How to Master Your Marquis (41 page)

The beetlelike Mr. Turner waved his exoskeletal arm. “News, sir! The gravest possible news!”

“Then it had better well have to do with the case before the court!”

Turner scuttled forward, his black jacket swinging with the force of his scuttle. “Oh, it does, sir! The message arrived express soon after you left, sir, and there were no hackneys to be had, so I took it upon myself to . . .”

Bang bang.
“Silence! Bring your message to the bench, Mr. Turner.” The judge held out his hand.

Mr. Turner walked forward and held out the paper to the judge, as if it were a live explosive.

The judge snatched it away and opened the folds.

A heavy silence descended over the assembly, as several hundred throats held back breath. Someone stifled a sneeze back into the recesses of his nose at the last instant, and the sound ricocheted off the walls like a gunshot.

The judge looked at Hatherfield from over the tops of his reading glasses. “Your lordship, I must ask you to brace yourself. I regret to inform you that your father, the Duke of Southam, passed away at ten o’clock this morning, the result of a self-inflicted wound.”

The words struck Hatherfield such a sudden blow, he didn’t realize at first what had hit him, and how hard. He felt it from a distance. Saw himself recoil. Thought,
By damn, that’s a nasty blow, a real shock, I wonder how he takes it.

“Jamie!” Stefanie cried, from an even farther distance, almost outside his hearing.

“I beg your pardon?” someone said. Himself, apparently.

The judge removed his glasses. “You are now the Duke of Southam. However . . .”

Mr. Fairchurch, who had since recovered his seat and his wits, rose instantly to his feet. “My lord, the defense moves that this case be thrown out entirely, as being beyond the jurisdiction of this court. The ninth Duke of Southam, as a peer of the realm, should and will be tried in the House of Lords.”

Mr. Duckworth, not to be outdone, leapt from his chair as well. “My learned colleague is misguided in both principle and practice. The crime was committed while the accused merely held the courtesy title of Marquess of Hatherfield, and was therefore tried properly as a commoner. Furthermore . . .”

The judge stood up. “This has all gone on long enough. Princesses, suicides, pandemonium in my courtroom. This court is adjourned until tomorrow morning. Each side will prepare a brief, making its case and stating the applicable law, to be delivered to my chambers by six o’clock this evening. In the meantime, I will expect every member of this court and the public to behave itself with utmost decorum, and there will be absolutely no further interruptions to the proceedings. Is that quite clear?”

A meek silence greeted his words.

And then a firm female voice rose from the rear of the courtroom.

“Not quite.”

A small black-veiled figure stepped into view.

Hatherfield—the brand-new ninth Duke of Southam—put his head in his hands and wished himself back at Eton.

S
tefanie stared at the tiny figure of Lady Charlotte Harlowe as she made her way past the awestruck benches to the front of the courtroom. The rustle of her dress, the click of her heels on the marble floor expanded with unnatural strength to fill every nook and crevice of the electrified room.

She stopped just short of the counsel benches, her black sleeve mere feet away from Stefanie’s own, and she raised her veil over the crown of her hat.

“My lord, may I address the court?” she asked.

The judge’s whiskers made a resigned twitch above his jowls. “I don’t suppose one more will kill us, at this point. Proceed, your ladyship. But for the love of heaven, make it brief.”

“I understand the court has been informed of the tragic events of this morning in Belgrave Square, at the home of the Duke of Southam.” She looked neither at Stefanie nor at Hatherfield, who stood pale and fixed in the dock, but straight ahead at the judge.

“Mere minutes ago,” the judge said dryly. “Proceed.”

She lifted her left hand from the folds of her dress and extended a small square of paper. “I have here the signed confession of the eighth Duke of Southam for the murder of his wife Maria, on the night of the twenty-first of February.”

The courtroom, already numb from the tumult of the morning, looked at itself blankly.

Stefanie jumped to her feet. “A confession! But why . . .”

