary’s offices. As the footman knocked on the door and was granted admittance, Robert straightened his uniform and removed his hat. In terms of influence, the Prince Regent’s secretary was at the pinnacle of power. He controlled all access to the virtual ruler of the country. One word from him could make a man’s career or break him.

For a wild moment Robert considered asking Sir John if he could decline the honor and then dismissed it. The prince would consider it an insult and despite his own personal feelings as to the current monarch, Robert was a great respecter of authority.

“Major Kurland. Please sit down.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Robert took the offered seat, set his hat on his knee, and rested his cane against the side of the chair. Sir John sat down, too, his sharp gaze moving over Robert. He was a stout, older man with faded brown hair and a rather mottled purple complexion.

“You are still recovering from the injuries you sustained at Waterloo?”

“Yes, Sir John.” Robert indicated his left leg. “My horse fell on top of me. I broke my leg in several places.”

“So I was informed. You were lucky to survive.”

“That’s true, although I doubt I’ll see active service again. My leg cannot support me properly anymore.” It was still hard for him to say those words, but he’d decided he had to. It stopped him pretending that things would get better, and reminded him of the daily struggle simply to remain mobile.

“You intend to sell out?”

“It’s already in hand, sir.”

Sir John read something from the top piece of paper on the stack on his desk. “You have a property on the Suffolk-Essex border?”

“That’s correct, sir. Kurland Hall in the village of Kurland St. Mary.”

Sir John smiled. “The Prince Regent was very taken with the tale of your heroic actions.”

“With all due respect, I hardly did anything that remarkable. In battle one does what is necessary to survive.”

“You did a lot more than that.” Sir John held up a sheaf of letters. “These are all recommendations from fellow officers.”

“That’s very . . . humbling, sir.” Robert wanted to squirm in his seat like a schoolboy. “I still insist that what I did was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Which is exactly why the Prince Regent wishes to meet you and ennoble you.” He consulted a leather-bound book. “Will you be available later today?”

“Of course, Sir John.”

Sir John rose. “Then I will look forward to introducing you to his majesty.”

Robert stood and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

At least he wouldn’t have to wait around for too much longer. He’d already seen his tailor, his banker, and his man of business, and knew his fortune was safe and his financial credit good enough to fund the money needed for the large-scale agricultural improvements to the Kurland estate. He couldn’t wait to get back there and inhale the fresh wind blowing in from the coast and the tartness of a spring morning.

When he reached Fenton’s he paid off the hackney cab and made his way up the stairs to his room. Foley was bustling around in his bedchamber laying his clothes out on the bed.

“I wish you’d communicate your plans to me, Major. How am I supposed to get you all packed up before the Broughton carriage returns?”

“What?”

Foley gave him a reproachful stare. “The Countess of Broughton sent a message that you were moving into Broughton House today.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.” He frowned. “And why would they want me there when there’s just been a death in the family?”

“Well, the lady seemed quite convinced that she needed you and it was hardly my place to disagree with her.” Foley paused as he folded Robert’s long starched cravats into a neat pile. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind. I’m almost done!”

Robert sighed. “I suppose we might as well go. It will certainly help me to keep an eye on Broughton and ward off Miss Chingford.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“It’s of no matter.” Robert waved his hand at the bed. “Carry on.”

Robert handed his hat to the butler at the Hathaways’ residence and slowly climbed the stairs to the drawing room on the first floor. It wasn’t the correct time of day to pay a call, but he assumed the Harringtons and the Hathaways would be too keen to hear his news to worry about such social niceties.

“Major Kurland, ma’am.”

As he’d expected, they were all there, clustered around one of the scandal sheets that proliferated in the city streets. He was always amazed at how quickly the printers managed to discover and distribute the latest gossip about the upper classes. Miss Harrington turned to him and put down the sheet she’d been reading aloud from.

“Good morning, Major Kurland. How are the Broughtons bearing up on this sad day?”

He took the chair opposite her and surreptitiously stretched out his left leg to the warmth of the fire. His muscles were aching on such a damp morning and every step was a jarring agony.

“I believe they are still rather shocked. And just to make matters worse, Broughton was taken ill last night and the family physician was called to the house.”

“Oh
dear,
” Anna said. “Is he all right?”

“The doctor was still with him when I left, but I believe he was on the mend.” He hesitated. “The Countess of Broughton asked me if I’d stay at the house while Broughton was ill. I could hardly say no.”

“Of course you couldn’t. She will need your support.” Miss Harrington took off her spectacles and held up the long sheet of paper. “Have you seen what the scandal sheets are saying?”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“They are suggesting that Miss Chingford deliberately enraged the dowager countess to cause her death and that she laughed afterward and”—she consulted the sheet—“danced the night away without a care practically on the dowager’s grave.”

Robert snorted. “If anything killed that woman, it was her own spite and venom.”

“Miss Chingford will be mortified to have her name associated with such a terrible tragedy.”

“I doubt it will bother her in the slightest.”

“Then you don’t understand how precious a woman’s reputation is in this very judgmental world.”

“Are you defending Miss Chingford, Miss Harrington?”

“I suppose I am.” She hesitated. “While you were dealing with the Broughtons last night, I spoke to the physician who confirmed the dowager’s death.”

