The Wicked Duke (29 page)

To the editor of the
Times of London
, from Cheltenham, Gloucestershire:

The recent coroner's final verdict regarding the cause of death of the last duke of Aylesbury has no doubt been reported in your paper. I write, however, with details unlikely to reach London by other means.

Mr. Thaddeus Peterson made verbal comments after issuing his findings, words that did not make it into the official document. He expressed heartfelt regret at the length of time he had deliberated the matter, and further regrets for any unfounded and disgraceful suspicions that his delay may have visited on innocent persons. Although he partly blamed
the physician's initial letter for the long consideration, he admitted he had perhaps been too diligent when in fact no evidence existed of anything other than a natural death.

He then made a most unexpected statement, to the effect that he has issued the verdict in light of all evidence, and that he was in no way influenced by individuals either in the county or outside it, and that should outsiders interfere with this county matter, he would feel obligated to be forthcoming regarding a letter sent to him that did in fact seek to interfere to the detriment of fair and timely justice.

The citizens of the county are all talking about this last part of the day's events, and much speculation has spread on just who dared such interference, and in what way and to what reason. The general belief is that politics raised its hot and irrational head at some point, with the coroner being pressed to act in one way or another.

There having been at least one innocent victim who suffered much unfounded suspicion, there are those who have advised talk simply cease, and the last duke be left to rest in peace, lest this much aggrieved individual now decide to clear his name of the remnants of slanderous musings the old-fashioned way, on the field of honor.

With this I finish my last letter from Gloucestershire, as I end my visit here soon, the waters at Cheltenham spa having done wonders for my health,
far more than I hear they ever did for our recently departed and much-loved monarch.

Elijah Tewkberry, Gloucestershire

Ives tossed aside the paper after reading the letter. “He writes well. If I ever meet that man, I will both compliment and thank him.”

“He is probably trying to make amends for that letter that set the stew boiling again,” Lance muttered. “Maybe now I will not call for his head on a platter, though.”

“I liked the subtle threat at the end,” Gareth said. “Good of him to report that advice, if indeed there is any such advice abroad. It will make men think twice.”

“I expect we will still have to thrash one or two,” Lance said.

He sat playing a lazy few hands of vingt-et-un in his favorite gaming hall. Ives and Gareth, unaccustomed to allowing him out on the town without nursemaids, had followed in his wake by habit. It was his first visit to London since the denouement of the Percival Mystery, as he had come to think of it. The first since Marianne left ten days ago. Not that he was counting.

The last three days had been filled with trying to indeed pick up his old life. He was coming to the conclusion that it no longer fit him well. Every morning he donned its coats and went on his way, trying to ignore that the sleeves were too short and the shoulders too tight.

Ives watched his handling of the cards from where he
sat beside him, his back to the table. “You do not seem to be enjoying yourself much.”

“Nonsense. If you were not here, I would be burning up the town.”

“He is still snarling,” Ives said to Gareth. “Surly.”

“I wonder why?” Gareth said.

“You two are boring me, that is why.”

Ives sighed dramatically. “Why don't you just admit that you miss her? In fact, why don't you go and get her? She is your wife, damn it.”

“She chooses to have some time away. Can you blame her, after learning the truth about our marriage? Her pride is hurt, and she needs to retreat while she—does whatever women do when their pride is hurt. As for getting her, or missing her, you are wrong. Unlike you two, I was not sewn to my wife's side on my wedding day, nor she to mine.”

That was a lie. He did miss her. She had been foisted on him, only to make him grow accustomed to her brightness, her smile, her passion. Nor did he think she intended merely some time away, much as he lied to himself about that too.

He managed to distract himself, until alone at night. Then thoughts and memories would haunt him, of Marianne, of things said and done, of Percy and of the revelations of the last few weeks. The next day he would pursue escape from it all again.

He had fenced with Ives and boxed with Gareth. He had ridden too fast in all directions. He had visited a brothel for five minutes, only to depart in disgust. He had even gotten roaring drunk with some old friends last night.

A mistake, that. On returning home, and missing her badly, and too drunk to have any dignity, he had staggered to her bed and slept there, as if some remnant of her might be with him. The servants had found him there this morning, to his eternal embarrassment.

She had ruined him. Made him unfit for the life he knew. She was why the damned sleeves were too short. Worse, she had turned him into a sentimental idiot, then
left him
.

“There is nothing wrong with missing her.” Gareth used a soothing voice one would employ with a child. “It is very normal.”

“Not for me.”

“Only because you have never loved before.”

Normally if a man accused him of such a thing, he would make very clear that man was in error. This time he just called for another card because, from the looks of it, Gareth might be right.

He did not warm to that possibility. Love turned men into asses. That he was far along in that metamorphosis was evidence enough that maybe Gareth was correct.

“Did Peterson hear from anyone in Whitehall since he issued his determination?” Ives asked, changing the subject pointedly.

“You would know better than I would,” Lance said. “I am not the one who is a friend of the new king.”

“I did ask around about that, discreetly.”

“Discretion is your name. It is why you are so useful.”

“I am not at liberty to say what I learned, unfortunately, since I am so discreet. I have reason to think the
undue attention that whole matter garnered was the work of one man, who has stood down.”

“You must mean Sidmouth.” Lance looked over from his cards to see Ives's surprise. “He is the only one with a score to settle. Plus, he is a snake.”

“I do not know why I spend days ferreting out information on your behalf if you already have it,” Ives said. “In the future, could you spare me the courtesy of telling me you figured it all out?”

