Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion (16 page)

“Come along, Zach,” Lord Nate said. “They are waiting for us.”

“Do come and sit with us, Lady St. John,” Lady Annalise said as the gentlemen moved towards the pitch. “This is Miss Brooke.”

“You must be the lady who designed the duchess’s jewellery. I have just now been admiring it. You are so very clever.”

Crista smiled. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, I am entire sure,” Lady St. John replied. “Such talent is a rare and special gift. Do not allow anyone to talk you out of doing what you do so well.”

Crista thought of her precarious finances and decided there was little chance of that happening.

“Now then,” Lady St. John said. “Who shall win this silly game, do you suppose?”

“Which brave soul acts as umpire?” Crista asked.

“Oh, the vicars from each village take it turn and turn about,” Lady Portia replied.

“That
is
brave,” Lady St. John said with an animated smile as she put up her parasol. Crista did not possess one, but since her face was already blighted by unsightly freckles it didn’t make much difference if the sun had its way with her complexion.

The duke’s team was to bat first, and the openers walked out to a smattering of applause.

“Oh my goodness,” Lady St. John said. “Look at the size of the man about to bowl. I should not like to face him.”

“That is the son of Compton’s blacksmith,” Lady Portia replied.

“Ah, that would account for all those muscles.”

“Lady St. John!” Lady Annalise sounded shocked but looked decidedly amused.

“Well, my dear, if they did not wish us to admire them, they would not run about in their shirtsleeves, showing themselves off, would they now? In France, I learned there is nothing wrong with open admiration for anything of beauty, albeit human or inanimate.”

“How very sensible of the French,” Crista replied. “Were you living there during the fighting?”

“We were never in any danger. My husband was something frightfully important in the government, our English government, that is, and we were always one step ahead of the skirmishes, thank goodness.”

And yet Lady St. John was a widow, so something had to have gone wrong. Crista did not like to ask but was filled with curiosity.

“What did Lord Romsey do in France?” Lady Annalise asked.

“Oh, good shot!” The ball sailed over the boundary rope for six. “He did, and I believe still does, fill a vital role in his majesty’s government. It’s all terribly hush-hush. You can never get them to talk about what they do. I gave up trying a long time ago.” She shrugged. “I probably would not understand it even if they attempted to explain.”

Crista could not recall a time when she had enjoyed herself more, or a time when she had felt more relaxed. She had forgotten
how
to relax, she realised now, because she had been living for so long under such a very great strain. But these ladies, who treated her as an equal and sought her opinion on every conceivable subject, were lively and engaging company.

As the game went on, Crista felt rather sorry for the beleaguered clergyman acting as umpire. All his decisions were met with loud protests by either one side or the other, but at least it didn’t come to blows. Lord Amos had just gone in to bat. He stood at the crease, looking around at the field placements, and Crista was sure his gaze briefly came to rest upon her, as though he wanted to be sure she was watching him. How could she not be? In his billowing shirt and tight breeches, his hair blowing in the breeze, and his hard, unyielding muscles at work beneath that shirt, he made a fine sight. The massively-built blacksmith’s son thundered down his run and let the ball fly at a terrifying rate. Crista felt the urge to duck and couldn’t understand why Lord Amos, at whom it was aimed, didn’t take evasive action. Instead, he swung his bat in a graceful arc, timed it beautifully, and sent the ball crashing to the boundary for four runs.

“Oh, well done!” Crista clapped louder than anyone else.

“The contest seems rather even,” Lady Portia remarked a short time later when another wicket had fallen, and Lord Amos was joined at the crease by the duke. Crista noticed a marked increase in the deployment of fans as the females watched the two brothers, standing in the middle of the wicket, conferring about tactics. Lady St. John appeared especially transfixed.

“They have better bowlers,” her sister replied. “I think we shall lose this year.”

“Does it really matter?” Crista asked.

“My dear, we are talking about a male sporting event.” Lady St. John’s scandalised expression made them all laugh. “They are such little boys, and
nothing
matters more. Absolutely nothing.”

“She is right,” Lady Portia said, raising both brows. “My brothers pretend it’s a massive bore, but they actually look forward to it for weeks in advance.”

