“Drummond House? Your uncle is the Duke of Drummond?” St. Clair asked, imagining what his wife’s family might make of this moment. A viscount inviting a lowly police detective to a duke’s London house!
“He is, and he is also Elizabeth’s grandfather. Uncle James will want to thank you in person, I know it. And my father will also be there. You might have guessed it, Inspector St. Clair, Elizabeth is our most cherished gift, and we are but her guardians—and now you have joined that happy club!”
“Thank you, sir. I consider that an honour. Beth’s surname is Stuart, you say? We noticed that monogram in her clothing said E., which I assume stands for Elizabeth, but the other name written there was Anjou. May I ask if that is the name of a clothing maker?”
“It is her title,” Marlbury replied. “Beth is the Marchioness of Anjou.”
“Her title?” St. Clair echoed, flabbergasted. “Elizabeth is a marchioness?”
“She is that and more. Much more,” Marlbury replied, pulling on his cloak. “The Anjou marquessate is a suo jure title, and Beth has used it as her courtesy title since birth. But, now that her mother is dead, Elizabeth will inherit that title as well. Patricia was Duchess of Branham in her own right, and now it will pass to her only child. It is the sole remaining suo jure ducal title in England. Does it now begin to make sense, Inspector? Trent cares nothing for Beth. Only for her titles and inheritance. The Branham estate is considerable.”
“It does make sense, my lord,” the detective answered thoughtfully. “I would speak to you more about this, at your convenience, of course. I’m sure you wish to take your cousin home.”
The viscount nodded. “Yes, I do. Again, Inspector St. Clair, thank you many times over for keeping Elizabeth safe. You are her true hero today. Her knight errant.”
St. Clair smiled. “And she is a dazzling damsel, Lord Marlbury. And she has forever won my heart.”
“Well said,” Marlbury agreed. “Beth wins the hearts of all who meet her. Ah, but she is amazing for one who has not quite seen eleven years, is she not?”
“Eleven? I would have said less considering her small stature, but her vocabulary and reading skills told me that could not be.”
Paul glanced at the girl waiting for him on the other side of the leaded window that overlooked the station’s main police lounge. “Well, she is nearly eleven, but you must call her petite. Never say she is ‘small’. She will never let you forget it. Now, I must take Beth to her true family. Please, come to Drummond House tomorrow evening for supper. And bring your dear wife as well. We shall welcome you both like family!”
Chapter Four
Drummond House was a sprawling, three-storey ducal estate near the western edge of Westminster. The house and grounds covered just over sixty acres, which included a mews, formal gardens, and a recently installed ‘glass house’ for growing year-round fruits and vegetables. The mews was a collection of six stables and two carriage houses, each with living quarters above for groomsmen plus tack storage. In addition to the primary staff of a butler, underbutler, housekeeper, cook, footmen, and a variety of maids, the estate employed half a dozen gardeners, two drivers, a farrier, and a blacksmith.
As their hansom pulled into the long gravel drive, Charles St. Clair’s wife took his arm and whispered excitedly, “It’s like I’ve always dreamt!”
“I’m glad, Amelia. And I am sorry for my harsh words at our home yesterday,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “It was unkind of me. And thoughtless.”
“Think nothing of it, Charles,” she said sweetly.
In truth, St. Clair still felt his wife’s attitude had been heartless, but he had no wish to hurt her further. He had, in fact, done all he could in the past twenty-four hours to make up for his outburst. In those same twenty-four hours, Amelia St. Clair had transformed from a defiant harpy into a compliant kitten, purring now as she accompanied her policeman husband into the grand mansion’s front entry.
St. Clair had never dreamt about the rarified life of the landed gentry, but he knew his wife had done so nearly every waking moment of her life, so he welcomed this chance to fulfil her dreams, especially if it helped to restore calm in his household. The detective wore his best Sunday suit, and Amelia had borrowed her mother’s jewels and a gown of cornflower blue silk from her eldest sister for the evening. The couple now entered the enormous foyer like a pair of ducks in a swan pond.