“And?”

“He said that it seemed odd to him that the dowager had died like that.”

“Of a heart attack?”

She frowned. “No one mentioned the dowager had a weak heart.”

“Broughton told me she was not in the best of health, that’s probably what he meant. Miss Harrington, are you trying to make a scandal out of nothing?”

“Of course not, Major!” She hesitated. “Although it does seem unfair that Miss Chingford might have to bear the stigma of causing another’s death through no fault of her own. Lady Bentley might be considered equally to blame.”

“Miss Chingford has a family to protect her, and this ‘scandal’ will be forgotten as soon as someone else in society does something untoward—and you can guarantee they will.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Miss Harrington said. “Is the Broughton family receiving visitors? Mayhap you could take us back with you to offer our condolences.”

“I suspect Broughton is still too unwell to receive anyone, but I will pass on your regards and your request.” He rose to his feet and leaned hard on his cane to regain his rocky balance. “I’ll call when I have more news on the patient.”

Miss Harrington stood, too. “I’ll come down the stairs with you, Major, if I may. I have to speak to the butler.”

She followed him out, slowing her pace to allow him time to get down the stairs. In the hallway he paused to pick up his hat from the table and turned to find her still studying him.

“How is your leg bearing up?”

He scowled at her. “It’s perfectly fine. The cold air just makes it a little stiff in the mornings.”

She nodded. “Ask Foley to rub some warm oil into your skin every night. It will help relieve the pain.”

“As if I’d let Foley anywhere near my leg,” he snapped. “I’m perfectly fine, Miss Harrington, and no longer trapped in my bed where you can bully me.”

She folded her hands and looked at him. “Have you ever noticed that you become far more difficult whenever you are in pain? I have, and that is the only reason why I am willing to forgive your offensive tone.”

He rammed his hat on his head and saluted her. “Good
day,
Miss Harrington.”

Turning to the door, he made his halting way across the marbled hall.

Her voice followed him. “If you don’t want Foley massaging your leg, ask him for a hot cloth to place over your thigh.”

“Damned interfering woman,” Robert muttered as he barely managed the steps outside without falling. The fact that a hot compress on his leg sounded vastly appealing simply made matters worse. She had no right to dictate to him.

His temper remained sour on his journey back to Broughton House and was not improved when he was immediately asked to go up and meet the countess in her morning parlor. All he wanted was a hot bath and a shot of brandy to help withstand the pulsing agony in his thigh. He was due at Carlton House later, so he couldn’t even put himself to bed.

The countess was alone in the small morning room. The velvet curtains remained shut, leaving the room in half darkness. As his hostess had also chosen to don a black gown, it was difficult to see her clearly. Robert bowed and remained standing in front of her chair.

“Lady Broughton, how may I help you?” He hesitated. “If you wish me to return to my hotel in this time of sorrow, I will leave immediately.”

“Oh no, please don’t go.” The countess brought out her handkerchief and inwardly Robert tensed. Dealing with crying females was one of his least favorite occupations. “With Broughton sick, and Oliver disappeared, you are the only man I can turn to.”

“Oliver has
disappeared?
”

“Well, I have no notion where he is, and his bed wasn’t slept in last night.”

“Does he even know that his grandmother died? I seem to remember him leaving the ball before anything occurred. Perhaps he is staying at an acquaintance’s house and has no idea what is going on.” He paused. “Do you wish me to inquire?”

“That’s very kind of you, but Oliver isn’t my main concern.”

“Then, how may I help you?”

The countess dabbed at her pale cheeks. “The stupid new physician that Broughton
insisted
should replace our old one declares that Broughton might have been poisoned!”

“Poisoned?”

“Yes, I know it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But he is determined to speak to you about it.”

“Now?”

“The sooner the better, he said. Although what there is to remember, or forget, about what Broughton was doing last night when one was forced to watch a horrible old woman choke to death on her own venom is hardly worth noting.”

A note of hysteria crept into the countess’s voice and Robert took a step backward. “Shall I fetch your abigail, my lady? You seem rather distraught.”

“No, no, I’m perfectly fine.” She raised her head. “Would you speak to the wretched man? He doesn’t want to tell Broughton what he suspects until he is feeling more the thing.”

“I’ll certainly speak to him, my lady. Is he still on the premises?”

“Yes, he’s upstairs with Broughton.”

“Then I’ll go up to them and hopefully I’ll be able to set your mind at rest.”

The countess rose and gripped his hand with both of hers. “Thank you, Major.”

“It’s nothing, my lady. I’m just glad to be of service in this difficult time.”

He disentangled himself from her frantic grip and headed for the door and up yet another flight of stairs. At least now when he was finished with this nonsense he could escape directly to his own bedchamber, which was on the same floor.

The door to Broughton’s suite of rooms was slightly ajar. Robert knocked anyway and went inside to find a man pacing in front of the fire.

“Are you the consulting physician?” Robert asked. “You look younger than I expected.”

“I’m Dr. Redmond.” The man came to a halt and bowed. “I only recently qualified.”

“Oh dear.” Robert leaned heavily on his cane. “Now what’s all this nonsense about Lieutenant Broughton being poisoned?”