“Is anyone thirsty?” Lady Annalise asked. “We shall have to serve ourselves. Almost all the servants have been given the afternoon off to join in the fun.”

A loud roar went up as the last wicket for the duke’s team fell. There was a brief respite, then the villagers took their turn to bat.

“They really are like little boys,” Lady Annalise said. “You are quite right about that, Lady St. John.”

“Oh, do call me Frankie. And I hope I may call you Anna.”

“Please do. But you are right. Look as them throwing themselves around the field as though their lives depended upon it.”

“It’s more important than that,” Lady Portia said, grinning. “It’s the family honour at stake.”

“Now let me see if I am following this right,” Lady St. John said. “The villagers need four more runs to win. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Lady Portia replied. “And they have two more balls from which to score those runs.”

Lord Vincent was bowling. Crista ought to be supporting the villagers, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she willed his lordship to clean bowl the blacksmith’s son, now wielding his bat in massive fists and making it look like a flimsy stick of wood. All the ladies fell silent as the first ball hurled down the wicket and flew past the blacksmith’s bat. No run.

“One ball left,” Crista said to no one in particular, chewing the inside of her lip in her anxiety. “The blacksmith must hit a boundary.”

He squared up, looking as if he had every intention of doing precisely that. When the ball was delivered, he caught it squarely in the centre of his bat and sent it hurtling over the bowler’s head, directly towards the ladies’ position. It travelled at a ferocious rate, causing Lady Annalise and her sister to instinctively take evasive action. Crista, on the other hand, felt unable to move. The ball came closer, and she heard voices shouting her name. A ball hit as hard as this one had been, picking up speed as it shot through the air, could kill her. Crista knew that, but if she moved, the villagers would win. It was a ridiculous thought to have, but she was unable to dislodge it from her stupid brain.

She looked up and saw the red orb still heading directly for her. Getting closer. Her occupation had given her very good hand-eye co-ordination. She stared at the ball as it fell towards her, and suddenly leapt from her seat. She stepped inside the boundary, reached up and caught it one-handed.

“Oh my goodness!” Lady Annalise’s voice barely registered.

The stultifying silence was broken by a roar of voices, including the entire duke’s team shouting
How was that?
at the umpire. The clergyman considered the matter and slowly raised his finger, indicating the blacksmith had been dismissed. Pandemonium broke out. The duke’s team had won because Crista caught the final ball of the innings.

Crista clapped a hand to her mouth when it looked as if the entire spectacle was about to degenerate into a massive brawl. “What on earth have I done?” she muttered.

***

Lord Amos was still chuckling to himself about the result of the game as he dressed in a clean shirt and stood in front of the glass to tie his neckcloth. He was anxious to find Miss Brooke and offer his congratulations. That was one of the best catches he had ever witnessed. Anarchy had been saved by the game being declared an honourable draw, but everyone knew the duke’s team had won on a technicality. There was nothing in the rules to preclude a spectator from taking a catch, although the villagers had declared, long and increasingly loudly as they quenched their collective thirst with copious amounts of Jeggins’ ale that in future years there ought to be. Being beaten was hard enough to swallow. Having a female take the winning catch spelt total humiliation.

Whistling to himself, Amos descended the stairs and walked past Zach’s library. Voices came from within but didn’t slow him down. Zach’s voice however did.

“Spare me a moment, Amos,” the duke said, leaning through the open door. “You need to hear this.”

Annoyed at being prevented from seeking out Miss Brooke immediately, Amos turned into the library, and Zach shut the door behind him. Romsey, Zach’s friend from his Oxford days, was also in the room. The gentlemen were drinking whisky, and Zach poured one for Amos without bothering to ask if he would like one.

“Thank you,” Amos said, taking a sip of his drink, wondering why the mood was so sombre, and what it had to do with him.

“You are probably not aware that Romsey here is part of His Majesty’s Diplomatic Corp,” Zach said.

“No, I didn’t know that,” Amos replied. “That would explain why you’ve been living abroad, I suppose. Must have been a lot for you to do following the end of the war.”

