The Duke's Last Hunt (22 page)

The two men headed for the morning room where they would resume their interviews. As soon as he opened the door, Pevensey saw a light-haired young man sitting in one of the armchairs near the window, his knee vibrating nervously.

“Mr. Blount!” said Cecil. “We did not realize this room was occupied.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Blount. “Is this not the right room? Henry told me I was to come here for questioning.”

“Did he indeed?” said Pevensey with a slight smile. The new duke had anticipated his plans quite accurately. “Then you are in just the right room at just the right time.” He pulled out his notebook to render the sneezing Reverend. “If you would be so good, Mr. Cecil, as to conduct the questioning.”

Cecil settled himself in the armchair facing Mr. Blount while Pevensey took up his position by the window which would afford him the best light for sketching.

“Where were you during the hunt?”

“With the main party of hunters. You know that—you were there yourself.”

“Indeed. And did you ever split off on your own?”

“No, I followed Squire Ashbrook’s sons throughout. You can ask them if you like.”

“Was there any unpleasantness between you and the duke?”

“No, not at all.”

Pevensey looked up. It was better to cut to the quick. “How did the duke respond to your interest in Lady Adele?”

Mr. Blount started. “He had no objections that I know of.”

“And who is Lady Adele’s new guardian? Henry Rowland?”

“Yes.”

“How does he look upon your suit?”

“I…am not sure.”

Pevensey fixed Mr. Blount with a knowing stare. He had already proven his omniscience with his first question. Let the man squirm a little until he told the truth.

“That is to say…he is not enthused about the match. It is an added difficulty.”

“Or in other words”—Pevensey allowed his freckled face to relax into a smile—“you had little reason to wish the late duke ill.”

“Yes.” Mr. Blount breathed a sigh of relief. “Exactly as you say.”

* * *

Henry walked back to his
room. On the floor directly in front of his door was a small rectangle. He bent down and saw that it was a book. A few of the pages were bowed as if the volume had been marred by poor handling. He turned it over and looked at the cover—
Pamela
.

Henry frowned. He cared little about the bent pages, but he had hoped Eliza would return the book in person.

Jutting out from between the pages was a slip of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it.

Your Grace,

Thank you for the loan of the book. I am at present fully occupied with other reading, so I am returning it to you unfinished.

E. Malcolm

P. S. Mr. Hornsby called to inform you that a lady friend of yours, Mrs. Flambard, is staying at the village inn should you desire to visit her.

At the sight of that last line, Henry cursed underneath his breath. What had Ned said to her? Whatever it was, Eliza had clearly drawn the wrong conclusions. He groaned and pressed his forehead against the closed door. A surprised footman lifted both eyebrows as he walked by with a pair of freshly polished candlesticks.

Henry opened the door to vent his annoyance and despair in a more private setting. He sat down on the side of the bed and read the letter over again. A slight smile formed on his lips. He had to admit, she was quite bold with the pen. Much bolder than she would have been face to face. How she would have blushed to say the word “lady friend” to him!

He read it a third time. His smile disappeared. Looked at from her perspective, circumstances were certainly damning. First, she had witnessed him consoling the maid in the hallway and then, she had overheard Mrs. Flambard’s seductive language. Her mother, Lady Malcolm, had no doubt added fuel to the fire, convincing Eliza that he was a libertine through and through, and only dallying with her at the breakfast table as he had with a hundred other women.

He folded the letter thoughtfully and placed it beneath his pillow. A hundred women? Ha! That was the irony of the situation. There had not even been five women in his life—just one. And before Eliza Malcolm, no one. Certainly the pretty face, here and there, had caught his eye, but no one had ever captured his heart like Eliza Malcolm. No one had ever captivated his imagination and filled his dreams of what
could be
.

And now the whole thing was a tangle that might never come undone. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Even if Jacob Pevensey sorted out the real story behind Rufus’ death, there was no one to sort out the knotted ball of misunderstandings and mistrust that seemed likely to keep him from Eliza Malcolm forever.

* * *

Pevensey lost no time in
coming straight to the point with Robert Curtis.

“I am aware that you had a quarrel with your late brother.”

