The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “I thought you weren’t sure yourself about Mr. Blount?”

  “Of course I’m sure about him. But it wouldn’t be ladylike to say such a thing until he actually offers for me, would it? Anyhow, Mother told me it’s horrid to be thinking about such things right now, but I can’t help it.” Adele blew her nose on her handkerchief. “I’m sorry to turn into such a watering pot. I suppose Rufus dying is inconvenient for you as well.”

  “I had not exactly thought of it in that way.” Eliza reflected that it had actually been the other way around. Rufus’ death had seemed entirely fortuitous since it left her free to look elsewhere—and she had, until her mother had made her examine Henry’s character more deeply.

  “Oh, you know,” said Adele, “the chance to get new dresses and get away from your fusty parents.”

  Eliza flinched.

  “But, dear me! I am a rattle-trap. Did you love Rufus?”

  Eliza saw no harm in telling the truth. Indeed, nothing she said could be as indiscreet as Adele’s emotions. “No, I didn’t love him.”

  “I didn’t think so. You seemed so…scared around Rufus. I could hardly imagine you eating breakfast across from him every day. Or having children with him!”

  “Adele, please!” Eliza stood up from the couch and walked over to the window, her face as red as the late August roses in the garden below.

  “Oh, Eliza, I’m sorry!” Adele jumped up and hurried to her side. “I did not mean to vex you.” Her pleading brown eyes could almost make Eliza forget her outrageous comments. “Was there someone else?”

  Eliza hesitated. Someone else? Only the phantom of someone that had never truly existed except in her own mind. “No, no one else.”

  “Are you certain?” Adele took Eliza’s hand and pressed it. “Because I thought perhaps, maybe, you might have had a tendre for Henry before Rufus came along. There seemed to be something between you, the same something that there is between me and Stephen, a je-ne-sais-quoi that was not there between you and Rufus.”

  “Or perhaps, your brother Henry is simply a prodigious flirt.” Eliza felt warm all over. She seized a fan off of the end table and waved it briskly in front of her face. She did not want to hear about him anymore.

  Adele threw her head back and laughed. “Henry? ’Pon rep! I should think not. Did you see him give Miss Ashbrook a set-down the other night when she would not leave him alone?”

  “Yes, well, even so...perhaps he is different when he is in town.”

  “Unlikely,” said Adele. “He attended my coming-out ball at our house in Grosvenor Square, even though Rufus refused to allow me to send him an invitation, and I can tell you he was in no way popular with the ladies. I think he spent more time talking to Mother’s friends than he did mine!”

  “Why were matters so strained between your brothers?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was still in the schoolroom when the big quarrel happened. I believe it had something to do with the Dower House though. And whatever it was, I know that Mother took Henry’s part.”

  “So it was nothing untoward on Henry’s part?”

  “Goodness, no. The servants were very upset at his banishment. Hayward and Mrs. Forsythe went about all tight-lipped for nearly a month, and the whole house felt shrouded in gloom.”

  Eliza’s brow creased. Here was a very different picture of Henry’s relationship to the servants than what Ollerton’s inquiries had painted.

  “Eliza! Look!” Adele pressed her face against the glass.

  Eliza’s room was on the side of the house facing the garden, but from the window, they could see part of the circular drive and the stable yard. A coach had just pulled up to the stables tethered to a fancy pair of perfectly matched blacks.

  “Who is that?” asked Eliza, unsure as to the significance of the apparition.

  “I don’t know,” said Adele, “but we must find out!”

  Following in Adele’s footsteps, Eliza walked, rather more quickly than was elegant, down the corridor and the staircase. As they entered the saloon, they could hear Hayward in the entry way speaking in stern tones.

  “I am sorry, madam, but you are not welcome here.”

  “Oh, Hayward, don’t be ridiculous,” said a woman’s voice, both sultry and snide at the same time.

  Adele and Eliza halted and exchanged glances.

  “Run along and tell your new master that I am here.”

  “I regret that the duke is not at home.”

