“Oh, I’ve ruled nothing out yet.” Pevensey’s smirk bordered on supercilious. “But all the same, I’d be obliged for your help.”
21
Vexed that her quarry had escaped, Adele waited in the entrance hall for a full quarter of an hour in case Henry should return.
Anxious to avoid any further encounters with Henry Rowland, Eliza begged her friend to come away to the drawing room, but Adele would not be dissuaded. When it became apparent that Henry’s return was not imminent, Adele summoned the butler and began to ply him with questions.
“Who was that woman, Hayward?”
“A Mrs. Flambard, my lady.”
“Yes, but who is she?”
“I am not certain of her social standing.”
“Come now, Hayward. You cannot cut shams with me. I know you have seen her before.”
“I regret I have no further information to share.” Hayward’s face hardened like concrete.
“Oh, very well then,” said Adele in a huff. She murmured something about a proper butler being more of a disappointment than an advantage. Eliza blushed for her friend and dragged her off to the drawing room.
It was not long before Stephen Blount joined them. “Would it be improper to suggest piquet?” he asked, no doubt sensing that distraction was needed.
“Not at all,” said Adele. She had made it abundantly clear that it would take more than a death in the family to sate her appetite for amusement. Or perhaps that was too harsh a judgment. Some people’s way of coping with grief was to ignore it so it would not tear them apart.
Adele took a seat at the table as Stephen prepared the deck of cards for the two-player game. “You do not mind, Eliza?”
“No,” said Eliza, grateful that Mr. Blount had relieved her from her duty of consoling Adele and delighted that an interest in piquet had replaced Adele’s interest in Mrs. Flambard. “I shall be happy to sit and watch.”
Mr. Blount dealt the cards and the game began. It did not take more than one round to see that the distraction was less than perfect. “Have you ever met a Mrs. Flambard, Stephen?”
“Hmm….” He exchanged a pair of cards for better ones. “I don’t think I have. Friend of yours?”
“Not of mine,” said Adele, laying down her hand and claiming victory. “Of Henry’s. You don’t know her?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Stephen tallied up her points on a little sheet he was using to keep the score. “Henry moves in far more circles than I do.”
And what circles would those be? Considering Mrs. Flambard’s provocative appearance, Eliza was not sure that she wished to know.
“Show your cards,” said Adele, ready to see who had won that round. Mr. Blount smiled at her impatience and obliged. Eliza noticed that his smooth face was actually quite handsome when he smiled. Not in the same dark, masculine way that Henry Rowland was, but…. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She must stop thinking such thoughts.
The game of piquet progressed slowly. And when it was finished, Adele suggested another. After an hour or more, Eliza excused herself and slipped out into the corridor. It was afternoon now—she would retire to her room and take a rest. She heard voices in the entrance hall once again, and tiptoeing closer, she saw Hayward conversing with a bearded man who had just entered and removed his hat.
“What do you mean coming round to the front, Ned?” Hayward was as stern as a night watchman.
“No barrels to give ye today,” said Ned. “I’ve a message for Master Henry.”
“The duke is not at home.”
“Not at home, or not at home?” asked Ned, a twinkle in his eye.
“Both.”
“Well, God’s bones, Hayward, I’ll sit and wait for him.” And without receiving an invitation, Ned plopped down on the bench, leaned back against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Eliza saw Hayward give a lengthy frown and then, folding his hands behind his back, walk away towards the kitchen. He might disapprove of Ned Hornsby’s presence in the entrance hall, but he was not going to take measures to forbid it.
She headed for the staircase at the end of the saloon, but the swish of her skirt must have caught Ned’s eye. He jumped up from the bench and, hat in hand, hurried over to intercept her.
“Miss Malcolm! A pleasure to see you again.”
Eliza halted. “Thank you, Mr. Hornsby.”
“Have you seen Henry?”
Eliza swallowed. It was presumptuous of this fellow to assume she knew or cared about Henry Rowland’s whereabouts. But all the same, she could not lie to him. “I believe he went riding with Mr. Cecil and the constables.”
Ned scratched his beard. “Well, here’s a to-do. I’ve some news he needs to hear. But I can’t stay long, for my father’s not well enough to manage the tavern by himself. Could I give you a message for him?”
“Oh, I….” Eliza flushed, a feeling of panic seizing her ribcage. A message meant that she would have to convey it—that she would have to speak to Henry Rowland again.
“It’s quite short,” said Ned reassuringly. “Just that Mrs. Flambard is staying at the inn. He’ll want to know. Thank you kindly.”
Eliza opened her mouth and closed it again. What was this bearded fellow doing? Acting as go-between for Henry and his paramour? And how dare he involve her in such a thing!
Before she could answer back, she saw the innkeeper heading for the door. He let himself out.
She clenched her fists and headed to the staircase. Surely, this was a message she had no obligation to deliver….
* * *
Henry closed the front door quietly. He was not looking forward to spending time with Walter Turold. The years he had spent dreading Walter’s disdain and deploring his own cowardice still stood in stark relief to the strange rapprochement that had occurred between them this past week. They had re-forged something between them, a chain that had broken long ago. But in the process something else had fractured—the bond between Walter and Rufus.
