Primrose and the Dreadful Duke_Garland Cousins 1

by Emily Larkin

  Rhodes glanced at her, and then back out at the rain. “Guess what Benoît found hidden in my pillows?” he said, equally quietly.

  “Not more bishop’s weed?”

  Rhodes nodded.

  “I wondered where Uncle Algy was this afternoon,” Oliver murmured. “Now I know: picking flowers.”

  “Does he know you’ve swapped beds?” Primrose asked in a whisper.

  Rhodes shook his head, his attention still on the window. “Benoît checked both rooms. The bishop’s weed is only in the pillows on my old bed.”

  “Well, that’s good, but . . . it is disturbing that Lord Algernon was in your old room.” It was dark enough outside that she could see the drawing room reflected in the rain-flecked window panes.

  Rhodes said nothing, but his reflection grimaced.

  “I’m glad Benoît disposed of the arsenic,” Primrose whispered. Cheevers and Lord Algernon stood at the fireplace. She watched their mouths move, heard the low murmur of their voices.

  “Yes,” Oliver said. He was watching his uncle in the windowpanes, too.

  Her ears caught the sound of the door opening. She saw Miss Cheevers enter the room. The girl looked rather pale, or was that the fault of the dark, distorted mirror in which she was reflected? Primrose turned her head. No, the window hadn’t lied; Miss Cheevers was pale. In fact, she looked quite miserable.

  It wasn’t difficult to guess why.

  “Miss Cheevers,” Primrose said, stepping away from the window. “How are you?”

  Miss Cheevers hesitated, and crossed to her. “Lady Primrose, I’m so sorry that . . . that such a thing . . .”

  “I’m perfectly unharmed,” Primrose said. “I was much luckier than your cousins.”

  Miss Cheevers’s eyes filled with tears at this reminder of Miss Warrington and Miss Carteris.

  Primrose gave herself a mental kick. “Come,” she said, abandoning Rhodes and Oliver at the window. “Sit with me on the sofa and we’ll have a comfortable coze before dinner.”

  Miss Cheevers obediently followed her to the sofa and sat. “It’s so dreadful. So shocking! To think that Milly could do something so . . . so . . .” She trailed off, and bit her lip.

  Primrose eyed her. “Miss Cheevers, is this perhaps not a surprise for you?”

  “Oh, no! It is! But . . .”

  “But?”

  Miss Cheevers’s brow crimped faintly. She looked at Primrose uncertainly.

  Primrose waited.

  “Milly pushed me off the jetty once,” Miss Cheevers said in a low voice. “When we were children. She said it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.”

  “The jetty?”

  Miss Cheevers nodded. Her brow creased tragically. “But it was so long ago, Lady Primrose! And when Emma tripped on the stairs, and then Margaret, I never thought—not for an instant—that . . . that . . .”

  Primrose took one of the girl’s hands. “Of course you didn’t,” she said soothingly.

  “I would have told my parents if I thought Milly had anything to do with it. But I didn’t think it, and . . . and . . .” Miss Cheevers’s hand trembled, and her voice trembled, and tears trembled on her eyelashes.

  Primrose glanced at the fireplace to make certain that Lord Cheevers wasn’t listening. She lowered her voice. “If you had told your parents, I doubt they would have believed you. In fact, they probably would have scolded you for having uncharitable thoughts.”

  Miss Cheevers considered this for a moment. “Probably,” she said shakily.

  “You would never trip anyone on the stairs, and so naturally you didn’t suspect Miss Middleton-Murray of doing so. If you feel guilt, I assure you it’s unwarranted. The blame rests wholly on Miss Middleton-Murray’s shoulders.”

  After a moment, Miss Cheevers gave a watery smile. Then she hunted for her handkerchief and blotted her eyes.

  * * *

  Dinner was a subdued meal, the events of the afternoon hanging over them all. Even Lord Algernon seemed in low spirits. He ate quietly, without his usual good-natured jokes and jovial laughter.

  Primrose’s seat gave her a good view of Lord Algernon. She observed him surreptitiously while she ate. Several times she caught him looking at Oliver.

