The Duke's Last Hunt (15 page)

“How strange!” said Adele in surprise, noticing one of the Rowlands’ carriages parked neatly on the side of the road. Eliza saw the undergroom, Martin, sitting in the box, chewing on a blade of grass.

“Why is the carriage waiting here?” Miss Cecil asked, but Martin either did not hear her or disregarded the question.

“He can’t speak,” said Adele in an undertone. Eliza recalled that he had said nary a word during her ride with Henry yesterday morning.

The ladies rode past, and Eliza gave Martin a shy smile. He stared back at her like an inmate behind the bars of a cage. She dropped her eyes. Poor man—it must be a heavy affliction to be dumb.

The steeple of the church was just in sight when Adele pointed to the side of the road. A grassy hill rose up on the left. The other ladies directed their mounts off the road, and Eliza, trying to keep pace, gritted her teeth as she urged Marigold up the climbing slope. She angled her sideways body forward, willing herself to stay in the saddle. She was sure that she did not look at all elegant right now, even with her new green riding habit, and she was rather glad that Henry Rowland was not there to see her. But then again, he probably would have just given her an encouraging word, stripping away her self-consciousness like a maid pulling dust cloths off the furniture.

From the top, they could see on one side the summer fields of the Sussex countryside, plotted and pieced like a brown and green quilt. On the other side ranged the tangled limbs of the forest, the stage set for the players in today’s hunt. Here and there a small clearing in the woods gave them a view of the forest floor.

“Look there!” said Miss Bertram, her hand shooting out like an arrow towards the south. They caught a glimpse of a half dozen riders before they disappeared into the leaves again. “I think I saw your brother,” she said to Miss Cecil.

“The wish is father to the thought!” said Adele with a smirk, and Miss Bertram colored at that sally. “I cannot make out a single one of those figures—they’re too far off. Could you tell if Rufus was with them, Eliza?”

“Oh,” said Eliza, “I’m not sure….” His red hair would certainly stand out, but then, he had been wearing a beaver. This was to be her lot in life now—surveying the forest and waiting for Rufus while he pursued his pleasures.

From the distance came the baying of hounds. The riders were moving closer. The ladies scanned the woods for more traces of the hunting party, but saw nothing. A half hour later, they were still searching the tree line. “How tedious this is growing!” said Adele. “I thought we should have better sport than this.”

“Oh, look there,” said Miss Bertram. “Mr. Cecil!”

This time it was not just the young lady’s wishful hope. Mr. Cecil was emerging from the forest with Eliza’s father, Sir Arthur, beside him. Adele hailed them and the ladies came down from the hill to meet them at the road.

“Did you sight a stag?” Miss Cecil asked her brother.

“Yes, right away, but we lost our bearings once we all started for it. Rufus is normally two lengths ahead of everyone when the chase is on, but he disappeared as soon as the hounds started baying.”

“How peculiar,” said Adele. “Did you carry on?”

“Why yes! We took off after the buck until the hounds lost the track, and then the whole party fell to pieces. Henry went off one way and Turold the other. And here we are come to look for you ladies.”

“Your loss is our gain,” replied Miss Bertram smoothly.

“Do you think the others are gathering back at the house?” Eliza asked.

“That is a logical assumption,” said Sir Arthur, “and perhaps we ought to return as w—”

A shot rang out in the forest farther down the road from where the six horses were standing.

“Tally ho!” said Mr. Cecil, lifting his beaver off his curly black hair with excitement. “Someone’s picked up the trail.”

“Let’s go on,” said Adele, “and see if they hit him.”

Eliza felt a twinge of pity for the poor creature. She rather hoped that they
hadn’t
hit the stag, and that he would escape into the underbrush to live another day.

The horses felt the excitement in the air, and it took barely any encouragement to move them from a walk to a trot. Eliza held on determinedly.

When they had gone a couple hundred yards, the church came fully into view. “Over here,” said Mr. Cecil, waving at a spot where the trees thinned, a natural entryway into the wooded kingdom. They were just about to enter the forest when another shot sounded, this one deeper into the trees.

