Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1

by Larkin, Emily

  “Brandy, Ollie?”

  “Yes.” Oliver took the glass that Rhodes held out and sat on the end of the bed, leaning against one of the posts. He sipped the brandy and turned his gaze on Dasenby. “So.”

  Dasenby stared back at him, clutching his glass.

  “Why don’t you tell us what you know, and we tell you what we know, and then we’ll decide what to do next?” Oliver phrased it as a suggestion, but it sounded like a command.

  Dasenby swallowed, and nodded jerkily. He took a short, shallow breath, and said, “It started the night of the Turvingtons’ ball, after I said good-bye to you at the club.” His voice was a little stifled, as if his throat was tight. “After I crossed Piccadilly I looked back, and I saw you. You were waiting to cross the road, and I thought . . .” He flushed faintly, and glanced down at his glass. “I thought I’d wait for you, walk with you as far as your house, and then I saw someone come up behind you and push you in front of that coach.” His face blanched. “God, I thought you were dead! I ran after him—the man who pushed you—and he went down St. James’s Street and into our club, and as he went in through the door I saw his face . . .”

  There was a beat of silence, and then Rhodes said, “It was your father.”

  Dasenby nodded. He was shaking. Primrose wasn’t sure whether it was from cold or distress.

  “Drink your brandy,” she said softly.

  Dasenby obeyed, gulping a mouthful. He shuddered, and inhaled another of those short, shallow breaths, and continued: “I thought I must have been mistaken—it was dark, after all, and I’d been on the other side of the street when it happened—so I ran back to Piccadilly and you weren’t there. It was as if nothing had happened.”

  “I was lucky,” Oliver said. “Fell between the wheels.”

  Dasenby gave a jerky nod, and twisted the brandy glass in his hands. “I didn’t know what to do. It didn’t seem real. I thought I must have been mistaken, that I’d confused one person for another in the dark, that Father would never push anyone, let alone you.” He looked conscience-stricken. “I’m sorry, Cousin. I should have spoken to you about it the very next day.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. It was dark, you were on the other side of the street. You could very easily have been mistaken.” He paused, and then gave a shamefaced grimace. “And I wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”

  Dasenby flushed, and lowered his gaze to his glass again.

  This time the beat of silence was uncomfortable.

  “What made you change your mind?” Primrose asked quietly. “When did you realize that your father was trying to kill Oliver?”

  Dasenby twisted the glass in his hands—once, twice—and then stilled the gesture. “It took me a while.”

  “What was the first clue?” she prompted gently. “Other than what happened on Piccadilly.”

  Dasenby looked at her. “I suppose . . . it was when he told me he’d lost the house.”

  “Which house?” she asked.

  “Our house in Dorsetshire.”

  “Lost it? You mean . . . he staked it in a game?”

  Dasenby nodded.

  “What other assets does your father have?” Rhodes asked.

  “Nothing,” Dasenby said. “He ran through Mother’s fortune years ago. The house was the last thing he had.” He twisted the glass again, once, twice. “Father told me about it before we came into Oxfordshire. Usually when he asks me for money he makes a joke of it, but this time he was . . . he was angry.”

  Rhodes’s eyebrows lifted. “Your father borrows money from you?”

  Dasenby nodded. “Mother left half her fortune to me. I came into it last year.”

  “And your father has been hanging off your coat-tails ever since?” Oliver said, a sardonic inflection in his voice. “Nice of him.”

  Dasenby flushed again, and looked down at his brandy.

  Primrose felt a strong pang of sympathy. The poor boy. Coming into a fortune at twenty-one, only to have his father sponge off him.

  “Does he repay you?” Rhodes asked.

  “He hasn’t yet, but he promised he would. He said he had a scheme . . .” Dasenby’s flush deepened. He clutched the glass more tightly.

  They all knew what that scheme was.

  “What was your next clue?” Primrose asked.

