The Duke's Last Hunt (16 page)

16

J
acob Pevensey stepped into the warm office of the Bow Street Magistrate. He was a Londoner, born and bred, and a good thing too, else he might resent the heat, and the fog, and the smell that meant summer in England’s largest city.

He had just finished an inquiry into a theft—a pretty piece of jewelry that a doting doctor had bought for his young wife. The concerned husband had found it missing and blamed servants, tradesmen, even guests. It had never occurred to him that his darling wife, having run through her pin money, might sell the emerald necklace to finance her amusements at the gaming table. Pevensey, who had uncovered the real reason for the necklace’s disappearance, felt a little sorry for her. He was glad she was out of the house when he came to reveal the truth to her formerly indulgent husband.

Pevensey had written up his own report of events to place on Sir Richard’s desk. The head magistrate liked to be kept apprised of all cases solved and unsolved. It was the only document that Pevensey had composed about the affair; he was notorious for storing all his notes for a case in the one place where nobody else could find them—his head. He had hoped to slip the report onto a vacant desk and edge his way back out of the office for an early end to the day’s work, but the desk chair was decidedly and masterfully occupied.

“You have a letter,” said Sir Richard, exchanging the paperwork Pevensey handed him for another piece that threatened more work.

Pevensey put a smile on his face, but inwardly he was groaning at his bad luck. “Who is it from?” He turned the folded packet over in his hands.

“By the seal, I would say the Duke of Brockenhurst.” Richard Ford knew everyone in London, from the peers in Parliament to the actresses at the Drury Lane Theater. It stood to reason that he would recognize every seal that came across his desk.

“Could you inform me of the contents as well?” said Pevensey, his freckled face lighting up with mischief.

“Cheeky fellow,” said Sir Richard, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “Read it yourself and tell
me
what Brockenhurst wants.”

Pevensey examined the contents of the letter. “Brockenhurst is dead.”

“Strange that he should write you a letter then,” said Sir Richard, his lined face appreciating the irony of the matter.

“It’s from his brother. The duke was killed during a hunt. Purported to be an accident but needs investigation. The local magistrate and constable are inexperienced and asking for reinforcement.”

“Why
you
, Pevensey?”

Pevensey had been asking himself the same question. “I suppose word’s got out about the Anglesford case. But that was a one-time affair. London’s my jurisdiction, Sir Richard. I can’t be gadding about Sussex when I have work here.”

“But haven’t you just finished your last case?” said Sir Richard, looking pointedly at the report freshly placed on his desk. “The death of a peer is a serious matter and certainly deserving of a qualified investigator.”

Pevensey cocked his head, his red sideburn nearly touching his neat collar on the left. “Are you ordering me to take this assignment, Sir Richard?”

“Yes,” said Sir Richard, leaning forward and reaching into a drawer. “And I’ll even supply your travel expenses up front.” He handed Pevensey a bank note. “If you change horses, you can be there by nightfall.”

Pevensey took a deep breath and made one last effort for a quiet evening. “Surely, tomorrow morning would be adequate.”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Richard, waving Pevensey away as a signal that he desired no more argument. “It’s not as if Harrowhaven is all the way to Brighton.”

“Of course, Sir Richard,” said Pevensey, forcing a smile and giving a curt bow on his way out of the office.

As he turned into the corridor, he deposited Sir Richard’s bank note in his waistcoat pocket. Then, reaching into the letter, he pulled out a ten pound note and placed it in his pocket as well. It was always nice to be doubly reimbursed for travel expenses. But somehow, it did not quite make up for the prospect of an afternoon ride to Sussex in the wilting summer heat.

* * *

When Eliza went upstairs, she
found her parents hidden away in their private sitting room discussing the impact of the day’s awful turn of events.

“It was not the will of God,” said Lady Malcolm grimly.

“Yes, Margaret. Clearly!” Sir Arthur threw his head back and sighed. “Apparently, it’s His will instead that we all beg for pennies outside the workhouse.”

“Arthur! Don’t blaspheme.”

Eliza’s father muttered underneath his breath.

