The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  A knock came on the door.

  “Enter!” said Henry, looking up from the letter.

  Stephen poked his head into the room. “I say, are you busy? Could I have a word?”

  Henry wanted nothing more than to be alone right now.

  “Of course. Come in.” He set the letter down on the desk.

  Stephen sat down on the chair opposite the desk and began to pull at his invisible sideburns with his left hand. Henry waited for him to begin, but after a minute had passed, he realized that he would need to initiate the conversation himself.

  “What can I help you with, Stephen?”

  Stephen cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a rather delicate matter, you see…”

  Henry stifled the urge to yawn.

  “…regarding a lady.”

  “I hope the lady is my sister.”

  “You do?” Stephen’s countenance brightened considerably. Henry could tell that he had been expecting more gruffness.

  “You’ve been dangling after her for months, and if I find that you’ve been playing her false for another, I might have to call you out with pistols.”

  “Never,” said Stephen. “She is most certainly the lady in question. I have come to apply to you for permission to seek her hand in marriage.”

  Apparently there were to be two proposals of marriage at Harrowhaven today, although it was likely that the second one would fare better than the first.

  “You seem nervous,” Henry remarked. He could not let Stephen attain his prize too easily. “Perhaps you are afraid she will reject you.”

  “No, I am quite certain of Adele. It is someone else I am not altogether certain of.”

  “You mean me.”

  “In point of fact, yes. And I realize it is not the most fortuitous of times to ask….”

  “Are you referring to the fact that my brother has just been murdered or the fact that Miss Malcolm has declined my proposal of marriage this morning?”

  Stephen’s jaw fell open. “Oh, dear lord, Henry—I am sorry. A most unseemly time for me to put forward my own suit.” He half stood up from his char. “Shall I wait a week or two? Or a month even?”

  Henry manfully resisted the temptation to add some company to his misery. “Certainly not. Whatever disappointments I may have had, there is no reason for you to share them. As long as my mother has no objections, I give you my blessing. Although I warn you, Stephen, you will be a henpecked husband.”

  “I am looking forward to that eventuality,” said Stephen, both recklessly and resolutely.

  “Get to it then,” said Henry, dismissing his friend with a wave. Stephen stopped to say a starry-eyed thanks at the door and then bounded off in search of Adele.

  Henry tried not to be envious of that happy light in his eyes. If things had only transpired differently this morning….

  He picked up the letter from Mr. Maurice and read it one more time. He still needed to make sure his brother was laid to rest properly, but other than that, he was a free man. He could return to London and forget what had happened at Harrowhaven over the last sennight. He could forget Miss Eliza Malcolm.

  There was one thing he could not forget, however. He stood up from the desk. Before he left for London, there was one last thing he must do.

  * * *

  Pevensey paid out three shillings at the shop that also served as a post office. Barring any new developments, he intended to return to London himself on Monday. The clues had run dry here and the chase was cold. Walter Turold had made his way to the ocean by now. The authorities at each of the likely ports had been notified, but if Turold had disguised his identity, there was little chance he would be stopped before securing passage to France or America.

  “Where can I get an early luncheon?” he asked the clerk behind the counter.

  The boy’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down as he prepared to answer such an important stranger. “Well, there’s the Blue Boar, sir, if you’s wanting something hot. But if you just want a bun, you can go to White’s Confectionary next door.”

  “Thank you,” said Pevensey, tipping his hat to the boy. He had already sampled the Blue Boar’s cuisine, and the confectionary seemed convenient. He walked next door, and immediately, his nostrils were besieged with the smell of freshly baked grains and caramelized sugars.

  “How can I help you?” said a genial man at the counter, wiping his floury hands on his apron in anticipation.

  “Are you Mr. White?” said Pevensey, guessing from this fellow’s eagerness that he must be the owner. His gray sideburns peeked out of a white baker’s hat.

  The man laughed. “There is no Mr. White, but I find the name adds a certain charm to the establishment. We may not be Londoners, but even folks in Sussex want their bread white, an’ that’s the truth.”

