Primrose and the Dreadful Duke_Garland Cousins 1

by Emily Larkin

  “I don’t think it was your uncle who pushed you,” Primrose told him. “Or Ninian, either.”

  “Neither do I.” He tilted his head and looked at her curiously. “What made you change your mind?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow. We can talk it over with Rhodes.”

  “All right.” Oliver gave a nod. “’Night, Prim. And for God’s sake, be careful!”

  “I will. Good night.”

  Primrose stood at the top of the short flight of stairs and watched him out of sight.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Oliver rapped on Rhodes’s door the next morning, he found him wholly recovered. They went down to the breakfast parlor together. “We need to have a talk,” Oliver said. “You and me and Prim. After breakfast.”

  But at breakfast, Cheevers proposed a morning ride for the gentleman, and when they returned Primrose was nowhere to be found. None of the ladies were. “They’re taking a tour of the house,” one of the servants informed them, but in a building the size of Cheevers Court, that meant they could be in any one of two hundred rooms.

  Therefore, when Ninian sidled up and shyly said he’d like to talk to Oliver and asked whether perhaps they could take a walk in the shrubbery, Oliver agreed. He wondered what Ninian wished to tell him. But Rhodes tagged along, and all Ninian spoke about for twenty minutes was Westfell House and the changes that Oliver could make to it now that he was duke.

  Primrose was still absent when they returned from the shrubbery, so when Uncle Algy asked Oliver if he’d like to shoot rabbits, Oliver said yes.

  “I’ll come, too,” Rhodes said.

  “Best not to, Lord Thayne,” Uncle Algy said. “Your eyes—”

  “I’m perfectly recovered,” Rhodes said, cheerfully. “And I’ll take care to avoid bishop’s weed.” So come with them he did, sticking extremely close to Oliver, and while Oliver appreciated Rhodes’s concern for his safety, it was rather trying. Plus, he had the feeling that Uncle Algy had wanted to talk to him privately.

  By the time they had shot a rabbit apiece and given them to the gamekeeper to be delivered to the kitchen, the ladies had returned from their tour. “Where have you been all this time?” Oliver hissed at Primrose as they sat down to luncheon.

  “Oh, everywhere! The widow’s walk, the conservatory, the State apartments.”

  Oliver lowered his voice so that Miss Cheevers, seated on his other side, couldn’t overhear. “Prim, we need to have that talk with Rhodes about you-know-what. As soon as possible. He’s driving me insane.”

  “I’m going riding after luncheon. How about when I get back? Four o’clock?”

  Well, that was annoying. “Who are you riding with?”

  “The ladies.”

  “Can’t you skip it?”

  “No,” Primrose said. “It was my idea. Sorry.”

  With that Oliver had to be content. Rhodes didn’t let him out of his sight the entire afternoon. When Uncle Algy offered to show him the widow’s walk, in what was clearly another attempt to speak to Oliver privately, Rhodes insisted on coming, too. The view was superb—out over the estate, the village, and what was left of the ancient forest of Wychwood—but the parapet was low and Rhodes stayed protectively close, not letting Uncle Algy within arm’s reach of him. Oliver gritted his teeth and endured. And he endured all the different staircases on the way back down when Rhodes made certain to walk between him and Uncle Algy. It was a relief to reach the ground floor again. He checked his pocket watch. Quarter to three.

  At ten to three, Ninian asked if Oliver would like to play a game of billiards, just the two of them. Rhodes tagged along. “To watch the action,” he claimed.

  Oliver gritted his teeth again. What did Rhodes think Ninian was going to do? Stab him with the cue?

  They were in the billiard room and Oliver was checking his pocket watch for the third time—twenty minutes past three—when the door opened. Uncle Algy poked his head in. “Ah, there you are, Oliver.” He advanced into the room with a smile. “I wanted to give you this. Your father had one just like it, and when I saw it I couldn’t resist buying it for you.”

  “This” turned out to be a small snuff box made of tortoiseshell and gold.

  Oliver wasn’t a snuff taker, but he knew how to be polite. “Thank you, Uncle. It’s very handsome.”

