Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  – Your Devoted Slave,

  Rasha.

  “Now why would she keep this with her, and tucked within the pages of her favourite book?” he wondered aloud. “And who is this fellow Rasha?”

  Charles stared at the troubling postcard for several minutes, a broad spectrum of possibilities crossing his mind—most of them, at the very least, unsatisfying; others, distressing to the point of extreme worry. He could ask Victoria, for she clearly knew the man, but then what behaviour required Elizabeth’s forgiveness, and why wouldn’t Victoria reveal Beth’s whereabouts? Deciding to allow the duchess to explain in her own time, he returned the card to the book. He was just about to set the novel back onto the table, when the detective’s curiosity grew overpowering, and he slipped the postcard into his coat pocket.

  The master apartment sat on the northernmost corner of the west wing, and this bedchamber formed one, long side of that right angle. Beyond, through the west door, at the precise corner of the large apartment, stood a shared bath, flanked by ‘his and hers’ dressing rooms—the second of which led into the remaining bedchamber, which faced west. Each chamber also connected to a shared and equally plush, private parlour. Here, Charles and Paul stationed themselves as Beth’s guardians: one cousin keeping watch, whilst the other slept in the second bedchamber.

  Weary from remaining alert most of the night, Sinclair entered the large bath and splashed cold water onto his face. Neither he nor the earl had shaved since returning from Scotland on the twenty-fourth, and Sinclair’s cheeks and chin were heavily shadowed by thick stubble. Running a comb through his curling dark hair, he wondered if it needed a trim.

  “I might just let the beard grow,” he muttered to himself, as he rubbed his cleft chin. “I wonder if this Rasha has a beard.”

  A quick bath later, he’d changed for the day, and after adding a pair of monogrammed silver links to the white silk cuffs, the marquess descended the stairs and crossed through the well-lit foyer to join his cousin and aunt in the larger of two morning rooms, before a cheerful fire.

  “Well, I must say, you look like a true Stuart now,” Victoria said as he entered. “Yes, yes, I know you’re a Sinclair, but your mother was a Stuart, Charles. Never forget that. Now, come, kiss me, my dear.”

  Sinclair walked to her chair and bent down to kiss her cheek. “It’s easy to see that Elizabeth’s beauty comes from the Stuart side of our family, Aunt.”

  Victoria actually smiled, her dark eyes rounding with rare surprise. “You are as full of blarney as your cousin.”

  The earl laughed. “Now, now, Victoria Regina, is that any way to talk about me, your favourite nephew?”

  The aunt withdrew a monogrammed silver case from her handbag and selected a slender, brown cigarette, tapping it on the metal edge. “Are you my favourite?” she asked.

  Sinclair found a brass matchbox on the fireplace mantel, struck one, and lit his aunt’s smoke.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “Paul, up until now, you were inevitably my favourite, as you were my only nephew. However, with Charles now back with us, you have competition. Ah, I hear Elizabeth’s voice. Smiles, all.”

  The earl joined his cousin in standing as the duchess entered. Meeting her at the door, Charles bent to kiss his fiancée’s cheek, his lips lingering for a few seconds. “Good morning, little one,” he whispered as he took her hand. “Sorry I fell asleep on duty. It won’t happen again.”

  She touched his shadowed chin. “Nonsense, Captain. You’ve earned your sleep. I rather like this pirate look you and Paul are sporting. Is this a permanent change?”

  Charles looked at the earl, and both scratched at their faces. “If you wish for a pirate, my lady, then I shall grow a very long beard and learn sea shanties,” the detective said with a bow.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I’m quite certain Inspector Reid and his fellow officers prefer that you keep your feet firmly rooted in England’s terra firma, Captain.”

  “Then, I shall remove the beard forthwith,” he answered, casting a glance at the earl. “Now, I cannot speak for my cousin. He’d begun growing that paltry excuse for a beard even before we left Scotland, so I suspect it is part of some future disguise.”

  Aubrey’s clear blue eyes sparkled, as he joined in the merriment. “Perhaps, I’ve decided to hoist sail without you, Cousin. Shall I shave it off, Princess?”

