by M C Beaton
His thoughts turned again to Alice and her mad story of Warby trying to kill him. But the blinding jealousy he had felt that day was fading. All he knew was that he would do anything, promise anything, if only he could have Alice back. His mind turned back to her tale of attempted murder. Yes, there had been that odd shooting in the Park, then pâté, then that odd business with Mrs. Tregader, and then the gargoyle, which would have crushed him to death had he not changed places with Doggie’s wife. But it was all coincidence, he thought fretfully. But if Alice came back, it did not matter what lies she told him, he would accept them all. Where was she? Was she lying cold and dead in a ditch somewhere?
He fell into an uneasy sleep at last.
“The door’s locked,” said Mr. Donnelly frantically. “He’s locked it behind him.”
“It’s got glass panes. Stand back!” said Mrs. Duggan.
She swung her heavy tambourine at the glass pane near the lock and shattered it. Dunfear leaned in and turned the handle. “Fast, Alice,” hissed Mrs. Duggan. “Donnelly’s got the gun. Get us to the duke’s bedchamber. Oh, hurry!”
Gerald ran silently about upstairs, opening door after door. He had been told where the duke’s bedchamber was but had lost his way in the dark. At last he opened a door and saw a figure lying in a four-poster bed with the curtains drawn back. With shaking hands, he fumbled and lit a lantern he had brought with him and held it high, the weak rays shining across the room and on the sleeping duke’s face.
With a sigh of relief, he set the lantern on the floor and raised the pistol. At that moment the duke opened his eyes and sat up.
It took a split second for the duke to see Gerald, to realize in that awful moment that Alice had told nothing but the truth. Gerald’s hand wavered. It was one thing to shoot at a man from behind the shelter of bushes in the Park, another to gun him down at close range.
And the next second, Mr. Donnelly took careful aim from the doorway and shot Gerald dead while the duke stared in amazement at the troupe of strolling players, and then at the redheaded Columbine who was tearing off her mask and red wig, who was crying, “Oh, John, do you believe me now?”
Chapter Nine
Lord Werford and Percy had not gone to bed. They were waiting to hear from Sir Gerald that the duke was dead.
“And then what do we do with him?” asked Percy.
“Thought of something,” said his father, and looked away.
Percy yawned and stretched. “At least suspicion won’t fall on us. Everyone will think Warby was so madly in love with Alice that he shot him. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind that he would be the first person the law picked up.”
“That one will probably have an alibi all ready,” remarked his father.
Percy chuckled. “We’re the alibi. It was all arranged. We’re to say he was with us.”
“The fool! As inheritors of the dukedom, the last thing we want to be is associated with Warby.”
“So what are you going to do with him?”
Lord Werford rose and went to the sideboard, lifted a decanter of port, and held it up. “This is poisoned,” he said. “One glass of this and he’s out of our lives.”
“And out of his own life, too,” said Percy, and sniggered. He cocked his head to one side. “Devil of a noise approaching. Not another riot.”
“Lean out the window,” said Lord Werford, “and tell me what you see.”
Percy opened the window, bent forward, and looked down into the street. Torches and lanterns were bobbing and shining on the uniforms of the militia, all armed to the teeth.
“Well?” demanded Lord Werford’s voice behind him.
But Percy did not reply. A feeling of apprehension was beginning to seize him. Down the street the soldiers marched—and then stopped outside the street door below.
Percy swung round, his face ashen. “They’re here. They’ve come here. The soldiers. They’ve come for us!”
A banging on the door sounded from below and a great cry of, “Open in the king’s name.”
Lord Werford rose and went to the sideboard. He poured two glasses of port and held one out to his son.
Scandal rocked London the following day as the news spread and spread; Mrs. Duggan busily added fuel to the rumors by saying the duke was aware all along of the attempts on his life and had sent the duchess, guarded, to the country for her protection.
Lady Macdonald left for Paris. Although she had known nothing about the attempts on Ferrant’s life, she had paid Warby a large sum of money and was afraid that the authorities would descend on her to ask the reason why if her bank ever revealed that information to them.
The duke was remorseful. He swore to Alice that he would never, ever raise his voice to her again, would never disbelieve anything she said, and was such a tender and considerate husband that Alice was quickly able to recover from her own shock at the death of Gerald—and from her guilt at having ever known or loved such a man.
Betty, the maid, arrived back from Clarendon, bearing Oracle in his cage, explained that the bird had been in poor health after Alice had left, but that it had transpired that the groom, Sam, had turned out to have a way with birds and so Oracle had been put into his care.
Mrs. Duggan, Lucy, Edward, Lord Dunfear, and Mr. Donnelly were constant visitors, all reliving the adventures, and much as the duke would have liked more time alone with his wife, he was so grateful to Alice’s Irish friends in particular that he always gave them a welcome.
“Poor Doggie is on his way to America,” said Edward one day, “and does not know that his wife was murdered.”
“Oh, dear,” said Alice. “Isabella has gone to America as well and does not know the reason for her grandmother’s death, either. We must write to them.”
