A Duke Too Far

by Jane Ashford

  Clayton said nothing, but his agreement was obvious.

  “We will have to go soon,” Arthur acknowledged. “But I have an idea I wish to try first.”

  His valet waited.

  For some reason, Arthur felt reluctant to say more. “It may well come to nothing. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  * * *

  The young ladies took turns providing music after dinner, despite the dreadful state of Alberdene’s piano. They played and sang partly for entertainment and partly to pass the time.

  After she had sung several ballads, Ada retreated to a settee just down the room from the duke. From this vantage point, she could steal glances at him while seeming to watch the performance. His face was full of cleverness and character, she thought. He was not precisely handsome. More than that, he was very interesting. She hadn’t realized, until she’d met Delia’s brother, that she required the latter characteristic in a man. Interesting was exciting. A sense of depths was thrilling. Compared with Compton, other young gentlemen she’d met seemed shallow and dull.

  Examining his profile, Ada sighed. Before long, her party would leave Alberdene. How was she ever to see him again? He’d made it clear he never went to London for the season or to country house parties. He was practically a recluse. There must be something she could do about that! Either the one thing or the other. And the proprieties could just…go hang!

  Sarah rose from the piano, and Harriet replaced her. Ada took advantage of the movement to shift her seat and sit beside the duke.

  She watched him watch Harriet as her friend began a sonata. He looked appreciative. Could Compton be thinking of Harriet’s money? How was one to discover such a thing? And why must everything be such a muddle?

  “I apologize for the pianoforte,” he said. “It’s a disgrace. I didn’t realize. No one has played it since my mother died.”

  “Delia wasn’t musical.”

  “No. She could never be bothered to practice.”

  He didn’t look at her. Their time in the attic, and in other dim rooms, hovered between them. “Thank you for bringing Ella down,” she said.

  “I believe I’ve offended her beyond redemption.”

  “Oh, she’s very forgiving.” For some reason, this innocuous remark made Ada’s cheeks redden.

  Charlotte slipped around the back of the sofa like a spy on a clandestine mission. She sat on the duke’s other side. “Have you tried the keys in all the remaining doors?” she asked.

  “All the remaining…? I haven’t had the time.”

  “What do you have but time?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t have to look over piles of linens or grind up grubby roots. Potpourri! Was there ever such a foolish task?”

  Ada glanced over to make certain her aunt hadn’t heard. But Charlotte had enough sense to speak quietly about Aunt Julia’s projects even when roused. “It does seem useful for—” she began.

  But Compton interrupted her. “Of course I simply sit and stare at the surrounding decay,” he said to Charlotte. “I don’t try to do anything about it. I have no work.”

  “I could have tried the locks by now if I was allowed,” Charlotte grumbled.

  “Those keys belonged to my father. It is reasonable that I be the one to try them.”

  “Yes,” put in Ada. She’d noticed that this word was a helpful way to insert oneself into discussions. Even when you meant to disagree. Especially then. People softened at the sound. In this case two people who weren’t listening to each other. “Charlotte only wishes to help. As we all do.”

  “Really? It seemed to me that Miss Deeping thought I was usurping her prerogatives.”

  “Prerogatives,” sniffed Charlotte. “I don’t seem to have any.” Her jaw tightened with irritation.

  Two very touchy people, thought Ada. With Harriet thrown in, a girl who worked out her positions carefully and valued them. At least Sarah hated friction. But Ada had always relished the challenge of taming the prickly. Though she’d never before wished to kiss one of the combatants.

  “You are officious,” the duke said.

  “And Harriet says you are maladroit,” Charlotte replied.

  He scowled. “Miss Finch is unreasonably opinionated.”

  Ada felt a sneaking gladness that he’d criticized Harriet. And then was shocked at herself. She stifled the thought and offered a defense of her friend instead. “She changes her mind when presented with clear facts,” she said.

  “I simply like to do a job quickly and thoroughly,” said Charlotte, defending her own reputation.