  “I leave that to you and your taskmaster in government,” she replied, as she stroked the earl’s darkened chin. “Tory, do you see what I’ve had to deal with? These two constantly plot how best to keep me laughing and distracted from worry. I wish you could have seen them at the various parties in Kent this past fortnight. I cannot remember when I have laughed so much! Do you know, that they even performed an impromptu rendition of The Major-General’s Song from Penzance at Harrington House last week? Perhaps, they’re both pirates, after all!”

  The earl sat upon the edge of a wide chair beside their aunt, his arm around Victoria’s shoulders. “Tory, you mustn’t believe everything you hear. In the interest of full disclosure, it was Charles who chose that song. I preferred singing a less showy number. In fact, I’d suggested something from Rice’s Adonis.”

  Sinclair sat down beside Elizabeth on one of the sofas, facing the south windows. “Yes, but you wanted to sing one of the title character’s songs, Cousin. I’m afraid that would never do. Surely, with that long hair, you’d be better at playing the Lady Nattie.”

  Aubrey tucked an errant strand of chestnut behind his left ear and shrugged. “You are simply jealous.”

  Their aunt reached up and tugged at one of the earl’s shoulder length locks. “It is much longer than I remembered. Perhaps, Charles is right about this idea of a disguise. Is Salisbury sending you off again?”

  “I reveal nothing,” the earl said, laughing.

  The duchess seemed to be enjoying the banter, but her eyes had begun to stray now and then towards the south view of the gardens. “I wonder if it will rain again this morning,” she whispered, rising to cross to the windows.

  “Don’t speak to me of rain,” Victoria Stuart said as she blew a silvery stream of smoke into the room. “It’s done nothing but drip constantly in Paris for the past month. At least, there, the rains have an ethereal beauty to them.”

  “And not in London?” Sinclair asked.

  “Generally, no,” she replied simply.

  “Tory doesn’t care much for London, Charles. Beth, did you still want to run errands this morning?” he asked the duchess.

  Elizabeth did not respond, but stood near the windows, her back towards her family. Sensing a shift in her mood, the earl followed her movements with his eyes, but Charles stood, and crossed the room to join her. “Darling, is everything all right?” the detective asked. “You seem suddenly preoccupied.”

  She said nothing, her right arm raised up as if to wave to someone outside.

  “More guests?” the maiden aunt asked. “If so, then we’ll need refreshments. When is breakfast, by the way?”

  “Half nine, I think,” the earl said as he rose and joined his cousins near the window. “Elizabeth?”

  She dropped her hand, and both men could see that it trembled.

  Their aunt crushed her cigarette, deciding not to smoke further. “I’ll ring for Miles and ask him to bring us something to tide us over until breakfast. Does a pot of strong coffee sound interesting, Nephews?”

  Sinclair nodded in perfunctory fashion. “Yes. Coffee sounds quite nice. Beth, what is it?” he asked, touching her hand.

  “Nothing. No one. Really, there’s no one,” she muttered incomprehensively, her back still to him. Her gaze was fixed upon the manicured lawn, where a lanky shadow wearing a stovepipe hat waved to her from his position near the rowan trees. Elizabeth shuddered.

  Charles moved closer and put his left hand upon her shoulder, running the fingers
of his right through the waves of her hair. “Darling, what is it? Did you sleep poorly, or is my beard?” he asked, trying to evoke a smile. “I hope our teasing hasn’t upset you. It wasn’t intended as anything but idle nonsense.”

  She did not smile at all, but turned back towards him; eyes wide, the pupils large. “What?”

  Victoria and Paul exchanged worried glances. “Elizabeth, perhaps, you should cancel your photography appointment for today,” their aunt suggested. “I’m sure we could send a footman with a message. Couldn’t we, Paul? Blackwood’s just over on Pall Mall, isn’t he?”

  Beth’s heart-shaped face had grown pale, and in trying to turn back to the window, she nearly stumbled, as if her knees threatened to give way. Paul put his right arm ‘round her waist, and both cousins assisted the duchess to the sofa. Charles sat beside her again, rubbing her hands to aid circulation.

