Always Forever (Emerson Book 5)

by Maureen Driscoll

  Canning was a slight man, well under six feet tall. He was dressed in a yellow waistcoat with purple trousers and seemed to have bathed in a barrel of cologne.

  By contrast, Jones was a quiet man and looked to have once been a pugilist.

  “What a surprise to see you, Canning,” said Bancroft, as he greeted the man with a warm handshake and nodded his head to Jones.

  “Pray forgive me for intruding upon you so soon after your wedding,” said Canning. “But there are matters on which I need your help. There was a storm in the Indian Ocean and I fear some of our investments are lost. I desperately need your advice on how to recoup them.”

  “Of course,” said Bancroft. “I will do what I can to help. I trust you know my heir, Lord Grayson. He and his new wife have visitors of their own. Lady Grayson’s relations, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, have come to stay with us for a while. And here is my good wife, the Duchess of Bancroft.”

  Canning and Jones bowed deeply. Rose noticed that Canning’s gaze stayed on Mirabelle’s bosom longer than it should have.

  “My dear,” said Bancroft, “we have more unexpected guests. I believe Canning will do well in the family wing, while Jones might find the guest butler’s room in the servants’ quarters to his liking.”

  “Of course,” said Mirabelle, looking down her nose at both of their guests.

  “Now, Canning and Jones, if you will join me in my….who is that?” Bancroft asked as he watched a lone rider come up the drive.

  Everyone turned to see a well-dressed, though dusty, man approaching on horseback. Rose didn’t recognize him, which meant he was not a Wiltshire native. Nate and Win had similarly blank faces, as well.

  As the rider reached the castle, the duke said with some surprise, “Frederick Mortimer. What the devil are you doing here?”

  * * *

  Mirabelle hoped she had covered her astonishment at seeing Frederick Mortimer ride up to the castle. She had not seen him since before her sister Portia’s death the previous year. Portia and Frederick had had a contentious relationship, in part because he had never truly given his heart to her. While Mirabelle and Portia had never discussed it at length, Portia always suspected that Frederick was still in love with his long-ago protégé, Vanessa, who was now married to Arthur Kellington. There were rumors that Frederick had saved Arthur’s life in the same confrontation which had killed Portia. Mirabelle had never known what to believe. And now a man who could ruin her was at the castle.

  This was why Mirabelle hated the country. There were so few places to hide when things grew dire.

  “Your grace,” said Frederick, as he dismounted, then bowed to Bancroft. “First, please allow me to congratulate you on your recent marriage. And, second, pray forgive me for coming here unannounced. But I was in the area on business and thought to seek your counsel.”

  Bancroft looked a bit wary – as well he should, given how dangerous Frederick could be – but he made the introductions, referring to Frederick only as “an acquaintance from town.”

  Mirabelle sighed in relief when Frederick bowed to her without giving any indication they had previously met. She knew she could still be in danger, but at least he hadn’t given her up at the outset. No doubt he was here for a bit of blackmail. She would deal with that later.

  “Mr. Mortimer,” said Alex Lewis. “I believe you are wanted by the Crown in connection with any number of crimes.” From the way he was standing, Mirabelle had no doubt Lewis was armed and would take Frederick by force, if necessary. That could complicate matters greatly.

  “Alex Lewis, is it?” asked Frederick. “You used to be one of the Crown’s barristers, did you not? The one who had to quit in disgrace after bungling the case about the earl’s daughter who killed her husband?” Then he spied Win. “I take it you are the accused murderess.”

  “She is the innocent lady who is now my wife,” said Lewis with barely restrained anger.

  “Yes, it is a terrible thing to be falsely accused, as I can personally attest. Since you left, all pending charges against me have been dismissed. Your former supervisor at the Old Bailey can vouch for me.”

  “It is true,” said Bancroft. “I, myself, would never associate with criminals, so you can be certain Mr. Mortimer is free of all charges. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Pig’s Whistle in town.”