  “And I prefer to be clear,” said Compton. “If that is maladroit, so be it!”

  Nobody here was wrong, Ada thought. Charlotte often plowed ahead relentlessly in her enthusiasms. Harriet did make rash judgments now and then. The duke had somewhat odd manners on occasion. But it wouldn’t do to say any of that. “Charlotte just loves solving puzzles. She can never resist a hidden corner.”

  “All very well,” Compton began, and fell abruptly silent. “What did you say?” he asked then.

  “Charlotte loves unraveling puzzles?”

  “After that.”

  Ada didn’t remember exactly.

  “She said I can never resist a hidden corner,” said Charlotte. “Which isn’t absolutely correct. I can—”

  “Corner,” he repeated. “A hidden corner.”

  “Yes.” Ada watched his expression go from dubious to speculative. “And that reminded you of something.” It wasn’t a question. The answer was obvious.

  When he didn’t go on, Charlotte shifted with impatience. “What did it remind you of?”

  “A corner that I’d nearly forgotten. There are quite a few of those at Alberdene.” He took the ring of three keys from his waistcoat pocket and looked at them.

  “Are you being mysterious just to tease us?” asked Charlotte. “Because I must tell you that is vastly provoking.”

  Compton blinked, startled. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “But you are being mysterious,” Ada pointed out.

  He had a smile for her. “There’s a cul-de-sac near the tower stair, caused by its construction. No one goes down that stub of corridor, because it leads nowhere.”

  “So a prime spot for a locked room?” Charlotte said, catching his drift at once.

  He nodded, looking as if he’d like to race off and examine it immediately.

  “You can’t go now,” said Ada.

  “I suppose it would be rude to walk out on my guests,” he acknowledged.

  “And if you wait until we’ve gone to bed and sneak off to look, I will murder you,” said Charlotte.

  His expression gave him away. “I have no need to sneak in my own home. I can go where I like.”

  “You must take us along,” said Ada. “All of us. I inspired you to find the answer after all.”

  “To consider a possibility,” he replied.

  “But you think it’s the place.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “And you wouldn’t have thought of it without me.”

  “I would have…eventually.”

  “I don’t know why you say so,” replied Charlotte. “When you admit you’ve forgotten all sorts of places in your house.”

  “It’s only fair that we come,” said Ada. “Surely you see that?”

  “Yes. All right. Bring everyone. The more the merrier.”

  Charlotte sniffed, still annoyed.

  “Not Aunt Julia,” said Ada quickly.

  “You think your aunt would have some objections?”

  “Well, she so often does, you know,” said Charlotte.

  “Let us see what we find first.” Ada smiled at him. “Tomorrow after breakfast?”

  “As long as it is an early one. I won’t wait
past nine.”

  “Oh certainly, Your Grace,” said Charlotte. “Does my lord have any other orders?”

  Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but this time the duke seemed amused by it, which was a relief. He smiled at Ada. She smiled back, warmed by their shared secrets. And then even more by a hint of promise for the future.

  * * *

  Peter was unsurprised to find that all four of his young lady guests were there before him at the breakfast table the next morning. He was a bit taken aback by a row of militant looks. He got the sense that they all felt he’d usurped their proper roles in this drama, even Miss Ada, a bit. Indeed, Miss Deeping looked positively predatory behind her buttered muffin, poised to leap if he tried to steal a march on her. Possibly she suspected him of having already done so, but Peter had kept this word and not gone looking without them.

  Miss Finch appeared to be…not quite sulking, but not as calm as usual either. He wondered if her friends had reported the conversation about her opinions? Miss Moran looked determined as a hunting dog who has caught a strong scent and is longing to be set loose.

  He was startled when Tom arrived. The lad took his meals in the kitchen. In fact, Peter hadn’t seen much of him during the earl’s visit. “I heard you were going off to solve a mystery,” Tom said. “I’d like to see that, if there’s no objection.”