  “Indeed,” said Pevensey, bracing himself for the discovery of a good deal of chalk in his bread. He could see now that the man was not as old as he had first assumed and that the gray sideburns, sans flour, would normally appear brown. “I shall take a bun, if you please.”

  As he said it, he remembered a certain domestic’s wish for free buns from his new relative. “Are you related to Frederick, the footman up at the big house?”

  The man laughed again. “I suppose I must claim him. He’s my wife’s brother, the great, hungry lout.”

  “And you are but newly married?” said Pevensey, remembering the rest of the story. “Felicitations!”

  “Just this Wednesday,” said the man proudly. “We married up at my Lucy’s village, Dealsby Cross.”

  “A warm day for a wedding,” said Pevensey, accepting his glazed bun. He recalled how hot it had been that afternoon when Sir Richard gave him orders to report immediately at Harrowhaven.

  “Aye, and an overlong wedding service,” said the baker. He pounded a fresh batch of dough behind the counter. “Curate Gray is much too flowery for my taste, even when I’m not waiting to take my new wife home—if you catch my meaning.”

  Pevensey paused in the middle of masticating his first bite of the bun. His eyes opened wide as he swallowed. “Then Reverend Ansel did not officiate the service?”

  The baker landed another punch on the dough. “He was supposed to, but he were taken ill. A bad summer cold, Mr. Gray said. Couldn’t say the vows without sneezing all over us.”

  “Did he attend the wedding?”

  “Nah, Mr. Gray showed up alone. The Reverend had tried to come but had a sneezing fit and had to turn back. Which left Mr. Gray the whole ride to think of ways to prolong the service.”

  “My condolences,” said Pevensey, his mind spinning. “Though surely the event was a happy one in spite of Curate Gray.”

  The baker gave a jolly grin and continued beating his dough into submission. Pevensey stepped outside, his fragmented thoughts crystallizing into an unbroken sequence of events. Curate Gray had gone to Dealsby Cross. Reverend Ansel had not.

  He had an uncurtained look now into the window of Walter Turold’s motivations. But with Turold’s confession signed and witnessed, was there anything Pevensey could actually prove in a court of law?

  He looked around the street. Where was Cecil? He needed to share his news as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  The early departure planned by Lady Malcolm did not have its desired effect. While the Malcolms had hoped to reach London before midday, they had but barely reached the village before one of the carriage wheels lost several spokes, and they were forced to stop at The Blue Boar to make repairs.

  “You should have made sure the coachman inspected the carriage before we left.” Lady Malcolm sniffed out the accusation at her husband.

  “How was I to know this blasted coach was so poorly built?” rejoined Sir Arthur. He shoved the door open with far too much force. Eliza could see that the failure of their mission was r
ankling him heavily, and even her mother was on edge. Perhaps they had done the right thing, but the penury waiting for them in London would never take their morals into account.

  Sir Arthur was gone five minutes. “How long will it be?” demanded his wife when he returned.

  “Dashed if I know! A half hour. An hour.”

  Lady Malcolm sniffed her disapproval at her husband’s language. “Must we disembark?”

  “Of course you must,” Sir Arthur snapped. “How can they put the carriage up on blocks with you inside?”

  Lady Malcolm did not dignify that question with a response. She moved towards the door, holding out her hand and forcing her husband to help her down the stairs while Eliza was left to fend for herself. The two moved off to the porch of the inn to perpetuate their pique more discreetly.

  “Ollerton!” said Lady Malcolm. “Please find us some bread or a biscuit to eat. We may be here indefinitely.”

  The lady’s maid, who had climbed down from the box, duly trotted off to the nearby bakery. Sir Arthur’s valet had gone off with the coachman to effect the repair. Eliza looked around. She certainly could not stand there alone in the carriage yard. She went into the inn, hoping that her lack of chaperonage in a strange establishment would not be too noticeable.

