Heirs and Graces (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

by Rhys Bowen

  I wondered if I was indeed looking at the master of this house. At least this current scene might explain his refusal to marry! After a sheltered youth such things no longer shocked me. Mummy’s good friend was Noël Coward and I had been to parties with his cronies, and I had met plenty of young men who would probably also never marry. Actually I enjoyed the witty banter and the air of urbanity—so remote from the austere halls of Castle Rannoch, where I was raised by a God-fearing, hellfire-breathing Presbyterian nanny.

  I remembered that the dowager duchess was probably waiting for me downstairs. There was even a washbasin with hot and cold running water in one corner of the room and I removed my hat, washed my face and hands and brushed my hair. But I was rather in need of a lavatory. I glanced at the bell that hung beside my bed on a brocade pull. One tug would bring a servant running, but surely I could locate the nearest bathroom without help? I had just come out of my door when I heard the swish of starched skirts and a maid came toward me, carrying a pile of sheets.

  “Can I help you, my lady?” she asked.

  I mentioned that I was looking for the bathroom, having been brought up by Nanny not to mention unmentionable words like “lavatory.”

  “This way, please. Not far at all. I put you in the nicest of the guest rooms for now,” she said. “I hope it meets with your approval.”

  “It’s lovely, thank you. . . .” I gave her an inquiring look.

  “Elsie, my lady. Elsie Hobbs, head housemaid. Let me know if there’s anything that you need, and I’ll take care of it.”

  She had a pleasant, open face and she was giving me a genuine smile. “Actually there is something,” I said. “My maid will be arriving shortly. I’m afraid she’s still . . . a little raw around the edges. And in a great house like this, she may need a little instruction in how to behave.”

  “Don’t worry, my lady. I’ll take her under my wing. It was terrifying for all of us when we first came here.”

  “Have you been here long, Elsie?”

  “Fifteen years, my lady. I came as a girl of fourteen, right after leaving school. My dad was killed in the war so I had to go out to work to support my mum.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I landed on my feet here. Her Grace may be strict and demand a high standard from us, but she’s a fair mistress.”

  “What about the present duke?”

  “His Grace doesn’t show that much interest in the running of the household—unless we do something wrong. Then we hear about it. He sacked poor William on the spot last week because he tidied up the papers on His Grace’s desk so he could dust it, and apparently he changed the order of pages. I mean, how was he to know?”

  I nodded in sympathy.

  “And he’d been here longer than me as well. Came here right after being sent home wounded from the Somme.”

  She stopped and pushed open a door, showing me a bathroom containing a tub almost big enough to swim in, and a next-door lavatory. I made use of this before I retraced my steps back to the grand staircase. I was standing in that central foyer, wondering where the Long Gallery might be when a most imposing figure in a black frock coat appeared. I’d been in enough great houses, including our own, to know that butlers often look grander than their masters.

  “Welcome to Kingsdowne, my lady,” he said with a small bow. “I am Huxstep, His Grace’s butler. I must apologize for not being here to greet you on your arrival. I did not hear the motorcar, as I was in the wine cellar and my hearing is not what it used to be. Her Grace asked me to escort you through to the Long Gallery.”

  I followed him through an archway to the right and found that the Long Gallery was well named. It stretched away in front of me with great, arched windows that sent in shafts of slanting sunlight at intervals. It was wood paneled with an exquisite gilded and carved wood ceiling. I guessed that it had been the great hall of the original house. In the center of the long wall, an enormous marble fireplace, big enough to roast an ox, rose to the ceiling, a log fire burning merrily in the grate. There were clusters of sofas and chairs placed at intervals along the length of the room and at one of these clusters, close to the fireplace, the dowager duchess was now seated, working her way through a pile of sandwiches and biscuits. She motioned for me to join her.

  “Is the room to your liking?” she asked. “It was all so very last-minute that I didn’t have time to think where you would be most comfortable.”

  “Thank you, it’s a lovely room. I shall be quite comfortable there, I assure you.”

  “The view is better from the other side of the house,” she said, “but that seems to have become our bachelor wing—my son’s guests, you understand.”

  “I think I saw them just now. They came running up when a Rolls appeared.”

  “Did you?” She pursed her lips in disapproving fashion. “That would be my son returning from town. He went up to London to see a show in the West End. He was a benefactor, so I understand. He sees himself as a Medici—a great patron of the arts.” She gave a contemptuous sniff. “Hasn’t an ounce of talent himself, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from composing dreadful music and painting dreadful pictures and surrounding himself with those obnoxious young men.” She looked up from her sandwich. “The Starlings, they call themselves. I haven’t decided whether they think they are future stars in terms of the arts, or whether they simply dress in black and twitter a lot.”

  I had to smile.

  “Black or white?” Her Grace said, indicating to a maid that she should pour coffee.

  “Oh, white please, at this time of day.”

