Heirs and Graces (A Royal Spyness Mystery) (5 page)

“So how do you propose to explain my presence?” I asked.

“Suitably vague, I think. Old friends with your royal grandmother and invited you to stay for a while. Maybe recuperating from an illness and needed good, country air. Yes, I think that should do it.”

I wondered why we needed a good reason to invite me until I realized that of course it was no longer her house. It was presumably up to her son, the present duke, to do the inviting. And he was a self-confessed woman hater. I wondered what he’d say about my arrival.

Chapter 5

KINGSDOWNE PLACE, EYNSFORD, KENT

Dear Diary, I have fallen on my feet for once. It’s gorgeous.

As the Bentley came to a halt outside the front steps, a bevy of footmen rushed out to open the doors for us.

“Welcome to Kingsdowne Place, my lady,” one said, assisting me from the backseat. He was dressed in a smart, black livery with gold buttons. It was almost like being back at Buckingham Palace. Another footman was attempting to assist the dowager duchess from her seat.

“I am not quite an invalid yet, Frederick,” she said. “There is no need to lug me from the backseat like a sack of coals.”

“Sorry, Your Grace.” The boy turned scarlet.

“Come along, my dear,” she said to me, using her cane to stride up the steps ahead of me. We entered a magnificent foyer. In the center a broad staircase ascended to a landing, where it divided in two to rise to the next level. The walls and ceiling were painted with enormous Renaissance-style Italianate murals of Greek gods and goddesses. While I tried not to gawp, the duchess said, “I don’t suppose your maid has arrived yet with your things, so you won’t be able to change for luncheon. But I’ll have Frederick show you up to your room so that you can have a wash and brushup after the journey.”

Oh, Lord. They didn’t change for luncheon here, did they? Did that mean something for the morning, an afternoon tea dress for tea, a dinner gown
and
something different for luncheon?

I was relieved when she added, “One’s clothes do get so crumpled on the journey that I always like to have them pressed as soon as possible.”

I gave her a weak smile.

“And when you’re ready come down to the Long Gallery. I’ll have sandwiches and coffee served there. I expect you’re famished after that long trip.”

It hadn’t been much more than an hour, but I’d avoided Mrs. Tombs’s earlier, halfhearted attempt at breakfast and was certainly ready to eat. Frederick picked up my overnight bag and jewelry case and set off up the grand stair. I followed, finding it hard to take my eyes off the voluptuous, half-nude figures and cupids that covered the walls and ceiling. At the first landing, we turned to the left and set off down a hallway, which seemed to go on forever. Along the walls the Altringham ancestors glared down at me from their portraits, each one with the bulging, pale eyes that were obviously an inherited trait. From the look of some of them, I wondered if insanity might also be an inherited trait, in which case a breath of fresh air and fresh blood from Australia might be a good thing.

At last Frederick opened a door and I stepped into a spacious and elegant room. No Victorian frou-frou and bric-a-brac here—the furniture had the clean lines of the Georgians, the four-poster bed was covered in a blue-and-white, silken counterpane. There were two chintz-covered ladies’ chairs around the marble fireplace, and a pretty little Queen Anne writing desk sat in one of the bay windows. Really it was the most inviting bedroom I had ever seen—a room in which one could easily stay for a month or more.

Frederick put down my cases on a bench. “I don’t know if Her Grace will be wanting to move you to somewhere more suitable,” he said. “We only heard you were coming last night so we were told to put you in one of the guest rooms for now.”

