Marblestone Mansion, Book 8

by Marti Talbott

  The hotel room cost a shocking three dollars and fifty cents a day, and the man at the desk was none too pleased with Bernie’s fifty-dollar bill, but at least the charge included three meals. She ordered room service, which cost extra, asked for the latest newspapers, which also cost extra, and settled down to eat and read the London Newspaper she bought in New York. Her concentration was limited, so she set the newspaper aside, and went back to reading the book while she waited for clean clothes.

  The more she read, the more amazed she was. The book contained every detail she had confessed to Solicitor John Crisp, including real names and places. As near as the duchess could tell, Maude Okerman had changed little, except when she added certain shocking tidbits about other members of London’s high society. The duchess could not determine the exact relevance of said tidbits to her story, but it was crystal clear Maude Okerman was out for retaliation, and did not care who she humiliated in the process.

  The book…the duchess’ book, was likely selling thousands of copies, and might well become the best read book in England, if not America. And why not? Who did not love a British scandal? She could not help but believe there was money in it for her somewhere, but just where, was not abundantly clear. It was, after all, very unfair for her not to gain monetarily from a book that so blatantly exposed all her secrets. It was not fair at all.

  The duchess loudly sighed.

  When she finished the chapter that recounted her month-long marriage to Lord Edward Bayington, the duchess closed the book. There was, of course, no mention of her friendship with Lady Laura Bayington, for the duchess did not tell Solicitor Crisp, and apparently, Maude Okerman did not find that out either.

  Was it possible Laura had not yet seen the book?

  She really should call her oldest and possibly only friend in the world. On the other hand, Laura was the one who told Hannish her real name was Gormelia, or he could not have told Dr. Morris. It had to be Laura, for no one else knew, save her first husband, George Graham. George would not have told. He adored threatening to, if she did not comply with his wishes.

  How then, did Maude find out? Hannish would not have told her, for he never liked Maude. Therefore, it had to be Laura Bayington, and for all the duchess knew, Laura helped Maude write the book. No, she decided, Laura did not deserve a courtesy call.

  If Maude’s intention was to rattle London Society, naming Lord Edward Bayington as husband number three would certainly do the trick. Suspiciously, the book made it clear the marriage happened before he made Laura his second wife. While that part irritated the duchess, the mention of her marriage to Edward pleased her. Exposing Edward’s stupidity and his arrogant wife, Laura, was exactly what they both deserved.

  Once more, the duchess paused to consider if the book might spark new interest in the murder of Laura’s first husband. It might, she supposed, it surely might, but she could not worry about that now. Besides, no one knew where she was.

  Why, the duchess also wondered, had she not read anything about her book in the London papers. That too was probably Laura’s doing. After all, Edward Bayington was well loved and respected in London society. Quite possibly, he had asked the King for assistance in keeping the contents of the book out of the papers. Either that, or the publishers were afraid of getting sued for defamation of character, as well, they should be, she supposed. Still, she thought a book of that importance would be reviewed, if not in England, then in America.

  It was possible London’s society did not believe Edward stupid enough to marry without first checking the duchess’ background. If true, they might be discounting the entire book. That would be sad indeed, for the next husband in the book was Hannish MacGreagor, and the duchess profoundly wanted that part to be believed.

  She settled down, picked the book back up and read about her marriage to Hannish, to Charles, to Mr. Nelson, and then to the train robber, Jedidiah Tanner. She was about to set the book aside when she turned to the last page and caught her breath.

  In big, bold print, it read:

  WARNING

  Beware, for Alexandra Sinclair is in the world still, and is quite possibly in America. She is of average height, slender build and is called exceedingly beautiful by most men. Her hair is black, her eyes are blue and she has a notable scar, from a burn possibly, on her left arm in the shape of a small pear.

  The duchess set the book down, got up and walked to the window. She could not believe it – a full description? She hadn’t given her scar any attention for ages and pushed her sleeve up to look at it. It was on the inside of her arm, and it did resemble a pear. She shuddered when she remembered what caused it, pushed her sleeve back down and vowed to keep it covered from that day forward.