  A cup of milky coffee was placed in front of me and I reached forward to take a ham sandwich. One thing was clear—I was not going to starve in this place. After Fig’s austerity measures and then Mrs. Tombs’s cooking, I felt like I was in heaven.

  Her Grace looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps. “That will be my son now. No mention of why you’re here. He’s not the easiest of people, and he doesn’t take kindly to my meddling.”

  I looked up as the Duke of Eynsford came toward us. He was probably once a moderately good-looking man, now gone to seed. His face was podgy, with extra chins and his black velvet jacket was buttoned tightly over an impressive paunch. His hair was already thinning but combed across his bald spot, making him look older than his forty-nine years.

  “Hello, Mother,” he said. “Opening night was a resounding success. The critics loved it. I shall reap a handsome little amount for my investment, as well as introducing the world to a brilliant new playwright.” He stopped as he suddenly noticed me. “Hello,” he said. “I see we have visitors.”

  “Just one visitor, Cedric,” the dowager countess said. “This is Georgiana Rannoch. You remember that her grandmother, Queen Victoria’s daughter, was most kind to me when I was a new lady-in-waiting.”

  “Oh yes. Right.” He could not have looked less interested, and I wondered if it crossed his mind that I might have been brought down here in a last, desperate attempt to marry him off to someone suitable. He came over and held out a limp hand. “How do you do? I’m Cedric, as I’m sure she’s told you. Your brother is the present Duke of Rannoch, isn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him at the House of Lords.”

  “Binky rarely comes down from Scotland,” I said. “He’s not very comfortable in a big city.”

  “Can’t think why not,” Cedric said. He reached over, grabbed a sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth in one go. “Cities are where all the action is—the pulse of life of a nation. Art. Culture. Theater. They are what make a nation come alive.” He looked at me appraisingly. “So, are you just passing through? Paying a courtesy call upon Mama?”

  Before I could answer this, the dowager duchess said for me, “She may be staying for a while, Cedric. The poor little thing has been under the weather. I told her she needs good food and country
air to build her up again.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, leaving it to me to judge whether he was sorry I’d been under the weather or sorry that I’d be staying. I rather thought the latter.

  “And it might be helpful to have another young person in the house when your nephew arrives,” she said glibly, as if this had just occurred to her. “He’ll find it overwhelmingly strange and I presume quite terrifying, poor boy.”

  “My nephew,” Cedric said with a snort of contempt. “If he is my nephew. I’m still not convinced. Those Australians would sell their grandmother for tuppence.”

  “I’m sure we’ll know when we see him,” the dowager said. “Supposedly he has a strong family resemblance. And since you’re not doing your part to produce an heir . . .”

  “Don’t start on that again, Mother,” he said. “You know my sentiments. And I don’t see why I can’t leave my fortune as I choose. I’d much rather a new concert hall or theater than the continuation of a dreary dukedom.”

  “Fortunately you have no choice in the matter,” she said in a clipped voice. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable when Cedric looked out of the window and said, “Good God. What on earth is that?”

  An estate car had drawn up and out of it stepped Queenie. She was wearing a red hat that looked like an overturned flowerpot and an old overcoat made of the spiky fur of God knows what kind of animal—hyena would be my best guess. The dowager duchess turned to the window and raised her lorgnette in surprise.

  “Oh, it’s my maid with the luggage,” I said.

  “Your maid? You let her go around looking like an oversized hedgehog with a flowerpot on its head?” Her Grace demanded.

  “She will be wearing her uniform underneath, but I haven’t yet got around to buying her a new overcoat,” I said, not wanting to confess that I had no money for such items.

  “Oh, she’s new, is she?”

  “Fairly,” I said.

  “Then, my dear, the sooner you take her in hand and train her, the better,” Her Grace said. “You can’t let maids ape their betters in fur coats. It simply isn’t done. And a coat like that . . . well, it reflects on you in the end. I will ask the housekeeper if we have a suitable discarded black overcoat in the servant’s cupboard that she can wear if she has to leave the building again.”

  Queenie was now looking up at the imposing façade, her mouth wide open, as an estate worker hauled my trunks from the back of the vehicle. I rose to my feet. “I think I had better go and show her where to put my things.”

  “And be firm about suitable attire,” the dowager called after me. “It is never wise to give servants any leeway in the matter of individuality or they abuse it, as your girl has done.” She pronounced the word “gell,” as did all the women of her era, and she wagged a finger at me. “Their job is to be invisible and to conform at all times.”

  I hurried out to bustle Queenie away from the dowager’s critical eyes and up the stairs.

  “Blimey,” she said as we entered my bedroom. “We ain’t half fallen on our feet ’ere, eh, miss? Now this is how real toffs are supposed to live. Not like your bloomin’ sister-in-law and her one piece of toast per person.”

  “Queenie, remember what I have told you?” I said. “If you can’t speak politely of your betters, I might have to let you go.”

  “Garn,” she said, digging me in the ribs. “I know you can’t afford a proper maid.”