“Wounded the first time,” conjectured Sir Arthur. “They must have finished it off.”

Eliza shuddered and reined in Marigold. She did not know if she wanted to come across the freshly killed body of the stag.

“Hold here, ladies,” said Mr. Cecil, misunderstanding her reticence for confusion about which path to take. He stopped everyone near one of the great oak trees. “I’ll find the others then bring you to them.” His horse bounded away, stepping nimbly over tree roots.

“Any wagers,” said Sir Arthur, “on who the lucky shot is?”

“It would surprise me greatly,” said Miss Cecil, “if it were anyone other than the duke.”

Eliza did not know whether to feel pained or proud at that statement.

“But perhaps the second shot was Henry’s,” said Adele. She tossed her brown curls in Eliza’s direction. “He always
has
enjoyed poaching his brother’s game.”

Eliza’s cheeks flamed. It was not so amusing when she herself was the target of her future sister-in-law’s wit. Fortunately, her father was too oblivious to notice the double meaning.

“And here is Mr. Cecil returned to us!” said Miss Bertram with enthusiasm.

“Stop!” said their black-haired guide. A look of panic was on his face. “Stay there. Don’t go any farther.”

“Whatever is the matter?” demanded Adele.

“There’s been an…accident. Stay there.”

The forest air erupted with a cacophony of feminine cries and queries.

“Merciful heavens!”

“What sort of accident?”

“Who’s hurt?”

“Why can’t we see? We might be able to help!”

“Sir Arthur!” said Mr. Cecil. “Take these ladies back to the house.”

“Why? What do you mean to do?”

“Go to the church. Get the Reverend. Send someone for Doctor Selkirk. And Constable Cooper too.”

“The constable!” echoed Miss Cecil. “Why, Edward, how bad is it? Do you mean…?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cecil, his voice a little overwrought. “I do mean that. Now, ladies, please, back to the house, and I will tell you all when I know more.”

Part Two

15

E
liza sat down carefully on the sofa in the drawing room and breathed deeply while the other ladies congregated in the hallway expressing their confusion and dismay in hysterical tones. Mr. Cecil had refused to tell them the nature of the accident, but the matter could not long remain a secret. The first of the stragglers coming back from the aborted hunt shouted something about “the duke” as he dismounted and ran up the steps. A frowning Hayward begged him to step aside and lower his voice, but after the butler had learned the particulars, he ascended the stairs with a rapidity never before seen, on a quest to find the Duchess of Brockenhurst.

A quarter of an hour later, the carriage which had been driven by the silent groom Martin wheeled into the driveway with a flurry of riders surrounding it. Eliza swallowed and rose from the sofa, hurrying to the window with the other ladies. Henry was up in the box alongside the groom, and it was he holding the reins. He pulled the horses to a stop and then jumped down, waving aside the footmen and yanking open the carriage door himself. “Hayward, a blanket!” he called out, and within seconds a large wool coverlet had materialized.

Mr. Cecil stepped down, along with Mr. Turold, and together they lifted an inert figure out of the carriage. The blanket was covering the head and most of the body, but Eliza knew, even without catching a glimpse of the red hair, that it was Rufus. And she knew, even before the doctor arrived a half hour later, that the doctor would be no help. Rufus Rowland, the Duke of Brockenhurst, was dead.

The constable arrived shortly after the doctor and took a look at the body laid out in the morning room. The Duchess of Brockenhurst was sitting beside Rufus, holding his lifeless hand, her face as gray as ash. Most of the men had gone back outside and were talking together loud and fast. Miss Cecil and Miss Bertram stared at each other like frightened deer uncertain where to run. Adele seemed frozen, ever since the body had crossed the threshold. Eliza put her arms around her and settled her on a bench in the hallway. Tears began to streak down Adele’s cheeks, and Eliza laid the girl’s head against her bosom and let her sob out her grief. Mr. Blount, standing nearby and fidgeting anxiously, offered his handkerchief.