  “You must stay here, instead. We shall send for your things,” said Bancroft as he motioned to Westfield to take care of it. “I am certain my duchess can get you well situated.” Then he turned and walked toward the house with Canning, while Jones followed a discreet distance behind.

  “Well, your grace?” said Frederick as he bowed mockingly in Mirabelle’s direction, “pray show me the way.”

  * * *

  Bancroft had not been expecting his guests. Well, more to the point, he had been expecting Jones, but not Canning, who was dumb as a post and only a quarter as interesting. And he had no idea why Frederick Mortimer had come, but would find out as soon as he could get rid of Canning.

  “I had not expected to find so many people in residence,” said Canning, as they drank in Bancroft’s library. “Though I must say Grayson’s wife is a fine piece. I wouldn’t mind having her warm my bed.”

  “You are talking about my heir’s wife,” said Bancroft. “Keep your opinions to yourself, Canning, especially since I am not best pleased with your arrival. I was only expecting Jones.”

  Canning lost some of his bluster – as well he should – but sniffed, “I do not know why you don’t value my contributions more than Jones’s. After all, I am a peer and he is from the stews.”

  “This man from the stews has handled more of my business than you. And much more efficiently, at that.”

  “I took care of that affair in Weymouth when we had Layton attacked,” said Canning with more umbrage than was wise.

  “And look how that turned out. Layton and that chit he married escaped both attacks.”

  “They know nothing,” said Canning.

  “So you keep saying,” said Bancroft.

  “Do you think Jones could have done any better?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  That didn’t sit well with Canning, but Bancroft didn’t care. Canning had been a pain in his arse for long enough. Up until this point, he had been necessary, but now the scales were more balanced. After all, Jones was there and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Canning or anyone else who got in their way.

  “Canning, why don’t you go to your room and wash the travel dust off you? We shall meet again later to plan for the future of our operations.”

  “I could use a hot bath,” said Canning as he stood and stretched. “Do I trust there will be a decanter of your best port in my chamber?”

  “I will make certain Westfield keeps it filled.”

  “Excellent. I shall see you later,” he said as he left the room.

  Once the door was closed, Bancroft turned to Jones. “I am surprised you did not kill him on the trip up here.”

  “If I’d thought you would’ve approved I might’ve. How badly were we exposed in Weymouth?”

  “I do not know. Layton visited Ridgeway, but it might have been just to introduce them to his new bride. Grayson has not said anything, though that doesn’t necessarily mean we are in the clear. He is suspicious about Simon Chilcott’s death, though you handled that so well it did not appear as anything but an accident to anyone who was at the party.”

  “Gettin’ into and out of places without bein’ noticed is one of my specialties. Why is Frederick Mortimer here?”

  “I have no idea, but look forward to finding out. Do you believe it is true that he has been exonerated of his crimes?”

  “Dunno. It’s possible he paid someone off. It’s also possible it’s a trap to get us to take him into our confidence. I’d tread lightly with that ‘un.”

  “Wise counsel, as always,” said Bancroft. “There is a passage which connects your bedchamber with mine. We could use that to meet
. Canning is a dolt, but even he will become suspicious if he sees us meeting without him. Get some rest. I have no doubt you will need your strength in the days ahead.”

  * * *

  “Thank you, Westfield,” said Mirabelle, as the butler finished showing Frederick Mortimer his suite. “That will be all.”

  Mirabelle could barely wait for the bloody butler to leave before turning to Frederick. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am an acquaintance of your husband,” said Frederick. “Have no fear. I won’t tell him who you really are. I take it he is unaware of your somewhat checkered past?”

  He had asked the question in the same lightly mocking way he often used. It used to drive Portia mad because try as she might, she could never get the man to show any true emotion.

  “He knows me only as a lonely widow who lost her husband at a young age.”

  “I’ll wager you wanted to lose him even earlier,” said Frederick.

  She did not dignify that remark with a response. “Why are you here?”