If this wasn’t suitable, I wondered what was. And in case you think I wasn’t used to staying at the best houses, I’d actually stayed at Balmoral with the king and queen every August. It was a requirement of being related to the royals. And trust me, Balmoral is Spartan compared to this—and one has to endure tartan carpets! I had also stayed at a wide variety of stately homes and family seats, but for sheer opulence and elegance this was going to be hard to beat. It struck me that there was still a significant family fortune connected to this title. As I looked out of the window, I heard the crunch of more tires on gravel and wondered if it could be Queenie arriving from the station. But instead a brand-spanking-new Rolls-Royce was pulling up. A chauffeur in a smart, green uniform leaped out and came around to open the back door. Out of it stepped a portly, middle-aged man. He was dressed in a black-velvet jacket and rather baggy trousers. He stood, looking around and as if on cue, three young men came bounding like colts from behind a high hedge in the formal side garden. They too were dressed in black, form-fitting garments, and the way they moved made me think I was watching a ballet in progress. They greeted the portly man with hugs, dancing around him like a group of greyhounds, greeting their master.

I wondered if I was indeed looking at the master of this house. At least this current scene might explain his refusal to marry! After a sheltered youth such things no longer shocked me. Mummy’s good friend was Noël Coward and I had been to parties with his cronies, and I had met plenty of young men who would probably also never marry. Actually I enjoyed the witty banter and the air of urbanity—so remote from the austere halls of Castle Rannoch, where I was raised by a God-fearing, hellfire-breathing Presbyterian nanny.

I remembered that the dowager duchess was probably waiting for me downstairs. There was even a washbasin with hot and cold running water in one corner of the room and I removed my hat, washed my face and hands and brushed my hair. But I was rather in need of a lavatory. I glanced at the bell that hung beside my bed on a brocade pull. One tug would bring a servant running, but surely I could locate the nearest bathroom without help? I had just come out of my door when I heard the swish of starched skirts and a maid came toward me, carrying a pile of sheets.

“Can I help you, my lady?” she asked.

I mentioned that I was looking for the bathroom, having been brought up by Nanny not to mention unmentionable words like “lavatory.”

“This way, please. Not far at all. I put you in the nicest of the guest rooms for now,” she said. “I hope it meets with your approval.”

“It’s lovely, thank you. . . .” I gave her an inquiring look.

“Elsie, my lady. Elsie Hobbs, head housemaid. Let me know if there’s anything that you need, and I’ll take care of it.”

She had a pleasant, open face and she was giving me a genuine smile. “Actually there is something,” I said. “My maid will be arriving shortly. I’m afraid she’s still . . . a little raw around the edges. And in a great house like this, she may need a little instruction in how to behave.”

“Don’t worry, my lady. I’ll take her under my wing. It was terrifying for all of us when we first came here.”

“Have you been here long, Elsie?”

“Fifteen years, my lady. I came as a girl of fourteen, right after leaving school. My dad was killed in the war so I had to go out to work to support my mum.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I’m not. I landed on my feet here. Her Grace may be strict and demand a high standard from us, but she’s a fair mistress.”

“What about the present duke?”

“His Grace doesn’t show that much interest in the running of the household—unless we do something wrong. Then we hear about it. He sacked poor William on the spot last week because he tidied up the papers on His Grace’s desk so he could dust it, and apparently he changed the order of pages. I mean, how was he to know?”

I nodded in sympathy.

“And he’d been here longer than me as well. Came here right after being sent home wounded from the Somme.”

She stopped and pushed open a door, showing me a bathroom containing a tub almost big enough to swim in, and a next-door lavatory. I made use of this before I retraced my steps back to the grand staircase. I was standing in that central foyer, wondering where the Long Gallery might be when a most imposing figure in a black frock coat appeared. I’d been in enough great houses, including our own, to know that butlers often look grander than their masters.

“Welcome to Kingsdowne, my lady,” he said with a small bow. “I am Huxstep, His Grace’s butler. I must apologize for not being here to greet you on your arrival. I did not hear the motorcar, as I was in the wine cellar and my hearing is not what it used to be. Her Grace asked me to escort you through to the Long Gallery.”

I followed him through an archway to the right and found that the Long Gallery was well named. It stretched away in front of me with great, arched windows that sent in shafts of slanting sunlight at intervals. It was wood paneled with an exquisite gilded and carved wood ceiling. I guessed that it had been the great hall of the original house. In the center of the long wall, an enormous marble fireplace, big enough to roast an ox, rose to the ceiling, a log fire burning merrily in the grate. There were clusters of sofas and chairs placed at intervals along the length of the room and at one of these clusters, close to the fireplace, the dowager duchess was now seated, working her way through a pile of sandwiches and biscuits. She motioned for me to join her.