  Dasenby darted her a glance, and gulped a nervous mouthful of brandy. “It was a few days ago. I’d misplaced one of my tie pins, the pearl one, and Father said he had one just like it in his jewelry box and I could borrow it if I wished, so I went to his room to fetch it.” He took another, nervous mouthful of brandy. “I couldn’t see the pin in the jewelry box—and then I remembered the secret drawer at the back and thought he must have put it in there, except it wasn’t there, either.”

  “Uncle Algy has a secret drawer in his jewelry box?” Oliver asked, his eyebrows lifting.

  Dasenby nodded.

  “What was in there?” Primrose asked.

  “A snuff box, tortoiseshell and gold, and a tiny jar labeled White Arsenic.” Dasenby gave an unhappy laugh. “It scared me at first, the arsenic, because I thought Father might be planning to kill himself, and then I realized I was being silly and he was just reusing a jar that had once held arsenic, so I closed the drawer and kept looking for the tie pin. It was on the dresser.” He was silent for a moment, then he lifted his gaze to Oliver’s face. “And then, the next day, Father gave you that snuff box.”

  Rhodes and Oliver exchanged a glance.

  “Go on,” Oliver said. “Say it: You were right about the snuff.”

  “Don’t need to say it, do I?”

  Oliver grunted, and drank more of his brandy. He didn’t look as if he enjoyed the taste any more than Primrose did.

  “And the Madeira?” Rhodes asked Dasenby. “Are you certain it was poisoned?”

  Dasenby hesitated, then shook his head. “But it seemed so suspicious, the way he held that glass aside especially, so I thought . . .” He shrugged with his shoulders, with his face. “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” Oliver said. “It was poisoned. And I would have drunk it—because I trusted him.”

  Primrose heard a rasp of anger in his voice. Dasenby must have heard it, too. He seemed to shrink into himself. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Oliver said. “Nothing at all. You saved my life. Twice. I am deeply in your debt.” The rasp was still in his voice.

  He’s angry at himself, Primrose realized. Angry at himself for trusting the wrong person, for doubting the wrong person.

  “Going back to the snuff,” Rhodes said. “He could have killed all three of us. Good God, you almost took a pinch and you’re his son! I don’t understand what the devil he was thinking.”

  “If I may, sir?”

  They all looked at Benoît, who was standing at the door like a guard.

  “I have some knowledge of arsenic,” the valet said.

  Rhodes put up his eyebrows. “You do?”

  “Yes, sir. For a while I was in the household of a . . . how do you call it? A man of science. I used to transcribe his notes for him.”

  Rhodes’s eyebrows were still raised. “Go on.”

  “If arsenic is administered in small doses, over a period of time, it can kill a man. That is probably what Lord Algernon intended with the snuff. One pinch wouldn’t kill, but ten pinches a day over several days . . .” He gave one of his expressive, Gallic shrugs.

  “And the Madeira?” Rhodes asked.

  “It was one glass, yes? Set aside for you?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Then there were probably enough grains of arsenic dissolved in it to kill you.”

  There was a long moment of silence, while they all digested this statement.

  “But wouldn’t Oliver have tasted the arsenic?” Primrose asked.

  The valet shook his head. “Arsenic has no taste and no smell. It is the invisible poison.”

  Primrose shivered.r />
  Oliver did, too.

  “You need to be careful, Your Grace,” the valet said. “All of you do until this is over. Do not eat or drink anything that isn’t . . .” He frowned as he sought a word. “Communautaire. Communal.”

  “I can take the arsenic from Father’s room,” Dasenby offered.

  “No.” Oliver shook his head. “We don’t want to alert him; we want to catch him.”

  “With respect, Your Grace, I think the arsenic should be exchanged for something else. I am willing to do that, with Mr. Dasenby’s help.” The valet’s dark eyes went from Oliver’s face to Dasenby’s, and lastly to Rhodes’s.

  “Do it,” Rhodes said, with a curt nod. Then he looked at Oliver. “We’ll repeat what we did at the jetty. Tomorrow night. Catch your uncle in the act. It worked perfectly this time. Gave us the proof we needed.”

  “Yes, it did.” Oliver gave Dasenby a wry, apologetic smile.

  Dasenby flushed again and looked down at the glass he clutched.

