Death of a Duchess

by Nellie H. Steele

  Also by Nellie H. Steele

  Cate Kensie Mysteries:

  The Secret of Dunhaven Castle

  Murder at Dunhaven Castle

  Holiday Heist at Dunhaven Castle

  Shadow Slayer Stories:

  Shadows of the Past

  Stolen Portrait Stolen Soul

  Gone

  Maggie Edwards Adventures:

  Cleopatra’s Tomb

  Death of a Duchess

  A Duchess of Blackmoore Mystery

  Nellie H. Steele

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Nellie H. Steele

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Aunt Michelle

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Note from the Author

  The Secret of Dunhaven Castle Synopsis

  The Secret of Dunhaven Castle Excerpt

  Acknowledgments

  A HUGE thank you to everyone who helped get this book published! Special shout outs to: Stephanie Sovak, Paul Sovak, Michelle Cheplic, Cathi Colas, Mark D’Angelo and Lori D’Angelo.

  Finally, a HUGE thank you to you, the reader!

  Chapter 1

  The imposing silhouette of Blackmoore Castle rose from the mist, standing in stark contrast against the ominous gray sky. Its grand towers and turrets with banners waving rose high above the landscape. The castle, perched on the cliffs, beckoned me home as my carriage trundled up the path toward it.

  It still had the power to take my breath away as it did when I first laid eyes upon it, drenched in moonlight, some three months ago when I arrived. I recalled the journey into the Scottish Highlands as though it were yesterday. Filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation of what would become of me, I rode in silence with my traveling companion, Henry Langford, a middle-aged estate agent with a kind face in the service of Duke Blackmoore, the castle’s proprietor.

  The foreboding façade of the castle may have sent shivers up the spine of most women my age. However, the turmoil of my short life of eighteen years and two months created within me a façade almost as formidable as the castle’s, if not more so. Instead, the brooding castle with its gothic design and blackened stones generated a stirring of home inside me. And despite my questioning mind regarding what would become of me, I feared not what secrets the ominous castle held within its walls.

  As the carriage bounced over the rocky pathway to the castle, I closed my eyes, recalling the night I had first arrived. My day had started like any other, with no indication of difference from the days before it. At the orphanage, my home for ten years, six months and three weeks, days were rarely unique. Mundaneness and routine thrived at the orphanage above all things. I passed most of my time reading and learning. I had, in fact, been returning from the orphanage’s paltry library on that morning when I overheard the tail end of the conversation between Duke Blackmoore’s man and the headmistress. I shall make clear one thing: I was not eavesdropping. However, upon passing through the foyer to the staircase leading to bedrooms, I overheard my name. Naturally intrigued, I stopped to listen.

  Headmistress Williamson protested, “There are far better girls beyond Miss Hastings in this orphanage for this sort of thing.”

  “Far better for what?” my mind questioned. Though her comment did not surprise me. Her dislike for me was well known. She despised my quick wit among other aspects of my personality. As much as she hoped to rid herself of me, she sabotaged every possibility of my departure. I had long since resigned myself to becoming a teacher at the orphanage.

  I did not recognize the voice that answered her. “Miss Williamson, I am not here to ask your opinion, merely to pay for any expenses Miss Hastings accumulated during her time at your facility and to retrieve her,” he argued.

  My brow furrowed at the mention of retrieving me. Who was this mystery man, I wondered, and what right of claim did he have to me? He wasn’t my father, of this much I was sure. An uncle, perhaps. My mind wandered from possibility to possibility as the doors to Headmistress Williamson’s office flung open.

  Headmistress Williamson spotted me in an instant, her eyes wide as she noted my proximity to her office doors. Her mouth set itself into its usual scowl as her eyes settled on me. Her mousy brown hair, pulled back into its low bun at the nape of her neck, added to the dour expression on her face.

  “Miss Hastings,” she growled, glowering at me with those fiery emerald eyes, “how fortuitous to find you here. Mr. Langford,” she said, motioning to the man who stepped behind her to fill the doorway, “is here to collect you.”

  I glanced to the man, exploring his features as I searched them for an answer. None came. Instead of explanations, what came was a quick swat on my upper arm. “Do not stand there dumbfounded, girl!” Headmistress Williamson exclaimed. “Mr. Langford does not have all day. He’d like to get as early a start as possible!”

  The headmistress offering a contrite glance to Mr. Langford before spinning me on my feet and shoving me up the stairs. She huffed as we hurried down the hall toward the bedroom I occupied with seven other girls. “Quickly, now, Lenora, pack your things. You won’t be needing this.” She ripped the book still clutched in my hands away, discarding it on a nearby dresser.