  Uncle Algy beamed, and rocked on his heels. “Go on, try it. It’s the sort your father preferred. A mix of Spanish Bran and Macouba.”

  Oliver was aware of Rhodes stiffening alongside him, and if they’d been alone he would have said, Jesus Christ, Rhodes, the snuff’s not poisoned. But they weren’t alone, so he couldn’t.

  “May I try it?” Rhodes asked, and Oliver knew that if he gave Rhodes the snuff box then Rhodes would somehow manage to empty its contents on the floor.

  “And may I try it, too, Cousin?” Ninian asked diffidently, at Oliver’s shoulder.

  Oliver handed Ninian the snuff box first—which was merely delaying the inevitable. Ninian examined the exterior, then flicked the little catch, fumbling as he did so, managing to open the box and drop it at the same time.

  Snuff went everywhere.

  Oliver rolled his eyes at the ceiling, and then laughed, because really, what else could one do?

  Ninian wasn’t laughing; he was scarlet with mortification. Uncle Algy wasn’t laughing either; he looked furious. Rhodes seemed pleased, though.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ninian said. “I have a jar of snuff. I’ll fill it up for you.” He snatched up the box and scurried from the billiard room.

  Uncle Algy rang for a footman to sweep up the snuff. The poor man sneezed six times while he did so.

  Ninian returned, and gave Oliver the snuff box. “I’m sorry,” he said again, still pink with embarrassment. “I’ll send to town for your father’s mix.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Oliver said. “I’m not a connoisseur. I wouldn’t notice the difference.”

  Rhodes held out his hand. “May I try it?” he asked, and Oliver had a strong feeling of déjà vu.

  He handed the snuff box to Rhodes and watched in resignation as Rhodes did exactly what Ninian had done: fumbling with the catch, dropping the snuff box on the floor.

  Rhodes didn’t go scarlet with mortification, although he made a good attempt of looking embarrassed. And he damned well should be embarrassed.

  Ninian uttered a squawk of laughter, and then flushed scarlet again—no doubt because he’d just laughed at a marquis. “I’ll refill it,” he said, bending to pick up the snuff box.

  “No, thank you,” Oliver said. “I think we’ve all had enough snuff for one day.” He plucked the empty box from Ninian’s hand and thrust it into his pocket. “Thank you, Uncle. It’s a very thoughtful gift. I shall treasure it.” As punctuation to that final sentence, he sneezed.

  A few seconds later Rhodes sneezed, too.

  And then Ninian.

  Uncle Algy didn’t sneeze. He smiled tightly.

  It was with relief that Oliver spied Primrose in the doorway. “You’re back early.”

  “It’s starting to rain.” She stepped into the billiard room and wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Snuff,” Oliver told her. “Excuse us, Uncle, Cousin. Rhodes and I need to talk with Lady Primrose rather urgently.”

  He took Primrose by the elbow and hurried her from the room. Rhodes followed on their heels.

  * * *

  “If you weren’t my best friend, I swear to God I’d murder you,” Oliver said, when they finally found somewhere private to talk—which hadn’t been easy. They’d tried the library first, but Lady Warrington was reading the latest edition of the Ladies’ Monthly Museum. The housekeeper was arranging fresh vases of flowers in the drawing room, and footmen were laying the table in the dining room. Miss Warrington was practicing on the pianoforte in the music room. Lady Cheevers and her daughter were in the yellow salon, and Mrs. Middleton-Murray and her daughter were in the blue one. Lords Warrington an
d Cheevers were playing a hand of piquet in the cardroom. Even the breakfast parlor was occupied, by two housemaids polishing teaspoons.

  At which point, Oliver had begun to feel rather harassed.

  Primrose took charge, leading them across the vestibule (for the third time), past the library again, and the music room, and along a wide corridor. At its end, she threw open a door. “Here.”

  Oliver stepped into a room that was blessedly empty. He saw a black marble fireplace, walls hung with red damask, and furniture swathed in Holland cloths. His feet sank into deep, plush carpet. He glanced up at the ceiling and saw that it was gilded. “What’s this room?” he heard Rhodes ask behind him.

  “It’s the State reception room.”

  The door snicked shut.

  Privacy, at last.