  “All right,” Rhodes said briskly. “So here’s our plan. Benoît, you and Ninian exchange the arsenic tomorrow morning, just as soon as you possibly can. Be careful. We don’t want Lord Algernon to know that we’re on to him.”

  The valet nodded.

  “Prim and I will make certain Ollie’s not alone for a minute tomorrow. Come nightfall, we play everything exactly as we did tonight.”

  Primrose nodded. So did Oliver.

  “Would you like to come with us tomorrow night, Dasenby?”

  Dasenby tensed in the armchair.

  “No,” Primrose said quickly. “I don’t think he should.” She glanced at Oliver, trying to pass a silent message. Don’t let him see his father try to kill you.

  Oliver met her eyes. He didn’t nod, but the flicker of his eyelids told her he’d understood. “I agree. Ninian shouldn’t come.”

  “No, of course not.” Rhodes looked a little crestfallen. “I beg your pardon, Dasenby. That was thoughtless of me.”

  Dasenby shook his head. “It’s perfectly all right, sir.”

  But it wasn’t all right. Nothing about this situation was all right. And Oliver wasn’t the only victim in this room.

  Primrose was struck once again by how young Dasenby was. He looked defenseless and forlorn, huddled into the armchair. And in a bedchamber crowded with people, he somehow managed to look alone. Very alone.

  Her heart ached for him. She wanted to go to him and hug him. She glanced at Oliver. He was gazing at his cousin, and his expression was solemn, sympathetic.

  He knows, she realized with relief. He sees it, too.

  “Drink up your brandy, old fellow,” Oliver told his cousin. “We both need it, after that dip in the lake.”

  Dasenby’s gaze fastened on Oliver. After a moment, he gave a tentative smile and obeyed, swallowing the last of his brandy.

  Oliver drained his own glass and stood. “What you and I need most right now is a good, long sleep, Nin.”

  Dasenby stood, too.

  “We’ll talk in the morning. Just the two of us.” Oliver gripped Dasenby’s shoulder briefly. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

  For a dreadful moment, Primrose thought Dasenby was going to burst into tears. He didn’t, instead making a valiant attempt to smile.

  Benoît unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Go to bed, Nin.” There was kindness in Oliver’s voice.

  Dasenby swallowed and nodded and gave that unsteady smile again, and departed.

  There was silence after the door had closed behind him, then Oliver sighed. “Lord, I’m tired.”

  He looked more than tired; he looked exhausted.

  Primrose wanted to hug him, too, but she couldn’t, not with her brother and Benoît standing there. “Of course you’re tired,” she said briskly. “You fell down thirty-six steps and then attempted to drown yourself in a lake. Anyone would be tired after that!”

  Oliver gave a weary flicker of a smile.

  Primrose abandoned her half-full glass of brandy. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Rhodes’s cheek, did the same to Oliver, and then marched to the door.

  Benoît opened it for her.

  Primrose peeked into the corridor. It was empty. She turned and pointed her finger sternly at Oliver. “Bed,” she told him. “Right this instant. And remember to lock your door!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Oliver hadn’t been particularly aware of his bruises when he went to bed—he’d been too preoccupied by everything else that had happened—but he definitely felt them when he woke.

  Someone knocked softly on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Monsieur Benoît.”

  Oliver sat up stiffly, repressing a groan. He had to repress a second groan while climbing out of bed, and a third as he staggered to the door and unlocked it.

  Rhodes’s valet stood there, with a steaming ewer of water. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Benoît.”

  Oliver limped across to the window and looked out, while the valet set up the washstand. Wisps of cloud trailed across a sky the color of starlings’ eggs. He cautiously stretched his arms overhead. His muscles protested, so he abandoned the movement and turned away from the window.

  He found Benoît observing him astutely. “Would you take it amiss, sir, if I suggested a warm bath before breakfast?”

  “No, I wouldn’t take it amiss at all.”

  The bath helped, a lot. By the time he went down to breakfast with Rhodes, he felt human again.

  The breakfast parlor had only three occupants: Mrs. Middleton-Murray, Lady Cheevers, and Uncle Algernon.