“Inspector and Mrs. St. Clair, my lords,” the butler announced, once he’d led the couple into a large salon near the southwest side of the enormous mansion. The gleaming paneled walls bore dozens of paintings from centuries past, visages of Scottish dukes reaching back to the 1400s, many whose strong lines and forms of face bore striking similarities to James, Duke of Drummond and his kind-hearted nephew, Paul Stuart.
The latter rose to greet the St. Clairs and offer introductions. “Inspector, it is so very good to see you again,” he said warmly, shaking the detective’s hand. “Mrs. St. Clair, I am Paul Stuart, and we are honoured by your presence. Thank you for helping to keep our Elizabeth safe.”
Amelia curtseyed and let the viscount kiss her gloved hand, not bothering to mention that her welcome to his cousin had been far less than courteous.
“Inspector and Mrs. St. Clair, allow me to introduce my father, Robert Stuart, the 11th Earl of Aubrey, who has forgotten more about politics than I shall ever learn.”
The earl bowed as he kissed her hand, and Amelia fairly blushed as Aubrey’s eyes met hers. “Charmed,” he whispered. He then shook St. Clair’s hand, his grip firm. “Inspector, it is a genuine delight to make your acquaintance. I feel as if I know you already. Our Beth has not ceased to speak of you both.”
Charles smiled, wondering just how the little duchess had described her encounters in Whitechapel, particularly her treatment at his wife’s hands. “You are too kind, sir,” he managed. “Though our time with your niece was brief, she made an indelible mark on both our hearts.”
Aubrey’s son cleared his throat as he tapped the detective on the shoulder. “Beth does that with everyone, Inspector. Now, if I may,” he continued, leading the couple to a man near to the earl’s age, who wore a grin as wide as his entire face. “This is my most unique and worthy uncle, James Stuart, 10th Duke of Drummond, who is perhaps, the most notable and handsome of all ten to hear him tell it. One day, I expect his exploits and my father’s will find publication in some learned history book, but even such a massive tome could never contain all the truths regarding their remarkable service to our country, and of course to our little Beth.”
“A pleasure, son. A true pleasure!” Drummond said as he shook St. Clair’s hand, and he also kissed the hand of his wife, who suppressed bashful blushes as she curtseyed, hoping later to recall every word and gesture to regale her parents and sisters until all were green with envy.
Lord Aubrey was a tall and magnificently handsome man of sixty-five and the more subdued of the two elder statesmen, who had served in numerous positions in the Foreign Office as well as in the House of Lords. Charles recognised him at once, for he’d often seen the earl’s photograph appearing alongside timely quotes in the city’s leading newspapers as an authority on finance and world politics. He appeared far friendlier than Charles would have imagined.
“Welcome, Inspector,” the earl said with a wide smile. “Since our arrival here this morning, Elizabeth has not ceased to speak of you both, and she asks after a Mrs. Wilsham—I hope I remember the name correctly. Beth says that we must have her to our home to bake cakes for her.”
“You’re very kind, Lord Aubrey,” St. Clair replied. “Mrs. Wilsham would, I am sure, bake your niece all the cakes she should ever desire. We are honoured that you would mention it.”
“My cousin is Sir Albert Wendaway, Lord Aubrey,” Amelia said, and though he’d felt certain his wife would bring up her lay-about cousin, Charles dearly wished she ha
d not.
The duke, however, eased the gaffe without so much as a wrinkle. “Ah, yes, I know this young man. A fine fellow,” he lied, with a wink to Charles, whose blue eyes openly expressed his undying gratitude for the duke’s thoughtfulness. “You must have him look me up next time he’s in Glasgow,” Drummond continued, sending Amelia into shower of giggles and six shades of rosy blushes.
The duke was a very young sixty and stood a few inches shorter than his nephew, and where the viscount was clean-shaven, Drummond wore a black moustache salted with grey, and his hair was close-cropped and neat. He seemed a man of high contrasts: a sense of refinement mingled with the mirth of a man without a care. His tanned face revealed a love of the outdoors, and he laughed with abandon whenever a joke was told. His dark eyes, however, sparkled with keen insight and high intelligence like those of his granddaughter Elizabeth. Clearly, the young duchess had inherited her Scottish relative’s best qualities.
