“Her husband?”
“All will become clear soon.”
They left the coach, and Salperton followed his host to the main entry. The entire area was lit by torches, and only now did Henry realise that the ruined ‘ghost castle’ had transformed into a magnificent edifice set amidst jewelled and glittering gardens that whispered of music and springtime. “You must give me the name of your gardener, Highness. I’ve never seen lilacs bloom in November!”
“Have you not? They are ever in bloom here. Indeed, you will find my home a wealth of impossibilities, Lord Salperton. This way, sir. This ancient door leads to your future.”
Shortly before the prince’s return, two old friends greeted one another in a comfortably furnished drawing room within the imposing and ghostly fortress known to its inhabitants as Istseleniye House.
“Good evening,” Count Riga said cheerfully as he took a chair near the crackling fire. “Has our guest yet awoken?”
“I’m told she sleeps,” replied Blinkmire, glancing up from his book. “Miss Ross sits with her. Such a tragedy! Perhaps I am mistaken, but Prince Anatole seemed quite angry about it all, and who can blame him? How dare these Redwing fellows treat a woman of such repute in so callous a manner? Seldom have I seen him so enraged, save when Countess di Specchio left us, of course. I wonder where she’s gone, Riga. Do you know? Have you heard any rumours regarding the conniving Italian?”
“Nary a whisper,” the hunchback answered. “Though, if there were news, we’d be the last to hear it. The prince’s rule, you know.”
“Ah, yes,” the giant nodded, setting the book aside and removing his spectacles. “Newspapers are anathema. As are any periodicals or journals published within the last six months. Tis a pity, but I suppose I shouldn’t complain. After all, our library offers a wide variety of Regency literature and classics, but I’d love to read some of those wonderful stories like the one in Beeton’s Christmas Annual last year. What was it called again? A Study in Crimson?”
“Scarlet, I believe,” Riga corrected. “A perspicacious fellow, that Holmes. He reminds me of our prince in some ways. Insightful, inscrutable, and wary of women.”
“I’d not thought of that!” Blinkmire laughed. “Do you think the author might know our prince?”
“Dr. Doyle? That’s a very good question. It’s possible, I suppose. After all, Romanov does live a life outside these walls,” the count observed.
“I imagine that the prince lives a very interesting life,” Blinkmire sighed wistfully. “I understand that he advises the British government on Russian affairs and attends all manner of soirées. Ah, but his is a handsome countenance, and—alas!—ours are not. Twould be nice to have a party now and then, though. Distractions are sorely lacking in our little company, Riga. Since I arrived here many years ago, we’ve had little to entertain us, save your magnificent cello, of course, and more recently, Miss Kilmeade’s light soprano.”
“Nonsense, Blinkmire!” the count insisted. “Your voice is admirable, though many of your lower notes are imperceptible to my dull ear. Our Mr. Stanley plays the piano quite well, did you know that? He’s promised to perform a duet with me at Christmas. I’ve asked the prince if he might purchase some new music, and he promised to order a variety of modern choices. I wonder, is he joining us this evening?”
“According to Vasily, His Highness had a call to make elsewhere, but hopes to share a late supper with us. He’s very worried about our guest, and I imagine his errand is connected to her welfare in some way. I was asleep when the two of them arrived last night, and she’s not come down since. Did you meet her, Riga? Is she as beautiful as I’ve heard?”
“The duchess is exceedingly beautiful. I’d met her before, though I doubt Her Grace remembers it. I was newly arrived in England, and she was but twelve years old. My, she’s certainly matured in those eight seasons!”
“And so she should,” Blinkmire agreed, “but why hasn’t she come down, I wonder?”
“I fear Duchess Elizabeth may be ill. The dear woman looked quite feverish to my eyes, though my medical knowledge pales to your own. Speaking of medicine, I know yours has been adjusted again. Are you sleeping any better, Stephen?” he asked, using Blinkmire’s Christian name.