  Oliver swung to face Rhodes, put his hands on his hips, and said, “The snuff was not poisoned.”

  “It could have been.”

  “Only between the covers of a novel,” Oliver said. “And this isn’t a novel! It’s real life, and in real life snuff is not poisoned.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Primrose asked.

  “Uncle Algy gave me some snuff, and then Ninian did, too, and both times Rhodes thought it was poisoned!” Oliver flung his arms out on that last word, to give it emphasis.

  “It could have been poisoned,” Rhodes said stubbornly.

  Oliver shook his head. “If you weren’t my best friend, I swear to God I’d murder you.” He cast himself down on a Holland-covered sofa and said to Primrose: “Tell him what you told me last night, Prim.”

  “Neither Lord Algernon nor Ninian Dasenby tried to kill Oliver,” Primrose said. “I’m certain of it.”

  “So am I,” Oliver said. “So as much as I appreciate you guarding me, Rhodes, you can stop.”

  Rhodes frowned. “What’s your proof?” he asked his sister.

  Primrose sat on what was possibly a lyre-backed chair. It was difficult to tell with the Holland cloth over it. “My proof is observation. I watched Ninian very closely yesterday. He hero-worships you, Oliver.”

  Oliver lifted his brows. “Hero-worships me?”

  “Yes. So he’s not going to murder you. And as for Lord Algernon, you remind him very strongly of your father. He feels a pang every time he looks at you. So he’s not going to murder you, either.”

  Oliver lifted his brows even higher. “A pang? He told you that?”

  “No. I read between the lines.”

  “That’s all very well, Prim, but it’s not proof,” Rhodes said. “It’s conjecture. And the whole point of coming here was to prove—beyond any doubt—that neither Lord Algernon nor his son wants Ollie dead.”

  “I’m convinced they don’t,” Primrose said.

  “So am I,” Oliver said.

  “Well, I’m not,” Rhodes said, a bulldog expression on his face. “We need to present them each with a chance to kill you.”

  “Fine,” Oliver said, exasperated. “I’ll stand at the top of the main staircase and pretend to be lost in thought and—”

  “No,” Rhodes said. “No stairs. And nothing with guns, either. It has to be safe, Ollie, or I won’t have a bar of it.”

  Oliver considered telling Rhodes to sod off, and then he remembered that Rhodes’s wife had died last year and that Rhodes was struggling to cope with that bereavement. And then he thought, What will it do to him if I do die? His annoyance evaporated. It suddenly seemed quite important to stay alive, not just for his own sake, but for Rhodes’s sake, too.

  “I have an idea,” Primrose said.

  Both he and Rhodes looked at her.

  “We want something that could look like an accident, correct?”

  “An accident, or a natural death,” Rhodes said. “That seems to be the modus operandi.”

  “Then I suggest we give them the opportunity to drown Oliver in the lake.”

  “But Ollie can swim.”

  “He’ll be drunk,” Primrose said. “Or at least, they’ll think he’s drunk.”

  Rhodes frowned, and crossed to the sofa and sat beside Oliver. “Tell us your plan.”

  “My plan is that after dinner, Oliver invites one or the other of them for a stroll down to the lake—to talk privately or something—and he pretends to be extremely drunk and then wanders out to the end of the jetty, and if they are trying to kill him—”

  “They’ll push me in and watch me drown,” Oliver finished for her.

  “Yes.” Primrose ticked off points on her fingers: “It’ll be dark; there’d be no witnesses; a drowning would look like an accident; and it’s not at all dangerous, because you won’t be drunk and you can swim.” She looked from him to Rhodes and back again. “What do you think?”

  “I say, let’s try it.”

  Rhodes nodded. “When shall we do it? Tomorrow night?”

  “Tonight,” Oliver said firmly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rhodes—you’re my closest friend and I love you dearly—but I can do without you sticking to me like a burr and rescuing me from snuff that isn’t poisoned.”

  “It might have been poisoned,” Rhodes said obstinately.

  “We can’t do it tonight,” Primrose said. “It’s raining, and you’d hardly suggest a stroll to the jetty in the rain, would you?”