  “Ah, Miss Malcolm!” said a familiar face. The innkeeper, Ned Hornsby, was just wiping down a used table with a rag. “Carriage trouble, eh?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Eliza softly. She wanted nothing more than to banish Henry Rowland from her mind, but here was a friend of his to make those thoughts resurface. A strange sort of friend, too. She had never interacted with an innkeeper before—but then, gentlemen of all ranks in society were more prone to mingling than ladies were.

  “May I offer you a drink, miss?” He pulled out a chair for her, at a table near the counter, and Eliza, not knowing what else to do, sat down.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Eliza, heat rising to her cheeks, “but I am not thirsty.” She recalled that she had no pin money in her reticule, and the idea of asking her father for some at the present moment was daunting.

  Ignoring her protest, Mr. Hornsby fetched her a glass of lemonade anyway. She stared. It was only after he had gone whistling about his work for a few minutes, that she plucked up the courage to take a drink. It was exactly like something Henry Rowland would have done—assess her needs even better than she could do herself and provide for her without embarrassment. She set the cup down with a clunk. Oh, why must she keep thinking of that profligate!

  Her green eyes watched Mr. Hornsby from behind veiled eyelashes. There was no one else in the inn except an old man, taking a nap in the chair in the corner. The solitude should have made her anxious, but instead, it emboldened her.

  “Mr. Hornsby,” she said, making up her mind. “I recall that Lord Henry told you on Wednesday that you might tell me some stories about him. Would you oblige?”

  The bearded man stopped whistling and his eyebrows shot up into the air. “What do you want to know, miss?” He leaned his elbows on the counter and looked her full in the face.

  Eliza’s heart skipped a beat. She had created the opening, and now she must simply have the courage to enter it. “I know this is not a polite question for young ladies to ask, but is Lord Henry friendly with ladies of ill repute?”

  The innkeeper laughed loudly. The man in the corner stirred before falling asleep again, and Eliza felt overpowered by an urge to turn and run. “Certainly not, miss,” said the innkeeper. “I’d swear on the holy book itself that Henry Rowland is on the straight and narrow.”

  Eliza stared at her hands. “I met a Mrs. Flambard at the house….”

  The innkeeper folded his arms and clucked disapprovingly. But the disapproval was not directed at Eliza. “Claimed to be his mistress, did she? I wouldna put it past that one. She’s cagey, she is. The truth of the matter is—well, who am I to speak ill of the dead?”

  The only dead Eliza could think of was Rufus, and his reputation certainly held no hallowed spot in her heart. “Please, sir! What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Flambard, as she styles herself, was mistress to the older brother Master Rufus for several years. Set herself up in style at the Dower House on the estate. The whole county knew of it, and Master Henry—he were steward at the time—told Master Rufus it was unbecoming for a duke and a Christian, especially with his mother and sister so close by.”

  “Oh!” This description of immoral activities at the Dower House comported with the dinner conversation that had puzzled Eliza several nights ago. “And did Rufus listen?”

  “Certainly not! He turned Master Henry out, not La Flambard. She continued in residence for several years and then left the county a few months ago to try her fortunes in London. She came back for a short spell this week, but I saw her on her way again yesterday afternoon.”

  Eliza sighed inwardly. So, that tawdry blond creature had nothing to do with Henry. But what about the others? What about the maid she had seen with her own eyes? What about Catherine Ansel?

  “I see now,” she said to Mr. Hornsby, aware that her words might be relayed back to Henry Rowland himself, “that I was under a misapprehension regarding Mrs. Flambard. I am thankful to be corrected. There were other incidents that occurred at Harrowhaven during my stay, however, that reinforced this misapprehension. Lord Henry himself, confessed that he had behaved most vilely toward the clergyman’s daughter, Miss Ansel, in past years.”

  Ned Hornsby leaned farther forward, his brown eyes wide with concern. “What exactly do you mean, Miss Malcolm?”