Lady Charlotte continued tonelessly. “If additional testimony is necessary to secure the release of the ninth duke, I offer myself as a witness, that on the night in question, after quitting the library in possession of the then Lord Hatherfield and his companion, I went to find the duchess and explain what I’d seen. She told me she would retire to her boudoir, and I should find Lord Hatherfield and bring him to her for a private audience. I followed her upstairs, but neither his lordship nor his companion was in the library. I went in search of him. By then, the ballroom was becoming crowded, and after looking for some time, I gave up and returned upstairs to tell the duchess, and that was where I saw Hatherfield in the hallway. He was looking for his companion and refused absolutely to attend me to the duchess’s boudoir. So I proceeded to the duchess’s rooms, and as I approached, I heard . . .” She paused, as if catching her breath. “I heard a series of strange sounds. I thought the duchess was choking. I went to knock on the door and the duke appeared. He was drying his hands on a linen towel. I saw a distinct splatter on his shirtfront, that I later realized was blood. He told me not to go in, that the duchess was indisposed. I left. And then, an hour later, the alarm was raised.”

“By God!” said Hatherfield.

“Madam,” said the judge, in a low and shocked voice, “do you know what you’re saying? That you have committed perjury?”

She looked at him. “I have not. I answered each question truthfully.”

“But not the whole truth,” he said. “And there is the question of motive.”

She bowed her head. “I have no idea why he might have killed her. I suppose he must have had some sort of mad spell. She was so dear and kind to me. I believe I refused to consider what I had seen for some time, to accept the truth—that a man I so admired could have committed such a deed—and by then, his lordship was already incarcerated, and . . .” She looked back up. “I was wrong. I hope my presence here will atone for the mischief my omission has caused. And I extend my deepest . . . my most heartfelt wish . . .” She turned to Hatherfield. Stefanie couldn’t see Lady Charlotte’s expression, but her hands pressed into her sides, buried in her dress. Hatherfield’s face, watching her, was lined with pity. “For your happiness,” she finished in a whisper.

“And I for yours,” said Hatherfield quietly.

The courtroom waited for more. Even the damsels forbore to swoon, fearful of missing a single instant. Stefanie gazed in astonishment at the corner of Lady Charlotte’s jaw, which was clenched tight beneath her pale skin. Her hand moved restlessly at her side.

Without warning, Hatherfield sprang into motion. He vaulted over the railing and launched himself at Lady Charlotte with a furious roar.

“No, don’t hurt her!” screamed Stefanie.

They crashed to the floor together, struggling in a mass of black-clothed limbs, and it was not until the shot fired harmlessly into the ceiling, raining a cloud of plaster on the horrified spectators, that Stefanie noticed what Hatherfield had detected from the vantage of the dock.

A small silver pistol, hidden in her ladyship’s tiny right hand, buried in the folds of her black mourning dress.

EPILOGUE

Paris

August 1890

T
he staff of the Crillon Hotel were having a hard time of it.

“Every day, it is the same!” exclaimed the maid Hortense. “They do not leave the room until it is nearly noon.”

“And the breakfast tray! To be left next to the door, not to disturb them!” Pierre, the room service waiter, shook his scandalized head. “The brioche, the chocolate, it will be as cold as ice!”

The maid propped her polished black shoes on a chair and sipped her coffee. “So at noon, Monsieur Henri tells me they have left. I rush in, I begin to clean, and then boom! The door crashes open, they are hand in hand, the duke begs my pardon and I am to come back later. Later! When is later, I ask? When they are left for dinner?”

Marie-Rose, the senior housemaid, settled down at the table with coffee and a wise smile. “They are on the honeymoon, the duke and duchess. Did you see them come in, four days ago? He carried her through the door like a prince from the fairy tale. And they are so much in love. It is natural they are insatiable for each other.”

Little Marguerite, fresh from the provinces, broke in eagerly. “And doesn’t the so-handsome duke give you ten francs when he asks you to leave? Soon you will be able to buy your own hotel, Hortense.”