  “There are a few matters I’d like to discuss with your husband.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Does it have to do with blackmail?” She wasn’t sure, but she thought Frederick reacted to the question. Just for an instant.

  “What has he told you about his business?”

  “Only enough to assure me he was wealthy. Even a man as vain as Bancroft is realistic enough to know a young woman needs more than a title to sustain her after he is gone.”

  “Do you have plans for his demise?”

  “Of course not,” said Mirabelle. While she might trust Frederick with the secrets of her past, she couldn’t risk telling him anything of her plans for the future. “And just who did you bribe to clear your name with the police? It sounded like Alex Lewis didn’t buy your Banbury tale for an instant.”

  “Leave him to me. How did Lord Grayson take the news that he would have a new mama?”

  “I am not his mama!” Portia had had the right of it. Frederick Mortimer knew exactly how to anger a person. “I am not even his stepmama in any real sense. I am simply his father’s wife, the Duchess of Bancroft.”

  “Congratulations. It appears you finally have the wealth and status you always wanted.”

  “I did not wish to end up as my sister did – living with a scoundrel, then dying a violent death.”

  “Portia wouldn’t be dead if she hadn’t been consumed by her hatred of Vanessa Gans.”

  “You mean Vanessa Kellington.” There it was, a definite flinch. “I see you are still besotted with her. Well, that has long been a lost cause. I suggest you turn your attention elsewhere.” Mirabelle wasn’t volunteering to be his partner, though he was certainly handsome enough and Portia had always bragged about how good he was in the bedchamber. If he tried to seduce her, she might very well let him.

  It would also be a good way of turning Bancroft against him, if Frederick tried to reveal her secrets.

  Frederick smiled at her indirect proposal, then raked her slowly with his eyes. “I shall keep your advice in mind and will let you know if I come up with any suggestions of just where to turn.”

  “Excellent,” said Mirabelle, as she turned and walked slowly to the door. “In the meantime, I shall see you at dinner.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  With Win resting in her room, Rose decided to explore the castle. She not only wanted to learn every nook and cranny of her new home, but she also needed to know if there would be even one ally to help them. Toward that end, she decided to ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons, to give her a tour.

  As Rose entered the swinging door to the servants’ quarters, she was once again reminded of the gulf between her and the staff. The servants were visibly nervous around her. It was unlikely any of them would dare to stand up to Bancroft if it came down to a fight.

  She found Mrs. Lyons in the housekeeper’s suite. The woman had only been employed at the castle for the past three years. She was quite efficient, but had never said anything outside of the purview of her position, other than pleasantries about the weather. “Mrs. Lyons?”

  The housekeeper, a rather severe looking woman of middle years, was surprised by Rose’s appearance. She rose from her desk, where she had been writing in a journal. “Oh, my lady, please forgive me. I should have been ready to receive you.” She tucked the journal into a drawer and locked it.

  “Please do not worry yourself,” said Rose, wondering what was in the journal Mrs. Lyons so wanted to hide. “I was hoping to have a tour of the castle today and thought you would be an excellent guide.”

  Mrs. Lyons half smiled at the compliment. “Certainly, my lady. Where would you like to begin?”

  “I confess myself curious to see the portrait gallery.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Lyons. “This way, my lady.”

  Mrs. Lyons escorted her down a hall toward the butler’s quarters, as Rose ran her hand down the rich wood walls. “Do the servants use hidden passages to travel from floor to floor?”

  “They are supposed to,” said Mrs. Lyons. “Did you see one take the main stairs? I can have him or her disciplined if your ladyship wishes.”

  “Oh, no. I was just wondering because I rarely see anyone, yet the house is so smoothly run. I am certain it is a great credit to you.”

  The other woman nodded briefly, then lit a candelabra and pushed open a door which was all but hidden. They went up two flights, then the housekeeper pressed open a door which Rose would have missed.

