Duke of a Gilded Age (40 page)

“Perhaps we could contact Mr. Blankenship to ask a few subtle questions about his son?”

“Unfortunately, the poor man perished of malaria shortly after losing much of his fortune. His wife, Maude Delacroix, was a retired stage actress who since remarried. Errol seldom speaks of her, and I gather he doesn’t approve of his mother’s new husband.”

“I find it curious that Errol would move to Mansbury and immediately attach himself to Annabelle. She’s exceptionally beautiful, but a man like him strikes me as the sort who would rather marry for money.”

“Your grasp of the fellow’s character is discerning, and I’ve wondered the same thing. I did make him aware that Annabelle’s dowry is modest, but he wasn’t dissuaded. It’s all very puzzling.”

“It’s maddening.”

Mr. Oakhurst’s frown deepened. “My sister’s letter has me quite worried about Annabelle’s frame of mind.”

“I’ll do anything to help, Mr. Oakhurst. Anything at all.”

“My relationship with Mr. Heathcliff has been strained, to put it mildly, but I thought if I mended fences it would cheer her greatly.”

“Annabelle had some harsh words for her grandfather at one time, but I detected a certain wistfulness when she spoke of him. It definitely would help lift her from her doldrums if he showed interest in her.”

“To that end, I sent Mr. Heathcliff a letter, inviting him to the wedding, but I’ve not heard back. It’s possible he may be harboring some rather understandable ill will. Would you be willing to travel to Gloucester, to speak with him on my behalf?”

“I’d be delighted to be of service, and if Mr. Heathcliff can return with me to Caisteal Park, so much the better. I’ll have you and Annabelle over for dinner and we’ll surprise her.”

“Excellent. I knew I could count on you.”

Mr. Oakhurst took his arm out of its sling long enough to write a Gloucester address on a piece of paper.

“You’ll find Mr. Heathcliff at this address. Will you do me one additional service?” he asked.

“You need only ask.”

“Before Annabelle and I embarked on our journey to America, I took out a small mortgage on this house. I thought it would be wise to have extra funds along, in case of an emergency. Since I didn’t spend anything out of the ordinary, I can repay the note of indebtedness immediately.”

Mr. Oakhurst produced a leather envelope full of cash and a letter to the bank manager, written in spidery handwriting.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t perish from my wound, or no one would have known this money was secreted underneath the false bottom of my trunk. Would you take it down to the bank and bring the cancelled note back to me? I’d be exceedingly grateful.”

Elated to be embarking on a course of action at last, Wesley gathered up the leather envelope, letter, and Mr. Heathcliff’s address. “I’ll return from the bank within the hour, and then Cavendish and I will take a train to Gloucester this afternoon.”

“Where shall I say you’ve gone, should Annabelle inquire?”

“If she asks, tell her I went to town. Just don’t mention which one.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mr. Hamish Heathcliff

M
R
. H
EATHCLIFF’S
C
OUNTRY
E
STATE
, called Brimstone Manor, was located about ten miles from the Gloucester rail station. Built of gray Cotswold stone, the structure was constructed in an open-ended E shape, with a steeply pitched brown stone tiled roof. The grounds were extensive, with a mix of open fields, stands of trees, and gardens. As Wesley and Cavendish emerged from the cab onto the courtyard, Wesley gave the house an appraising glance.

“It’s rather Medieval-looking,” Wesley observed.

“Sixteenth-century Elizabethan architecture, I believe,” Cavendish said.

“I like it.”

Cavendish asked the driver to wait. Wesley’s boots crunched in the light gravel as he made his way to the door. The cast-iron door knocker was fashioned in the head of a lion, and Wesley laughed.

“Is something funny?” Cavendish asked.

Still chuckling, Wesley pointed at the door knocker. “It’s just so Dickensian.”

“You Americans are quite easily amused.”

Cavendish lifted the iron ring and let it drop. After a short wait, a butler opened the door. “Welcome home, sir—” The man’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “Oh, pardon me, gentlemen. I thought you were the master. May I help you?”

“I’m the Duke of Mansbury, and this is Mr. Cavendish,” Wesley replied. “We’re here to see Mr. Heathcliff.”

“He’s not here, but I’m expecting him back from London any moment. Would you care to wait?”

“Thank you, yes,” Wesley said.

The butler ushered Wesley and Cavendish inside and showed them into the drawing room. “My name is Trask. Please ring should you require anything.”

He bowed and left. Cavendish took a seat on one of the elaborately carved sofas, and entertained himself by admiring the many intricate and colorful tapestries hung on the walls. Wesley focused immediately on the enormous oil painting hung over the large marble fireplace. The beautiful woman depicted therein bore a striking and uncanny resemblance to Belle.

“That must be Belle’s grandmother!” he exclaimed.

Cavendish tore his gaze away from a ten-foot long tapestry, and peered at the painting instead. “My heavens, the likeness is remarkable.”

The woman’s hand was resting on the back of a chair, and a pretty little girl wearing dark ringlets was sitting at her feet.

“The child must be Miss Oakhurst’s mother,” Cavendish mused.

“I wish I could’ve met them both.” Wesley glanced around the room. “No painting of the current Mrs. Heathcliff?”

“That must annoy her exceedingly.”

A commotion in the entry hall heralded the arrival of Mr. Heathcliff. After a brief, muffled conversation in the corridor, the man himself entered the drawing room. His imposing presence preceded him; steel gray hair encased his head like a warrior’s helmet, and intelligent blue eyes sized Wesley up as if he were a battle to be fought.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Mr. Heathcliff said.

