Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion (17 page)

Amos managed a curt nod. “If she knew her father was doing something like this, she had good reason not to reveal the connection.”

“Good point,” Zach agreed “And an equally good question we ought to ask ourselves is why was he murdered if he was in league with the thieves? You said yourself, Romsey, if Brooke made the pieces, they were worth a lot more than if any other jeweller fashioned them.”

“That’s true, and as to why he was murdered, I cannot say,” Romsey replied. “Maybe he had a fit of conscience and said he would no longer play along.”

“We need to talk to Miss Brooke,” Zach said, flexing his jaw. “Find out what, if anything, she knows. I thought you would want to be included, Amos, since you know the lady better than any of us.”

Amos walked towards the mantelpiece and leaned one arm against it, his back to the room. “She made the jewellery for our mother herself,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. “I would stake my fortune on that. But,” he added, turning to face his brother and the earl, “that doesn’t mean she has anything to do with this mess.”

“When Winchester told me she was here, and you suspected her of making jewellery and being involved with a cove by the name of Reece, it rang alarm bells. You see, the new pieces made by Brooke necessarily dried up after his death.” Romsey paused, his expression sombre. “Then, about a month ago, a few more appeared.”

“How do you know?” Amos challenged. “They could have been made by Brooke before he was killed.”

“Oh, I have a network of spies in all sorts of places, and I know for a fact the pieces in question were commissioned after Brooke died. I actually spoke to a lady who owns an emerald bangle. She has no idea the gems in it were stolen, and I did not enlighten her. I don’t want the rogues behind the scheme to know we are on to them. Once Brooke died, his designs became even more sought after, you see, which could be another reason why he was killed. Anyway, the woman’s husband was told when he made enquiries about a Brooke emerald bangle, it was one of the last items the designer made before his death.”

“Making it that much more valuable,” Zach said with a sardonic smile.

“Quite, but we happen to know it was made after his demise. We checked his workshop and there were no finished pieces there.” Romsey sighed. “If it was just this one piece, I might accept it was genuine, but others have appeared since then. To the uneducated eye they appear to be Brooke’s handiwork, but experts tell me they were not made by him.”

“Whom did the man commission the emerald bangle from?” Amos asked. “Surely, you can pressure him to say where it came from.”

“A respectably established jeweller, who readily gave me particulars of the man who sold it to him.” Romsey shrugged. “That left us chasing shadows, of course. The seller was nowhere to be found, and his name meant nothing to me.” He thumped the arm of his chair with his clenched fist. “It’s damned frustrating. We’ve been chasing our tails for months but these people are well-organised, ruthless, and very good at covering their tracks. I still don’t know the name of the traitor who stole the loot and had all those good men killed, but I won’t rest until I find out.”

“All right, Zach,” Amos said, shaking his head. “Send for Miss Brooke. Let’s hear what she has to say for herself.”

***

After the rigours of watching the cricket, and Crista’s rather unfortunate involvement in the outcome of the game, the ladies moved into the house to take tea in a small sitting room. They had not been there for long when a footman appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat.

“The duke’s compliments, Miss Brooke. His grace requests you attend him in his study at your convenience.”

“You mean he told you to fetch Miss Brooke without delay,” Lady Annalise said, grinning. “Zach never requests, he demands.”

The footman’s lips quirked. “Quite so, my lady.”

“Good heavens.” Lady St. John raised a speculative brow. “Don’t allow his grace to ring a peel over you for interfering in their wretched game, Miss Brooke.”

“Zach is more likely to reward Miss Brooke for giving our side the victory,” Lady Portia said with a wry smile.

“Excuse me, ladies.” Crista stood up, trying not to show how nervous she felt at this unexpected summons, wondering what the duke could possibly want with her. “If I survive the experience, I hope to see you all again very soon.”

“If you do not reappear, we shall come and rescue you,” Lady Annalise assured her. “Zach will not bully you in front of us.”

“Thank you.” Crista managed to smile. “That is most reassuring.”

