Crowned and Dangerous

by Rhys Bowen

  We started retracing our route southward. The pub I had remembered seeing was called the Pig and Whistle. It looked inviting in a quaint countrified sort of way, but the front door was, alas, locked and no lights shone. Darcy got out, shook and rattled the front door, then came back to the motorcar in disgust, brushing the snow from his jacket.

  “Stupid licensing hours,” Darcy muttered as he put the motor into gear again. “Why can’t we be like France and Italy and let everyone drink all night if they want to?”

  “Because we don’t want half the population blind drunk and unable to work, I suppose.”

  He snorted at this. “Do you see them all blind drunk on the Continent?”

  “I suppose they grow up used to it. And they drink wine rather than beer and whiskey. Wine is supposed to be good for you. And they don’t work as hard as we do. Drive past any café in France and you’ll see men sitting around with glasses of wine in the middle of the morning. They just don’t take life seriously.”

  “How come you’re always so damned rational and composed?” he snapped. “Anyone would think you didn’t want to elope with me.” He stopped and turned sharply to look at me. “You do want to, don’t you? I never actually asked you.”

  The question caught me by surprise. Did I want to? Wasn’t I worried about what my royal relatives would say? Hadn’t I looked forward to the long white dress and veil all my life? Then I looked at Darcy. Even in the darkness of the motorcar he was so handsome, and I loved him so much. “Of course I do,” I said.

  “You hesitated before you answered me,” he replied.

  “Only because I’m too cold to make my mouth move.”

  “I could warm it up for you,” he said. He reached behind my head and drew me toward him, kissing me long and hard. “Right,” he said when we broke apart a little breathlessly. “Let’s find somewhere to spend the night before we both end up frozen to death.”

  We drove on, hoping to see at least a village close to the road. I think we must have been almost back as far as York when we finally found any sign of human habitation, at least humans who might be still awake. This was also a pub, a little off the road and by a railway crossing. The sign, swinging in the blizzardlike wind, said The Drowning Man and showed a hand coming out of a pond.

  “Hardly encouraging,” Darcy said dryly. “But at least a light is still burning and hopefully someone is still awake.”

  He opened the driver’s side door, letting in a great flurry of snow, then wrestled the wind to close it hurriedly before running across to the pub. I peered through the snow-clad windscreen, watching him. He knocked, waited, and to my relief the door finally opened, letting out a band of light across the snow. Darcy seemed to be having a prolonged conversation during which the other person could be seen peering at me, then he marched back to the car. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to say that they had nothing available and that we’d have to drive on. But instead he came around to my door and opened it for me.

  “They appear to have rooms. Hardly the most welcoming of places, from what I can see, but it’s really a case of any port in a storm.” He took my hand and led me through the snow to the building. I was going to say the warmth of the building, but in truth it wasn’t much warmer than the motorcar had been. One naked bulb hung in a hallway and an uncarpeted stair disappeared into darkness.

  “Caught in the storm, were you?” the innkeeper asked. Now that we could see her, I noticed that she was a big-boned cart horse of a woman with little darting eyes in a pudgy, heavy-jowled face.

  I shot a swift glance at Darcy, praying he wouldn’t make a facetious comment along the lines that we were actually heading for the Riviera and took a wrong turn.

  “We were heading for Scotland but the road is closed,” I said before he could answer.

  “Aye. We heard that on the wireless,” she said. “Reckon it will take days, don’t they? So you’ll be wanting a room, then?”

  “We will,” Darcy said.

  “I’ve just the one room,” she said. “The others are occupied. You are a married couple, I take it?” And she gave us a hard stare, trying to see a wedding ring through my gloves, I suspected.

  “Of course,” Darcy said briskly. “Mr. and Mrs. Chomondley-Fanshaw. That’s spelled ‘Featherstonehaugh,’ by the way.”