There was no time for Eliza to examine her own feelings. No, that would come later, in the quiet of her room. But now, she must remain unshaken, a pillar of strength for those who needed her.

Henry and Mr. Cecil re-entered the house as the constable exited the morning room.

“An accident, you say?” said the constable gravely. His bushy gray sideburns reached almost to the sides of his mouth.

“I believe so,” said Mr. Cecil. “Here is the weapon.” Using two hands, he presented a pistol to the constable. From across the hallway, Eliza recognized it as the same pistol Mr. Turold had been holstering in the stable yard.

“Oh dear,” said the constable, clucking underneath his breath. “Oh dear, oh dear. And of course there is the possibility that it was
not
an accident….”

“What is to be done now, constable?” Henry inquired forcefully.

“Normally I would carry the case to the magistrate to start an investigation, but the magistrate is….” The constable waved a hand to the door of the morning room.

“Quite,” said Henry. “But old Cecil was the secondary magistrate in my father’s time, which means that you”—he turned to Edward Cecil—“are next in line to investigate the matter.”

“Yes, Lord Henry, that is as it should be,” said the constable.

Mr. Cecil raked a hand through his black curls. “I fear I have never been involved in such an undertaking before. I hardly know where to begin.”

Mr. Blount, who had been listening quite earnestly, cleared his throat and took a step towards the trio. “If I might be so bold, I know a man—or rather, I know
of
him—a Bow Street Runner who came from London and was able to sort out some business for my father this past winter.”

“You mean that business with the Earl of Anglesford?” said Henry.

“Yes, that,” replied Mr. Blount. “The man’s name was Pevensey. Jacob Pevensey.”

“Well,” said Mr. Cecil, “there could be no harm in calling in some reinforcements. I daresay Constable Cooper and I would be glad of the help. Henry, could you arrange it?”

“Of course,” said Henry. “I’ll send my valet to town with a message, and perhaps the man can even be here by nightfall.”

Mr. Blount returned to take up his position as auxiliary comforter. When Adele reached out for his hand and pulled him down to the bench on her other side, Eliza found that her ministrations were no longer needed. She folded her hands and gazed quietly at the three men across the hallway.

“I’ll need to take his statement,” said Constable Cooper, fumbling in his pockets for a notebook.

“Henry,” said Mr. Cecil. “I’m sorry.” He clapped the broad-shouldered man on the back.

“Thank you,” said Henry, “but we were not exactly…close.”

Mr. Cecil shook his head. “I think we all know that. But still, man, he was your brother. One feels such things, no matter the level of estrangement.”

“Certainly,” said Henry. His eyes flicked over to where Eliza sat and met her own. “One feels such things. Most deeply.”

Eliza looked away. She could not decipher
what
she felt. She was numb. She was dreaming. They were bringing in a Bow Street Runner to unravel the events of the day. A pity he could not also unravel the tangled web of her heart.

* * *

Henry showed the constable outside
to where Walter was waiting, arms folded and brow furrowed. “This is Walter Turold,” he told the constable. “Walter, he wants to take your statement.”

“In private?” asked Walter in a guarded tone. His long hair had come out of its queue and hung in lank strands about his face.

“If you wish,” said Henry coolly, “but I must confess that
I
am eager to hear your statement as well.” What he felt about his brother’s death was of little consequence, but what Walter felt? That would tell volumes. He had already asserted in the forest that the shot had come from his gun. That was
not
the plan they had discussed in the stable.

“I have no qualms about stating it in front of you. It was an accident. I saw movement. I thought it was the stag. I fired my pistol.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the constable, jotting down notes as fast as his pencil could write. “I’ve had the same happen myself. Almost clipped the wing of my cousin one day—thought he was a pheasant!” He started to chuckle at the thought, then seemed to think better of it. “And was there any ill feeling between yourself and the duke?”

Walter looked at Henry. “No.”

Henry’s nostrils flared. He would not call him out on that lie. Not yet.