“How kind of you to ask, Viktor. Yes, it’s been an ordeal, of course, adjusting to the prince’s new formulation, but I shall master it. The new powder makes me restive, but it has already made a difference. This morning, I measured almost quarter of an inch shorter, and it’s only been a fortnight since starting the new regimen. I’d begun to fear that the continued growth would leave me unable to fit through my own door!”
Count Viktor Ardelescu Riga smiled. “You are a man of great stature, my friend, and I do not refer to your physicality, but rather to your heart. Oh, I hear Miss Kilmeade.”
Brona entered the parlour, finding both men standing politely, as was their custom. “Ya really don’ have ta do tha’ fer me, ya know,” she told them. “I never go’ such from anyone afore comin’ here, though it’s real nice tha’ ya think o’ me. I been wonderin’ if anyone’s seen the prince?”
“Not since eight o’clock,” Riga answered. “He had an errand to run, as so often happens. But I wonder, Miss Kilmeade, have you met our newest guest?”
“I did indeed. This mornin’ after breakfast. Poor thing’s all a-fever.”
“Oh, I do hope the lady isn’t ill!” Blinkmire fretted. “Fevers can mean so many different things. I do not profess to any formal medical training, but my books inform me of an entire roster of maladies conjoined to fever! Typhus being one of the worst. Perhaps, we should ask Vasily or Antony to speak with Cook. I’m sure she would know of herbs that might bring down our guest’s temperature.”
The sound of men’s voices and the dull clatter of leather heels on flagstone interrupted their discussion, and all eyes turned towards the broad, drawing room doorway. The lights always remained dim in deference to Kilmeade’s peculiar ocular condition, but the foyer now brightened slightly as the butler lit a pair of sconces. Romanov entered the parlour, his generally serene features lined with worry.
“Oh, sir, we’re relieved to see you!” Blinkmire blurted anxiously. “Our guest may be ill. Shouldn’t someone fetch Dr. Simon?”
“I’ve already taken care of that, Mr. Blinkmire,” Romanov replied as the viscount stepped into the opening. “Dr. Simon is away, but this gentleman is keeping watch on all his patients whilst Simon expands his horizons in America. This is Dr. Henry MacAlpin, who also happens to be a viscount in his own right and son of a prominent earl in Scotland. Doctor, allow me to introduce my most esteemed friends, Mr. Blinkmire and Count Riga. The lovely lady in their midst is our Miss Kilmeade. Brona, is Ida upstairs?” he asked, handing his cloak to the footman.
“Aye, sir, tha’ she is,” the pale Irishwoman answered. “An’ it’s a good thing, too, for the lady’s forehead’s warm as a stone in summer!”
“We’ll go up at once,” the prince said. “Vasily, set another place for our physician.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, but unnecessary, Your Highness. I ate an hour ago.”
“Nonsense! Mrs. Aslanov and her assistant prepare foods to tempt any palate. But as we may be tending to our guest for some time, the others should eat without us,” he added, referring to Kilmeade and the men. “Come, Doctor. Your patient awaits.”
Romanov led the physician towards a wide, stone staircase, and the two wound their way upwards to a grand apartment that dominated the northwest side of the castle. As they entered the bedchamber, a willowy woman with strawberry blonde hair curtsied politely. “Your Highness, I’m very glad you’re home, sir.”
“Miss Ross, this is Dr. MacAlpin. He is Dr. Simon’s partner.”
“Sir,” she greeted with a polite curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Ross,” the physician replied with a formal bow. Then, no
ticing a woman asleep beneath the carved canopy of a four-poster bed, he asked, “Is this is my patient?”
The prince crossed to the bed and took the sleeper’s hand. “She is indeed. Ida, has she spoken?”
“No, my lord,” Ross answered, “though, she does whisper now and again in her fever. She keeps askin’ after a Captain. I cannot say who that might be, but I do know her, sir. As I told you this morning, I’ve met her before.”
“Yes, I’m aware of your history with this lady, Ida. Now, if you will close the door, please? Supper awaits downstairs. Go eat, my dear. You look worn through.”
“I shall, my lord. Thank you.” Ross curtsied and left the chamber.