“Eliza, my dear,” said Lady Malcolm, rising from her seat. “You must be overwhelmed. Sit down.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Eliza. She was still wearing her green riding habit, and she adjusted the side train to drape properly on the seat of the wingback chair.

“We should leave as soon as we can,” said Lady Malcolm, pacing the room with her hands behind her back. “Tomorrow.”

Eliza’s heart took a little jump. It would be unfortunate to leave Harrowhaven so soon. But then, of course, it might not be pleasant for the family to have them stay.

“Not possible,” growled Sir Arthur. “There’s to be an investigation.”

“I thought you said it was an accident!”

“It was. But when a duke dies, they do things thoroughly. We’ll be lucky to leave here by the end of the week.”

Eliza rubbed a hand against her ear. Three more days here—maybe four. She wondered if the investigation meant that all the other houseguests would be staying on as well? Mr. Blount, Mr. Curtis, Henry Rowland….

“How tedious,” said Lady Malcolm, “now that there’s nothing here worth staying for.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Arthur. “Why couldn’t that blasted Turold have fired a foot to the right? He’s shot a hole in our fortunes, that’s certain. Unless…unless….” Sir Arthur fingered his chin and looked over at Eliza. “Eliza, does it seem to you that the younger Rowland brother has eyes for you?”

“I don’t know, Papa.” Eliza’s voice quavered. It was quite clear what scheme her father was hatching now.

“I think he does. He seems quite smitten, in fact. I wonder if our protracted visit might be for the best.”

“What foolishness is this, Arthur?” Lady Margaret gave a chilly sniff. “Whatever notion you have clamoring in your head, silence it immediately. The younger brother is not at all suitable.”

“He’ll be duke now,” said Sir Arthur, leaning forward eagerly. “That makes him very suitable. And I think that Eliza has already got his goodwill.”

“A ridiculous notion.”

“Nonsense, Margaret. It’s a splendid idea, and very biblical too, if I’m not mistaken—the younger brother marrying the bride of the elder who perishes prematurely. Eliza? You shall do your best. Be friendly to him, yes?”

Eliza crushed a handful of green fabric inside her right hand. “Of course, Papa. As you wish.” It took all her willpower to keep from smiling.

“No,” said Lady Malcolm, the intensity in her quiet voice replacing the volume. “I forbid it. It was enough that you made us come here, Arthur, to throw our daughter in the way of…these people. And look what good came of it! It is
not
God’s will. He has shown that plainly. We shall keep to our rooms and bide our time and leave at the earliest opportunity. Eliza, you are to have nothing to do with the younger brother. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Mama,” said Eliza, but the light refused to leave her eyes. She looked at her father, but he voiced no argument and merely hunched back in his chair, his shoulders expressing his frustration. As for herself, she had not given up hope quite yet. There was still time for her mother to change her mind regarding Henry Rowland.

* * *

Hayward and Mrs. Forsythe presented
themselves together at the door of the study. “Your grace,” said Hayward hesitantly.

At the unfamiliar address, Henry looked up from the account books—old friends that he had not visited these three years or more. “Come in, both of you. What can I do for you?”

“It is late afternoon now, your grace.” Hayward hesitated. “It is not a matter of great importance, but the luncheon for today after the…. It was never served.”

“And no matter the event, people must eat,” said Henry, understandingly. “You are quite right. Set out a sideboard of cold meats in the dining room, and send up a tray to everyone who has retired to their rooms.”

He stood up from the desk.

“What can we get for
you
, your grace?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Henry. “But I shall bring the tray up to my mother when it is ready.”

“If you please,” said the housekeeper, “she’s had some tea already and has fallen asleep. I sat with her until she did.”

“Thank you,” said Henry. He pressed Mrs. Forsythe’s wrinkled hand. “Then in that case, I shall take up the tray to Miss Malcolm.”

“Of course, your grace,” said Hayward without batting an eye.

Henry sat back down with the account books while he waited for the tray to be sent in. He felt a gnawing in his stomach, but it was not hunger. It was something else.