“If you insist, but you so like ferreting that I will do you a disservice.”

Ives and Gareth turned the conversation to a horse auction, a topic that bored Lance. Except that Marianne liked to ride, so that started him thinking about her. He continued his play, his mind wandering through memories. Those images and loose thoughts began to nudge at him. Rather suddenly, as he received a card that gave his current hand exactly twenty-one, several of them lined up in a new way.

He called for a new hand. “He
was
murdered, by the way.”

Ives and Gareth stopped talking. He felt them looking at him.

“What makes you say so?” Gareth asked.

“Mostly because he deserved being murdered. Trust me, he really did.” He threw in the cards and turned to them.

Ives reached over and grasped his arm. He leaned toward him. “Let it lie, Lance. No matter what you think you know, leave it alone.”

Ives looked so serious and earnest. So worried and, as always, so loyal.

“Of course, Ives. I will be sure to follow your advice on that.”

*   *   *

T
he smallest dusting of snow showed on the shaded side of the house, the remnants of a winter storm that had blown through the night before. Lance walked his horse up to the door, dismounted, and rapped on the wooden panels.

A girl opened the door. Fifteen, maybe sixteen years old, she was a lovely child with golden hair and big brown eyes.

“Your Grace!” A man's voice boomed behind her.

Lance looked past the girl to where Mr. Payne had entered the sitting room from a chamber beyond. Fixing his spectacles better on his nose, Payne came over. “You go to your mother now,” he said to the girl. “Tell her I have a visitor and must be left alone here.”

The girl skipped off. Payne invited Lance in. “Too cold to chat outside today, Your Grace. It makes my bones ache.”

Cozy and domestic, the cottage offered comfortable chairs near the fireplace. Lance and Payne sat there. Payne first dug into a cupboard and produced an old bottle. He offered some of the sweet sherry it held.

Lance accepted to be polite, and to encourage Payne to have some, so maybe he would not mind too much the conversation coming.

“The matter of my brother's death is finally settled,” he said. “Death by natural causes.”

“So I read. Took that coroner long enough to decide the truth of it.”

“Well, now, he decided the official truth. Not the real truth. I think you know that.”

Payne's expression turned stoical. He stared at the low flames licking the fuel in front of him.

“I have learned what you meant that day, when you said he was not a good man. I know about his worst sins, at least, and exactly where his taste for sweet girls led him. I found the evidence of it, and know of one particular case. If one of his victims sought justice, or a member of her family did, I am not inclined to pass judgment.”

Payne tried to maintain his composure, but his lips trembled and his lids lowered. “Do you have someone in mind, Your Grace?”

“As you said, he settled an uncommonly large amount on you in his testament. Was he perhaps not bribing you for your silence, but instead paying reparations for a crime?”

“That is bold of you, Your Grace. Bold, but possibly true. It was not something he explained, or told me about.”

“What was the crime?”

“You will be thinking I killed him if I tell you. I did not. I wanted to, however. I thought about it a very long time.” He shook his head. “I came close.”

Lance said nothing.

Payne's gaze turned flinty. He looked Lance right in the eyes. “My daughter and granddaughter visited me two years ago. They had a holiday in Cheltenham, but came to
Merrywood to visit the gardens. He saw them. Met them. Invited them back. How flattered I was at first—” He inhaled deeply. “They came one day when he had duties for me, so they enjoyed the gardens while they waited. He got the girl alone. When I realized his interest in her, I sent them away at once, but—not soon enough, I learned later. I cursed myself for putting her in harm's way. I was a fool to think that my long service would mean something to such a scoundrel. So I plotted how to kill him.”

“Yet you did not.”

“I did not have it in me. Even in my anger, I did not. Nor would it have changed anything for her. Yet I regretted I did not have the fortitude.”

“You did not have it in you, but perhaps someone else did.”

Payne rose and went to the fire. He spent a good deal of time adding fuel, and moving it around with the poker. When he turned back to the chairs, he appeared resolute.

“If you learn who did it, do you intend to see him hang, Your Grace?”

“I doubt there is even any evidence. I want to know so that I can move beyond the last year, that is all.”

“Then wait here. I will be back.” Payne left the sitting room. He returned shortly with a small folded brown paper in his hand. He eased himself back into the chair, wincing as his bones took the new position.

“A gift was delivered that evening,” he said. “A bottle of wine. Very rare wine, from France. An old friend had sent it, someone he had known in his youth. They had fallen out, and this man was trying to make amends.
When he took ill, it struck me that perhaps that wine had been . . . tainted.”

“Poisoned, you mean.”

“Either. There is no way to know for sure.”

Maybe not, but they both did know.

“What happened to that bottle? Did the physician not take it to test in some way?”

Payne flushed. “I got rid of it. I assure you it is well gone, Your Grace. Because if it had been tainted, I did not want that person to swing for it when he had given me the only justice I would know.”

“Do you remember who sent it?”

“I do. I have prayed for the man every night, I have. Prayers of thanks, if you will forgive me. I hope it was poisoned. I hope someone had the courage that I did not have, you see.”

Lance did see, too well. “Are you going to give me his name?”

“It had an odd second label on it. A label with a handwritten note. Very private that note was. I soaked it off. It is the worse for that, but still legible.” He handed over the crinkled, folded paper. “You may want to think hard before looking inside. He was not a good man, but he was your brother. Blood runs thick, as they say. Perhaps it is best to believe what the coroner said.”