Henry was not sure whether Walter had murdered his brother, and if he had, Henry felt a certain complicity in the matter since he alone knew the motivation behind the action. Still, Jacob Pevensey wanted Turold to know about the missing gun, and it was a message Henry had agreed to deliver. He had not agreed to do it straightway, however….
Perhaps Eliza was still downstairs with Adele. If he could separate her from his sister, he might be able to apologize for his forwardness at breakfast. Lady Malcolm’s displeasure had seemed severe. He hoped it would not prejudice Eliza against him further, just when he seemed to be making progress in their friendship.
He opened the door to the drawing room. The man and the woman on the settee sprang apart, guilty looks on both their faces. Henry’s jaw set. They might have been doing nothing more than holding hands, the same offense he had committed at the breakfast table, but he decided to take stern measures to discourage any sort of clandestine activity.
“Careful, Blount,” he said darkly. The joking tone he had used with the two of them this past week was entirely absent from his voice. Henry was head of the Rowland household now, and no one, not even a friend, would take liberties with his sister. Besides, a firm hand might be the push Stephen needed to come up to scratch.
“You’re needed in the morning room for questioning.” Henry tried to make the summons as ominous as possible.
“Right ho,” said Stephen with a weak smile. Standing up, he straightened his coattails and departed with an apologetic look in Adele’s direction.
“Hen—” began Adele, but he raised a finger to stop her.
“We’ll speak of this later. Rufus paid far too little attention to your antics. That will change.”
Adele let out a cry of protest.
“Later, Adele.”
Henry left the room and shut the double doors
behind him. His face broke into a wry smile. A firm hand with Adele as well might stop her from toying with Stephen—and help her make up her mind about whether she really wanted him.
He followed the path of floral-patterned carpet up the stairs and down the corridor to Walter’s room. Inside he heard voices. Apparently, Walter already had another visitor. Curious as to who it could be, he rapped on the door. Walter opened it, his haggard face and uncombed hair sending the message that Henry was not welcome there.
“Can I talk to you?” Henry braced himself for a refusal.
Walter hesitated and looked back over his shoulder. Henry followed his glance and saw, through the crack in the door, a small piece of Reverend Ansel seated in an armchair.
“Still here, Reverend?” Henry called out. It had been a good three hours since Henry had taken leave of him. What had they been speaking about? The perennial wave of guilt occasioned by the Reverend’s presence swept over Henry. His reluctance to speak with Walter had trebled. He straightened his broad shoulders and reminded himself that he was the Duke of Brockenhurst. Harrowhaven was his home, and he would hide from no man who came through its doors.
“Yes, still here—although I was just leaving,” said the Reverend, pulling out a damp handkerchief to stay the stream flowing from his nose. Walter let the door swing wide as Reverend Ansel pushed himself up from the chair.
The Reverend patted Henry’s shoulder as he passed into the corridor. “Do let me know if I can be of any use.”
“You can let me know if you run across Rufus’ pistol in your piece of the woods.”
“His pistol?” The Reverend looked confused.
“Yes.” Henry turned his eyes to Walter. “It wasn’t with the body and the investigator is looking for it.”
Walter’s eyes darted away like a pair of minnows. “Probably knocked it loose when they put him on his horse to take him to the carriage.”
“We just searched the clearing….” Henry shrugged. He omitted to mention that they had searched the surrounding woods as well.
“Ah, well, if I see anything, I’ll be sure to let you know,” said Reverend Ansel. He looked back through the door at the long-haired man. “God bless you, Walter.”
Walter bowed his head.
The Reverend disappeared down the corridor. Henry leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.
“What was it you wanted?” Walter growled.
“Oh,” said Henry, having already delivered his message, “I just came to see how you were getting along.”
“Miserably. I’ve no one to play at cards with except Robert, and there’s little sport at faro when both players are dipped so deep that they’re handing each other vowels.”
“I forgot that was Rufus’ chief quality—his ability to spread around his blunt. No wonder you are missing him so terribly.”
Walter reached for the handle to pull the door closed, but Henry put his foot in the way. “Did you tell the Reverend about Rufus’ interest in Cat—”
“No! I already told you his heart was too weak for such a shock. I beg you, do not mention anything of the matter to anyone.”
Henry’s lips hardened into a thin line. The “anyone” Walter was referring to was of course Jacob Pevensey, the man in charge of finding out the truth. And if he discovered Walter’s story of an accidental shooting to be dishonest, then Rufus’ intentions toward Catie Ansel could prove particularly pertinent to the investigation.
Walter’s piercing eyes focused on Henry’s face. “You asked something of me once, a promise to conceal a matter in which you were at fault. I kept that promise—have kept it for ten years and will keep it to my grave. And now I am asking you to make me a similar promise. Will you conceal this matter?”
“Are you at fault?” demanded Henry. He could not promise to keep the matter quiet if Walter had murdered his brother. But if he were innocent?
“I swear to you, by all that is holy, I have no bloodguilt on my hands.”