The dandy’s lace cuffs fluttered nervously. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Come now, Mr. Curtis,” said Pevensey. “I have it on good authority”—he did not mention on whose authority—“that there were high words exchanged. When was it? Yesterday morning before the hunt?”

“The evening before,” Mr. Curtis admitted grudgingly.

“What were the circumstances?” Pevensey crossed one leg over the other.

Mr. Curtis glanced anxiously at Cecil, who was sitting nearby, pencil poised to write in his notebook. “It was because…because…dash it all! One doesn’t like one’s affairs to be spread all about the neighborhood, or all about the ton.”

“I assure you,” said Cecil, his black eyes radiating gravity, “both Mr. Pevensey and I are adept at discretion.”

“Very well.” Mr. Curtis coughed delicately. “A few years ago I borrowed a substantial sum from Rufus.”

“What was the purpose of the money?” Pevensey’s pencil recreated the paisley pattern on Mr. Curtis’ waistcoat.

“I needed it for a speculation in….” He named an enterprise now defunct.

“Ah,” said Pevensey knowingly. “And the money was lost.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Curtis sadly. “The term of the loan came up recently. I expected Rufus to extend it—it would have been the brotherly thing to do. But he summoned me to his office after dinner that night and told me he intended to call in the loan.”

“Had you the wherewithal to pay?”

“No, certainly not. I am in the middle of financing another project certain to bring great returns, but until then, I have nothing but a small allowance from the rents on my estate. And as you can see,”—he waved a demonstrative hand across his fashionable ensemble—“after my tailor and haberdasher are paid, there is barely enough left over for the cobbler.”

Mr. Cecil leaned forward in his chair. “What was the security for the loan?”

“My estate. Rufus informed me he meant to take possession of it immediately.”

“What did he want it for?” demanded Cecil.

“I don’t know!” Mr. Curtis’ tone was all frustration. “He already has Harrowhaven and his house in Grosvenor Square. What could he want with a third residence?”

Pevensey and Cecil exchanged a glance. The red-haired detective resumed the questioning. “Had your brother shown any animosity towards you in the past?”

“No, not at all. He was cordial, friendly.”

“Was he a spiteful man?”

“Yes, I suppose he could be on occasion. But he was never spiteful to me.”

“On whom would you say he exercised his spite?”

“Oh, on Hal, I suppose. They were close in age, and always at each other’s throats growing up. I had no expectation that he would do such a thing. That fellow Walter Turold was always borrowing from him, and he never called it in.”

“Hmm….” Pevensey finished his sketch and snapped shut his notebook. “I think that is all, Mr. Curtis. Unless, of course, your dismay was so great at losing your estate that you felt compelled to shoot your brother.”

“Good heavens, no!” Robert Curtis looked truly alarmed. “Utterly impossible. I was with the main hunting party the whole time.”

“Not to mention the fact that your fraternal affection would never for a moment consider murder.” Pevensey’s freckled face lit up with good-natured mockery.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Curtis. “And as long as Cecil will forbear from spreading it around, I’ll admit that I’m far too poor a shot to attempt such a thing.” He lifted a long finger and tapped his temple. “Bad eyesight.”

“Ah,” said Pevensey, standing up to signal that the interview was at an end. “One might consider a pair of spectacles.”

“One might.” Robert Curtis shrugged. “But they look such a fright, I’m afraid I’d rather take my chances with wandering about half-blind.” He nodded his head. “Good day, Cecil. G’day, Pevensey.”

Pevensey watched him out the door, then turned to his black-haired apprentice. “What did you make of that?”

Cecil whistled. “It seems Rufus wanted that estate for something.”

“Yes, but what?” Pevensey pursed his lips. “We must investigate the matter further. My intuition tells me it is connected to the duke’s death.”

“Then is Curtis lying about his whereabouts during the hunt?”

“No, I hardly think he would have the stomach for murder. And besides,”—Pevensey’s upper lip twisted into a wry smile—“he might dirty his clothes.”