  Oliver reluctantly conceded this truth. “Tomorrow night, then.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the morning, it was still raining. Oliver stared at the rivulets coursing down his window and told himself that the rain would stop by nightfall—and then he took a deep breath and went next door to pick up his self-appointed protector before going down to breakfast.

  But not only was Rhodes still in bed, he had a cloth over his eyes and a very worried-looking valet hovering at his bedside.

  Oliver looked at the valet’s face and felt a twinge of foreboding. “How bad is it?”

  The valet grimaced. “Worse than before, Your Grace.”

  “But how can that be? He was perfectly all right when he went to bed.”

  The valet gave a very French shrug. “We do not know why, Your Grace.”

  Oliver crossed to the bed. “So, I guess you won’t be coming down to breakfast, old fellow?” It should have been a relief—no Rhodes shadowing his every move today—but it wasn’t.

  “No,” Rhodes said. His voice sounded a little husky.

  Oliver sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “May I see?”

  The valet lifted off the cloth.

  Oliver stared, aghast. The man had been correct; it was worse than before. Rhodes’s eyelids were swollen almost closed. His eyes—what little could be seen of them—were terribly bloodshot and his cheeks were flushed, as if he had a fever.

  “Jesus, Rhodes . . .” he said helplessly. He looked at the valet, and saw his own anxiousness reflected in the man’s face.

  “Looks worse than it is,” Rhodes said, with that worryingly husky edge to his voice, as if his throat was swollen, too. “I’ll be fine by luncheon.”

  “I think you should leave here,” Oliver said. “Today.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Rhodes said. “Benoît, the cloth, please . . .”

  The valet carefully laid the dripping cloth over Rhodes’s eyes again. Rhodes seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Oliver saw his shoulders relax slightly against the propped-up pillows.

  “You need to see an apothecary.”

  “I have sent for one,” the valet said.

  “Well, then . . .” Oliver didn’t know what else to do. He felt quite helpless, and it wasn’t a sensation he liked. “I’ll, um, I guess I’ll go down to breakfast, then.”

  “Ollie . . .” Rhodes reached out blindly.

  Oliver took his hand.

  Rhodes gripped it tightly, almost painfully. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise,” Oliver said. “No guns, no snuff, no private talks with my uncle or cousin, and I’ll look over my shoulder any time I’m near a staircase. I shall
be as cautious as a fox is when the pack’s let loose.” And then he remembered the valet standing silently on the other side of the bed. He glanced at the man. The valet’s face was perfectly blank. If he thought Oliver’s words odd, he wasn’t showing it.

  * * *

  After breakfast he went back upstairs with Primrose to check on Rhodes. The valet answered their knock, but didn’t invite them in. “The apothecary is cupping his lordship. “

  “Cupping?” Primrose tried to peer past him. “Is that necessary?”

  “He believes it will help,” the valet said.

  “We’ll come back later,” Oliver said.

  Primrose frowned. “But—”

  Oliver took her elbow and drew her away. “Later, Prim. Give him some privacy.”

  They went back downstairs, where Oliver was almost immediately captured by the Misses Warrington and Middleton-Murray. “Do you sing, Westfell?” Miss Warrington asked, tilting her bosom at him, and Miss Middleton-Murray looked up at him through her eyelashes and said, “I’m certain you must, Westfell. You do everything so well!”

  The opportunity was too tempting to resist. Oliver puffed out his chest. “I fancy I sing very well.”

  “Then let us practice some duets,” Miss Warrington said, and Miss Middleton-Murray smiled at him, displaying her dimples, and together they whisked him off to the music room.

  It was a trap, and he’d fallen right into it, but as traps went it wasn’t too painful. Oliver rather enjoyed singing, and while Miss Middleton-Murray was merely a good singer, Miss Warrington was a superb one. His baritone and her contralto blended perfectly. Even Miss Middleton-Murray exclaimed over it. “Oh, how wonderful you sound together! You must sing another one. I’ll play for you.” And she sat at the pianoforte, smiling brightly, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

  They swiftly gathered an audience. The older ladies were first: Cheevers, Warrington, and Middleton-Murray. Ninian slipped into the room with Miss Cheevers. Uncle Algy was next, and Lords Cheevers and Warrington. Even Primrose came to listen.