  Peter wondered how he had heard. Seeing the young ladies exchange glances, he doubted the lad was in their confidence. They seemed to view him a bit as they did Miss Ada’s little dog, who thankfully wasn’t one of their party this morning. Not a position Peter would have relished, though Tom didn’t seem bothered. The boy was likable, but he had no clear social context. As a duke without a penny, Peter understood that sort of awkwardness.

  “How do you know that?” asked Miss Deeping, echoing Peter’s thought.

  “Una told me,” Tom replied. “Was it a secret? I reckon she didn’t know that. Or she wouldn’t have said a word.”

  For a moment, Peter couldn’t place the name. Then he remembered Una was one of the new housemaids.

  “Una is so quiet, one forgets she’s in a room,” said Miss Finch.

  “Shall we go?” asked Miss Deeping. “I really can’t bear to dawdle any longer. And if we sit here all morning Ada’s aunt will catch us.”

  “I will just eat something,” replied Peter.

  “Must you?”

  The few minutes it would take hardly mattered, but Peter didn’t say so. He simply turned and led his trail of young ladies in bright gowns, and one gangling youth, into the older part of the building. He distributed candlesticks and lit them. “As you’ve seen, most of the rooms aren’t locked,” he said as he ushered them along. “One can walk through the house and see all they contain.”

  “Not necessarily,” replied Miss Deeping.

  At this point, she was ready to dispute anything he said, Peter suspected. But he had an irresistible urge to assert his leadership in his own home. “My father, and sister, wouldn’t have taken such care of a key to an unlocked room.”

  Miss Deeping’s expression suggested he was being obvious.

  “Obviously,” said Peter to goad her a little. “I couldn’t think where that would be until last night.” At a sharp glance from Miss Ada, he added, “During a conversation with Miss Ada and Miss Deeping, I realized that there was a place I’d forgotten.”

  “It’s difficult to see how you could have,” said Miss Deeping.

  “I have a good many things on my mind,” Peter shot back. She didn’t have to juggle an endless list of needs and nearly empty accounts, he thought. Deciding which critical service or repair could be managed and which must wait occupied much of his attention. “And this place has gone entirely out of use because of the awkward rebuilding.”

  He led them past the entry to the spiral stair that went up Delia’s tower. A section of the house had been cut off when the tower was added, leaving a short stub of corridor that ended in three doors, left, right, and straight ahead. His group crowded into it. The doors to the sides were ajar, and revealed only dusty floorboards when pushed open. But the one at the end proved to be locked.

  “A secret room,” said Miss Moran in a thrilled tone.

  Not precisely, Peter thought but didn’t say. The small hallway was full of sweet scents and bright eyes. Miss Ada’s shoulder was pressed against his.

  “Are you going to try the key?” asked Miss Deeping. Her fingers twitched, as if she wanted to rip it away from him and do it herself.

  Peter inserted the key in the lock. He couldn’t resist a dramatic pause. Miss Deeping made an impatient sound. Peter twisted the key. It turned. The lock clicked. He removed the key and opened the door, raising his candle to illuminate whatever lay ahead.

  The room was dark. There were no windows; the tower had cut them off. The furnishings consisted of a desk with an unlit oil lamp and a candelabra atop it and two chairs. But that wasn’t what drew the eye. As the others pushed in behind him, holding up their candles in turn, Peter took in the tumultuous decor. Aside from the doorway and a small hearth, all four walls were covered, from about knee high to well above his head, with a dizzying mélange of paper. And other bits of things as well. Documents and pages of notes and small objects were pinned to the plaster, solidly, with no spaces between. Here an old-fashioned broad-brimmed hat with a feather was stuck beside an aged deed, there the snake of a leather belt with a chunky silver clasp flanked a list of some kind. Beyond that a series of drawings seemed to tell a tale. There was some sort of accounting next to those. Words and images and numbers clamored for attention all around him, making his head spin. It was bewildering, made worse by a web of string that overlaid the walls, pinned from one spot to another, as if a literary spider had run amok.