  “I’m sure I could find one less improper than you,” I said with a frown. “Now, please unpack my things. Ask the servants where you can find an ironing board and iron and make sure everything is well pressed. Oh, and Queenie—remember, one does not iron velvet on the right side, and please, no more burn marks on my white blouses.”

  “Bob’s yer uncle,” she said.

  At the door I remembered something and turned back. “Oh and one more thing—this is a great household of the highest social order. The servants here will be well-trained and refined, so please do try to behave like a real lady’s maid and don’t let me down.”

  “Don’t worry, me lady. I can talk posh and walk around with me bleedin’ nose in the air with the best of ’em if I want to.”

  “And Queenie—no swear words.”

  I left her to it and went downstairs again. As I approached the Long Gallery, I heard Cedric’s clipped voice saying, “Exactly why is she here, Mother? This had better not be one of your little schemes.”

  Chapter 6

  KINGSDOWNE PLACE

  Instead of entering the Long Gallery, I turned quickly on my heel and went down the front steps and out into the fresh air. A stiff breeze had now come up and the sun had vanished behind a bank of rather threatening clouds. I wondered if I was being foolish in striking out across the grounds but I didn’t want to be part of the unpleasantness in the Long Gallery. If I’d known my presence would cause disruptions in the family, I wouldn’t have come. Then I corrected that sentiment. I would still rather be here than up in bleak Scotland with Fig.

  I followed the edge of the lake, admiring the easy way the swans drifted across the black water, until I came to a little stream that entered, bubbling over rocks. I heard the sound of rushing water and followed the stream down from the lake until I came to a series of pretty cascades in a rocky glen. It reminded me of my native Scotland until I realized that this whole landscape must be an artificial creation as such glens are not normally part of the Kentish scenery.

  Above the cascades I spotted a round, white temple, half hidden amid dark yew trees. Some former duke with an eye for the dramatic had obviously been at work here. I was finding my way out of the cascade glen when I heard the distant sound of a clock chiming noon. I remembered what the dowager duchess had said about changing for lunch and realized I had better get back.

  As I crossed the lawn I heard voices behind me—young voices. Before I could turn around, one of them called out, “You there!”

  I stopped and turned to look back. Two children, a boy and a girl, were running together up the slope toward the house, followed by a worried, youngish man in a tweed jacket who was striding out to keep pace with them. They were around ten or eleven, both with pale blonde hair and rather surly faces.

  “Yes, you.” It was the boy addressing me. “I left my history book on the bench under the big oak tree. Go and fetch it for me.”

  The worried-looking man had caught up with them. “Really, Nicholas, you can go back and get it yourself,” he said. “You can’t expect people to fetch and carry for you.”

  “Of course I can. What else is she doing right now?” the boy demanded. “And I’d be late for luncheon if I went to fetch it myself, and you know that makes Grandmama cross.”

  Initially I had been too stunned to react. Now I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. “Do you always order around your grandmother’s guests?” I said.

  “I say—you’re not a guest, are you?” His expression faltered. “We thought you were her new companion. She was talking about finding a new companion when she went up to town and we saw you arrive with her, so naturally we assumed . . .”

  “Never assume,” I said. “I’m actually Lady Georgiana Rannoch, and your grandmama invited me to stay.”

  “You’ve really put your foot in it this time, Nick,” the girl said, nudging him and looking pleased at his red face.

  “Sorry,” the boy said easily. “But my father is a Russian count, you know. He had to flee for his life during the revolution. And my grandfather was a duke, so I have to get used to ordering people around.”

  “My grandmother was a princess,” I said, “and my great-grandmother was Queen Victoria, so I think I win on that count. And my cousins the king and queen are always most polite in the way they address their staff.”

  He turned beet red now. “Crikey,” he said. “Then you’re royal. Does one have to call you ma’am?” />
  I was very tempted to say yes. And that he had to bow every time he saw me, but since he was now squirming with embarrassment I said, “Actually I’m not an HRH, I’m only a lady. And since we are social equals it would be fine for you to use my first name.”

  “Oh, jolly good,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “I am Nikolai Gregorovitch, son of Count Streletzki, formerly of Russia.”

  “And I am Ekaterina,” the girl said, holding out her hand too. “But Uncle Cedric said it was pretentious to have such names and we have to be called Katherine and Nicholas.”

  “It probably is easier if you’re to go to school in England,” I said.

  “But so ordinary, don’t you think?” Nicholas said. “Our father was not at all ordinary.”

  “He was a very handsome man,” Katherine added.

  “So you’re Irene’s children,” I said. “Don’t you have another sister?”

  “Sissy,” Nicholas said. “It’s really Elisabeth but everyone calls her Sissy. It was too cold for her to be out today, and none of the servants was free to push her wheelchair.”

  “Wheelchair?” I asked.

  “She fell off her horse and broke her back,” Katherine said. “Now she can’t walk. It’s terribly boring for her.”