  I fought back a desire to giggle. She was still eyeing us suspiciously. “I don’t care how it’s spelled,” she said. “We don’t go for airs and graces in this part of the country. As long as good honest folk have the brass to pay, we don’t care how many hyphens they have in their names.”

  “Right, then,” Darcy said. “If you’d be good enough to show us the room?”

  She didn’t budge but pointed. “Turn right at the top of the stairs and it’s at the end of the hall. Number thirteen.”

  Then she reached into a cubby and handed us a key. “Breakfast from seven to nine in the dining room. Breakfast is extra. Oh, and if you want a bath you’ll have to wait till morning. Hot water is turned off between ten and six. And the bath’s extra too.”

  Darcy gave me a look but said nothing. “I’ll take you up first then go and get the bags,” he said. “Come on.”

  I followed him up the narrow stair. An icy draft blew down at us.

  “Are there fires in the rooms?” Darcy turned back to ask the landlady, who was still standing there watching us.

  “No fireplace in that room,” she said.

  “And I suppose a cup of hot chocolate is out of the question?” There wasn’t much hope in his voice.

  “Kitchen closed at eight.” She turned her back and walked into the darkness of the hallway.

  “We don’t have to stay here,” Darcy whispered to me. “There must be proper hotels in York. It’s not that far now.”

  “It’s still miles away. And we’ve no guarantee anyone else has a room,” I said. “If all the roads northward are closed . . .” In truth I felt close to tears. It had been a long day, starting with helping to dress the bride at Kensington Palace, then the ceremony for Marina and Prince George at St. Margaret’s Westminster, then the reception at Buckingham Palace and the long, cold, snowy drive. All I wanted to do was curl up into a little ball and go to sleep.

  The floorboards creaked horribly as we tiptoed down the hall. Number thirteen was about the gloomiest room I had ever seen—and I had grown up in a Scottish castle noted for its gloominess. It was small, crowded with mismatched furniture and dominated by an enormous carved wardrobe that took up the one wall where the ceiling didn’t slope. In the midst of this clutter was a narrow brass bed with a patchwork quilt on it. A naked bulb gave just enough anemic light to reveal sagging and stained curtains at the window and a small braided rug on the bare floor.

  “Golly!” I let out the childish exclamation before I remembered that I had resolved to be sophisticated from now on. “It is pretty grim, isn’t it?”

  “It’s bloody awful,” Darcy said. “Sorry for swearing, but if ever a room deserved the word ‘bloody,’ this is it. Let’s just get out of here while we can. I wouldn’t be surprised if the landlady didn’t kill off the guests during the night and make them into pies.”

  I started laughing at the thought. “Oh, Darcy. What are we doing here?”

  “My lovely surprise,” he said, shaking his head, but smiling too. “Oh well, if we start off life together in these surroundings it can only get better, can’t it?”

  I nodded. “Do you suppose there is an indoor loo or will it be at the bottom of the garden?”

  We explored the hall and were relieved to find a lavatory and bathroom of sorts at the far end.

  “I’ll go and get the bags,” Darcy said. “If you’re really sure you want to stay.”

  “I’m not sure that I want to undress. I’d freeze.” I reconsidered. “But I suppose I shouldn’t crease my good outfit any more. Do you hav
e any idea what Queenie packed for me?”

  “I told her sensible outfits to travel in. And your nightclothes.”

  “Knowing Queenie, that will mean a dinner dress and riding boots.”

  However, when he returned with the bags I was pleasantly surprised to find that she had packed my sponge bag, a warm flannel nightdress and dressing gown and my tweed suit. She rose considerably in my estimation. In fact I felt quite warmly toward her. She’d be asleep right now in Kensington Palace, with fires in the rooms and hot chocolate whenever one rang a bell, while her mistress . . . I looked around the room again but words failed me. Darcy had undressed rapidly and looked ridiculously rakish in maroon silk pajamas. I felt shy about undressing in front of him, then reminded myself we were about to become Mr. and Mrs.