He had not been able to convince Eliza to stand up against her father and reject his brother, but circumstances had intervened, and now, she was free. That was why he had remained at Harrowhaven—was it not?—to save her from the indignity of marriage to a scoundrel. But was that the only reason? No, honesty compelled him to admit to himself, there was more to it than that.

He thought of her tall, willowy form at the top of the staircase, her shy spirit with far more strength to it than an observer might suppose. He remembered her stricken face from yesterday evening and the silent cry of despair coming from her eyes. Those beautiful green eyes that a man—the right man—could lose himself in. He wanted Eliza Malcolm, wanted her desperately for himself.

Rufus was gone now—his presence would not stand in the way of Henry’s plans. But his absence might. Henry could not imagine Sir Arthur rejecting an offer to continue the betrothal in Rufus’ place. But Eliza? Would she concur? The past five days had set in motion a chain of events each more tumultuous than the last. Perhaps her heart was not ready. Perhaps he should bide his time.

Hayward brought the tray of cold meats, cheese, and bread, and Henry carried it to the stairs. There would be no biding. He must see her. He followed the ribbon of floral carpet to the door of her room and knocked.

“Come in,” said a quiet voice.

Henry balanced the tray on one hand to turn the doorknob with the other and then taking the tray in two hands again, pushed the door open with his elbow.

Eliza was seated on the sofa in the little room adjoining her bedchamber, her legs curled up under her and a book on her lap. The presence of the tray must have registered before his face did, for with barely a glance in his direction, she said, “Thank you. You may put it on the table.”

He stepped inside.

“Oh!” The book snapped shut in her lap. “I beg your pardon—I did not realize.”

“No apologies necessary,” said Henry with a smile. “I rather enjoy having you order me about.” Before she could blush at that, he introduced the object of his visit. “I am sure you are hungry…we have here a little cold ham, and some roast beef, and a lovely goat cheese I think you will enjoy along with bread ordered up from the village this morning.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” murmured Eliza. She made no move to touch the food.

Henry stabbed a fork into the contents of the tray and filled a small plate for her. Then, after handing it to her, he began to fill the second plate which Hayward, with the prescience of a skilled butler, had provided.

“Are you dining here with me then?”

Henry saw Eliza casting an eye towards the door which he had purposely left open. It was a calculated risk to tarry in a lady’s sitting room, but with the door wide open, it was not entirely indiscreet.

“I thought you could use the company. Am I wrong?”

Eliza hesitated. “No.”

Henry noticed she had swung her feet down to the floor and straightened her skirt into a more formal position. Her arms folded over themselves like a fence between him and her.

“Now then,” said Henry, determined to overcome the barriers she had set up. “I am famished. Take a bite, my dear hostess, so that I can begin as well.”

She stared back at him.

“Come, you owe me something at least for not bringing you cold fish, yes?”

She smiled a little at that, and unfolding her arms, tried a morsel of bread and cheese. Between the two of them, they soon decimated the luncheon tray. But as much as he tried to engage her attention, she steadily averted her eyes. How could he recreate that moment of sincerity that they had shared at the bottom of the staircase this morning? How could he restore the camaraderie that she had shown in the stable yard?

* * *

Eliza tried to keep the
cover of her book hidden under the folds of her dress. The somberness of circumstances demanded serious reading. She ought to have been meditating on Fordyce’s sermons or some such edifying literature, but instead she had picked up
Pamela
as soon as she had come back to her room.

Her mother had forbidden her to have any connection to Henry Rowland. The only thing left to her was to read the novel he had loaned her. How mortifying to have him come upon her now with such frivolous reading resting in her hands!

“Feeling better with a full stomach?”

Eliza put her empty plate back on the tray. “Yes, thank you.”

She waited for him to speak, but it seemed as if he was waiting too. The awkwardness grew until she could bear it no longer.

“What…happened today? I overheard that Mr. Turold mistook Rufus for the stag and fired too hastily.”

“Yes, that is what they are saying,” replied Henry. He leaned forward to put his own empty plate back on the tray as well and then, sitting back, crossed one leg over the other as if he meant to stay a while. Eliza uttered a silent prayer that her mother—or Ollerton—would not decide to visit her rooms.