At that moment, Humphrey Dogget-Blythe was having his first dinner in the captain’s cabin despite having been at sea for a week. He had fallen prey to dreadful seasickness and this day was the first that he had begun to feel human again, and, what was more, actually hungry.
It struck him as he sat down to table that he could eat what he liked. There was no Mary to criticize him. Mary would never allow him to drink anything stronger than tea or lemonade. The captain’s claret, thought Humphrey, half closing his eyes as he savored it, was excellent.
Then he had time to take stock of his companions. Apart from the captain and the officers of the Belle Rose, there was a clergyman, small and precise, wearing his black clericals and an old-fashioned wig, a Virginian tobacco merchant who looked more scholar than merchant, and a pale and beautiful young lady called Isabella Tregader, who, he learned afterward, was traveling alone with her maid.
Over dinner, he appreciated her beauty in an intellectual sort of way, but that was all. Humphrey had never been at ease with the ladies, and, after his marriage, he privately thought that even under the most beautiful exterior probably lurked a hellcat.
It was only gentlemanly, however, to talk to Isabella, but she answered all questions in monosyllables and with lowered eyes.
The following day was relatively calm and sunny, and Humphrey felt like a new man. He was strolling on the deck when he saw Isabella coming toward him with her maid following behind.
Humphrey raised his hat and said it was a fine day. Isabella blushed and agreed.
Encouraged by her shyness and by the calm weather, Humphrey said that he was bound for Virginia. No, he did not know anyone there but had some letters of introduction.
At that moment, the captain came up and suggested they might like to sit on the deck. Both were suddenly struck with shyness, which the captain took for assent. Two large Jacobean armchairs upholstered in tapestry were carried out from the captain’s sitting room and placed on the deck, and the couple sat down side by side. There was something so odd, so novel about sitting in such landlubber furniture on a sailing ship, watching the sun sparkling on the waves, that their shyness suddenly went. Isabella told Humphrey of the death of her grandmother, and Humphrey told her of t
he death of his wife—and both agreed comfortably that it was all very sad.
By the end of another day, they had confided in each other that the respective deaths were a merciful release. By another day, they had explained to each other—in bursts of confidence—that the deaths had released both of them from a type of hell. By the end of yet another day, they had both come to the conclusion that they were meant for each other.
“Those deaths were the hand of God,” said Humphrey as he held Isabella in his arms under the blazing stars.
And by the time the happy couple found out that the deaths had been the hand of Sir Gerald Warby, they were well and truly married.
Alice was reconciled with her parents, who had traveled to London immediately after hearing about the attempt by Sir Gerald on the duke’s life. Alice could hardly berate them for having driven off Sir Gerald and married her to a man with whom she was deeply in love. But the Laceys stayed with them in London until Alice began to wonder who was the mistress of the duke’s establishment, herself or her mother. The duke, who had been treating Alice like glass, began to become tetchy, particularly after several evenings when he had gone to make love to his wife and found Mrs. Lacey sitting by Alice’s bed reading to her.
The Laceys accompanied them to all social events, Mrs. Lacey saying frequently that it was not very fashionable for a duchess to look so, well, doting when she surveyed her husband.
At one ball, Mrs. Duggan took Alice aside and said, “I am off to Paris at the end of the week to join the colonel and I thought all was well with you. But your mama do go on running your life and Ferrant ain’t looking too happy. And do remember that mothers can sometimes be jealous of daughters.”
“What can I do?” asked Alice helplessly.
“What can a duchess do? A duchess can send her parents packing,” said Mrs. Duggan.
“I must, I suppose,” said Alice. “Oh, look! Mama is talking to Ferrant and goodness knows what she is saying, for he is looking like thunder.”
Mrs. Lacey did not know she was jealous of her daughter. Such a thought would never have entered her mind. Her background of merchant class, however, often made her sensitive to what she saw as not enough respect in servants, and she was piqued that her many commands to Alice’s servants were then taken to Alice herself, for her blessing, before any orders were carried out. She had just been telling the duke to be on his guard against Dunfear and Donnelly, particularly Donnelly. “For you know how silly Alice can be,” she said, with an indulgent smile. “Did not Mr. Lacey and I try to save her from Sir Gerald?”
The duke, who had hitherto looked on Mr. Donnelly and Lord Dunfear as friends and saviors, began to think that young Donnelly paid just too much attention to his wife, and, what was more, Donnelly had all the lethal charm of the Irish—and he was nearer Alice’s age than the duke was himself. The jealousy that he swore would never plague him again engulfed the duke in a great green wave.
The trouble started in earnest on the following day when Alice learned that Mr. Donnelly and Lord Dunfear had called and had been told she was not at home when, in fact, she was dressed and waiting to go driving with them.
“His Grace’s instructions,” said Hoskins sadly.
Alice took a deep breath. She remembered her mother talking to the duke and how the duke’s face had darkened. She now knew her mother very well—and knew instinctively that Mrs. Lacey had probably poisoned the duke’s mind against Donnelly and Dunfear.
“Send Mr. Shadwell to me,” she said coldly.
When the secretary came in, Alice said sharply, “As you are so good at arranging things, Mr. Shadwell, I wish you to tell my parents that their stay with me is at an end. You will then instruct the maids to pack their belongings and have the traveling carriage brought round. That will be all. I am going out shopping, and when I return, I want them gone.”