  Oliver felt himself tense. He directed a general smile at the table, went to the sideboard and piled food on his plate, then sat as far away from his uncle as was politely possible. Fortunately, no one seemed to be expecting him to speak. All attention was on Rhodes and his reappearance after two days in his sick bed. Oliver concentrated on his food—eggs, sirloin, sausages—aware of Rhodes to his right and Uncle Algy at the periphery of his vision.

  Finally the subject of Rhodes’s recovery was exhausted. There was a lull in the conversation. Oliver didn’t want to look at his uncle—but he knew he had to. It was imperative that he treat Uncle Algy exactly the same way he had yesterday. If he didn’t, Uncle Algy would be suspicious.

  Finally, he forced himself to raise his gaze from his plate and glance down the table.

  His stomach tightened as he met his uncle’s eyes.

  “You’ve an appetite this morning,” Uncle Algy said, with one of his jovial laughs.

  “Yes.” Oliver smiled, and looked back down at his plate, and speared a sausage.

  That first glance, that first word, that first smile, were the hardest. By the time he’d eaten two more sausages, he found himself capable of meeting his uncle’s eyes, conversing with him, even laughing—but it had an unfortunate effect on his appetite. Why the devil had he piled so much food on his plate? His stomach had tied itself into an uncomfortable knot, and every time he laughed at one of Uncle Algy’s jokes he was afraid he might disgrace himself and throw up.

  The door opened, and Primrose entered the breakfast parlor. Her gaze skipped from face to face—and halted when it reached him. She smiled.

  The knot in Oliver’s stomach eased slightly. He smiled back at her.

  Primrose selected her food and took the empty chair to Oliver’s left. She smiled at him again, and the knot eased a little more. Oliver stopped feeling like he was going to throw up. In fact, he managed to eat almost everything on his plate. He’d just laid down his knife and fork when Ninian made his appearance.

  The emotions he’d felt last night came tumbling back. Shame was predominant. Shame that he’d misjudged Ninian so badly. Shame for the way he’d treated him. He might never have rebuffed Ninian overtly, but he’d labeled him a namby-pamby and a fribble, listened with only half an ear to anything he’d said, dismissed him as unimportant.

  He regret
ted it now. Regretted that he’d never looked past Ninian’s exterior to see the man who lay beneath.

  Ninian chose his food, hesitated, and sat opposite Oliver. Their eyes met for a long moment.

  “How are you?” Oliver asked.

  Ninian ducked his head in a nod. “Very well, thank you, Cousin.”

  Uncle Algy pushed back his chair and stood. “I see you’re finished, Oliver. Care to come riding with me?”

  Oliver gave his uncle the biggest and most cheerful smile he could muster. “I’m sorry, Uncle, but I’m promised to Ninian this morning. How about this afternoon? Directly after lunch?” And he’d bring Rhodes with him, and Primrose, too, if he could manage.

  Uncle Algy took this postponement with an appearance of good grace, and departed for the stables.

  Ninian watched his father go, and then stared down at his plate. He looked as if he’d lost his appetite.

  “Tell me again which colors would work well at Westfell House,” Oliver said. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.” And it was true; he had forgotten—because he hadn’t listened properly in the first place. And that was another source of shame.

  Ninian glanced up at him. “You want to know?” He sounded a little doubtful.

  “I do,” Oliver said.

  Ninian brightened. He dug into his breakfast and told Oliver about his vision for Westfell House, and this time Oliver listened to every word.

  * * *

  The State apartments were the ideal place for private conversation with Ninian, but Oliver felt possessive about those rooms—they belonged to him and Primrose—so he took Ninian down to the lake, instead. They punted across to the island and sat on the little jetty there, dangling their legs over the edge, side by side in the sunshine. It was a perfect day: blue sky, feathery tendrils of cloud, the gentlest of breezes, birdsong. The sort of day when one should be happy.

  “We removed the arsenic,” Ninian said. “While Father was at breakfast.”

  “Good. Thank you.” Oliver stared out across the lake for a long moment, and then looked at his cousin. “I owe you an apology, Ninian.”

  Ninian shook his head.