  I had come to the orphanage with a small, well-worn suitcase which I kept shoved under my sagging mattress. Retrieving it from its hiding spot, I placed it on the bed and set about gathering the few possessions I had accumulated over the years. My meager belongings, consisting of a second dress, a tarnished gold hair comb missing the jewels that once adorned it and a well-worn copy of Frankenstein gifted to me by a former teacher, were packed within minutes. I pulled on a tattered pair of gloves and secured a frayed cape at my neck.

  “Well, I suppose this is goodbye… for now,” the headmistress replied as I stood in my cape, suitcase in my hand.

  “For now?” I questioned.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you are not returned within a month’s time,” she commented, a skeptical expression clouding her features as she considered my journey.

  I heaved a sigh and stepped past her, making my way to the doorway. There I turned, giving one last glance at my home for just over a decade. I held no melancholy in my heart despite the extended time I had spent here. Without a word, I continued through the doorway, descending the stairs to the waiting man below. Headmistress Williamson followed on my heels. “I do apologize for the wait, Mr. Langford. And please, if Miss Hastings does not work out for any reason, do not hesitate to contact me. I am certain we can suggest a more appropriate placement for you and Duk
e Blackmoore.”

  The vote of confidence in my ability was staggering, and I fought to restrain my tongue. “I am certain there will be no need for that,” Mr. Langford replied with a curt smile. He shifted his gaze to me. “Come, Miss Hastings. We’ve a long journey ahead of us. Good day, Headmistress Williamson.” He placed his hat on his head, tipping it to her and extending his arm to usher me from the building. I nodded to him, eager to leave the place behind.

  Outside, a carriage awaited, drawn by four large horses. As we exited into the street, Mr. Langford lifted the suitcase from my hands. I opened my mouth to protest, but he insisted, passing my case off to the coachman. The man held it as he opened the carriage door, offering his hand to assist me into the contraption. I climbed inside followed by Mr. Langford and the door was closed behind us. The coachman set about securing my case to the rear of the carriage with what I assumed to be Mr. Langford’s luggage.

  I glanced to Mr. Langford, who fiddled with the latch on an attaché case. After clearing my throat, I inquired, “May I ask where we are going?”

  “Blackmoore Castle. Highlands of Scotland. Settle in, Miss Hastings, we’ve a long journey ahead of us,” he replied, removing a stack of papers and fixing a pair of spectacles to his nose.

  Though I had more questions, I quieted my tongue. Mr. Langford’s focus on the papers in front of him made it clear my queries were unwelcome at present.

  The buggy shimmied as the coachmen climbed into his seat, taking hold of the reins. The carriage lurched forward and the characteristic sound of horseshoes on cobblestones filled my ears. I leaned forward, peering from the window at the orphanage as it slid away from my view.

  I folded by hands, placing them in my lap as I continued to watch the city fade away. After several hours, rolling green hills dotted with autumn foliage filled the view in all directions. The scene, though charming, became monotonous after a time and I nodded off, soothed by the swaying motion of the carriage ride.

  When I woke, the moon, already high in the darkened sky, glowed brightly. Mountainous terrain now surrounded us, and I assumed we had entered the Scottish Highlands, though having never traveled there, I could not be sure.

  I straightened in my seat, drawing my threadbare cape closer around me. The air, markedly cooler and damper here, penetrated my bones. Heavy mists clung to the moors, obscuring some of them completely. The large white moon glowed over the land, casting an eerie image across the landscape.

  The carriage slowed, and I was pitched backward as we began to climb. “We’re nearly there, Lenora,” Mr. Langford said with a smile. It was the first time he’d used my first name. I noted he was devoid of his paperwork, likely unable to view it as the light waned to darkness. “All that remains is the climb to the castle.”

  I gazed out the window as the carriage lurched around a bend, noticing the large structure perched on the top of the moor. Lit by moonlight, I distinguished multiple features of the castle looming above us. Turrets and towers jutted from various areas of the sprawling framework. The moonlit castle struck an imposing silhouette against the night sky.

  I returned my gaze to Mr. Langford. “Am I to be a governess?” I inquired.

  An amused smile crossed the man’s face. “No, you are not to be a governess.”

  “A companion, then? A ladies’ maid?” I continued, not understanding what my new role was to be when we arrived.

  “No, Lenora,” he answered, “Duke Blackmoore has far better uses for your special skills in mind. He has far bigger plans for you.” I furrowed my brow in confusion at his answer as he continued. “You, my dear Lenora, are to be a duchess!”

  My mind snapped back to the present as the carriage slowed to a halt outside the castle. I waited inside as the coachman dismounted from his driving perch and opened the door, unfurling the steps and offering his hand for me to disembark. How quickly one becomes used to the genteel things, my mind contemplated during my short wait. Accepting his hand, I stepped out onto the gravel drive below, pulling my fur-trimmed velvet cape closer around me to keep out the winter chill.