  I turned away and unbuttoned my jacket. Then I remembered the dress had hooks down the back. I reached around but clearly they were impossible. Then a voice said, “Here, let me,” and he was unhooking them for me. I was horribly conscious of his hands touching my skin. He helped me out of the dress, then put his hands on my shoulders and kissed the bare back of my neck. It was an incredibly sexy gesture and on any other occasion I would have responded. But at this moment I was cold and tired and a little frightened. I turned to him and buried my head on his shoulder.

  “Oh, Darcy, what are we doing here?” I asked, half laughing, half crying.

  His arms came around me. “I wanted our first night together to be very different from this,” he said.

  “We’ve spent nights together before,” I reminded him. “At least parts of nights.”

  “I meant our first real night together,” he said. “You know what I meant. And we will certainly save that sort of thing for a better time. I bet that old bat will be listening for any creaks in the bedsprings.”

  That made me laugh. I finished undressing, put my robe on over my nightclothes, then climbed into bed. The sheets were stiff and icy.

  “It’s freezing,” I said through chattering teeth.

  Darcy tiptoed around to turn off the light, and when he climbed into bed beside me the springs did indeed give an ominous twang that set both of us giggling like schoolchildren.

  “That certainly rules out hanky-panky of any sort,” he said, still chuckling. He wrapped me in his arms. “Still freezing?” he asked.

  “Better now,” I whispered. “Much better.”

  Chapter 3

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Snowed in somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire, on our way to elope to Gretna Green.

  Golly, life is quite exciting these days!

  The next morning we were woken by creaks and footsteps in the hallway, doors slamming and the sound of a motor starting up in the yard below. I was still lying in Darcy’s arms, his face a few inches from mine and his warm breath on my cheek. Darcy’s eyes opened; he looked at me and smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Chomondley-Fanshaw,” he said.

  “Spelled ‘Featherstonehaugh,’ don’t forget,” I reminded him. A pale and watery sun shone in through a dirty window, then a train tooted and rattled over the level crossing.

  Darcy sat up, shaking out his hands. “My arm has gone to sleep,” he said. “But you know what—if trains are running, maybe we can leave the car at York Station and catch a train northward.”

  “Oh yes, let’s do that,” I said. “And let’s not wait here for breakfast. I bet it will be ghastly.”

  “Good idea. Let’s just get dressed and go. At least in York there will be news about the state of the roads there, and whether trains are running.”

  Filled with renewed optimism we dressed hurriedly. Darcy didn’t even bother to shave and the stubble made him look more roguish. “They won’t believe you’re Mr. Chomondley-Fanshaw at the next place, looking like that,” I said, stroking the roughness of his cheek. “They’ll think you’re a pirate carrying me off.”

  “You like the thought of that, I can tell,” he teased, raising an eyebrow and making me blush.

  He carried the suitcases downstairs and put them in the car boot, before returning to settle up the bill.

  “You’ll not be wanting breakfast?” the landlady demanded. “After I’ve gone to the trouble of heating up the black pudding?”

  “We have an appointment in Scotland,” Darcy said tactfully. “We have to change our plans and see if we can catch a train from York.”

  “I shouldn’t think so with all this snow,” the woman said with obvious relish. “On the wireless they said it might all be shut down for days. Trains, roads, the lot.”

  On that encouraging note we left. The motor started, to my relief, and we drove back southward until we came to the signpost to York.

  “It says fourteen miles,” I said, fighting back disappointment. “That’s a long way.”

  “York is on the main train line to Scotland. Let’s just hope these side roads aren’t blocked. The snow doesn’t seem so bad here.”

  We turned off the highway onto a smaller road. Darcy seemed to be right and the snow here was already melting a little in the morning sunshine.

  “I hope we come to somewhere soon,” he said. “I’m starving. How about you?”

  “Absolutely ravenous,” I agreed.