  Regret and determination—those were the two emotions on his face when he looked at his nephew, but it seemed to her that his determination was stronger than it had been. The way his lips pressed together, the resolute clenching of his jaw, the set of his shoulders . . .

  Lord Algernon gave all the appearance of a man hell-bent on committing an unpleasant task.

  The curtains were drawn against the night, but Primrose could hear rain tapping against the windowpanes. Stop raining, she prayed silently. Please stop raining so that we can finish this tonight.

  But alas, it was still raining when she and Miss Cheevers retired to the drawing room after dinner.

  Primrose glanced at the girl. She looked rather woebegone.

  “Why don’t you go to bed?” Primrose suggested. “I’m quite happy to read by myself.”

  “Oh, no!” Miss Cheevers said, clearly determined to play the hostess. “I shall pour us both some tea and we shall talk. Have you seen the latest fashion plates from London?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very interested in fashion,” Primrose confessed. “Although I would like to ask Mr. Dasenby’s advice about my wardrobe.” She looked ruefully down at the evening gown she was wearing, the silk a rather standoffish shade of blue. “He has an extraordinary eye for color, and I don’t.”

  The girl’s face lit up. “He does, doesn’t he? Ninian always knows exactly what one should wear.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! I have an idea. Wait one moment, Lady Primrose!” She ran from the room.

  Primrose waited, and five minutes later Chloé Cheevers returned, flushed and breathless, clutching something to her chest. “Ninian gave me these,” she said, crossing to the card table and laying down her burden.

  Primrose stepped closer for a better look, and discovered that they weren’t pieces of colored paper, as her eyes had first told her, but swatches of material.

  “Goodness,” she said, taken aback. “There are hundreds of them.”

  “One hundred and twenty,” Miss Cheevers said, spreading out the swatches. “He helped me to pick the colors for my dresses this Season, only . . . I caught the measles from my little brothers and couldn’t go to London.” She glanced at Primrose and smiled. “But next year I shall!”

  They sorted the swatches into colors and were deep in conversation over them when the men made their appearance. Mr. Dasenby was first through the door. “Ninian!” Miss Cheevers cried. “Come over here and help us pick colors for Lady Primrose.”

  Dasenby obeyed this request with alacrity.

  Next through the door were Oliver and Rhodes. They took one look at the card table and the swatches, and veered towards the fireplace.

  Last were Lord Algernon and Lord Cheevers.

  Primrose paid them little attention, for Dasenby was shuffling through the swatches and discarding a great many of them. She jumped when someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Rhodes. “Ollie and I are going to play chess in the library.”

  She nodded, and glanced past him. “Where are their lordships?”

  “In the cardroom.”

  She nodded, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Be careful.”

  “Always,” Rhodes said.

  Primrose returned her attention to the swatches.

  “You suit the softer tints,” Dasenby said. “See? This pink would be perfect, and this blue and this green, but not these ones.”

  Primrose stepped closer to examine the pieces of fabric.

  Half an hour later, she had eight swatches that Ninian Dasenby had chosen for her: a pink, a coral, a lavender, two greens, a yellow, and two blues. To her pleasure, one of the blues was a periwinkle. “Thank you,” she said. “I do appreciate this, Mr. Dasenby. I’m looking forward to ordering new gowns.” And oddl
y, she was looking forward to it. She, who usually found visits to the dressmaker extremely tedious.

  Dasenby gave her a smile that was both pleased and shy.

  “Oh!” Miss Cheevers said. “Look at the time! I promised to look in on Mother ten minutes ago.” She caught up her skirts. “Good night, Lady Primrose. Good night, Ninian.” The door closed behind her.

  Dasenby began gathering the discarded swatches together.

  Primrose helped him. “You and Miss Cheevers have known each other a long time?”

  “Since we were children,” Dasenby said. He paused in his gathering, and flushed. “You perhaps think we are too informal with one another?”

  Primrose laughed. “No.” What she thought was that Ninian Dasenby and Chloé Cheevers were perfect for one another. They both had the same sweetness of character, the same shyness.