22

E
liza clasped and unclasped her hands as she sat on the bench in the hallway. Mrs. Forsythe had knocked on her door a quarter of an hour ago to let her know that the man from London wanted to see her again. Her aversion to seeing the investigator had increased immeasurably since this morning at breakfast when he had trapped her in a lie. And of course, this time, there would be no Henry Rowland to assist her if she floundered.

She stiffened. There was no time for such foolish thoughts—she had no need to rely on Lord Henry. She was a woman grown and could speak for herself. Her fingers began to rhythmically twist the fabric of her skirt.

She had looked at Lord Henry’s door on her way downstairs and noticed that the book was gone—and the letter with it. If it had still been there, she probably would not have had the courage to let it lie. She would have retrieved the letter that she had so hastily written. As it was, the letter was most probably already in his hands….

Adele bounced into the hallway. “Eliza! There you are! That Pevensey fellow is with Mother now, but I think he means to speak to you next. I’ve just come from my interview.”

“How was it?” asked Eliza, trying to steady her words.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” said Adele, flouncing over to sit by her friend. “He just wanted to know whom Rufus had quarreled with and why—and of course, I knew nothing about that. They don’t tell me such things, you know. And then he asked what I did the day of the hunt. So I told him we went up the road. Quite dull, really. I was hoping he would have something more interesting to talk about.”

Eliza gave a small smile. “I think
you
are supposed to be the one telling
him
interesting things.”

“Oh, well, I did that too,” said Adele. “I hope you do not mind—I mentioned that Henry was quite taken with you.”

“Adele!”

“Well, it’s true! And he asked about it.”

The Duchess of Brockenhurst entered the room at just that moment. She took a look at Eliza’s stricken face and walked over to claim her overly loquacious daughter. “Your turn, my dear.” She placed a graceful hand on Eliza’s shoulder. “There is no harm in simply speaking the truth. It is what the duke—both the dukes—would want.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Eliza, swallowing hard. She stood up and went into the morning room.

* * *

As the willowy Miss Malcolm
glided into the room, Pevensey saw her cast an apprehensive look at Cecil. He supposed it would be awkward, talking about personal details in front of a gentleman one had just recently met at a social gathering.

Pevensey directed Miss Malcolm to a chair and watched her sit down.

That was the advantage of
his
position, of course. He was a nobody. He was invisible. There was no chance that any of these ladies would encounter him later, sharing their opera box or drinking punch at Almack’s.

“I am sorry to summon you so close to dinner,” said Pevensey, “but I am nearing the end of my inquiries and hope to finish by nightfall.”

Miss Malcolm murmured something non-distinct.

“Before we talk about the hunt, there is one thing I wish to clear up. You have indicated that your acquaintance with Henry Rowland is of a longstanding nature, but the gentleman himself said that he had only met you since your visit to Harrowhaven.”

Pevensey watched Miss Malcolm’s face turn as red as his own hair. “I hardly know what to say, Mr. Pevensey. I am embarrassed for the untruth I told earlier. It is as Lord Henry says. We first became acquainted less than a week ago.”

Pevensey saw Cecil out of the corner of his eye doing an admirable job of not registering surprise. Inexplicably, the curly-haired young man had managed to turn himself into an inanimate piece of the morning room’s furniture. Pevensey was grateful—it might lead to greater candor on Miss Malcolm’s part.

“Could you explain the nature of the misunderstanding?” Pevensey asked gently.

“Yes, I…I suppose it came about because”—Miss Malcolm’s fingers were toying restlessly with the fabric of her light dress—“when I first arrived, I had not seen the duke yet—Rufus, I mean. And when I came downstairs I came across Lord Henry in the saloon. And then the duke came in, and Lord Henry pretended that he and I were old friends, and I…I did not correct him.”

Pevensey’s fingers itched to pull out his sketchbook and preserve the long lines of Eliza Malcolm’s face and figure in art, but he had begun to gain her trust now, and like a trainer with a skittish colt, he did not want to startle her with any sudden movements.

“Why do you think Lord Henry might have said that?” he asked soothingly—hypnotically he hoped.

“I suppose he wanted to make his brother jealous.”

“And was the duke jealous?”

“I…I don’t know. I believe he might have been.”

“Do you think there was already a pre-existing rivalry between the two men?”