  At a crossroads we found a transport café, with lorries parked outside. Darcy pulled up beside a laundry van with no complaint from me. Inside it was warm and smoky and noisy but we were treated to enormous mugs of coffee and equally large plates of bacon, eggs, sausage, fried bread, baked beans and black pudding. And I have to confess that we ate it all. We emerged in a much more cheerful mood, in time to see another van unloading the morning newspapers.

  “Perhaps the paper will have up-to-date news about the state of the roads and railways,” Darcy said, and he went to get one from the delivery boy. He came back to me.

  Blizzard Halts Traffic on Great North Road, said the headline. He scanned on down the column. “They don’t seem to know much more than we do,” he grunted. “Or at least they didn’t when this paper went to press. In fact if you ask me . . .”

  There was a long pause.

  “If I ask you what?” I demanded. Then I saw his face.

  He was staring at the front page as if he were having a vision. He had gone deathly white.

  “Darcy, what’s wrong?” I leaned in to see what he was looking at. The main headline and lead article were about the storm but right below that, in big black letters, a headline read, IRISH PEER ARRESTED FOR MURDER.

  Darcy’s hand was shaking and I held the paper with him to try to read the small print.

  Thaddeus Alexander O’Mara, Sixteenth Baron Kilhenny in County Kildare, Ireland, was arrested yesterday, charged with the murder of Mr. Timothy Roach. Mr. Roach, an American from Chicago, purchased Kilhenny Castle and the adjacent horse racing stable from Lord Kilhenny several years ago. Lord Kilhenny had still acted as manager and trainer of the racing stable until a doping scandal earlier this year. Mr. Roach was found inside the library at Kilhenny Castle, having been struck violently on the head by an ancient battle club belonging to the O’Mara family.

  “Oh, Darcy.” The words came out as a whisper and my breath hung in the still, cold air, like smoke.

  Darcy looked up at me with hopelessness in his eyes. “I must go to him right away,” he said. “You’re a good driver, aren’t you? This car isn’t hard to drive. It has preselected gears.”

  He saw my blank stare and added, “You only have to move the little lever on the panel, then press the accelerator. Easy. I can’t take it across to Ireland. I only borrowed it from a friend for a couple of days. If you can drive it back to London, I’ll take a train from York.”

  I hesitated, considering my limited driving experience and whether I could handle a big powerful motorcar like this. Having never owned a motorcar, my driving had been limited to the estate wagon on the grounds of Castle R
annoch or into the nearest villages, where the only traffic on the road would be an occasional Highland cow or sheep. I’d taken out our ancient Rolls a few times but usually it was the chauffeur who drove while I sat in the backseat. But I pushed these thoughts hurriedly from my mind, trying to come to terms with everything. One thought, more than others, shouted in my head and I blurted out, “Why would you go to him? You told me what he thinks of you. Would he even want to see you?”

  Darcy gave a hopeless little chuckle. “Probably not. In fact almost definitely not. He’ll probably tell me to go to hell, but someone has to be there for him. He’s his own worst enemy, Georgie. He’ll lose his temper and say stupid things he doesn’t mean and alienate the jury. Someone has to stick up for him and there’s nobody else.”

  “What about your sisters?”

  “He doesn’t like them any better than he does me. And besides, one is in India and they are both busy with their own families. They’ve little children and husbands. They just can’t drop everything and rush over to Ireland. And they don’t know anything about courts and legal procedure and how to investigate a crime.”

  I didn’t want to ask whether he thought his father was innocent. A man with a violent temper who hated his own son and who had had everything he loved taken from him might well have been tempted to commit murder.

  “I’ve no idea how one gets from York to Holyhead and the ferry.” He was already walking ahead of me back to the motorcar, talking more to himself than me. “Change in Manchester?” He turned back to me. “You’ll be all right driving back to London? I don’t think there should be snow on the roads south of here. I’ll write down the address for you. It’s Eaton Square. You know it, of course. It’s just around the corner from your place. Explain what happened. . . .”