by Cheryl Bolen
Chapter 6
The Hartworth House footmen carried down the furnishings from the dowager’s bedchamber and reassembled them in the morning room just off the entry hall under the watchful eye of Georgiana, who insisted on instructing in the placement of every item. She was grateful the morning room was the most sparsely furnished chamber in their town house. Its only contents were a half a dozen side chairs, a slender secretary, and a card table, which she ordered the servants to carry to the dowager marchioness’s chamber.
A pity nothing could be done at present about the scarlet draperies at the pair of windows which looked out over Cavendish Square. Mama’s bed curtains and coverlet were of a Sevrés pink. They did not go well together. Since Mama was a great deal more interested in aesthetics than her daughter, she was sure to express her dissatisfaction in a most verbal manner.
Would it be too great an extravagance to commission new pink silk draperies for what Georgiana hoped was a short period of time? Just when she was on the brink of summoning the drapers, she changed her mind. It would do Mama good not to admire her new chambers. Perhaps then she would toss away that cane, climb the stairs as she once did, and order the restoration of her old room.
It was late that afternoon when the duke called—surprising Georgiana greatly. She had the distinct impression he had been glad to be rid of her after five straight days in her presence.When Roberts showed him into the former morning room, she looked up to see the Duke of Fordham filling the doorway. He was not a big man like Lord Slade, who was very large, but his deeply muscled body most admirably bespoke supreme masculine strength. It occurred to her this man was born to be a duke. The strength of his character had never faltered for a single moment these past several trying days. It took no effort to imagine how effective he must have been as a military officer.
“Your grace, what a pleasant surprise.”
“I thought I’d apprise you that two trunks of Freddie’s papers have arrived, and I took the liberty of delivering them here. Where would you like them?”
These were in addition to the two valises she already had. “Two trunks?”
He nodded.
She blew out a breath. “That’s more than I was expecting.” She thought for a moment. “Since it will be some time before we’re up for entertaining, let’s put them on the dining table. I fancy I’ll be arranging them into categories, and that long table will give me much room.”
He instructed his servants to bring in the trunks.
She looked up at the duke. “Would you be interested in seeing Freddie’s papers? I suppose you’re the rightful owner of them. I’m just the organizer.”
“You’re much more than that. Freddie was counting on you to make decisions on what was worthy of keeping and what should be tossed into the fire. I do thank you for asking me. I should like to see if he kept any of my letters—and also anything that might shed light on his death.”
She nodded. “Can you stay now? I’ve just finished here and shall positively wither away from boredom.” She looked down at her wrinkled dress. “As you can see, I can hardly go out in public as I now look.”
He smiled. “I would advise against going out.”
“You, your grace, are most UNgallant.”
“Then I must redeem myself by attempting to banish your boredom.”
She smiled as she swept from the room, leading him to the dinner room. It took both of them emptying papers and correspondence for fifteen minutes before the trunks were empty and mountains of paper stacked the length of the twenty-foot table.
“I do not envy you your task, my lady.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come back after I’ve sorted this mess?”
“I can’t leave all of this with you. Like you, I have nothing else to do at present, and it will help pass the time. Closer to dark I’ll go to White’s.”
She pouted. “How I wish I could.”
She spied a packet of letters written in a most feminine hand. Were they from Mrs. Langston? She plucked them from the stack, peeking inside to see the signature, and started a new pile. “Hmmm. Not from Mrs. Langston.”
“He was thirty. There were others before he fell in love with you.” The duke came closer to the table. “Were you planning to start reading now or just sort?”
“I’m only reading to find the sender’s name so that I can sort. When I start reading, I should like to start with women’s correspondence.”
He gave her a surprised look. “I should have thought you’d begin with correspondence from the five men of the shooting party.”
She glared at him. “Seven.”
“But Lord Slade and I were not of the shooting party.”
“But you were in the house that night, and you are suspects.”
He stared at her through narrowed eyes. No words were needed. The iciness of his gaze superseded any words he could have uttered.
Finally, she gathered her wits. “Of course you’re right about how I should prioritize the correspondence. We must first read all correspondence from anyone who slept at Gosingham that night. I was swayed by feminine sensibilities—which I will own, is unusual for me.”
“Any deviation from normalcy is understandable under these grievous circumstances.”
After a few minutes of sorting, she asked, “Would you know the handwriting of any of those men?”
He shrugged. “Only my cousin Robert Cecil’s. I’ll look for his and mine.”
She wondered if the duke had removed any of his letters before bringing them here. Did he have something to hide?
“We should both recognize the handwriting from each of your sisters. I expect quite a few letters will be from them. Let’s just put theirs back in the trunks—a stack for each sister. Do you think they’d like their letters returned?”
“Ask them.”
In the next few minutes, she and the duke contributed to the growing stacks in the trunks. “At least that’s helping us clear out a sizeable portion of the correspondence,” she said. “I see no reason for me to even think of reading their letters. Do you?”
“No.” Brows lowered, he took a folded correspondence from a towering stack and read the signature. “From my cousin. Where should you have me put it?”