Henry breathed deeply. “Very well then. I promise you that, come what may, I shall say nothing about the matter of Rufus and Catherine Ansel.”
* * *
Pevensey waited in the stable yard for Cecil to turn his horse over to the groom and then fell in beside him as they walked back to the house. “What next?” asked his young protégé.
“More interviews,” said Pevensey, “this time with the guests and the family.”
“I hope you do not mind that I dismissed Constable Cooper.”
Pevensey snorted. “Not at all. I was going to suggest it myself.”
They were about to enter the front door, when it opened to allow egress to a large man wearing the collar and black coat of a clergyman.
“Good day, Reverend Ansel,” said Cecil, shaking the man’s hand.
“Good day to you,” responded the clergyman. His eyes began to water, and he held up a hand to signify that he was about to sneeze. A second passed, then another, and then the good Reverend bent over double with four successive sneezes as powerful as a gale in the Caribbean.
“This is Jacob Pevensey,” said Cecil, raising his voice above the noise, “down from London to help me investigate the death of Rufus Rowland.”
Pevensey was not normally squeamish, but he omitted offering his hand to the moist Reverend. “You live by the church, Reverend?”
“Yes, in the next door parsonage,” said Reverend Ansel, recovering himself.
“Were you part of the hunting party yesterday?”
“No, no,” sniffed the Reverend. His large chin jutted out defensively. “The duke was not accustomed to include me in such things. And in any case, I was asked to marry a couple up at Dealsby Cross that day.”
“So you were not home when the shots were fired.”
Nostrils flaring, the Reverend raised a finger again, and shook his head in answer before the storm of sneezing broke.
“What about any family members or servants?”
The Reverend shook his head again. He pulled out his handkerchief. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I must ask you to excuse me. This cold refuses to leave my head, and I think I must go home and put myself to bed.”
“Sleep is the best medicine,” Cecil called after the retreating Reverend. He raised an eyebrow at Pevensey as the two entered the house. “Curious he said there was no family there, but I daresay he just wanted to be left in peace. He has a daughter, the same age as Lady Adele—not quite right in the head—who rarely leaves the house, and a housekeeper of sorts, who is tasked with taking care of her.”
“Ah!” said Pevensey. “And being so nearby, perhaps they might have seen or heard something that could help us. The servant, at least, is in her right mind. Perhaps we can pay a call at the parsonage tomorrow.”
The two men headed for the morning room where they would resume their interviews. As soon as he opened the door, Pevensey saw a light-haired young man sitting in one of the armchairs near the window, his knee vibrating nervously.
“Mr. Blount!” said Cecil. “We did not realize this room was occupied.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Blount. “Is this not the right room? Henry told me I was to come here for questioning.”
“Did he indeed?” said Pevensey with a slight smile. The new duke had anticipated his plans quite accurately. “Then you are in just the right room at just the right time.” He pulled out his notebook to render the sneezing Reverend. “If you would be so good, Mr. Cecil, as to conduct the questioning.”
Cecil settled himself in the armchair facing Mr. Blount while Pevensey took up his position by the window which would afford him the best light for sketching.
“Where were you during the hunt?”
“With the main party of hunters. You know that—you were there yourself.”
“Indeed. And did you ever split off on your own?”
“No, I followed Squire Ashbrook’s sons throughout. You can ask them if you like.”
“Was there any unpleasantness between you and the duke?”
“No, not at all.”
Pevensey looked up. It was better to cut to the quick. “How did the duke respond to your interest in Lady Adele?”
Mr. Blount started. “He had no objections that I know of.”
“And who is Lady Adele’s new guardian? Henry Rowland?”
“Yes.”
“How does he look upon your suit?”
“I…am not sure.”
Pevensey fixed Mr. Blount with a knowing stare. He had already proven his omniscience with his first question. Let the man squirm a little until he told the truth.
“That is to say…he is not enthused about the match. It is an added difficulty.”
“Or in other words”—Pevensey allowed his freckled face to relax into a smile—“you had little reason to wish the late duke ill.”
“Yes.” Mr. Blount breathed a sigh of relief. “Exactly as you say.”
* * *
Henry walked back to his room. On the floor directly in front of his door was a small rectangle. He bent down and saw that it was a book. A few of the pages were bowed as if the volume had been marred by poor handling. He turned it over and looked at the cover—Pamela.
Henry frowned. He cared little about the bent pages, but he had hoped Eliza would return the book in person.
Jutting out from between the pages was a slip of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it.
Your Grace,
Thank you for the loan of the book. I am at present fully occupied with other reading, so I am returning it to you unfinished.
E. Malcolm
P. S. Mr. Hornsby called to inform you that a lady friend of yours, Mrs. Flambard, is staying at the village inn should you desire to visit her.
At the sight of that last line, Henry cursed underneath his breath. What had Ned said to her? Whatever it was, Eliza had clearly drawn the wrong conclusions. He groaned and pressed his forehead against the closed door. A surprised footman lifted both eyebrows as he walked by with a pair of freshly polished candlesticks.
The Duke's Last Hunt Page 21