MacAlpin began unpacking instruments from his bag. “Why do you wish this woman’s name to be secret, sir? Is she here against her will?”
“The answer is more complicated than you might imagine, Lord Salperton. The lady is married, though not to me. I shall return her to the gentleman, but not yet. For the present, she is safest here.”
“Safest? That is a curious word implying danger. By whom is she endangered?”
“Again, the answer is complicated. Even Dr. Simon is unaware of all that occurs within this house. Is it pneumonia?”
“I cannot say. Tell me her history. How did she arrive here, and what precipitated the illness? And do not repeat your unsatisfying answer of complication, sir. I am intelligent enough to apprehend intricacies of the mind; I rather think I can handle any perceived depths to your reply.”
Romanov smiled broadly. “You are a man of very interesting temperament and conviction, Lord Salperton, which makes me trust you all the more. Do you not recognise her?”
“Should I?”
“If you read British or French newspapers, you should. Even the Americans have published her photograph many times in recent years. The lady married on Sunday morning.”
MacAlpin used a stethoscope to listen to her heart, his mind already sorting through observed signs: moist, flushed skin; extreme fatigue (for the lady did not so much as twitch when touched), and shallow breathing, punctuated occasionally by dry coughs.
“Sunday?” he mused, only half listening. “Why would that mean anything to me? Oh, wait,” he added, turning to stare at the Russian. “Good heavens, are you telling me that she is the Duchess of Branham? The woman who was abducted from her own wedding celebration?”
“I am saying that very thing. Can you now appreciate why I wish her presence to remain a secret? I tell you, sir, that she is in grave danger from the same group that abducted her.”
MacAlpin paused as he counted his patient’s radial pulse. “It is far too quick and weak,” he muttered to himself, and then glanced up. “How am I to know that you are not her abductor? The press have said nothing about her rescue. In fact, they despair that she is even alive. I dare not imagine what her poor husband must be going through!”
Romanov sat upon the bed and took her hand. “Twas I who rescued her, Lord Salperton,” he whispered, his deep voice steeped in agony. “You cannot begin to imagine the horrors she faced. And so bravely. So very bravely,” he added, kissing the pale palm. “I shall return this dear lady to her husband as soon as both are well enough, and their enemies subdued.”
“Both? What of her husband? Is he also ill?”
“The marquess lies in a grave condition,” the Russian answered. “I fear for his mind as well as his body.”
“That is more than the reporters of London are aware, Your Highness. Nothing in any of the papers indicates that Haimsbury is anything other than bereaved and desperately worried. Where do you obtain your information?”
“I am a friend to the family,” the prince answered obliquely. “In time I shall reveal more, but for the present, tend to the duchess. I wish to return her to her husband in the bloom of health.”
“Then, you must explain how she came to be in this condition and why she resides here and not in hospital. Explain these dangers to me, if you expect me to be your accomplice.”
“Finish your appraisal, and then you and I shall speak further.”
The prince left and shut the door. Alone now with an ailing woman, known to be abducted, Henry wondered why he shouldn’t simply summon the police and be done with it.
Chapter Two
Early morning, 21st November – Haimsbury House
The room lay in semi-darkness, lit only by a small, electric lamp. A beautiful bed dominated the chamber, a faithful reproduction of one from a famous French palace. A fireplace surround, formed out of carved white breccia and black Campan marble, protected a cheerful fire, fed by two rows of gas jets beneath a cast iron plate. Bookcases and closets dominated the walls on either side of the elegant fireplace, and standing before this warm sentry, two sofas, upholstered in striped blue silk, beckoned visitors to sit.
However, the girl did not sit beside the fire, nor had she chosen to lounge upon a sofa. She sat beside the bed, weary but vigilant, reading aloud from a periodical. Her voice was small but sweet, and her diction crisp. A pair of clear blue eyes rimmed with dark brown lashes darted back and forth, moving rhythmically from left to right, as she pronounced the lines; telling a story, whilst her smooth-skinned hands turned each page of the colourful magazine.
“Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with,” she read out softly. “He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the City.”