“Let me see. I came across one of his.” She pointed to the opposite side the table. “Here.”
“Does your family, like ours, have archives going back for centuries?” she asked a moment later.
“Oh, yes.”
“As the reigning head of the family you should familiarize yourself with some of it.”
He paused to glare at her. “You’re right—though I’ve never had a desire to do so.”
“It’s quite interesting to see, for example, the logs that list all the servants and how much things like candles or even fillies cost two hundred years ago,” she said.
He continued sorting. “Don’t tell me you actually seek out those old papers?”
“I’m fascinated by them.”
“That explains why Freddie chose you for this thankless task.”
It was true that Freddie did know quite a lot about her, though she never felt she knew a great deal about him. Since her mother’s decline, she had made it a point to write to her betrothed every day, filling the pages with enumerating the mundane events of her day. Many of those days she had spent poking about in the Fenton family archives.
“Oh, look here,” she said. “It’s the receipt for the Raphael he purchased a few months ago. I had no notion he paid that much for it!” She turned to him. “You must now be an exceedingly wealthy man.”
“I’m much more interested in finding Freddie’s killer than in learning the extent of my wealth.”
Since she had kept moving down the table, she found herself next to him. He looked down at her. “I didn’t realize how small you are,” he said.
She was not only slightly shorter than the average woman, she was also far more slender than she would have liked. “You’re not the first to
make such an observation. I think it’s because, as the first born in my family, I’ve always had a somewhat authoritarian personality that makes me seem . . . larger.”
“So you, too, are accustomed to ordering about a vast number of people.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I suppose we do have that in common.”
She moved to the other side of the table, and they continued their sorting for the next two hours while keeping each other apprised of what stacks were being created. There was a fairly high stack of his own correspondence to his brother, but it was by no means complete.
At six, he took his leave in order to go home to dress for dining at White’s. “May I return tomorrow?” he asked.
“Please do. I’ll be anxious to hear if you learned anything at Freddie’s club.”
* * *
Shortly after Alex arrived back at Fordham House, Freddie’s best friend called. Alex was half way through getting dressed when Mannings announced him. “Show him to the library. I’ll be right down.”
When Alex strolled into the darkened library, he didn’t see Lord Pomfoy at first. The small chamber was lighted only from the fire. Pomfoy rose. “Your grace, I’ve come to offer my . . .” The man could not finish for he broke into tears, shaking his head and burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe your brother’s gone,” he managed in anguished sobs.
Alex moved to him and set a gentle hand on the man’s heaving shoulders. It was a sad reflection on his closeness to his brother that Pomfoy’s grief exceeded his own. “Pray, come sit by the fire. I’d like to talk to you since you were one of the last persons to see Freddie alive.”
Nodding, Pomfoy sniffed and came to sit on an asparagus-coloured sofa in front of the fire.
Alex poured two glasses of Madeira, handed one to Freddie’s greatest friend, and came to sit beside him. “What can you tell me about Freddie’s last day?” Even though Alex and Sinjin had been under the same roof, they hadn’t seen Freddie or his friends that day. His and Sinjin’s dinner was brought to the library on a tray so they wouldn’t have to impede the progress they were making drafting the bill.
“Then it’s true? He died in his sleep our last night at Gosingham Hall? My God, I was right across the corridor from him!”
“And you heard no noises coming from his bedchamber? No sounds that awakened you?”
“No, nothing. I’m afraid we all had too much to drink. We went to bed fairly early—the combination of heavy drinking and having had to get up so wretchedly early to shoot.”
“Then Freddie was foxed?”
“He was—but not so much that the spirits would have killed him. He drank no more than I.”
Alex nodded.
“He seemed so happy,” Pomfoy said, shaking his head. “He’d bagged more than any of us that day, and he was greatly looking forward to marrying and having Lady Georgiana come to live at Gosingham. You know what an old country soul he was. When we were alone he told me how much he was looking forward to starting a family. He wanted a lad to teach how to ride and shoot.”
Yes, that was Freddie. While other dukes and noblemen were taking their places in Parliament and involved in ruling the country, Freddie was content to roam about his lands, stripping them of living creatures.
Alex needed to ask more questions without giving away his suspicions. “I wonder if something was oppressing him enough to cause a fatal heart attack. Had he had any kind of disagreements with any of those in your shooting party?”
“Not at all. Everyone was quite jolly. Hence the sottishness of the lot of us.”
“It’s rare to get a group of inebriated men together and not have one who turns mean.”
Pomfoy puckered his lips in thought. “He wasn’t actually mean, but Sir Arthur was clearly jealous of Freddie having been Mrs. Langston’s protector before him. I do believe Sir Arthur fancies himself in love with the actress.”
Alex’s attention peaked. “What kinds of things did he say?”
“Only that the actress was frequently bringing up Freddie and Freddie’s generosity to her. Sir Arthur’s pockets aren’t nearly so deep as Freddie’s. It seems the woman continued wearing a diamond bracelet Freddie had given her and delighted in flaunting it. Sir Arthur asked her not to wear it, and the lady refused.” Pomfoy swigged his brandy. “Once Sir Arthur was in his cups, he cursed Freddie over the bloody bracelet.”