“It’s scandalous,” sniffed Hortense. “The duchess is already great with child. He should control his base desire. Her belly is so fat, I don’t know what he sees in her.”

“Ah, you don’t know what it does to a man, to see the woman he loves grow round with his child,” said René, the dining room waiter, with his long black mustache and his twinkling eyes. He made a gesture with his hand to illustrate his point, and kissed the fingers. “And the duchess, she is not so great yet, her belly is like the sweet melon in the garden. How she blooms, like the rose.”

The room service bell rang. Pierre lifted himself up with a resigned sigh and left the room.

“Oh, Hortense only wishes the so-handsome duke would look at her, instead of his bride,” said Marie-Rose.

Marguerite sighed. “Ooh, what I wouldn’t give for a kiss from the duke.”

“Hortense wants more than a kiss from him, believe me.” Marie-Rose laughed.

Hortense tossed her head. “Well, and why not? He should know what it is to have a fine, fit Frenchwoman in his bed, instead of his fat English broodmare.”

Marie-Rose leaned forward. “She’s nothing like that. I hear she’s a princess. A real German princess! And so beautiful, with her red hair and her blue eyes that sparkle . . .”

Hortense stood up and snapped her towel. “Princess or not, she’s lucky to have a man like that, an English-German cow like her. Why, her hair’s so short, she can hardly pin it back! And if I catch him by himself . . .”

Marie-Rose laughed again. “Well, you won’t, Hortense, not if you stayed by the door like a shadow. And do you know why?”

Hortense tossed her head.

“Ooh! Why?” Marguerite bounced in her chair.

Pierre poked his head through the doorway and brandished a little square of paper. “For the honeymoon suite, a bottle of champagne and a bowl of raspberries. Raspberries!
Sacré bleu!
”

Marie-Rose turned her wise eyes on little Marguerite and chucked her gently by the chin.

“Because, my dear. They are in love.”

T
he ninth Duke of Southam, after much consideration, placed the final raspberry in the hollow between the ninth Duchess of Southam’s breasts and set the bowl aside.

“Don’t move,” he said.

His wife giggled, and the raspberries on her nipples rolled away.

“See what you’ve done!” He shook his head and replaced the raspberries with exquisite care. “There. Perfect. Ah, look at you. You are the most delectable dessert I’ve ever seen.”

“But we haven’t even had dinner.”

“Hold still!”

Her laughing face assembled into a suppressed seriousness, and her limbs went still. But her eyes were wide and soft, and they gazed upon him as if he himself were her dinner, her feast, and she’d been fasting for weeks.

Which she hadn’t. Not even for hours.

He flexed his arms happily and bent over the first raspberry, in the hollow of her throat.

“Ooh! That tickles!”

“Hold still, my love. This is delicate work.” He lapped the raspberry into his mouth and tasted it, sweet berry and salty Stefanie. Exactly what he was hungry for.

He kissed his way downward to the next three raspberries, lined up in a flawless horizontal line: breast, cleavage, breast. He started from the left and nibbled his way right, gorging himself on the newly ripe fullness of her, the smooth slope of her blue-veined skin beneath his mouth.

His wife made a low sound in her throat and worked her hands into his hair. “I shouldn’t want this again,” she said. “We’ve hardly stopped all day. I believe the maid was scandalized when we came back in this afternoon.”

“What’s a man supposed to do when his wife gives him a look in the middle of the Tuileries?”

“Did I give you a look?”

“You most certainly did. And that dress you were wearing, with the lace about your breasts, reminding me how you looked while I made love to you this morning in your rakish new Parisian negligee. Anyway, I told you long ago that I was . . .”

“Insatiable.”

“Mmm. So you can’t say you weren’t warned.” He licked about her nipple, making sure every last trace of raspberry was gone, and then he suckled her in long pulses, until her back arched and a raspberry rolled away from the topmost point of her belly. “Haven’t I told you to lie still?” he said. “The night is short, and I have so many raspberries left to pluck.”