“Quite,” Romsey replied. “I came back to England about a year ago, after the pater died, and I assumed the title, but I’m still actively involved at the foreign office. I’ve also just taken over responsibility for the new police office in Southampton and wanted to speak to Winchester here about criminal activity in the area.”

“Romsey has his hands full. There is plenty for him to sort out on this side of the channel regarding his diplomatic efforts in Europe,” Zach said. His dour expression caused Amos to feel a moment’s concern, a premonition that he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

“Something I can help with?” he asked politely.

“Very possibly, but I’ll let Romsey explain.”

“Looting.” Romsey said succinctly, handing his glass to Zach for a refill. “You would not believe me if I told you the amount of treasure Napoleon and the French forces looted from the countries they conquered. Suffice it to say, the looting was on an unprecedented scale.”

“I’m not condoning it,” Amos replied. “But it happens in wars, we all know that.”

“Not on this scale. To the best of our knowledge, he got the taste for it in ’98 when he supposedly liberated the Maltese from the Knights of St. John.” Romsey paused to sip his drink. “He also liberated seven million francs’ worth of treasures from the island’s monasteries, churches and residences while he was about it. Then he moved his thieving ways on to Egypt, and while doing more liberating, this time from the Ottoman Turks, the state treasury was emptied. Our sources suggest that at least half of it went directly into Napoleon’s own purse.”

Amos let out a low whistle. “Much good it did him.”

“Quite, but part of my assignment in the peace dealings is to force the French to send back much of what they stole.” Romsey lifted his shoulders. “Hardly surprisingly, many works still remain in French hands, impossible to track down, or have been
lost
by the soldiers assigned to transport them.”

Amos and Zach exchanged a glance. “There’s human nature for you,” Amos said.

“Quite, but I am pleased to say our troops managed to discover a large part of Napoleon’s personal loot. We weren’t taking any chances and decided to remove it to safety until we could identify its rightful owners. Before we did that, we had the sense to have the whole lot catalogued. I oversaw that myself, thinking light fingers were less likely to purloin it if we had a full account of what was there.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work,” Amos said. “Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“No, I handpicked the squad of soldiers who were to accompany the wagons to a safe and secret location.” He grimaced. “Not so very secret as it transpired. The entire squad was ambushed, annihilated, and the loot stolen.”

“Ah, I see.” Amos grimaced. “Presumably, very few people knew of this, so you suspect involvement from someone on the inside.”

“Right, and now some of the stolen pieces have shown up on this side of the channel.”

“Increasing your suspicions of English involvement?”

“Absolutely, and I have been charged with finding out who was actually behind it all.” Romsey paced the length of the room in some agitation. It was clear to Amos he felt personally responsible for the lost treasure and the needless deaths of the men set to protect it. “At first I didn’t take much notice, thinking one or two pieces would be bound to find their way into the hands of unscrupulous collectors prepared to pay whatever it cost to possess such rare artefacts. Part of the haul was exquisite gemstones.”

Amos’s entire body jerked. Now he was starting to understand why Zach had wanted him to hear this, but surely he didn’t think Miss Brooke could be involved.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Romsey nodded. “Oh yes, there can be no doubt. Some of the stones were very rare and distinctive, and turned up in specially commission jewellery, made by one of the top designers in the country. His work is greatly sought-after and commands top prices. We were closing in on him when he died, was brutally murdered in fact, a few months ago.”

“What was his name?” Amos asked with a sinking heart, already knowing what the answer would be. This was the missing link that had been niggling in the back of his mind. The connection between the name Brooke and jewellery.

“David Brooke,” Romsey said.

“Sorry, Amos,” Zach said, his tone terse yet sympathetic. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

Amos felt a virulent rage surge through him and moved away from the hand Zach tried to place on his shoulder. “You knew about this and didn’t warn me?”

“Romsey just this minute told me, and I immediately called you in. He had no idea about Miss Brooke being here before today. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, and still do not, but my first loyalty is to King and country. My second is to the welfare of this district. You said yourself something isn’t right about Miss Brooke. She never told you who her father was, and allowed us all to think she learned what she knows about jewellery from her uncle.”