The Duke's Last Hunt (27 page)

“He must have known!” said Cecil, showing no such restraint. His knees nearly overturned the dinner tray onto his bed. “Rufus was in the middle of abducting that girl. She would have told her father. Or at least the housekeeper, Mrs. Hodgins, would have known—where was she in all of this?”

“Locked in a closet, I imagine. And told to say nothing about it later. Miss Ansel would have given us some clues, I think, but her father forestalled her.”

“So they are accomplices—although I think I can sympathize with their reasons for silence.” Cecil lay back against his pillow. “Where do you think Turold will go?”

“The coast,” said Pevensey. “Hastings perhaps. He will take ship as soon as possible.”

“France?”

“Or America.”

“And if he makes it, what happens then? The case is over?” The cutlery on the tray clattered on the plate as Cecil’s knees moved again.

“Essentially—unless he has the folly to return to England someday. We will publish his name in the
Hue and Cry
, but there is no hope of retrieving him if he has gone abroad—France and America are not exactly friendly to us at present.”

Miss Cecil entered the room and removed the tray from the bed, placing it on a small table. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Pevensey, but my brother has discussed the case with me.”

Pevensey raised his eyebrows. Seduction and murder were not usual topics to discuss with well-born females. “I hope it did not distress you unduly, Miss Cecil.”

“Not at all.” She folded her hands in front of the pale blue skirt of her dress. “I was quite impressed with your skills in piecing it all together. But I must confess there is one aspect that puzzles me still. Why would Turold fire a second shot? The clearing was so close to the house that there was no reason for it. Everyone at a distance would have assumed that the first shot took place in the clearing. And it was impractical. He would have to have gone to all the trouble of reloading.”

Pevensey stared at her. This same question had been niggling at him just this morning, but he had suppressed it in all the excitement of the chase and the worry over Cecil. Apparently this young woman’s mind was as sharp as her embroidery needle. “You are exactly right, Miss Cecil. It
is
befuddling.”

They all stared at each other then, but no one had any answers to give. A few moments later, Pevensey said his goodnights and Miss Cecil followed him downstairs. The formidable housekeeper had disappeared. They paused in the entry hall. A large vase laden with giant blooms stood on the console table, filling up too much of the narrow entryway for comfort.

“I will try to call again tomorrow,” said Pevensey.

“As will others,” said Miss Cecil, nodding at the floral arrangement. The Bertram family name was written in flowery script on the card, one of the neighbors that lived nearby and—if Pevensey remembered correctly—a family with an eligible daughter who had attended the hunt. “But there may be no need. He swears he will be out of bed and ready to mount his horse in the morning.”

Pevensey was surprised to feel a small sense of disappointment, as if a part of him wished to call on the Cecils again in the morning. But then, who was he fooling? He was a London constable who provided assistance to local magistrates about a given case. He was not the sort of man who made calls on gentlemen and their sisters. “Then perhaps he will wish to meet me in the village. I shall be there tomorrow making inquiries and expanding our search for the fugitive.”

“I shall tell him,” said Miss Cecil, and she opened the door to let Pevensey out into the summer night.

27

E
liza awoke to the noise of Ollerton’s industry as the maid busily packed her dresses, slippers, and jewelry away in her brass bound trunk.

“What is this?” asked Eliza, climbing out of bed. “Are we leaving?”

“Just so, miss,” said Ollerton. “The inquest is over, short as it was, and with the murderer having confessed, the investigator said there’s no need for us to be imprisoned here any longer.”

“I see,” said Eliza. She turned her face to the window where the bright sunlight was streaming in with the unfamiliar sound of birdcalls. It would be good to get back to London, to the hustle and bustle of town life that she missed, the crowds of people that she could so easily blend into without calling attention to herself. But at the same time, the idea of leaving Harrowhaven was bittersweet. There was something here that still felt unfinished.

She shook herself, replaying her mother’s admonitions in her own head. That was nonsense. There was nothing here for her. And however kind Henry Rowland had been to her, it made no difference when his true character was taken into account. No, she was just another pretty face for him to dally with, like the Harrowhaven housemaids, that blond courtesan, and the imbecile daughter of the clergyman.

She rose from bed and dressed for travel, hoping that the carriage ride would not be as stifling as the journey here. It was best to get an early start on it—no wonder Ollerton was hurrying so. She knocked on her parents’ door. “Good morning, Eliza,” said Lady Malcolm, further ahead in her toilette than Sir Arthur and trying to spur her husband on to quicker progress. “Yes, yes,” she said to Eliza, “go down and see that the footmen put everything in the carriage correctly. And tell the housekeeper to send up a tray.” She sniffed. “The least they can do is feed us after everything that’s been put upon us during our stay.”

Eliza went downstairs to follow her mother’s directions. Mrs. Forsythe, noticing the commotion, had already thought to send up some breakfast, and she tried to press some on Eliza as well. The prospect of eating made Eliza queasy, however, and she continued outside to gain some fresh air and see to the loading. A footman, whom Ollerton had pressed into service, followed her out the door bearing her trunk. The post chaise they had hired for the journey—at an exorbitant and now unrequited expense—had pulled round in the circular drive and was waiting to be filled.