“Inspector,” the duke continued to Charles with a massive grin crossing his broad face, “you are the hero of the hour to us! Elizabeth cannot stop talking of you and your kindness to her. I tell you, that if we were not so much in grief over the loss of her dear mother, we’d be hosting a parade in your honour, my friend. I hope you will always consider yourself welcome under this roof. And you must come to Scotland! London’s fine if you want to play about in parlours with dancing ladies, but if you want to hunt and fish, there’s no place like Glasgow!”
“You give me too much credit, sir,” St. Clair objected, realising at once, as she squeezed his hand, that his wife loved the attention and praise, mostly for herself, for she hadn’t even considered the dangers her husband had faced in standing up to Sir William; dangers that may yet unfold. “Your nephew, perhaps, exaggerates just a bit, but I appreciate your kindness nonetheless.”
“Paul never exaggerates,” came a refined voice from the doorway to the salon. All turned to see the young girl at the centre of their gathering. No longer wearing bloodied, torn, or borrowed clothing, her hair matted with straw and blood, her face slack with shock, this Elizabeth, the newly proclaimed Duchess of Branham, was arrayed in a royal blue velvet dress with a rose-coloured sash, and her dark eyes and gleaming black hair made her look as if she were a princess of the realm. Her face, ashen and sad during the past day’s nightmare, now glowed with serenity; her skin, more cream than white—her cheeks pale pink with an adolescent blush.
“Paul speaks only truth, as do you, Inspector. He is my darling cousin, but you are my Captain Nemo,” she said with a bright smile that lit up the room. “And I shall ever be in your debt.”
St. Clair stepped toward her, bending down to one knee as he kissed her small hand. “It is I who am in your debt, Your Grace. Your gentle manner and bright eyes have forever lightened my heart. I am grateful to our Saviour for protecting you and returning you to your rightful family.”
Elizabeth’s eyes looked into his, and she cupped his chin with her small hand. “And I thank Him for sending you to my aid, Captain. You served as His protective hand when I needed it most. I shall never forget you for that. Nor shall I ever forget the kindness shown me by all the brave men at your police station. And I pray that tonight begins a long and close friendship twixt our family and yours.”
St. Clair stood and bowed, gallantly. Amelia stepped forward next, eager to greet and be greeted by the child she had so scorned the previous day, but rather than remind her former hostess of this slight, Elizabeth took Amelia’s hand and walked her to the centre of the room. “Uncle Robert,” she said, calling Lord Aubrey by his Christian name, “Paul, Grandfather, we all must cherish our time with the St. Clairs. And we must always be their friends, as they have been friend to me.”
“Hear, hear!” the Stuart men said in concert.
Elizabeth looked up at Amelia and smiled. Amelia smiled in return, convinced that the girl had simply forgotten or not noticed any unkindness whilst in her home. Elizabeth, for her part, felt sorry for the inspector’s wife, for she seemed very unhappy, and the little duchess had determined to do her best to bring a smile to the woman’s lips.
As canapés were served by two liveried footmen, Beth sat down beside the duke, talking now with him and Amelia St. Clair, whilst the young inspector spoke quietly with Lord Aubrey and his son in another corner of the enormous drawing room.
“We can never thank you enough for keeping her safe,” Aubrey said. “James and I feared the worst when Paul wired us in Scotland. Believe me when I tell you, Inspector, this man Trent is an evil one. Do you think you’ll be able to arrest him, assuming he shows his face again in London?”
“I hope to,” St. Clair replied. “Sir, Beth—the duchess, I mean—she told me that she saw a man in a park. She was unable to tell me which park she meant, but she thought its name had the word Queen in it. Do you know which park this might be?”
Paul nodded and leaned in to answer. “The Branham estate here in Westminster is called Queen Anne House, Inspector. There is a sizeable, private park behind that beautiful home, and Beth often walks or rides there whenever she is in London. She was last here in January, two months past. Her mother came here for a friend’s wedding, I believe. Is that right, Father?”