  At least, the novel did not have…the duchess caught her breath and raced back to pick up the book. She carefully leafed through it page by page, and then heaved a sigh when she was convinced the publisher had not printed a picture. That was not to say the London papers would not print one, for they once printed her wedding picture to Hannish MacGreagor. Laura, Edward, and the King were definitely behind the lack of attention paid to the book in the newspapers. There was no other possible explanation.

  *

  At the sudden knock on the door, the duchess spun around. Terrified the authorities had found her, she froze. Again, someone knocked, and then a woman’s voice said, “Miss Lyons, I bring your laundry.”

  Relieved, the duchess hurried to the door, opened it a crack, verified that it was indeed the young, innocent looking Lady’s maid, and let her in. “That was fast.”

  “Five hours, Miss. My fastest time ever.”

  “Will you wait while I change?” she asked. “I have been traveling and would much appreciate it if you would launder what I am wearing as well.” She waited for the maid’s nod, chose her under garments, a blouse with long sleeves and a skirt, and then went behind the dressing partition. “How old are you?”

  “I am fourteen, why do you ask, Miss?”

  “I just wondered. I have a daughter your age, whom I have not seen in quite some time.”

  The maid hoped for a tip and glanced around. No coins were set out, but perhaps she would be rewarded when she came back a second time. “You have been away from her, Miss?”

  “For far too long. Do you do hair?” the duchess asked.

  “I can wash, dry, and curl your hair…for a fee, Miss.”

  “Of course.” The duchess took off her skirt and laid it atop the partition. “I wish to dye my hair. What do you suggest?”

  “Your hair is quite beautiful the way it is, Miss.”

  “Thank you, but I prefer to look younger.”

  The maid took the soiled skirt off the partition and laid it over her arm. It smelled as if it had been in a trunk for months, but she had smelled worse. “If you insist on black, you might try equal portions of celeste and yellow cyanide.”

  “Cyanide?” the duchess asked, as she began unbuttoning her blouse. “Is that not a poison?”

  “It is indeed, and one must take great care when pouring it on the head.”

  “I expect so.”

  “I read once,” the maid continued, “that hair keeps the germs out, particularly the hair in men’s beards and whiskers. Sometimes, hair must be shaved to relieve the brain in sickness, although I have never seen it done. Do you know, wearing a hat indoors can make a man go bald?”

  “I did not know that.”

  The maid wistfully looked up at the ceiling. “You can read all sorts of things if you are inclined to like science.”

  “I believe I might take it up. What about henna?” the duchess asked, as she laid her soiled blouse over the partition and reached for her under garments.

  “Well, henna will turn the hair red for a time, but then it turns brown.”

  The duchess managed to get her corset loosely laced up in the front, twisted it to the back, adjusted it, and then stepped into her slip. She put on her blouse and skirt, and when she finished changing, s
he came out from behind the partition. “I believe henna will do. Where might I get some?”

  “The drugstore across the street has it. I shall be happy to get it for you…for a fee.”

  The duchess smiled. “How enterprising you are. I shall pay your fee and gladly so. I am in need of all the supplies, a hair brush, a sleeping bonnet, a needle, and some black thread as well.”

  Delighted, the girl grabbed the soiled blouse off the partition. “I shall see to it right away. Will this be all of your laundry, Miss?”

  “It is. Thank you.” The duchess went to her table, opened her purse, withdrew two dollars and handed it to the maid, “Will this be enough?”

  “More than enough.”

  Once the girl was gone, the duchess smiled. Several of her problems had just been solved. In the asylum, washing hair was not a priority and sometimes it was put off for weeks at a time. She took great delight in having hers washed the day before her escape. It was the last little request she would ever have to make of that monotonous Dr. Morris. He approved her request, and why wouldn’t he? In exchange, she promised him yet another tantalizing lie he would think was the truth.