  “The duke!” The mysterious visitor burst into a peal of laughter. “I suppose he has moved up in the world.”

  Adele started edging closer, eager to get a glance at this uncouth intruder. Eliza saw someone entering the saloon from the opposite door, however, and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder to stay her progress.

  Henry walked past the two girls without acknowledging their presence. “Hayward,” he said. “It is all right. I will receive Mrs. Flambard in the study.”

  “You heard the man,” said Mrs. Flambard, laughing again, and in a few seconds she was traipsing through the saloon in Henry’s wake. Eliza had expected an imposing woman but was surprised to see that Mrs. Flambard was a girlish blonde with large blue eyes and an innocent, heart-shaped face. She was dressed in a very low-cut blue muslin, with a small hat mounted atop her blond curls. She looked over at Eliza and Adele, where they stood frozen against the wall of the saloon, and dropped them a wink. Then, without a word, she disappeared down the hallway, following Henry.

  “Come in, Mrs. Flambard,” they heard Henry say.

  It was followed by a trilling laugh. “Oh, please, Henry! We know each other far too well for such formalities. Do you remember these pearls? You paid the bill for them….” The study door shut on the voices, and the two girls looked at each, wide-eyed.

  Eliza exhaled, finally remembering to breathe. “Who is that?”

  “I have no idea,” said Adele, “but I’m dying to find out.”

  Eliza’s own curiosity could not outweigh the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. A mysterious woman with pearls from the new duke? Here was yet another proof that Henry Rowland’s character was far more enigmatic than upright.

  * * *

  The other housemaids had provided little more information about the events of yesterday; however, they did provide some curious insights into household affairs at Harrowhaven. “His grace used to disrespect Mrs. Forsythe all the way to Brighton and back,” said one bright-eyed brunette, “when she came to him with the menu or a change in staffing.”

  “Was not the Duchess of Brockenhurst in charge of such things?” asked Pevensey.

  “Well, she were…but, I don’t know exactly when it happened, but then she weren’t anymore.”

  “I see,” said Pevensey, although the picture was still not entirely clear. There must have been a falling out between mother and son. He had already established a falling out between Rufus and his elder half-brother and a quarrel between Rufus and his younger brother. The whole family was seemingly at loggerheads.

  After the brown-haired maid left, Pevensey queried Cecil. “Did you know anything of this, a rift between the duke and his mother?”

  “No, not at all,” said Cecil. “But then the duchess is hardly one to air such things in public. A true lady if I’ve ever seen one.”

  They sat down to partake of a luncheon and fortify their spirits for the next round of questioning. It was at this point that the constable, for whom they had been waiting all morning, finally arrived, a gray-haired man in a gray suit, carrying a satchel.

  “This is Constable Cooper,” said Cecil, motioning to a nearby chair. “He took Turold’s statement and his weapon yesterday.”

  “Goodness, yes,” said the constable. “Would you like to see it?” He dug into his pocket and brought out his notebook.

  “The weapon, yes,” s
aid Pevensey. “I can guess what lies in the statement well enough.”

  “Oh, well, in that case…,” said Constable Cooper, crestfallen. He opened the satchel and took out a pistol. It was made of walnut with a single chamber, silver fittings, and the engraved initials “R.R.”

  Pevensey picked it up and examined it. “It’s clean.”

  “Of course!” said the constable. “My old father brought me up to take care of my firearms.”

  “Yes,” said Pevensey, trying to stem the flood of growing irritation welling up in his breast, “but the point is that this is not your firearm. It is evidence. Had this pistol been discharged when you received it?”

  “It certainly had been.” He proffered the notebook again. “You can see in Mr. Turold’s statement that he says—”

  “Quite.” Pevensey handed the weapon to Cecil. The black-haired gentleman offered him an apologetic smile. Pevensey suspected that the young magistrate might be learning to curb Constable Cooper’s enthusiasm in future cases.

  “What does the engraving mean on this weapon?”