  “Beth, this is the second faint since yesterday morning,” he exclaimed, touching her face. “You hardly ate last night or at luncheon yesterday. Are you feverish?” Elizabeth made no reply, though she leaned against her fiancé’s shoulder. “Tory, I’m very glad you’re here, for many reasons,” Charles continued. “Beth’s been pushing herself much too hard. We hardly took time to breathe whilst in Kent. A dozen parties and constant callers, and in between she handled all the wedding preparations on her own. Perhaps, you could shoulder some of that burden from here on out.”

  “Of course,” Victoria told him. “It’s the main reason I’m here, you see. Beth, you look very pale, my dear. Perhaps, something to eat would help.”

  As if on cue, a young footman entered, pushing a mahogany tea cart, laden with a large, silver coffee server; a china teapot containing Darjeeling; cups, sugar, cream; and a three-tiered cake tray filled with croissants, scones, and a selection of biscuits.

  “You’re right on time, Lester,” the earl told the footman. “I’ve always said the staff in this house can read minds.”

  Elizabeth blinked, like one coming out of a dream. “Oh, hello, Lester. When did you come in?”

  “Just now, my lady. Tea or coffee?”

  “What?” she asked. “Oh, of course. Tea, I think. No—coffee might be better. Actually, I’m not sure. Ask the others.”

  The young man bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace. Lady Victoria, what is your pleasure?”

  “Tea sounds perfect.”

  “Lord Haimsbury?”

  “Coffee is fine,” Charles answered, his eyes on the duchess.

  “Very good, sir. Lord Aubrey?”

  “You know me, Lester. Coffee with a splash of whisky, but I’ll forgo the latter ingredient for now,” he answered with a grin, hoping to cajole Elizabeth into laughter.

  The young footman to pour, handing tea to Lady Victoria and then coffee to each of the men. “There are applesauce cakes and scones, with butter, of course, and Mrs. Smith has supplied chokecherry and blackberry jams in these little pots. I could bring fresh fruit, if you wish. Cheese, perhaps?”

  “I think we’re all right,” Victoria replied. “This looks quite delicious.”

  “As you wish, Lady Victoria. Hot breakfast will be served in an hour, my lady,” he told Elizabeth. “Oh, and I’m to say that one of the new Scottish maids, Ada MacKenzie, is all broke out in a feverish rash, so Mrs. Meyer has sent for a doctor.”

  “A rash?” Victoria asked. “Now, that is ominous. Does Mrs. Meyer suspect measles or something worse?”

  “Something worse?” Sinclair asked sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing really, but rashes are not uncommon in many ailments. Scarlet fever and typhus, to name but two, and either can strike at anytime from what I hear. Why, Charles? Is there some new plague spreading about the city that I should know about?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied as he added cream to his coffee. “Which doctor is coming by, Lester?” Charles asked, his voice filled with concern. “Is it Price?”

  “I believe so, sir,” the footman replied. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a spot of tea, my lady?” he asked the duchess. “It’s Darjeeling with a hint of cinnamon and citrus. Your favourite.”

  “What? Darjeeling? Oh, you mean the tea. No, thank you, Lester. Nothing just now.” Elizabeth continued to stare straight ahead, her eyes fixed upon the ominous Shade’s capering movements outside on the lawn. Though several gardeners worked in the flower beds, not one man appeared to notice the impossibly tall man in the stovepipe hat.

  Elizabeth shuddered again, the night’s dark dream filling her thoughts, and Charles touched her forehead. “You’re very warm,” he whispered.

  “Is she?” Victoria asked. “Lester, please, tell Mrs. Meyer that she’s to let us know the moment this doctor arrives, all right? The duchess may have caught a chill.”

  Just then, the terrier scampered into the morning room and began to sniff at Sinclair’s hand. The marquess scratched the dog’s ears whilst the footman finished serving.

  Victoria Stuart used a sterling silver knife to slice a small scone and add butter to one half. “Tell me, Lester, are you by any chance related to Michael Lester, who used to serve at Drummond House?”

  “He is my uncle, Lady Victoria, and he still serves the duke,” the young footman answered politely.

  “Well, I’m very glad to hear it,” she said, thoughtfully tapping her fingers against the side of the china teacup.