  That evening, she finished the book. That night, the duchess slept like a baby and the next morning, she was up bright and early. She ordered room service, ate her breakfast, read the newspapers with great interest, and then waited for the maid to return. While she waited, she opened the bag of hair dying supplies and laid them out on the table. A few years earlier, she read that one doctor had invented rubber gloves, and another came up with a solution called brilliantine that promised to soften hair. The Lady’s maid had included both in her order and the duchess was eager to see if the dye worked as well as advertised.

  At last, the maid knocked on the door, and this time, the duchess excitedly opened it and let her in. “Will another dollar cover your fee?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss.” The maid laid the last of the laundry on the bed, and then carried a teapot filled with hot water to the table. “Sit here and put a towel around your neck to catch the spills.”

  “You have done this before?”

  “Twice, and with great success,” said the maid as she poured the henna in a bowl, added hot water and stirred until it made a paste. She put the rubber gloves on, dipped the fibers of a small paintbrush in the mixture, and began to apply it to small sections of the duchess’ hair. It was tiresome work, but once all the hair was covered, the maid wrapped the duchess’ head in newspapers.

  “What is that for?” the duchess asked.

  “To keep it from dripping.”

  “And how long do I leave it on?”

  “Four hours should be sufficient, and then you must rinse it out thoroughly and add the brilliantine,” said the maid.

  The duchess was not pleased. Four hours sounded like forever, and her head was already beginning to itch.

  “Shall I come back and help you?”

  “For a fee?”

  The maid giggled, “No, I shall be pleased enough just to see how well you look.”

  “In that case, please do come back.”

  *

  The duchess was right. Her head itched, the goop began to drip down her neck, causing her to constantly wipe it off with her towel, and the simplest tasks seemed impossible to accomplish. The passing of time was nothing short of excruciating until at last, the maid knocked on the door, helped her wash the dye out and then towel dried her hair.

  “There, Miss, you are a redhead.”

  The duchess stood up, walked to the mirror and caught her breath. At first, she was horrified, but she reconsidered. What better disguise than to arrive in Colorado Springs as a redhead? Besides, it was not all that unbecoming. The strands of white were a brighter red than the darker strands, naturally, but she had to admit she looked much younger. Indeed, she might actually like being a redhead.

  CHAPTER 5

  The last thing the duchess set out to do this early in the plans she spent years perfecting, was to attract a new husband. Even so, when the possibility unexpectedly presented itself, the temptation was too much to resist.

  Now that her clothes were clean, she decided to treat herself to a fine restaurant dinner – her first in six years. The waiters wore black uniforms with white napkins over the sleeve of their jackets, and were exceedingly attentive. As it happened, she was taken to the only available table for two in the crowded, but very pleasant room that was decorated with tall plants and wall paintings. Fine china and crystal glasses were on every table. She placed her order, got a good look at what all the women were wearing, and then opened her book, thinking she might read it again while she ate.

  “Miss,” said the waiter. “I wonder if Mr. Roth might join you. We seem to be full up tonight.”

  She glanced at the elder, hopeful looking man near the door. He was dressed well, and looked harmless enough, so she nodded. “He may.” She did not offer a name, nodded appropriately when the waiter introduced Mr. Roth, returned to her book, and proceeded to ignore him while he ordered his dinner.

  Now that she knew what was in it, the duchess began a more comprehensive reading. While it began with the first time Maude met Olivia, the story reverted to the beginning, or at least the beginning the duchess shared with Solicitor Crisp. It did not mention the Irish lord, who was actually husband number two, but then the duchess never told Crisp about him. Apparently, Lady Okerman didn’t find out either, which was odd, for Lord Okerman was there when the Irishman dumped her on the Scottish shore. Not mentioning the Irishman was of great benefit to the duchess, since he was the only husband who managed to find her, and probably could again if he was upset enough.