  Cecil ran a finger over the initials. “I suppose the ‘R.R.’ must stand for ‘Rufus Rowland.’ Perhaps Turold borrowed one of Rufus’ pistols for the hunt.”

  Pevensey pulled out his own notebook and made a quick sketch of the weapon.

  “If this weapon was taken from Mr. Turold, where is the duke’s pistol?”

  Cecil and the constable looked at each other. The constable scratched his head. “I couldn’t rightly say, Mr. Pevensey.”

  “It was not on the body?”

  “No,” said Cecil, thoughtfully. “It was not. I did not think to look around for it at the time.”

  An interesting possibility began to form in Pevensey’s mind. “And you are certain there were two shots?”

  “Yes, with a few minutes elapsing in between.” Cecil looked at him pointedly, but Pevensey was not ready to elaborate.

  “That gun has only one chamber,” the constable pointed out.

  “Indeed,” said Pevensey, “so one of the shots was fired by somebody else. We must scour the forest, Cecil, to search for the missing weapon. And do not publicize the lack beforehand. It’s possible there’s a reason that the duke’s pistol was not with his effects.”

  * * *

  Henry gritted his teeth. His brother had barely been dead twenty-four hours before the carrion crows were descending. Mrs. Flambard had been friendly—too friendly—at first, but when he refused to give her an advance on the bequest she was expecting, her girlish face turned ugly. “I shall make such a scene that you’ll be sorry!”

  “Do as you must,” Henry said, and taking her arm firmly, he escorted her down the corridor, through the saloon, and to the entrance hall. “Hayward, please see that Mrs. Flambard makes it to her carriage without mishap.”

  Mrs. Flambard’s blue eyes narrowed into slits and Henry would not have been surprised to see a forked tongue shoot out between her perfect pink lips. But the promised scene did not materialize, and Hayward managed to herd her out the front door with the aplomb of an experienced butler.

  Henry turned around to see that he was under scrutiny from more than one individual. Adele and Eliza were exhibiting a feigned interest in the pictures on the walls of the adjacent saloon, and the Bow Street Runner, Cecil, and the constable, had just exited the morning room and were coming down the corridor.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Henry, seeing Cecil pick up his beaver.

  “A ride. Care to join us?”

  Henry glanced over to the saloon where Adele was tensing like a housecat ready to pounce. There would be a barrage of questions coming from that quarter. Right beside her was Eliza, studiously looking away from him, her face as grave as an undertaker’s. Henry wondered if it were best to take cover for the present.

  “Certainly I will join you.” He beckoned for one of the footmen to fetch his own beaver.

  Out on the steps, the gentlemen saw the visiting carriage with its blond occupant pulling away around the circular drive.

  Cecil’s dark eyes squinted. “Is that—?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. He saw Pevensey looking at him with that uncanny, measuring stare of his. “My late brother’s bird of paradise,” he said gruffly.

  “She didn’t seem particularly distraught,” said Pevensey. A hint of a smile played beneath his freckles.

  “They parted ways several months ago. She came to see if there was anything for her in the will.”

  “And is there?”

  “I don’t know. It’s still with the solicitor in London. But I imagine not. Rufus was never sentimental about his Cyprians.”

  “She made good time,” said Cecil, going down the steps two at a time. “The news has traveled fast.” Pevensey and Henry followed suit, with the constable trailing behind them at a slower pace.

  At the nearby stables, Gormley and Martin were sitting outside in the shade of the overhanging roof. The sun had approached its summit, and the day had just begun to reach an uncomfortable level of heat. The gentlemen entered the stables and let their horses out of the boxes to saddle them.

  “Where are you off to, your grace?” asked Gormley, standing up in confusion. Henry could see that he was agitated to have the gentlemen leading out their beasts themselves.

  “A good question!” said Henry with a shrug. “Cecil?”

  His curly-haired neighbor grinned and gave a vague wave in the direction of the church. “The woods!”