Adele Marie Stuart sighed, for she could see no change in the sleeper who dreamt upon the broad bed. “Are you listening, Cousin Charles? Do you hear me?”
The eleven-year-old set aside the magazine. “Perhaps, you’d rather I talk instead of read. I don’t know if you’re aware of your surroundings, but you’ve been here since Sunday night. You’re in your own house, within a spectacular bedchamber, but then it was you had it redecorated, isn’t it? As I said, you came here Sunday, when my brother and the others brought you in the police wagon. I think Paul called it a maria.”
She adjusted the brightly patterned quilt to make sure both the sleeper’s arms were covered, and that he was warm.
“Better? Your hands had gone cold. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes! Sunday night. After you and Paul left with Uncle James, Mr. Baxter called a prayer meeting, and every servant gathered and joined hands in the foyer to pray. Auntie Tory, Aunt Mary, Miss Jenkins, Mrs. Alcorn, and all of us ladies prayed with them, too. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like it before. We prayed and prayed, and it seemed like an eternity passed before Paul sent word of what had happened. But you mustn’t worry about that. Cousin Beth will come home. My brother is making sure of it, and Paul is quite fierce when he puts his mind to something.”
Adele paused, realising she’d promised not to mention Elizabeth, just in case Charles could hear.
“You’ve not awoken since then. It’s Wednesday morning now. Just after eight. I spent most of yesterday in here, learning basic nursing care from Dr. Emerson. He says you might sleep for days yet. He called it a concussion, I think. Did I tell you already about the magnificent owl? He was quite amazing! He’s watched from a branch outside your window every night since you were injured. He has snowy feathers and very large eyes, and the most regal bearing. He must be the king of owls, I suppose. Oh, and this morning, I saw a little bird at the window sill,” she said sweetly. “It was quite small, but it sang very beautifully and made me think of Cousin Beth. Aunt Mary called it a greenfinch. Mary knows a lot about birds, and we plan to put out some berries and seeds for it later—and water, of course. All living creatures must have water, mustn’t they?”
The girl gulped nervously, unsu
re just what to say next. She reached for the water carafe that sat upon the marquess’s bedside table and poured four ounces into a small glass. “Will you drink this, if I help you?” she asked him.
Sinclair made no reply. Unconscious since Sunday night, he lay quiet and still, all alone in the carved mahogany tester bed he’d had specially built for his bride.
The inner door to the chamber opened, admitting a tall man with shoulder-length, chestnut hair and clear blue eyes. He wore a wing-collar shirt, grey trousers, striped waistcoat and paisley cravat but no coat. The sleepless earl had dressed early and spent the past two hours meeting with his London agents.
“Allow me, Della,” Stuart told his sister as he neared the bed. “Has he spoken?”
“Not a word,” she answered sadly, “and he hasn’t moved at all, though his pulse is regular. I check it every hour, just as Dr. Emerson taught me.”
The earl smiled proudly. “You shall make a very fine doctor one day, darling. He’ll speak soon. Here now, I’ll steady his head whilst you hold the glass,” he told his sister as he carefully placed one hand beneath his cousin’s head. “Put the glass to his lips and gently tip it. His reflexes will take over, and he’ll swallow automatically, but it must go into his throat quite slowly.”
Obediently, the willowy girl held the water glass up to the unconscious man’s mouth. “Please, drink it, Cousin Charles. Dr. Emerson says you must have water, if you’re to return to us. Won’t you, please, take a sip? Just a tiny one, for me?”
The earl put a finger against his cousin’s chin and pushed down to force the dry lips apart. As the water trickled into his open mouth, the unconscious marquess swallowed reflexively, and the prominent Adam’s apple slid up and down his long throat.
“He’s drinking it!” Adele exclaimed, spilling half the contents in her excitement. “Oh, I am sorry, Cousin Charles. I’ve made your shirt all wet. Paul, I’m sorry. Shall I ring for Mr. Baxter?”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, and then, you should go down to breakfast. Victoria’s asking for you. That new Christmas music we ordered last week arrived in the morning post.”
Realms of Stone Page 3