  “Will there be anything else?” Lester asked. “Lord Aubrey? Lord Haimsbury?” Both men shook their heads.

  Victoria smiled as she set down the cup. “I think this is all we need for now, Lester. Thank you, but do speak with Mrs. Meyer about that doctor. If it’s Price, then let us know when his train arrives from Branham.”

  “I shall alert you the moment we hear anything, my lady.” The footman bowed again and left, shutting the doors.

  “Beth, have you had measles?” Charles asked.

  Elizabeth’s attentions were elsewhere, staring at the dancing demon now darting playfully through the Queen Anne Whites. Tipping its hat once more, the shadowy figure leapt suddenly over the high, limestone wall that bordered the street, disappearing from view. With the hellish Shade gone at last, Elizabeth finally relaxed.

  “What did you say?” she asked Sinclair, her breathing shallow.

  “Have you had measles?” he repeated. “Really, Elizabeth, I’m sure you’re coming down with something. If MacKenzie has a fever and rash, then it’s quite possibly measles—if not something worse. Perhaps, I should stay home this morning.”

  “Why would you do that?” she asked, unable to follow the thread.

  “Charles, don’t alter your plans unless you prefer to remain,” the earl said. “I can stay. My only meeting today isn’t until three, but Salisbury can get along without me until tomorrow. He’d planned to discuss the Egypt treaty, but it can wait. Nothing earth shattering.”

  Their aunt poured milk into her tea. “Beth, I think you should have a cup as well. It will help your disposition. I assume it’s still two sugars and a splash, correct?” the aunt asked as she filled a china cup for her niece. “I believe Elizabeth had all the normal childhood diseases, Charles, but we’ll ask Price to make sure. Is he in London?”

  “No, he’s still in Branham Village, Tory,” the earl answered.

  Elizabeth stared at Aubrey, unshed tears rimming the lashes of her lower lids, and he instantly knew what was troubling her. Or at least, he thought he did. “What errands do you need running today, Beth? Is there something I might do for you?” he asked sweetly.

  “No, not really,” she muttered. “Honestly, I don’t feel like tea just now, but I’ll drink it in a moment, as you’ve already made it, Tory. I’m so sorry we weren’t there to meet you at the station. We’d not expected you until after teatime. I don’t even know if your rooms are ready yet.”

  She took the cup from her aunt, s
taring at it, as if unable to fathom what to do. It looked as if a storm of tears would break at any moment, a troubling and inscrutable tempest. Charles could feel her entire arm shake, so much so that the teacup began to rattle against the saucer.

  “I’ll hold it for you, little one,” he said gently, taking the cup from her hand.

  “You needn’t worry about not meeting me at the station, my dear,” the Victoria Stuart assured her niece. “Your grandfather sent his butler to fetch me, and it’s always interesting to chat with Booth. He’s actually quite a good conversationalist when pressed.” The spinster kept subtle watch on Elizabeth as she spoke, a trick she’d mastered during the previous years in Paris. “I’m very glad to find you up and about, though I wonder at the propriety of your fiancé sleeping outside your boudoir.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, struggling to keep pace with the conversation, her mind inexplicably muddled. “Propriety? I’m not sure what you mean. There’s nothing improper going on, if that’s what you think.”

  “No one said there was,” their aunt proclaimed. “However, appearances are important.”

  “Aunt Victoria very nearly had me tossed out on my ear,” Charles explained, “but she has now decided I might not be as dangerous as she’d first surmised.”

  Deciding small talk would help distract Elizabeth from her mood, the elder Stuart continued as she added a third cube of sugar to the tea and stirred it in. “Your presence did rather startle me, Nephew. Not only for your impertinence—and I am right in that, you know—but also because of your remarkable resemblance to your late father, though you also wear my sister’s eyes, of course. When you’ve the time, I’ll show you a collection of your mother’s letters and a cabinet photograph, taken the year you were born. I’ve brought those and many other memorabilia with me.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Sinclair replied. “I relish any opportunity to learn more about my parents.”

  Victoria placed two chocolate biscuits onto her plate. “Elizabeth, my brother asked me to supervise the wedding plans, so when you’re up to it, we’ll begin composing a guest list.”