“That’s all I need then,” said the constable, closing his notebook. “The Runner will doubtless want more from you. It goes without saying, I think, that you must not leave the premises.”

“Of course,” said Walter, inclining his head. “I shall keep to my room until I’m needed. I am truly sorry for this regrettable accident.” That last sentiment was directed to Henry. “He was my friend, you know.”

The constable drifted away to consult with the housekeeper about where the body should be kept prior to the inquest.

“I am aware of that,” said Henry dryly. “I also know that if I were to accidentally kill my friend Stephen Blount, I would be doubled over vomiting until the shock of it passed, and then on my knees before God begging His forgiveness.”

“Not everyone handles tragedy the same,” said Walter in a monotone voice.

“Or perhaps not everyone believes that Rufus’ death
was
a tragedy.”

“I can only assume you are speaking for yourself.”

“You can assume all you like—I have a letter to write.”

Henry walked back inside. Eliza had disappeared. What was she thinking right now? What was she feeling? Relief that she was freed from marriage to a rake? Shock at the suddenness of the event?

In truth, Henry did not know what he himself felt. Rufus was dead, and under very suspicious circumstances. Did he believe Walter’s claim that it was an accident? Not at all. And yet, he had never known Walter to be a dishonorable man. A hard man, an unforgiving man, but not a liar.

And what if Walter
was
lying? Did Henry even care? Whether intentional or unintentional on Walter’s part, Rufus had been struck down by the hand of God. The mills of God had not ground slowly this time.

Henry strode into the study. The sight of the dark leather chair, the mounted stag’s head, and the bearskin rug brought back a surge of memories that he thought had ebbed for good. He remembered pulling up a stool to sit beside his father at the desk while he went over the books with the steward. “You’ve a good head for numbers, Hal. A good head!” It was a piece of praise that Henry had treasured, for it was always Rufus who was the best wrestler, the best horseman, the best shot, having earlier grown into those physical qualities that William Rowland so much prized.

“Very good, Master Henry,” the old steward had echoed—Mr. Hodgins was his name. “You must come collect the rents with me next time so you can see the faces that go with each number.”

“What a bore!” Rufus had said when he heard Hodgins’ idea. “Visiting some sad-faced old men in their hovels? No thank you!”

But Henry had gone, and he had listened, and he had learned….

The Brockenhurst seal was lying there on the desk among the papers, a ring that Rufus had rarely, if ever, worn. Henry picked it up and traced a fingertip over the stylized “B” and the symbol of the oak tree. He had used this seal many times, closing letters on all the business he had transacted in Rufus’ name. And now it would no longer be Rufus’ name connected to that seal. He turned it over in his palm. It would be his.

He set the seal down and scanned the desk for a clean piece of paper to write his letter. Underneath the most recent issue of
The Sporting Magazine
, he found a signed document with both his brother’s and half-brother’s signatures on the bottom. It was a promissory note, a loan of fifty thousand pounds to Robert with his house Fontbury as collateral in case he could not repay the loan in two years’ time. Henry’s eyes flicked over to the date of the document. The loan had come due last month. It was exactly as Robert had told him earlier that morning.

Underneath that document was the blank paper. Henry scrawled a quick note to Jacob Pevensey, the Bow Street Runner that Stephen had recommended. He signed his name—Henry Rowland. He looked in the drawer of the desk where he knew pocket money would be kept and pulled out ten pounds to enclose with the letter for travel expenses. He folded in each side of the letter and tucked the bottom piece into the top.

The seal still sat on the desk, beckoning him. Was it too soon for him to use it? No, it was his right. He melted a few drops of blood red wax onto the folded ends of the letter and stamped the ring into it with unnecessary vigor.

He rang for Hayward and asked him to send down his valet.

“Biggs, I need you to ride back to London for the afternoon. This letter”—he handed the sealed message to his valet—“goes to Bow Street. And then stop also at Maurice’s, and beg pardon from the old man. I must tarry a few more days in the countryside. If he has any urgent business for me, he can send it back with you, and I will transact it here.”