She went down the steps and stood nearby the coach.

“Eliza!”

At the sound of her name she turned instinctively. It was Henry Rowland, striding toward her with a purposeful look in his eyes. He was in riding dress, his dark hair already windblown by an early morning ride.

Eliza’s lips parted but no sound came out. She looked away. He pressed forward, undeterred by such an ineffectual snub.

As the coachman hoisted Eliza’s trunk onto the top of the carriage, Henry Rowland took hold of her arm and led her around the corner of the house out of sight of the carriage and the front door.

“Unhand me, sir!” she said, working up the courage to show affront at this treatment.

“Eliza, please,” he said, releasing her arm, but then seizing her hand in his when she turned to go. “Please! I know I ought not to speak to you on this subject without your father’s blessing, but—I cannot help myself. Please.” He let go of her hand as she grudgingly forbore her flight and allowed him to say his piece.

“Eliza, I have loved you from the first—from the rosy blush of your cheeks to the freckles on the tip of your nose.”

The words washed over her like a waterfall. Her hands balled into fists as her spirit fought against being overwhelmed.

“I cannot pinpoint the exact moment I first knew it—when I served you turbot at dinner, when I visited the church just to see you once more, when I asked you questions through that flimsy blindfold. Believe me when I say that it nearly killed me to imagine you in the arms of another. You are, and have always been, the only woman for me.”

At this last protestation, Eliza shrank away. He seemed so sincere in that last statement, and yet how well she knew it for a lie. Was that how all these rakehells worked?

“I do not ask you to decide now,” he continued. “I simply ask you to allow me to win you over, to gain your good opinion. Our acquaintance has been short and attended with too many unfortunate events. Please, let me call upon you in London. Perhaps, in time, you will come to regard me with affection, and—dare I hope it?—love.”

Eliza swallowed. For receiving a declaration like this she had no experience to draw on, and a tide of emotions was threatening to sweep her off her feet. She could only rely then on the resolves she had made when her head was clearer and when her heart had not been beating in such a fashion. “Sir, I thank you for the sentiments you have expressed. Regrettably, the interest is not mutual,”—she felt the lie as soon as it rolled off her tongue—“and I must ask you to refrain from renewing the acquaintance in London. It is better, I think, that we go our separate ways and see nothing of each other in the future.”

His face looked so stricken that she almost recanted then and there. But the thought of her mother’s revelations steeled her—if her parents’ marriage was an example of two people with diametrically opposing moral principles, then she wanted no part of such a thing.

She was afraid that he would turn angry, but in this, it seemed, he was not like his brother. He simply looked on her for a moment, his dark eyes filled with pain, and then turned away and walked towards the house.

Eliza watched him go, knowing that this was the last image of Henry Rowland that would ever appear before her. And her mind could barely quench that unreasoning part of her heart that was bidding her to forsake all reason and blindly run after him.

* * *

Henry entered the house and
walked mechanically down the corridor to his study. It would have been easier if there had been some reason for Eliza’s refusal—if he had been too poor to support her, if she had loved another man. But there was nothing, nothing that he knew, keeping her from accepting him except her mother’s opposition. It was especially galling that not one week ago, despite all his brother’s shortcomings, she had accepted
his
proposal.

What a fool he had been to approach her today! He should have waited till her nerves had time to calm and called on her later in London. And now she had forbidden him to attempt to renew the acquaintance.

He sat in his chair and waited listlessly until he heard carriage wheels in the drive. There. She was gone.

He looked down at the desk. The letter from Mr. Maurice lay there still unread. He unfolded it, scanning the page. His eyes widened a little and his lips parted. Here was news indeed—something to make London a little more palatable despite his too-recent disappointment.

A knock came on the door.

“Enter!” said Henry, looking up from the letter.

Stephen poked his head into the room. “I say, are you busy? Could I have a word?”

Henry wanted nothing more than to be alone right now.

“Of course. Come in.” He set the letter down on the desk.

Stephen sat down on the chair opposite the desk and began to pull at his invisible sideburns with his left hand. Henry waited for him to begin, but after a minute had passed, he realized that he would need to initiate the conversation himself.

“What can I help you with, Stephen?”

Stephen cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a rather delicate matter, you see…”

Henry stifled the urge to yawn.

“…regarding a lady.”

“I hope the lady is my sister.”

“You do?” Stephen’s countenance brightened considerably. Henry could tell that he had been expecting more gruffness.

“You’ve been dangling after her for months, and if I find that you’ve been playing her false for another, I might have to call you out with pistols.”

“Never,” said Stephen. “She is most certainly the lady in question. I have come to apply to you for permission to seek her hand in marriage.”

Apparently there were to be two proposals of marriage at Harrowhaven today, although it was likely that the second one would fare better than the first.

“You seem nervous,” Henry remarked. He could not let Stephen attain his prize
too
easily. “Perhaps you are afraid she will reject you.”

“No, I am quite certain of Adele. It is someone else I am not altogether certain of.”