  “Lordy,” said Tom.

  “I knew my father was eccentric, but I didn’t think him mad,” Peter said.

  Some of the pages had obviously been in place for a long time. Their edges curled up. Others looked more recent.

  “It seems like some kind of research project?” suggested Miss Moran uncertainly.

  “Like a grid, perhaps,” said Miss Deeping. “Only more complicated.”

  “You may say so,” replied Miss Finch. She sounded daunted.

  Raising her candle, Miss Moran walked along the back wall. “The strings might show a relationship between the two things at the ends.” She leaned closer. “See, here, this one connects the bill for an emerald necklace and a garden plan.”

  “What would those have to do with each other?” asked Miss Ada.

  “Well, we don’t know yet, do we?” answered Miss Deeping. She stepped over to join Miss Moran and traced the string with a finger. “They are from the same year, 1594. That is a start.”

  The group stood near the center of the room, slowly rotating to absorb the whole. Demented, Peter thought again.

  “Perhaps this…organization starts at the right-hand side of the door,” said Miss Moran, walking to that spot. “And then goes clockwise, as one logically would.”

  “Logically!” said Peter. He could see no logic to this display.

  Miss Moran held her candle higher. “Yes, there’s a note here, right at the edge.” She leaned forward. “Listen to this.” She read aloud. “In the year 1643, being a time of civil turmoil in England, the wife of Thaddeus Rathbone, the third duke, determined to hide away what she could of the family fortune. Knowing well that Thaddeus had no knack for politics, always seeming to end up on the losing side, even though his loyalties were remarkably flexible.” Miss Moran laughed. “I think Delia wrote this. It sounds like her.”

  “It does,” said Miss Ada.

  Miss Moran returned to the page. “She gathered every item of value she could put her hands on and secreted them, to save them from being taken should the battles between the king’s men and the parliamentarians reach Alb
erdene.”

  “Which they never did,” said Peter.

  “So she buried the plate and jewels,” said Miss Moran.

  “It doesn’t say buried,” said Miss Finch.

  “Right,” said Miss Deeping. “Secreted might mean any number of things.”

  “There’s a bit more,” said Miss Moran. She returned to the page. “Unfortunately, in 1645, as the war raged on, a virulent illness swept through Alberdene. It is thought by some to have been the plague. The duchess and many of the servants and tenants died of it. Two of her children survived, but they were young, and she had not told them of her hiding place. Or left any clue. And so the Rathbone fortune was lost.”

  “Well, what an utter ninny!” exclaimed Miss Finch. “Who would hide a fortune away and leave no way to retrieve it?” Tom nodded as if he agreed.

  “I wonder how Delia and her father found out about it if no one knew,” said Miss Ada.

  “They did not,” replied Peter. His voice sounded hard in his own ears, but he couldn’t help it. “This is a fantasy they concocted. They told me once.” He had mocked the idea, rather impatiently. They hadn’t mentioned it again. Instead, apparently, they’d retreated to this…den and encouraged each other’s delusions.

  “But.” Miss Moran turned, gesturing at the mass of papers and objects. “There’s all this.”

  “And what is this? A…clutter of paper and moldering junk.”

  “A great deal of work,” said Miss Deeping. “Do you imagine they did it for nothing?”

  They didn’t understand, Peter thought. They hadn’t seen his father try scheme after scheme and fail. He hadn’t known that those years of futility had culminated in this…stationary whirlwind. His companions were gazing at him with varying degrees of reproach. “How would a duchess hide a fortune without help?” Peter asked them. “Do you imagine her carting piles of plate down dark corridors, digging in the gardens with her fingernails? Someone would have had to aid her, and thus know how and where it was done. And if this ever happened—doubtful—those helpers stole everything the moment she was gone.”

  “Unless the servants who helped her died as well,” said Tom. He nodded at the explanation.