  Next, the novel talked about her beloved Mr. Sinclair, who died quite suddenly. Of course, it exaggerated the charges of bigamy and theft Mr. Sinclair was forced to lodge against her. That Solicitor Crisp bragged about miraculously getting her out of such a tight spot did not surprise the duchess in the least. She believed all solicitors painfully boisterous.

  She was surprised that Maude Okerman did not mention Blair. That was another thing she deliberately kept from Solicitor Crisp, but Maude knew about the child, and believed her brother was Blair’s father. But then, the duchess told Lord Okerman that Blair was dead. Perhaps Maude omitted that little detail because it might garnish sympathy in the duchess’ favor. Maude was devious that way, the duchess knew, and always had been. Apparently, neither Solicitor Crisp nor Maude noticed the gap of nearly a year in the story.

  It was what the book said about her fourth husband that delighted the duchess most. He was the Duke of Glenartair, Hannish MacGreagor. The details of her exceptionally grand wedding to Hannish made her remember it with great appreciation, for it was after that particular wedding that she was introduced as the Duchess of Glenartair, and first addressed as Your Grace. How she missed those years and how deeply she detested the way Hannish so reprehensibly robbed her of what was rightfully hers.

  Solicitor Crisp committed an entire, well-deserved chapter to Hannish MacGreagor’s debauchery. It included where Hannish lived, how he tricked the duchess into thinking he intended to go back to Scotland, and how he gave over the dukedom to his brother, just so the duchess would be stripped of her title. For that reason, she was certain several in England’s high society now sympathized with the torment she suffered. It gave her more hope than ever before that she would someday be welcomed back with open arms.

  It may well have been her delighted expression that held the attention of the older man seated across the table from her, though he pretended not to be watching. He had removed his jacket, wore brown pants, and a matching vest with a very impressive gold chain dangling from the pocket. His white shirt looked new and after he sat, he rested a walking stick, topped with an alabaster lion’s head, against the edge of the table. She had almost forgotten him. He too was reading and when she looked up, he bent the corner of his newspaper down and smiled at her. “Oh, there you are. I simply must get a copy of that book. May
I see the name of it?”

  She hesitated a moment, and then smiled and accommodated him. The duchess was tempted to admit the book was about her, but he was just the kind of man she intended to marry next. If she could not extract the needed funds from Hannish, and if she could not think of a way to go after her share of the book sales from Maude Okerman, her perfect plan to marry an older man ready for the grave might be her only hope.

  “You looked positively engrossed in that book, my dear,” said Mr. Roth.

  “Did I? I did not mean to ignore you so frightfully. What do you do, Mr. Roth?”

  “I am in stocks and bonds.”

  “You work at the Chicago stock exchange?”

  “I’d hardly call it work, but I do drop in from time to time, just to see if I have lost or made money each month.”

  “Ah, then you own stocks. I see. I confess I know little of that particular business venture.”

  “It is gambling, really, and expensive gambling at that. I buy commodities mostly, but when the crops fail, my fortune drops accordingly. You might say the weather determines my success.”

  “You poor dear,” she teased. “The weather is nearly as unpredictable as am I.”

  Her comment and the twinkle in her eye brought a smile to his face. “I had already guessed that about you. What do you do?”

  “I travel mostly. Just now, I am resting for a day or two before I go on to Colorado.”

  “What is in Colorado?”

  “A daughter I do not see nearly often enough. She lives with friends.”

  “I see. Perhaps while you are here, I might show you Chicago.”

  “Perhaps you might.” She laid her book aside and returned his smile. It was true, she knew very little about the stock market, except that men who dabbled in it, could afford to lose. That spelled money, and plenty of it. She closely examined his looks. Although he had wrinkles and gray hair, Mr. Roth was not as decrepit as the man she hoped to marry next. Nevertheless, how often did a wealthy, older man come along? She could still outlive him, she decided, and that was all that mattered. He seemed pleasant enough and if he wanted to show her Chicago, she saw no harm in postponing her revenge for a few days? After all, she doubted the MacGreagors were moving away from their precious Marblestone Mansion anytime soon.