“Is the room to your liking?” she asked. “It was all so very last-minute that I didn’t have time to think where you would be most comfortable.”

“Thank you, it’s a lovely room. I shall be quite comfortable there, I assure you.”

“The view is better from the other side of the house,” she said, “but that seems to have become our bachelor wing—my son’s guests, you understand.”

“I think I saw them just now. They came running up when a Rolls appeared.”

“Did you?” She pursed her lips in disapproving fashion. “That would be my son returning from town. He went up to London to see a show in the West End. He was a benefactor, so I understand. He sees himself as a Medici—a great patron of the arts.” She gave a contemptuous sniff. “Hasn’t an ounce of talent himself, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from composing dreadful music and painting dreadful pictures and surrounding himself with those obnoxious young men.” She looked up from her sandwich. “The Starlings, they call themselves. I haven’t decided whether they think they are future stars in terms of the arts, or whether they simply dress in black and twitter a lot.”

I had to smile.

“Black or white?” Her Grace said, indicating to a maid that she should pour coffee.

“Oh, white please, at this time of day.”

A cup of milky coffee was placed in front of me and I reached forward to take a ham sandwich. One thing was clear—I was not going to starve in this place. After Fig’s austerity measures and then Mrs. Tombs’s cooking, I felt like I was in heaven.

Her Grace looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps. “That will be my son now. No mention of why you’re here. He’s not the easiest of people, and he doesn’t take kindly to my meddling.”

I looked up as the Duke of Eynsford came toward us. He was probably once a moderately good-looking man, now gone to seed. His face was podgy, with extra chins and his black velvet jacket was buttoned tightly over an impressive paunch. His hair was already thinning but combed across his bald spot, making him look older than his forty-nine years.

“Hello, Mother,” he said. “Opening night was a resounding success. The critics loved it. I shall reap a handsome little amount for my investment, as well as introducing the world to a brilliant new playwright.” He stopped as he suddenly noticed me. “Hello,” he said. “I see we have visitors.”

“Just one visitor, Cedric,” the dowager countess said. “This is Georgiana Rannoch. You remember that her grandmother, Queen Victoria’s daughter, was most kind to me when I was a new lady-in-waiting.”

“Oh yes. Right.” He could not have looked less interested, and I wondered if it crossed his mind that I might have been brought down here in a last, desperate attempt to marry him off to someone suitable. He came over and held out a limp hand. “How do you do? I’m Cedric, as I’m sure she’s told you. Your brother is the present Duke of Rannoch, isn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him at the House of Lords.”

“Binky rarely comes down from Scotland,” I said. “He’s not very comfortable in a big city.”

“Can’t think why not,” Cedric said. He reached over, grabbed a sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth in one go. “Cities are where all the action is—the pulse of life of a nation. Art. Culture. Theater. They are what make a nation come alive.” He looked at me appraisingly. “So, are you just passing through? Paying a courtesy call upon Mama?”

Before I could answer this, the dowager duchess said for me, “She may be staying for a while, Cedric. The poor little thing has been under the weather. I told her she needs good food and country air to build her up again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, leaving it to me to judge whether he was sorry I’d been under the weather or sorry that I’d be staying. I rather thought the latter.

“And it might be helpful to have another young person in the house when your nephew arrives,” she said glibly, as if this had just occurred to her. “He’ll find it overwhelmingly strange and I presume quite terrifying, poor boy.”

“My nephew,” Cedric said with a snort of contempt. “If he
is
my nephew. I’m still not convinced. Those Australians would sell their grandmother for tuppence.”

“I’m sure we’ll know when we see him,” the dowager said. “Supposedly he has a strong family resemblance. And since you’re not doing your part to produce an heir . . .”