  Dasenby glanced around, and appeared to notice the emptiness of the drawing room for the first time. “Where’s my cousin?” And then, in a note of alarm. “Where’s my father?”

  “Westfell and my brother are in the library together, and your father is with Lord Cheevers in the cardroom.”

  “Oh.” Dasenby looked at the scattered pieces of fabric, and then at the door, and then back at her.

  Primrose knew that Oliver was all right—he was with Rhodes, and the last thing Rhodes had told her was that they’d be careful—but Dasenby was clearly worried. “Why don’t you check on them?” she suggested.

  “I will, yes.” He hastened to the door.

  Primrose gathered up the swatches, color by color. The reds and the pinks, the oranges and the yellows. She was picking up the greens when Dasenby burst in through the door. “I can’t wake them!”

  She looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Thayne and my cousin are in the library, and I can’t wake them!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Primrose threw aside the swatches, caught up her skirts, and ran from the drawing room, along the corridor, across the vestibule—her shoes slapping on the marble flagstones—and flung open the door to the library with such force that it slammed into the wall with a sharp crack.

  The library was a large room, but at night it seemed as vast as a cathedral, filled with shadows, the ceiling lost in darkness. The only light was by the fireplace, where two armchairs formed a cozy nook, lit by candles and firelight.

  Rhodes and Oliver were seated in those armchairs, a chessboard laid out on a table between them. Neither of them reacted to the crack, or to her abrupt entrance.

  Rhodes had slumped forward over the table, his head resting on his arms, looking for all the world like a schoolboy asleep over his arithmetic. Oliver sagged back in his chair, head lolling, eyes closed.

  Primrose crossed swiftly to them, Dasenby at her heels. “Rhodes!” she cried, shaking her brother’s shoulder. “Oliver!”

  Neither man stirred.

  Dasenby slapped Oliver’s face. “Cousin! Wake up!”

  Oliver didn’t so much as twitch.

  Primrose bent close to Rhodes. For a moment she thought he wasn’t breathing, and her heart clutched in her chest, and then she heard a quiet exhalation.

  “Do you think it’s arsenic?” Dasenby asked in a hushed, horrified voice.

  “I don’t know. Fetch Benoît. Hurry!”

  Dasenby ran from the room.

  Primrose had never panicked in her life, but at this moment she felt remarkably close to doing so. Her heart was beating hard and her thoughts were whirling like a flock of agitated birds. Think! she told herself sternly. Keep your head!

  As well as a chessboard and a candelabrum, there were two empty punch glasses on the table. Primrose glanced around, and spied a silver punch bowl on the broad carved mantelpiece. She examined it. The punch bowl was faintly warm to the touch, still holding a glass or two of amber liquid. A ladle leaned drunkenly against the side. She picked up the ladle, stirred the punch, and sniffed.

  A heady scent wafted up.

  Primrose mentally sifted through the smells—rum and lemons and mingled spices—and found nothing untoward.

  Arsenic has no taste and no smell, Benoît had said.

  Primrose decided not to taste the punch. She replaced the ladle and went back to the armchairs. She sniffed Rhodes’s glass. Sniffed Oliver’s glass. They both smelled exactly the same as the punch bowl.

  Dasenby had rushed so precipitously from the library that he’d failed to close the door properly. It stood a couple of inches ajar—and as Primrose looked up from sniffing the glasses, it began to open.

  Her heart gave a leap of relief. Dasenby must be back with Benoît already.

  She opened her mouth to tell them about the punch, but the door stopped opening. There was a long pause, as if whoever stood behind it waited and listened.

  Primrose closed her mouth. Her heart gave another leap; not relief this time, but alarm. Dasenby would fling the door wide and run in. A servant would knock. There was only one person at Cheevers Court who would open the door to the library so cautiously.

  Lord Algernon, coming to see whether his victims were dead or not.

  Her alarm snuffed out. A fierce, vengeful emotion took its place.

  Primrose dropped to a crouch behind Oliver’s armchair and looked around for a better hiding place. There, up in the dark gallery, overlooking the library, where no one would see her.