A flicker of a smile crossed the secretary’s face. “Very good, Your Grace. But if Your Grace would be kind enough to write these instructions for me, that would be a great help. Mrs. Lacey will not believe me, else.”
Alice made an impatient noise and wrote down a terse set of instructions and handed them to him. Then, accompanied by Betty and a footman, she went off to look at the gewgaws at Exeter Exchange. She was being driven back by a groom in a light open carriage when she saw Mr. Donnelly and called to the groom to stop.
“Now what have I done wrong?” Donnelly said, smiling up at her.
“I fear my mother may have been warning Ferrant against you,” said Alice, with a sigh. “Mama is leaving today. I confess her visit has been a great strain.”
“Tell you what,” said Mr. Donnelly, jingling change in his pockets, “had a lucky win at cards. Treat you to an ice at Gunter’s.”
“Good,” said Alice. “That will give Mama more time to pack and leave.”
The duke was strolling across Berkeley Square, feeling more at peace with the world and himself than he had felt for some time. Had he not vowed that he would never be plagued by this dreadful jealousy again? How on earth could he believe anything bad of those two Irishmen who had been instrumental in saving his life?
And then his eye fell on the window of Gunter’s—and there was Alice, in a brand-new bonnet he had not seen before, laughing and talking to… Donnelly!
His first blind impulse was to run in and confront the pair. Common sense took over. There had been scandals enough. He could not bring himself to join them and talk to them civilly. The fact that it could hardly be an assignation—as Alice’s maid, one of his own footmen, and a groom were waiting in the carriage outside—did nothing to damp his temper.
On his return home, even the news that his wife had sent her parents packing did not cheer him. He paced the drawing room, watched by the cynical eye of Oracle, reinstated in a large gilt cage.
The duke tortured himself with pictures of Alice in Donnelly’s arms, the pair of them entwined in a passionate embrace. Alice was passionate. Alice did not behave like a lady. Had not Alice, dressed as Columbine, paraded the streets of London showing her ankles?
Alice arrived home. She learned the glad news that her parents had left and that her husband was waiting for her in the drawing room.
She tripped into the drawing room, swinging that new and frivolous bonnet by the strings—that bonnet that she had not worn for him.
Alice took one look at her husband’s furious face and stood still. “What is the matter, dear?” she asked.
“What is the matter? You ask me what is the matter? You have the gall to parade about the streets of London—in a new bonnet—on the arm of that penniless Irish mountebank!”
“If you saw us, why did you not join us?” asked Alice.
“I could not trust myself to join you. What exactly is going on between you and Donnelly?”
“Nothing,” said Alice, suddenly as angry as he. “May I remind you he saved your life.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” he jeered. “Wrap you up in a parcel and hand you to him, saying, ‘Take my wife with my grateful compliments’?”
“Now you are being silly,” snapped Alice.
“How dare you address me in such a manner, madam!”
“I shall address you any way I like if it will bring you to your senses, although I am seriously beginning to doubt if you have any… senses, I mean.”
He looked at her levelly. “This marriage was a mistake.”
Alice gasped with hurt.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vere,” announced Hoskins.
The duke and the duchess pinned social smiles on their faces. “Lucy,” cried Alice, “you are looking so well.”
Edward beamed with pride. “That’s what a happy marriage does.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said the duke evenly.
“Neither would I,” put in Alice, not to be outdone.
Lucy and Edward exchanged anguished looks. “May I offer you some wine, Edward?” asked the duke sweetly. “My father-in-law presented me with a case of claret.”<
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“Are your parents still here?” asked Lucy.
“They finally left,” said the duke sourly before Alice could speak, “after having stayed about a century.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Alice.
“It felt like a century.”
Edward, who had been about to lower his bottom into a chair, stood up again. “My stars!” he said. “I quite forgot we were to call on Mrs. Duggan to say good-bye.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy eagerly. “Dear Mrs. Duggan.”
“Let’s hope she takes dear Mr. Donnelly with her when she goes,” said the duke.
“You are stupid and childish,” said Alice after they had left. Angry tears stood out in her eyes. “I will never speak to you again.”
“Good!”
They faced each other like enemies, neither one wanting to be the first to quit the field of battle.
“You,” said Oracle suddenly, “are a pair of twat-faced scullions.”
“What did you say?” shouted the duke.
“Scullions. Twats,” said Oracle. “Not a brain between you.”
The duke stared at Alice and a sudden smile lit up his eyes. “What have you been saying to that bird?”
“It was not I. It must have been Sam, the groom, at Clarendon. He took care of Oracle when I was away. Oracle has learned the language of the stables.”
“And the wisdom of the ages,” said the duke softly. “He said we had not a brain between us.”
He held out his hands. “Come to me, Alice. Come here to me and say you forgive me.”
She flew into his arms.
“It was my mother, was it not, John?”
“Yes, and I was a fool to listen to her. Kiss me, Alice.”
An hour later, she lay naked in his arms and murmured, “We were supposed to go to the opera tonight.”