  Eliza regretted at that moment, that she had said anything of the kind. Her mother, if she were here, would take her violently to task for perpetuating gossip and staining a young lady’s good name. “I’m not sure exactly—apparently, a vital clue in the...murder…was Rufus Rowland’s attempted seduction of Miss Ansel. Lord Henry mentioned as much to me, but then confessed that he had done far worse than his brother. But please, Mr. Hornsby,”—her voice took on a tinge of panic—“say nothing on the topic. I should not have been so free with my speech.”

  “Miss Malcolm,” said Ned Hornsby, kneading the wet rag convulsively between his fingers, “on that subject I once swore a solemn oath of silence to a much younger Master Henry. And yet”—he cocked his head, sending his brown beard flying sideways—“he also gave me permission to tell you any stories leading to a better view of his character.” He walked around the counter and pulled out a chair at the table where she sat. “May I sit down?”

  Eliza nodded, her heart palpitating with fear and excitement about the revelation to come—and anxiety that her mother or father would choose this moment to walk into the inn.

  Mr. Hornsby’s voice quieted till it was barely above a whisper. “When Master Henry, Walt, and I were boys—Walter Turold, you understand—we were a band of lads that nothing could separate. They were both above me in station, but they treated me as if I wasna different from them in the least. The woods were our playground, and we spent many an hour hiding from their tutors among the trees.

  “One day, in the middle of a wind storm, we found a downed tree in the forest, sticking out over the brook like a spaniel’s leg. We climbed up on it—e’en though it was not steadily anchored in the soil—and rode it like a pony that had never been broken. The storm worsened. We’d just climbed down to go home before we were missed when little Catie Ansel appeared. She were no more than seven or eight—a pretty little girl with braids and a pinafore. She’d seen us come down from the felled tree and asked if she might go up herself. Then Walter and I shook our heads no, but Henry—he were a rascal as boys can be—taunted her some an’ told her she’d be too scared by far to climb out on the log.”

  The mounting tension of the story constricted Eliza’s throat. Oh Henry, what is it you have done?

  “She gritted her teeth at that, and did j
ust as he knew she would. She climbed out on the trunk and put one little foot in front of the other until she came out to the end. Then of a sudden, a great gust came up, and the tree lost the last of its bearings and rolled down into the river gulch. Down went little Catie and, I am not ashamed to say, we all shrieked like boys in shortcoats at the sight.”

  “What did you do?” asked Eliza, clutching a hand to her heart.

  “Walt went down straightway into the water, and lifting a branch, pulled her free. But she had struck her head upon a rock or on a stump, and her blond hair was all bloodied on the side.”

  “What did Henry do?” demanded Eliza, not sure if she wanted to know.

  “Walt demanded that we carry her home, but Henry was a-feared. He knew the matter was his fault, and he did not want to face her father or his own. He begged me and Walt to never speak of what had transpired. ‘Why?’ said Walt, ‘She’ll rat you out soon enough when she comes to.’ And I couldna help but agree with him. But Henry were desperate, and so we both swore then, on our friendship, to never say what part he’d played.

  “Then something had to be done, but neither Henry nor I were willing. Walt told us to go off and cry like a pair of babies, and he carried the girl home himself, half a mile in the storm up to the parsonage.”

  “And Miss Ansel?” said Eliza, her white fingers gripping the edge of the table.

  “As far as I know, she never remembered what happened that day. She never remembered much of anything. I don’t know how much Walt told the Reverend—I suspect he kept his word to Henry—but from that day on he loathed the sight of him.

  “He knew the rivalry between the Rowland brothers, and so he ’came friends with Rufus from this time forward. And when his father died, Walt grew as great a wastrel as Rufus, squandering his fortune on gambling and wenches.”

  Ned Hornsby stared at Eliza until she looked him full in the eyes. “And if you think what Henry Rowland did is worse than what Rufus Rowland meant to do to her—to seduce a poor young halfwit for his own pleasures—then I am sorry I’ve broken my word to tell you all this tale. But if you think that Henry acted only in folly as boys will often do, why then, you think the same as me. He did not mean her harm, and it is not in one moment that a man’s character must be measured.”