“Oh, yes! It was clear to everyone.”

“Why do you think that was? Was Lord Henry jealous of his brother’s position?”

“His position? No.” Her shoulders tensed. “Or…I don’t know. Maybe he was?”

Pevensey wondered if there was something here—a piece to the puzzle that she was reluctant to share.

“Please, Miss Malcolm, what do you remember?”

“Lady Adele held a party a few nights ago with”—she glanced over at Cecil—“some of her friends from the country. We played a game and Lord Henry paid a forfeit. He gave me…a calling card.”

“What did the card say?”

“It said”—she breathed deeply—“Henry Rowland, Duke of Brockenhurst.”

Pevensey raised an eyebrow. “Almost as if Lord Henry was prescient, yes? To have such cards made up before he left London?”

A pained look came over Miss Malcolm’s face. “Oh, no, I ought not to have told you! I am certain it was a joke of some kind. It is impossible to think that Henry had anything to do with the accident. It
was
an accident! Mr. Turold has said as much and admitted to firing the shot.”

“Of course,” said Pevensey, afraid he had pressed her too far. He decided to return to a safer, although just as unpleasant, subject. “Did you see the duke on the day of the hunt? The former duke, I mean.”

“From afar, yes, but we did not speak.”

“That is strange, is it not, considering that you had just become betrothed the day prior?”

He could tell that Miss Malcolm did not know what to say.

“Did you see him during the course of the hunt?”

“No, Adele and I and the other ladies went along the road. We saw the riders once or twice from a hill, but they were so far away I could not make out who was who.”

The rest of Miss Malcolm’s story confirmed everything he had heard from Cecil and Lady Adele—until a small detail at the end.

“And after Mr. Cecil warned the ladies away from the tragedy, your father escorted you to the house and sent the carriage?”

“No. Yes. That is to say, he did escort us to the house, but the carriage was already there.”

“Already there?”

Miss Malcolm nodded her head emphatically. “We passed it on our way down the road. It was just sitting there on the side.”

“Was it occupied?”

“No, the groom was sitting up in the box, but there was no one inside. He seemed to be waiting for something.”

Pevensey sent a sideways glance at Cecil who was now sitting forward, hands on knees, no longer blending in with the furniture. Miss Malcolm was looking nervously between the both of them, unaware of the import of what she had just said.

“Thank you, Miss Malcolm,” said Pevensey, rising from his chair to escort her to the door. “I hope you will forgive my impertinent questions. You have been more than helpful.”

As the door clicked shut, Cecil’s black eyes came alive. “The carriage was already there!”

“So she says.”

“It makes sense! We did not have to wait for it at all when we brought the body to the road.”

“Did the groom say anything when he saw you with the duke’s corpse?”

“He seemed as shocked as the next man, but I don’t remember any specific exclamations. A visit to the stable is in order!”

“Agreed,” said Pevensey. He headed into the hallway in search of his hat. Hopefully the groom would be forthcoming about who had instructed him to wait there with the carriage and why. At that point Pevensey would know which upcoming interview was more important: the one with Walter Turold or the one with Henry Rowland.

* * *

After an hour or so
of quiet reflection, Henry rang for Biggs and allowed his valet to dress him in a clean shirt, new jacket, and pressed cravat. He headed for the billiards room. There was still time to play a game before dinner—not that dinner was to be any great affair tonight. He had told Mrs. Forsythe that they would serve it in the dining room as usual, but it was not certain how many of the family or guests would attend.

Entering the billiards room, he found Sir Arthur just finishing a game with his half-brother. Robert took himself off almost immediately, needing ample time to dress for dinner, even an informal one. “Another game?” said Henry brightly, taking the cue in hand. He had come into the billiards room looking for distraction, but he appeared to have stumbled upon a golden opportunity.

Sir Arthur looked around nervously. “If we have time….”

Henry took that for a yes, and without further comment, arranged the three ivory balls—two white, one red—on the green table. He was a fair hand at billiards, but he sensed that this afternoon would not be the time to show that. He made a quick and inexpert shot, grazing Sir Arthur’s ball with his cue ball, but failing to strike the red one as well. Sir Arthur smiled and immediately scored hazards, driving the red ball into one of the pockets.