  It opened into the duke’s wing of the house. They walked down the hall past Bancroft’s suite, where a footman was at his post. They reached the end of the hall, then turned into a dimly lit corridor with life-sized oil paintings covering the walls.

  “Mrs. Lyons, what can you tell me about the former dukes and duchesses?”

  The housekeeper lit a second candelabra from the one she held, and handed it to Rose. “As you know, Lord Grayson’s mother died several years ago. I am told she preferred spending her time either in London or at the estate in Wales.” They paused in front of a painting of a woman Rose vaguely remembered seeing a few times when she was a young girl.

  “I believe I met her once or twice.”

  “But likely only in a fleeting manner. I am told her grace believed that children were better seen than heard. And she didn’t like seeing them that often, either. It is my understanding that Lord Grayson spent much of his time in the nursery with nannies and nurses.”

  Rose’s heart went out to Nate. It must have been incredibly lonely to spend so much time alone in the drafty old castle.

  Mrs. Lyons moved to the next portrait. “And this is his grace’s father, the former Duke of Bancroft, along with his duchess. She also preferred the estate in Wales.”

  Rose looked at Nate’s grandparents, who seemed so stern in their portraits. It was no wonder the Duchesses of Bancroft preferred the estate in Wales, if the dukes were so intimidating. Mrs. Lyons had just moved on to another set of Nate’s ancestors when something caught Rose’s eye.

  It was the ghost from Rose’s bedchamber. Rose gasped, but then realized that what she saw wasn’t a moving apparition, but a portrait in the dim light. She moved closer to see a woman from at least two centuries earlier. She was formally posed, but there was something in her eyes which made this painting different. The lady wasn’t haughty or proud or stern, like the others. She seemed sad.

  “My lady?” Mrs. Lyons joined Rose, her candelabra casting more light on the portrait.

  “Who is that?” asked Rose.

  “She is the Duchess of Bancroft who married the Mad Duke. Her Christian name was Charlotte. She was but a farmer’s daughter, but it was said his grace fell in love with her the first time he saw her. She wanted nothing of the match, but her family quite readily agreed to it. It caused an uproar, of course. Those in London would have nothing to do with her, given her low birth. And once the duke possesse
d her, he grew tired of his choice.”

  “Did she also move to the estate in Wales?” asked Rose.

  “Unfortunately, no. She died right here in the castle.” Mrs. Lyons paused. “Or rather, outside of it.”

  A chill went through Rose. “How did she die?”

  “She fell off the roof. Some say the Mad Duke pushed her, though that was never proven. Some say she slipped. Still others say she jumped, due to a broken heart. For Charlotte had a sweetheart when she was forced to marry the duke.”

  “What happened to her sweetheart?”

  “I don’t rightly know, though it was rumored he worked as a laborer on the estate so he could at least see her from afar. But then one day, he just disappeared. Mayhap it hurt too much to stay.”

  Rose studied the portrait. “She seems so unhappy.”

  “Some say she still is.”

  Rose turned to Mrs. Lyons. “What do you mean?”

  Mrs. Lyons drew herself up straighter. “It is stuff and nonsense, of course, but there are some who say she haunts the castle in search of her true love. I’ve never seen her, but there are others who swear they have.”

  “Do they believe she is a malevolent spirit?”

  “No one has ever stayed around long enough to find out. Usually, it just takes one sighting before the person runs away.”

  “But I can see that the castle lends itself to ghost stories. It is immense and I imagine a person could wander for hours and never see the same room twice.”

  “It can be a challenge to keep all of it clean,” admitted Mrs. Lyons, before quickly adding, “but we thrive on challenges.”

  “You and your staff do fine work, Mrs. Lyons. I cannot begin to imagine how you do it.” That made the woman almost break out into a full smile. “I do have another question. There are some items I would like to move here from Ridgeway, though not for display at the current time. Where would be the best place to store them?” Rose was hoping the housekeeper might be aware of places the duke might hide things.