  She wished herself there. Even though she was crouching, dizziness caught her. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly. When she opened them, she saw Lord Algernon step into the library.

  He stood motionless for a moment, his attitude alert, listening for danger—and then closed the door so quietly that she didn’t even hear the faintest click.

  He crossed on tiptoe to the fireplace.

  Primrose slowly rose to her feet and watched, transfixed, forgetting even to breathe.

  Lord Algernon looked down at Oliver. His face twisted. She saw his regret—and then the grimace of regret was gone, and only determination remained. He set his jaw grimly, pulled a cloth from inside his waistcoat, took the back of Oliver’s head in one hand and pressed the cloth firmly over Oliver’s nose and mouth with the other.

  Primrose’s heart seemed to stop beating. She didn’t think; she just did—wishing herself down to stand behind Lord Algernon. As soon as her feet were planted on solid ground she cried “Stop!” even though the room was still spinning around her.

  Lord Algernon recoiled so violently that he almost fell over. He jerked away from Oliver, dropped the cloth, and took several stumbling paces back, then halted, staring at her, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock, mouth open, aghast.

  Oliver’s head lolled to the side. He still didn’t wake.

  Primrose crossed hastily to him and laid one hand protectively on his head, gripping his brown hair. She met Lord Algernon’s eyes. “Murderer.”

  Lord Algernon’s nostrils flared. His jaw clenched. So did his hands.

  Primrose was suddenly aware that not only was he a great deal larger and stronger than she was, he was also desperate. She felt a flicker of alarm. He could kill me. She gripped Oliver’s hair more tightly and stared at Lord Algernon, trying not to let her fear show. “What did you put in the punch?” she demanded.

  Lord Algernon shook his head. Emotions crossed his face, one after another, too quickly for her to recognize, and finally settled on one: a bleak resolve.

  Primrose tensed, ready to translocate if he should attack her—but instead he turned towards the door.

  “What did you put in the punch?” she demanded again.

  Lord Algernon ignored her. He lengthened his stride.

  Primrose released Oliver’s hair and ran after him. “What did you put in it?” she cried, grabbing his arm.

  Lord Algernon shook her off so violently that she lost her balance and went sprawling. He wrenched open the door and plunged out into the corridor.

  Primrose scrambled to her feet and looked back at Oliver and Rhodes. Which was more i
mportant? Catching Lord Algernon, or keeping watch over them?

  The punch. The punch was the most important thing—and only one person knew what was in it.

  She ran into the corridor. Lord Algernon had turned away from the vestibule. Primrose gave chase, her dainty kid shoes slapping on the floor.

  Ahead, Lord Algernon yanked open a door to the terrace and vanished from sight.

  Primrose snatched a glance over her shoulder—the corridor was empty of witnesses—and wished herself to that door. She yanked it open, too, even as the vertigo caught her, and plunged outside—and collided with Lord Algernon.

  He gave a startled cry and lashed out, striking her across the chest.

  Primrose almost fell over again. She stumbled back against the closing door.

  Lord Algernon turned from her and fled.

  “What did you put in the punch?” she shouted after him.

  He didn’t answer.

  Primrose pushed away from the door. It was dark out here. And wet. And cold. Lord Algernon was a burly black shape, hurrying across the terrace, almost at the long flight of steps.

  Primrose wished herself to the top of those steps. She kept her eyes open despite the dizziness, and lurched to keep her balance.

  Lord Algernon loomed out of the darkness, practically invisible, moving fast.

  Primrose snatched for him, missing his arm, grabbing the tails of his coat. “What is in the punch?”

  Lord Algernon rounded on her. He didn’t try to strike her or shake her off; instead he gave a bellow of rage and picked her up and flung her down the steps.

  Primrose hadn’t been a cavalry officer. She didn’t know how to fall without breaking her neck, but she did know how to translocate.

  Even so, she landed on the gravel at the bottom of the steps hard enough to knock the breath from her body.

  For a moment she lay there, sprawled full-length, gasping, dizzy. Footsteps smacked down the steps and then past her—Lord Algernon.

  Primrose pushed up to hands and knees and found enough breath to shout, “What’s in the punch?”