  Gormley grunted and returned to his chair. Silent Martin, mending a harness that had frayed, never looked up from his work.

  They departed in the same direction the hunt had taken, Cecil leading the way, Pevensey falling in beside Henry, and Constable Cooper bringing up the rear. The trees had grown from when Henry was a boy, but he could still recognize all the pieces and paths of the forest with no more than a cursory glance.

  They reached the fork in the path where Rufus had first disappeared from the group and where the nagging fear had first begun to claw at Henry’s throat. They passed the gulch where the stag had dipped his feet in the water, a deep ravine that always made Henry’s skin crawl cold even in the heat of August. It was here that Henry had noticed that Turold had split off from the others too, and it was here that Henry had struck out on his own to find the missing riders.

  Cecil continued to advance. Henry could see now that they were going to the clearing, the place where Rufus’ body had been discovered. He ought to have expected as much. The red-haired Runner was nothing if not thorough—he would want to view the location.

  “I’m keeping a sharp eye out for it,” called the constable from the rear.

  “Very good, Mr. Cooper,” said Pevensey. Henry had the uncanny feeling that Pevensey’s sharp eyes were more on himself than on the woods. He straightened his back and clenched his knees against the saddle.

  They were at the clearing now. Pevensey urged his horse forward into the middle of it. He looked around. “Where exactly did you find the body?”

  Cecil’s horse nosed forward as his rider hesitated. The grass in the clearing, shaded from the full sun by the surrounding trees was uniformly green. There was no stain of dried blood to identify the death, no cross to note the passing of a soul. Even the grass blades crushed by Rufus’ bulk had recovered their spring. Cecil scratched one of his black sideburns in puzzlement.

  While Cecil cudgeled his memory, Henry took charge of the matter—much as he had yesterday when there was a dead body to be dealt with. He dismounted and walked about a third of the way into the clearing. “The body was here when I arrived. You hadn’t moved it, had you, Cecil?”

  “No, not at that point.”

  Pevensey dismounted as well, and walking over to where Henry stood, he knelt down on the green carpet and ran his hands over it. Then, standing, he bent down to brush off his
trousers, but the clean grass had left barely a speck of dust upon them. He pulled out his notebook, and Henry saw his pencil make wide, swooping strokes as he noted his observations.

  Then, closing the book, the Runner lifted his chin and raised his voice. “Constable Cooper, Mr. Cecil, let us make a perimeter and search for the weapon.” They spread out, about two yards apart, and began to methodically comb the clearing. A few minutes’ search yielded no results, and they expanded their examination to the trees surrounding the clearing.

  Henry, feet planted apart, watched their endeavors with a creased brow. “I thought Turold turned over the gun already.”

  “That he did,” said Constable Cooper, “but it’s the other gun we’re looking for. The duke’s. Mr. Pevensey pointed out that it was missing from the body.”

  “They were a matched set,” said Henry. “Rufus said at dinner that, for the hunt, he would give one to Turold and keep the other for himself.”

  “Indeed?” said Pevensey, from about twenty yards away. His head popped out above a stand of bushes. “Then we know exactly what we’re looking for.”

  But despite this knowledge, the search proved uneventful. Henry added his eyes to the expedition, and between the four of them, they covered a large swathe of ground surrounding the clearing. But after two hours, the only objects they had found lurking on the floor of the forest were stumps and roots.

  “And now, Mr. Pevensey?” asked Cecil, as they returned to their horses, shirts damp from their exertion in this heat.

  “Now,” said Pevensey, “we promulgate the news that the gun is missing.” The others acted disappointed at the fruitless search, but Pevensey’s freckled face seemed almost pleased that the pistol had failed to materialize. His eyes twinkled in Henry’s direction. “You wouldn’t mind sharing the word with Mr. Turold, would you, your grace?”

  Henry wiped the beading sweat off of his brow. “Certainly.” This Runner was up to something, but he could not quite put his finger on what that something was. “I take it that since you’re soliciting my assistance, you no longer suspect me of doing away with my brother?”