The earl nodded. “So Patricia said, but I know of no one in her circles who married in January. I suspect that she had other business in London,” he finished mysteriously.
The viscount showed surprise. “Really?” His father’s severe glance indicated that he would say nothing further to enlighten his son, so the young nobleman continued. “Inspector, I was working in Paris until last week, so I fear I can only speculate, which would do little to help solve Patricia’s murder. I wonder if Elizabeth recalls any more regarding this man in the park, now that she’s recovered some of her memory. Father, do we dare ask her?”
Robert Stuart’s light blue eyes narrowed as he considered this question for several moments. Before replying, he smiled at his niece, who had turned to wave happily to the trio of men. “She seems content, does she not?” he noted. “So brave yet so very innocent. Paul, to your question, it may be best to give Beth some time to reconcile all that has happened before we subject her to interrogation.”
“Yes, Father, but dare we risk losing an opportunity? If Elizabeth wants to discuss this matter, then...”
“Then, you want to help her. Is that it, son?” the earl replied. “She might recall more, now that she’s around those she loves and trusts—not that she did not trust you, Inspector. Indeed, Elizabeth has told all of us, many times, how much you protected her,” he explained, “but I wonder if we dare risk it. I worry about her mind, you see. She is still in shock over the death of her mother. I’m not sure the reality of all this has truly sunk in, if you get my meaning.”
St. Clair sipped a glass of white wine, his gaze upon the young duchess. “She is remarkably brave, my lords. Please, I hope you will forgive me for making our conversation centre on police matters, but I wish only to find the man who murdered Elizabeth’s mother. I cannot explain it, but she—Beth, I mean—well, she has found a permanent place in my heart, and I would seek justice for her and for her mother, if I am able.”
“Your affections and persistent spirit do you credit, Inspector,” Aubrey replied, “but our Beth has suffered memory lapses before, and when she does, we’ve found the buried events are, more often than not, harmful to her mind. Consequently, we have learnt to tread carefully when questioning her.”
“Yes, I think I understand, sir, but what if this man she mentioned is involved in the murder, or something far worse? Elizabeth spoke of an animal that terrified her.”
“An animal?” the younger Stuart asked, his face becoming intense and worried. “Did she say what kind of animal?”
“No, I do not think she did, but when I pressed her on it, she—well, sir, she had a seizure of some kind.”
Suddenly, Lord Aubrey stood.
“Let us move this conversation outdoors. It’s a somewhat chilly evening, but I would not risk Beth’s overhearing us, Inspector.”
They left the magnificent drawing room and followed the taciturn butler through the main doors and onto a spacious, south-facing, covered portico, that overlooked a dense line of oak and ash trees.
Beyond the treeline, through the main gates to the estate, Charles could see the northern edge of St. James’s Park. There, on the rolling green, the gaslights and round moon shone upon couples who walked together despite the chilly evening. The wooden benches were filled with primly attired governesses, laughing children, deal-making businessmen, prostitutes, peddlers, politicians, and a wide variety of London’s diverse humanity—most with money, but a few seeking to beg enough for a night’s bed and a bit of breakfast come morning.
“Please, Inspector, sit,” the earl said, his blue eyes fixed on movement near the dark trees. “Paul, is that one of your men near the edge of the park?”
Marlbury’s sharp eyes scanned the area. “No, Father. I’ve no one stationed in St. James now. Forgive us, Inspector, you must wonder what we mean. Like my father, I also work for the Foreign Office, and I’ve only just returned from a difficult, field assignment in Paris. I think my father worries that I’m being followed.”
“An old habit,” the earl said, his eyes continuing to assess the shadowy figure beyond the trees. “Mr. St. Clair, my niece is somewhat fragile when it comes to certain memories. I’d spare her further injury, if I could. You say she suffered a seizure whilst in your care?”
“That is the only way I know to describe it, my lord. I had asked her about the animal, and I fear I persisted, for I wanted to unmask her mother’s murderer. You see, I’d feared that your niece might have been victim to a procurement operation. One that specialises in the young.”
Blood Lies Page 6