The footman preceded her along several corridors. Crista felt a nervous premonition with every step she took, quelling the urge to flee in the opposite direction. She was relieved when her guide stopped in front of a door before she could act upon the impulse. He opened the door and stood back to allow Crista to walk through it. She straightened her spine and did precisely that, expecting to find the duke waiting to receive her alone. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Amos and Lord Romsey there, too. All three gentlemen stood up when she walked in, looking exceedingly sombre.

“What is it?” she asked, filled with panic, conscious of her heart racing. “Has something happened to my uncle?”

“Please take a seat, Miss Brooke,” the duke replied calmly. “To the best of my knowledge nothing untoward has occurred that affects your uncle.”

Relieved on that score, Crista perched on the edge of a chair, wondering why Lord Amos seemed so determined not to look at her. She was not left in ignorance for long and listened, with growing despair, to Lord Romsey’s reasons for being there.

“Ah, so you know.”

“You.” Lord Amos looked horrified. “You really are involved in all this?”

“No. Yes.” She shook her head, feeling giddy, relieved, horrified—a whole maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Miss Brooke,” the duke said, not unkindly. “Explain everything you know.”

“Well, my father and Uncle Charles are brothers−”

“Excuse me interrupting, Miss Brooke,” Lord Romsey said. “But I assumed Chesney was your mother’s brother.”

“No, their mama, my paternal grandmother married twice, first to a Mr. Chesney, then Mr. Brooke. Technically Mr. Chesney is my half-uncle, I suppose.”

“I see. Pray continue.”

“My grandfather Brooke was a jeweller by trade and apprenticed both my father and Uncle Charles to that same trade.” She paused. “To Matthew Boulton in Soho.”

The duke and Lord Romsey obviously knew the name and appeared impressed. Lord Amos stood statue-like, jaw clenched, square and unmoving, as though she had not spoken. He could not have made his disappointment more evident, and she died a little inside when she realised she had lost his friendship and respect.

“Both men excelled, but my father showed exceptional ability. His reputation grew, and he set up his own business, first in small premises in Soho, then in Bond Street. He became quite well known. Very well known. There was hardly a society lady who did not crave a Brooke original, and as his reputation grew so too did his fortune. His company was craved in all sorts of elevated circles he might not ordinarily have frequented.” She paused to moisten her lips. “That is how he met my mother. Her father commissioned a pendant for her birthday. She was so delighted with it that she insisted upon meeting Papa and thanking him in person.”

“Would you like some water, Miss Brooke?” the duke asked politely.

“No, I would prefer to talk about this. I
want
to talk about this. It needs to be spoken about.” She addressed the comment to Lord Amos, but might as well have saved her breath for all the reaction she got from him. “My mother, unlike me, is very beautiful. If you listen to her on the subject, she will tell you she was feted by lords and heirs to great fortunes when she was a girl, but she chose my father, causing her family to disinherit her.”

“Her family?” the duke clarified.

“Oh, she is the youngest child of Viscount Woolford of Hertfordshire. The youngest and the only girl out of six. She was spoiled, allowed to have her way in everything, and so did not believe her father was sincere in his intention to disinherit her. Besides, she was in love with my father, or so she believed, and love would conquer all.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course, it did not, and when she found her father
was
in earnest, and society’s doors were closed to her as a consequence, she missed what she had once taken for granted.”

The duke grunted. “I can well imagine.”

“To begin with, the marriage went well. Papa was feted by society and Mama basked in reflected glory, enjoying all the parties and entertainments they were invited to. Mama still expected to live in style, ever hopeful she would be granted a reprieve by her family, especially if she and Papa, the golden couple of the moment, were seen in all the right places.”

“But the viscount held firm?” the earl suggested.

“Yes, I have never met him, but I understand he is the last word in stubbornness. Mama had brought his family’s name into disrepute by marrying a tradesman and could not be forgiven.” Crista sighed. “Anyway, I was born, and my sister Amelia arrived four years later. We had the best of everything, including a good education, but I spent every spare second in my father’s workshop, fascinated by what he did, learning at his knee. My mother did not approve, of course. She considered it no place for a lady of quality, but did not mind living off the proceeds since she had Amelia to pamper, offsetting her disappointment in me. Amelia is every bit as beautiful and, excuse me, as self-centred as my mother.”