After a few plays—and a glass of brandy liberally poured by Henry—Sir Arthur was in a far more jovial and garrulous mood. “Excellent game, billiards,” he said, having scored the requisite twenty-one points and leading the way for a second game.

“Excellent to have someone around to play it with,” replied Henry. His ivory ball bounced off the padded wall of the table, missing the red ball entirely. “You know, you needn’t leave once that Runner fellow finishes his investigation. Why not stay on a little longer into the summer? There’s more hunting to be had here and nothing happening in London until the season begins.”

The uneasiness returned to Sir Arthur’s face. “Very kind of you, Lord Henry, but afraid it wouldn’t do. The old frigate is eager to make sail for home, if you take my meaning.”

Henry decided it was time to be frank. “I know the timing is unfortunate, but I was hoping to improve my acquaintance with your daughter, Miss Malcolm. From what I have seen of her, I think she and I would deal admirably together—far better than she and Rufus would have.”

Sir Arthur hemmed. “Maybe so. Maybe so. Lady Malcolm is not of that opinion though. The recent events have set her nerves on edge, and there’ll be no peace from that quarter until we put Harrowhaven behind us.”

Henry made one last attempt. “May I call on your family when you return to London?”

Sir Arthur hesitated again, scratching his gray sideburns with both hands. “Don’t know how long we’ll be staying in London. Naturally, we wish you all the best, your grace.”

An awkward silence reigned until the next game of billiards finished. “Will you and Lady Malcolm be joining us for dinner?” Henry asked, as he put the ivory balls away in their wood case.

“I shall be there,” said Sir Arthur. He made no promises regarding his wife.

* * *

Pevensey and Cecil found the
head groom crouched on a stool and applying some ointment to the legs of one of the horses.

“I’ll be with you gentlemen in a trice,” he called behind him once he realized he was being waited for.

“Gormley, isn’t it?” asked Cecil as the older man turned around and wiped his hands on his apron.

“Yes, sir,” said Gormley, feet planted, arms folded. “What can I do for you?”

“Yesterday, before the hunt,” said Pevensey, “did someone order the carriage readied?”

Gormley frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, must have, for I remember the carriage going out. But it weren’t I who heard the directions or harnessed it. I was tending to the ladies’ and gentlemen’s mounts. It would ha’ been Martin who done it.”

Gormley bellowed the other man’s name into the recesses of the stable, and within seconds, a gangly fellow, wearing the same leather apron Gormley had on, came out and stood before them. Remembering the fellow’s infirmity, Pevensey fell silent to determine how best to wring the needed information from him.

Cecil, unaware, launched into the same questions that Pevensey had just asked. Martin stared back at him in stony silence.

“He’s tongue tied,” interjected Gormley, jerking a thumb at his undergroom.

“Now, see here, Martin,” said Cecil. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. We just need to know the answers to our questions.”

“Not afraid,” said Gormley. “He’s mute. Can’t speak more than a grunt.”

“Can he understand us?” asked Cecil, a little taken aback.

“To be sure,” said Gormley. “He understands as well as you and me.”

“Then he must be aware who asked him to lead out the carriage yesterday morning,” said Pevensey. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Does he know his letters?”

“Nah,” said Gormley. “He canna even write his own name.”

Martin’s sullen glare turned ferocious at that comment and confirmed for Pevensey that the groom knew exactly what was being said.

“Martin,” said Pevensey, “I am an investigator attached to the magistrates’ office in London. A man may have been murdered here.” It was the first time in this case that Pevensey had used the gravity of a murder accusation to impress a witness. “It is essential that I know who asked you to lead out the carriage yesterday morning and wait alongside the road. Was it Walter Turold?”

There was no reply.

“Was it Henry Rowland?”

The groom’s scowl deepened.

“Was it Rufus Rowland?”

The groom looked away.

One by one, Pevensey patiently listed the butler, the housekeeper, the dowager duchess, and all the other inmates of the house, but the names failed to elicit even the smallest of grunts from the mute undergroom.