Wesley bowed. “My name is Wesley Parker, the Duke of Mansbury. Please allow me to introduce Mr. Cavendish.”

Cavendish bowed graciously. “At your service, sir.”

Mr. Heathcliff returned their bows, but his gaze immediately focused on Wesley. “You’re that American chap I read about in the newspapers.”

Taken aback, Wesley hesitated. “I didn’t realize I was in the papers.”

“You’re in quite a few articles, as a matter of fact. Your heroics on the voyage to England were impressive, as were those of your valet. My son-in-law acted heroically as well. Apparently, Oakhurst got himself shot while foiling an attack on you?”

“Yes, sir, but he’s at home recovering.”

“Seldom have I ever approved of my son-in-law, but his behavior on that occasion was admirable,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“Your granddaughter is getting married very soon, and Mr. Oakhurst sent you a letter inviting you to the wedding.” Wesley nearly choked on the words, but he pushed forward. “He hopes you’ll attend for Annabelle’s sake. Since you’d sent him no reply, I came to plead his case.”

“I never saw the letter.” Mr. Heathcliff rang for Trask, who appeared in the doorway promptly. “Bring me any correspondence that arrived in my absence, please.”

“Right away, sir.” The butler disappeared.

A sardonic smile crept onto Mr. Heathcliff’s lips. “My wife ought to have forwarded my letters to me while I was in town, but she takes every opportunity to thwart me.”

Wesley was unsure how to respond. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“As am I. Mrs. Heathcliff and I became estranged over her son Dickie, who is a scoundrel, a rake, and a thief. If he should cross my path, I’ll have him arrested, despite his mother’s remonstrations to the contrary.”

“Your wife isn’t at home then, I take it?” Wesley asked.

“No, we’re never in residence at the same time anymore. She left for Italy yesterday, per my instructions.” Mr. Heathcliff folded his arms across his chest and looked at Wesley, askance. “So on the occasion of Annabelle’s wedding, Lionel Oakhurst will finally allow me to meet my granddaughter?”

Wesley and Cavendish exchanged a confused glance.

“I don’t understand,” Wesley said. “Forgive me, but I thought your disinterest stemmed from your disapproval of Mr. Oakhurst…not the other way around.”

“My disinterest?” An expression of sadness transformed Mr. Heathcliff’s face, adding ten years to his age. “In marrying Oakhurst, Lucy disobeyed my wishes, yes, but after my granddaughter was born my opinion softened. By then, however, my son-in-law resented my attitude too thoroughly to allow me to have a normal relationship with either Lucy or Annabelle. To be perfectly honest, I don’t blame him.”

Trask entered the drawing room with a bundle of envelopes, presented them to his employer, and left. Mr. Heathcliff sorted through the stack until he found Mr. Oakhurst’s letter. He slit the envelope open, and scanned its contents. To Wesley’s bewilderment, Mr. Heathcliff’s eyes widened, his face flushed, and his hands began to tremble.

“
Great Scott!”
he thundered, giving full voice to the imprecation.

Trask burst into the room at a run. “Is anything amiss, sir?”

“Have Benson pack a trunk for me with fresh clothes,” he exclaimed. “I’m leaving for Mansbury first thing tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Wright had prepared Belle’s favorite chicken pie for dinner, but she only ate a bite or two before pushing her plate away. Mr. Oakhurst gave his daughter a worried glance. “My sister mentioned you weren’t eating well, and I can see for myself you’ve lost weight. Can’t you finish your meal?”

To please her father, Belle picked up her fork. “Yes, Papa.”

A few bites later, however, she could eat no more.

“Really, Aunt Meg served a sumptuous breakfast this morning,” she said. “I believe it must have filled me up.”

“I’m sure it would have, if you’d eaten any of it,” her father murmured.

Belle pretended not to have heard him.

“Shopping is very exhausting work,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“Meg wrote that you’d purchased very little for your trousseau.”

“Perhaps not, but we did visit a great many shops. Whatever I need can be found here in Mansbury, and it will help the local economy besides.” Belle smiled as she examined her father’s visage. “You look a vast deal improved, Papa. I’m very glad to see it.”

“I’m healing rapidly. I find I’m able to dispense with the arm sling for short periods of time, and already I’ve managed to do a little work.”

“You’re doing amazingly well, Papa. Did you know your name is in the London newspapers?”

“What?”

“Yes, I brought some of the newspaper articles home with me. In the events surrounding the
Apollo
and the aftermath of its foundering, you, Mr. Van Eyck, and His Grace are painted as heroes. Even Cavendish received a mention.”

An expression of distaste crossed Mr. Oakhurst’s face. “I would have preferred to have been left out of it.”

“Why? You
were
a hero, and you should be honored as such. Perhaps the publicity will help bring clients in to your law practice.”

“Believe me, I have all the work I can manage dealing with the young duke’s business affairs,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “I’m feeling so much better, I may take the carriage to Caisteal Park tomorrow afternoon with some documents for His Grace to sign.”

Although it would be a form of exquisite torture, Belle was longing to see Wesley—even if from afar.

“Would you mind awfully if I accompanied you?” she asked. “His Grace might like to see the newspaper articles.”

“Wesley isn’t at home, at present. He went to town for a day or two.”

Belle tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh. Perhaps I’ll call upon Lady Frederic, then. When last we spoke, His Grace mentioned that she wished to speak with me.”