“The life of a famous jeweller’s wife lost its appeal?” Lord Romsey suggested.

“She bankrupted him,” Crista replied starkly. “Nothing he supplied her with was good enough, and she always demanded more. My mother was my father’s one weakness. He never fell out of love with her, and never stopped trying to live up to her expectations of him. I lost all respect for him in that regard, but loved him for who he was and what we managed to create together in his workshop.”

“You inherited his skill?” the duke asked.

“Yes, I like to think so but, of course, a female making a mark for herself in a man’s world is out of the question, so I cannot flaunt my talents, such as they are.”

“Your father ran out of money,” Lord Romsey said. “What happened then?”

“He lost the Bond Street shop through an unfortunate misunderstanding about three years ago. Someone he did a commission for claimed he had used a fake stone. He had not, of course, the idea was quite preposterous. I subsequently discovered…” Feeling embarrassed, Crista paused to clear her throat. “I subsequently discovered the commission had been for the daughter of a widower who was enamoured of my mother. I do not care to think about what she got up to in private, but I do know she would never go so far as to leave my father for another man. She could not withstand the scandal, especially as she still lived in hope of being reunited with her family. Anyway, I have always believed the gentleman made that false claim, and ensured society knew of it, to ruin my father and increase his chances of persuading my mother to leave him. Mind you, Papa was ruined anyway. Mama had seen to that with her extravagant ways.” She looked up at the duke. “May I have that water now, please?”

The duke poured her a glass, handed it to her, and she took several sips, taking a moment to calm her turbulent emotions.

“Thank you,” she said, placing the glass aside. “About a year ago, he was approached by someone who suggested he carry out private commissions using gem stones provided by that person. I advised him against it most forcibly because it sounded highly suspect to me, but Papa was desperate and was sorely tempted. Mama became involved, recognised the monetary rewards and persuaded him to do it. Mind you, he knew his own worth. Anyone could make the sorts of items they required, but if they were marked with the distinctive Brooke insignia their value increased exponentially. He drove a hard bargain and forced the people to draw up a written agreement.”

“The devil he did! Excuse me, Miss Brooke, but do you have a copy of that agreement?” the earl asked.

“Unfortunately not.” Crista lifted her shoulders. “If I did, I would not be in this farrago.”

“They are forcing you to help them?” Lord Amos asked, turning to look at her and speaking for the first time.

“Well, of course they are! I hope you do not think I would do such a thing of my own volition.”

When he made no reply, Crista surmised he very likely did.

“Do you know the names of the other parties involved?” Lord Romsey asked.

“No. Papa told me he had signed the document, and I believe him; but I never saw it, or anyone involved. Papa tried to protect me. Much good it did him.”

“But now he is dead,” the duke said. “Murdered.”

“Now he is murdered,” Crista agreed.

“Why did they kill him if they needed you to replace him, Miss Brooke?” Lord Romsey asked.

“Because he could no longer live with what he had become,” Crista replied bleakly, fighting to hold back tears. “He told them he was not willing to do anything else for them, and the agreement he had signed gave him leave to cancel whenever he wished. The laughed in his face, of course, and told him what I already suspected. That contract was not worth the parchment it was written on. He was as involved in the wretched business as they were, they had his signature to prove it, and he would do as he was told or pay the consequences.” She pleated her fingers nervously in her lap. “He thought that would mean public exposure, and my mother told him he could not possibly risk that.”

“Your mother is still alive?” Lord Amos asked.

“Why yes, of course she is. Why would she not be?”

“Oh, I just assumed…you never mentioned her, and so I thought you came to live here with your uncle because you had nowhere else to go.”

“No, my mother and Amelia live in Chelsea.”

“I see.” It was the duke who replied. “You were telling us about your father’s decision to distance himself from his illegal activities.”

Crista winced at the harsh words, even though they were entirely true. “I heard Mama and Papa arguing about it. I remember quite vividly, because they never argued. My father always gave mother what she wanted. Anyway,” she added, staring at the rug beneath her feet without seeing it, “Papa stuck to his guns, never imagining they would follow through with their threat to expose his involvement. I mean, how could they without exposing themselves?”