  For a moment, I glanced up at the castle’s exterior, recalling my thoughts just three months prior when I arrived. The odd blackening on some parts of the stones, always a source of local gossip, cast a sinister countenance on what would otherwise pass for a fairytale castle. Some of the more levelheaded townsfolk attributed the blackening to some internal quality of the stones used or the growth of local flora. Still others insisted it represented the veins of the castle. As though, somehow, the castle had become alive and its very soul was blackening as a result of the strange goings-on here. Or perhaps because it defiled some ancient sacred ground.

  I paid little attention to the histrionics of most of the locals, many of whom warned me to flee before I should meet a gruesome end. I had grown accustomed to people like this in my life and had learned to ignore them at a very young age. They based most of their opinion on lack of knowledge, understanding, superstition and a general sense of foolishness.

  When I arrived three months ago, the castle, lit by moonlight, its network of blackened veins crawling through the stones, conjured no apprehensive reactions but only contentment. The serenity and peace I felt that night had never waned, it had only grown. Each time I returned here, I experienced the same emotion, as though I had found my place in the world.

  Three months later, the only change in my emotion was the lack of curiosity in my heart over my new life. I now possessed a firm understanding of what my life would become and what my role was here.

  The gravel crunched under my feet as I stepped toward my home, ready to continue my odyssey within the castle walls.

  At this moment, it occurs to me that I haven’t properly introduced myself to you, dear reader. Now seems an opportune moment to make a proper introduction before we continue together.

  My name is Lenora Fletcher. I am the Duchess of Blackmoore. And I can communicate with the dead. Within these pages, dear reader, I have recorded one of my stories.

  Chapter 2

  “Welcome home, Your Grace,” Mr. Buchanan, our butler, greeted me as I entered the castle’s foyer. I handed my cape to him and began removing my gloves. “Was your trip successful, Your Grace?”

  “It was,” I informed him. “The dress is as lovely as promised and with a few minor adjustments should be perfect.”

  “Wonderful, Your Grace.”

  “Have I much time before the dressing gong for dinner?” I inquired. Despite the general lack of guests and other family, my husband maintained the custom of dressing for dinner.

  “Two hours, Your Grace.”

  I finished removing my gloves and nodded. “I shall be in my tower room reading if I am needed.”

  “Very good, Your Grace. May I fetch you anything?”

  “No, thank you, Buchanan.”

  I spun on my heel, ascending the massive stone staircase flanking the right wall. I navigated to my bedroom, setting my gloves on my dressing table before climbing the steep stairs to the tower room where I spent a good deal of my time.

  When I first arrived at the castle, I found the room while exploring. Its high turret overlooked the countryside with enormous windows giving a panoramic view. Glancing to the ground may provide one with a disorienting effect as the tower resides on the side of the castle where the cliffs drop sharply away. The height of the tower coupled with the sheer drop below gives one the impression of flying, soaring above the earth like large birds of prey.

  I stepped inside the room and the familiar sense of peace washed over me as I entered. The room’s furnishings had been sparse when I found it, but the views so inviting and incredible, I immediately took to the space. I’d taken it upon myself to add furnishings and other details, to add comfort to the space. After our marriage, my husband offered me the freedom to do with the castle as I saw fit. I’d taken the most license in this room, choosing to leave the other rooms untouched and in the tradition in which they were furnished up
on my arrival.

  This particular turret, devoid of any human touch, had been the one exception. I’d added cushions and pillows to the window seats, a writing desk, a chaise and side table and a small bookcase. The library in the castle was well-fitted with book storage and books to fill it, however, I wanted a small space for those books I chose to keep close as I did a large amount of reading in this room, often late into the night.

  I nestled under a fur blanket near one of the windows. The winter chill frosted the glass outside, creating icy patterns that crept from the corners inward. My beloved book, Frankenstein, lay across my lap, though it could not capture my interest today.

  Instead, I gazed out the window, lost in my own thoughts. My mind wandered to the events of the day. The dress for which I had my fitting earlier would be delivered tomorrow morning, and I would wear it tomorrow evening to a New Year’s Eve ball. The occasion, a popular holiday in Scotland, was being marked by Lord and Lady Cunningham in an ostentatious event. My husband and I accepted the invitation, much to Lady Cunningham’s delight.

  I reflected on my turn of fortune as the year approached its close. At the start of the year, I was an orphan, a creature spurned by her own parents and left alone in the world. I would finish the year a duchess. Despite ours being a marriage of convenience, I experienced more acceptance and tenderness from my new husband than I’d experienced from most others for the entirety of my life.