It sounded as if Sir Arthur resented Freddie. But enough to want to remove him permanently? “It’s all beastly,” Alex said. “I know you and Freddie have been close since you were at Eton.”
“The two of us were rather forced to band together. We were smaller and less athletic than the others, and we were rather picked upon all our years at Eton. Thank God we had each other. I don’t know what I shall do now. Freddie was my only friend.” Pomfoy’s voice cracked.
“You’re no longer a boy at Eton.” Alex placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You’re a grown man. A viscount. Everyone finds you admirable.” A pity his growth hadn’t kept pace with Freddie’s. Pomfoy’s size was closer to that of a sixteen-year-old youth than a man of thirty.
One suspect was exonerated. Alex was convinced that Pomfoy would never have taken Freddie’s life.
* * *
His father and both his elder brothers had been members at White’s, but Alex had rarely gone there. Most of his adult life had been spent fighting in the Peninsula, and since he returned, he’d spent more time at Brook’s because Sinjin and Wycliff preferred it—as did most Whigs.
He’d asked Wycliff to accompany him there this night. During the coach ride he’d shocked his friend by revealing his suspicion that Freddie had been murdered. He told Wycliff about the shooting party and that he believed one of them must be responsible for Freddie’s death.
As the coach pulled up in front of the narrow white stone building on St. James, Wycliff said, “So we’re hoping some of those men who were in the shooting party are here tonight?”
Alex nodded.
“It’s not as if any of them are going to say, sorry, old fellow, but I suffocated your brother,” Wycliff said.
Alex turned back from disembarking and glared. “I don’t know what it is I’m looking for, but I feel that if I’m around them enough, there will be some kind of sign.”
Inside, Alex scanned the chambers for any members of the shooting party—at least the ones he knew. Under his breath, he asked, “Do you know Lord Hickington?”
Wycliff shook his head. “Don’t forget I was out of the country as many years as you.”
“Oh, yes. Off making your fortune.” Stealing—but only from the despised French. At least Wycliff was redeeming himself now in service to their country.
Not recognizing any members of the shooting party, the two men went into the dining room and sat at a long table where some dozen men had already assembled. Wycliff nodded to several who were in the House of Lords with him.
When they recognized Alex, one and all offered condolences on Freddie’s death. How in the devil had so many in London learned? Alex exchanged greetings with several men he’d gotten to know in the House of Commons.
“I suppose there will be a by-election for your seat in the House of Commons now,” Anthony Chilton said. “Any idea who might be standing for the office?”
“Yes, Wycliff’s cousin, who’s also his brother-in-law, Edward Coke.”
“Fine man,” Chilton said.
A man who appeared to be a half a dozen years Alex’s senior and who sat at the far end of the table from him, nodded to Alex. “Your grace, I particularly want to let you know how stricken are all your brother’s friends over his death. I was of his shooting party and must have been one of the last people to ever see him alive.”
This man must be Hickington. “And you are?”
“Lord Hickington.”
“Pray, my lord,” Alex said, “could I impose on you to move down here by me? I should be most grateful if you could tell me about my brot
her’s final days.”
“Of course, your grace.”
The man picked up his plate and utensils, and a footman rushed to carry his wine glass.
“I doubt I have anything interesting to tell you,” he told Alex as he took a seat near him.
“I understand most of you were foxed that last day.”
Hickington chuckled. “That’s true.”
“What time did my brother retire for the night?”
“I doubt any of us could be certain of the time. It had to be well before midnight. I do remember your brother saying, “I know many of you must leave early in the morning, and as I am normally not a morning person—unless I’m shooting—I shall say my farewells now.”
Alex swallowed. It hurt like the devil that even though he’d been at Gosingham, he’d not been able to say farewell to his brother.
“Thank God we all expressed our gratitude to him for hosting the party,” Hickington continued. “We’d had a great good time.”
Even though Alex knew his brother had been in excellent health, he had to justify his volley of questions. “How did my brother look? Did he see in good spirits? In good health?”
Hickington shrugged. “Remember, your grace, none of us were in a state to observe well, but I’m sure the late duke seemed quite healthy.”
“And you heard no noises in the night?”
“No.”
“Where was your bedchamber?”
“I was on the same side of the corridor as your brother. First your brother’s room, then Sir Arthur’s, then mine.”
So Sir Arthur was next to Freddie. This definitely bore investigating.
“Speaking of Sir Arthur, did he and my brother seem to be on friendly terms?”
“When sober, yes. But after the baronet got deep in his cups, he became, I thought, belligerent to his host. Why do you ask?”
Alex shrugged. “I just wondered if something could have upset Freddie enough to bring on a heart attack or some such fatal malady. That’s all.”
Hickington shook his head gravely. “It’s such a melancholy affair. Poor Fordham. So young. We are all, quite naturally, grievously upset.”