“You mean me.”

“In point of fact, yes. And I realize it is not the most fortuitous of times to ask….”

“Are you referring to the fact that my brother has just been murdered or the fact that Miss Malcolm has declined my proposal of marriage this morning?”

Stephen’s jaw fell open. “Oh, dear lord, Henry—I
am
sorry. A most unseemly time for me to put forward my own suit.” He half stood up from his char. “Shall I wait a week or two? Or a month even?”

Henry manfully resisted the temptation to add some company to his misery. “Certainly not. Whatever disappointments I may have had, there is no reason for you to share them. As long as my mother has no objections, I give you my blessing. Although I warn you, Stephen, you will be a henpecked husband.”

“I am looking forward to that eventuality,” said Stephen, both recklessly and resolutely.

“Get to it then,” said Henry, dismissing his friend with a wave. Stephen stopped to say a starry-eyed thanks at the door and then bounded off in search of Adele.

Henry tried not to be envious of that happy light in his eyes. If things had only transpired differently this morning….

He picked up the letter from Mr. Maurice and read it one more time. He still needed to make sure his brother was laid to rest properly, but other than that, he was a free man. He could return to London and forget what had happened at Harrowhaven over the last sennight. He could forget Miss Eliza Malcolm.

There was one thing he could not forget, however. He stood up from the desk. Before he left for London, there was one last thing he must do.

* * *

Pevensey paid out three shillings
at the shop that also served as a post office. Barring any new developments, he intended to return to London himself on Monday. The clues had run dry here and the chase was cold. Walter Turold had made his way to the ocean by now. The authorities at each of the likely ports had been notified, but if Turold had disguised his identity, there was little chance he would be stopped before securing passage to France or America.

“Where can I get an early luncheon?” he asked the clerk behind the counter.

The boy’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down as he prepared to answer such an important stranger. “Well, there’s the Blue Boar, sir, if you’s wanting something hot. But if you just want a bun, you can go to White’s Confectionary next door.”

“Thank you,” said Pevensey, tipping his hat to the boy. He had already sampled the Blue Boar’s cuisine, and the confectionary seemed convenient. He walked next door, and immediately, his nostrils were besieged with the smell of freshly baked grains and caramelized sugars.

“How can I help you?” said a genial man at the counter, wiping his floury hands on his apron in anticipation.

“Are you Mr. White?” said Pevensey, guessing from this fellow’s eagerness that he must be the owner. His gray sideburns peeked out of a white baker’s hat.

The man laughed. “There is no Mr. White, but I find the name adds a certain charm to the establishment. We may not be Londoners, but even folks in Sussex want their bread white, an’ that’s the truth.”

“Indeed,” said Pevensey, bracing himself for the discovery of a good deal of chalk in his bread. He could see now that the man was not as old as he had first assumed and that the gray sideburns, sans flour, would normally appear brown. “I shall take a bun, if you please.”

As he said it, he remembered a certain domestic’s wish for free buns from his new relative. “Are you related to Frederick, the footman up at the big house?”

The man laughed again. “I suppose I must claim him. He’s my wife’s brother, the great, hungry lout.”

“And you are but newly married?” said Pevensey, remembering the rest of the story. “Felicitations!”

“Just this Wednesday,” said the man proudly. “We married up at my Lucy’s village, Dealsby Cross.”

“A warm day for a wedding,” said Pevensey, accepting his glazed bun. He recalled how hot it had been that afternoon when Sir Richard gave him orders to report immediately at Harrowhaven.

“Aye, and an overlong wedding service,” said the baker. He pounded a fresh batch of dough behind the counter. “Curate Gray is much too flowery for my taste, even when I’m not waiting to take my new wife home—if you catch my meaning.”

Pevensey paused in the middle of masticating his first bite of the bun. His eyes opened wide as he swallowed. “Then Reverend Ansel did not officiate the service?”

The baker landed another punch on the dough. “He was supposed to, but he were taken ill. A bad summer cold, Mr. Gray said. Couldn’t say the vows without sneezing all over us.”

“Did he attend the wedding?”

“Nah, Mr. Gray showed up alone. The Reverend had tried to come but had a sneezing fit and had to turn back. Which left Mr. Gray the whole ride to think of ways to prolong the service.”

“My condolences,” said Pevensey, his mind spinning. “Though surely the event was a happy one in spite of Curate Gray.”

The baker gave a jolly grin and continued beating his dough into submission. Pevensey stepped outside, his fragmented thoughts crystallizing into an unbroken sequence of events. Curate Gray had gone to Dealsby Cross. Reverend Ansel had not.

He had an uncurtained look now into the window of Walter Turold’s motivations. But with Turold’s confession signed and witnessed, was there anything Pevensey could actually prove in a court of law?

He looked around the street. Where was Cecil? He needed to share his news as quickly as possible.

* * *

The early departure planned by
Lady Malcolm did not have its desired effect. While the Malcolms had hoped to reach London before midday, they had but barely reached the village before one of the carriage wheels lost several spokes, and they were forced to stop at The Blue Boar to make repairs.