The Duke's Last Hunt (17 page)

“Is that true?”

He hesitated. She marveled at how his hesitations always seemed to radiate strength while her own hesitations were the product of painful shyness and self-doubt.

“I don’t know for certain. That’s what Turold is saying. There is an investigator from London coming up to sort things out. Hopefully it will take no longer than a day or two. He’ll ask questions of all the necessary parties and recommend what must be done at the inquest.”

At the term “necessary parties” Eliza blanched. She took a few quick, shallow breaths. “He would not need to interview me, would he?”

Henry regarded her thoughtfully. “I’m afraid he might. You
were
engaged to him, after all.”

“Oh,” said Eliza miserably. “I don’t know what I would say.”

“I don’t suppose it will make much difference,” said Henry with arched eyebrows. “He will simply want to know if Rufus had any enemies, anyone who wished him ill.”

Eliza looked up from the hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I wouldn’t be able to help much on those matters. I barely knew him. He didn’t, did he? Have anyone who was his enemy?” Eliza stopped there and looked earnestly into Henry’s dark eyes.

For the first time since she had met him, he was the first to drop his gaze.

“That’s the investigator’s job to find out. I certainly don’t envy him the position.”

Eliza shifted in her seat. She had been hoping for a firm denial, but Henry’s response left matters open to speculation. A whispering thought came into her mind that perhaps Walter Turold was not the one who had aught against Rufus, but Henry himself. She had overheard Mr. Turold urging Rufus not to marry her, but it was hardly a heated argument—and what man would kill his friend to prevent his friend from making a foolish marriage?

But Henry, on the other hand, had far more at stake. And he had even offered—how long ago it seemed!—to present his own suit for her hand. There was no great affection between the brothers—she had seen as much when she witnessed their first encounter in the saloon. Was there enough jealousy for Henry to act out of premeditated hatred?

“H-Henry, are you saddened by your brother’s death?” Her words tumbled over each other. “Surely you must be, even though you do not show it. You are simply bearing up well under the grief?”

Henry’s lips twisted up into a wry smile. “You are delightfully transparent, my dear. Yes, I am saddened by Rufus’ death—though not as much as some brothers would be, I suppose. My brother was a scoundrel—you do not know half of the black marks against him. They say that one should not speak ill of the dead, but I have never been one to give convention place over truth. But no, to answer your unspoken question, I did
not
shoot him. I am a law-abiding man and a God-fearing one. I would never presume to take justice into my own hands in that manner. If someone else did just that today…well, let us just say that I shall ensure he does not go unpunished.”

Eliza’s cheeks reddened. Of course he had seen through her questions—she hoped that he did not think she was accusing him of anything. It was just the smallest sliver of a doubt that had made her ask.

She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and felt the hard spine of the hidden book pressing against her leg. She really ought to return
Pamela
to him, but she was mid-chapter on one of the most engrossing scenes. The wicked Mr. B. had dressed up as a housemaid and had sneaked into Pamela’s chamber—it was wholly unedifying to read such things, but she could not end the story now. And besides, when she finished it, it would give her an excuse to see him again.

He stood up from his chair and deftly picked up the tray from the table. “Can I send a servant up with anything else for you? Tea? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

He was so solicitous of her comfort, almost as if he himself were her host…. As he stepped into the corridor, the realization of how matters stood swept down on her like a cavalry charge. He
was
her host now. He was the new owner of Harrowhaven. Henry Rowland had succeeded his brother as the new Duke of Brockenhurst.

17

P
evensey glanced up at the tall oak trees, their shadows looming over the road like the dark fabric of mourning dress. The last sliver of the sun was still visible over the horizon, and by its light he could make out the stately manor house up ahead.

The journey had been shorter than he had anticipated, and had he left directly from Bow Street, he would have arrived with plenty of light to spare. As it was, however, he had decided to go home and pack a satchel of clothing and make a few inquiries in London about both the man who had written the letter and the man whom the letter was about.

To the left of the house, he saw the dark outline of the stables and, turning his horse’s head, walked the beast over to the building. The door cracked open at his approach. “Who is it?” asked a gruff voice, and Pevensey caught a glimpse of a small, wiry man, much the same size as himself but a couple decades older.

“Jacob Pevensey, at your service, attached to the London magistrates’ office, come down to Harrowhaven on business.”

“Aye, I know what business that’ll be,” said the man. He opened the door wide. “I’ll take your horse, Mr. Pevensey. They’ll be wanting you up at the big house right away.”

Pevensey dismounted and handed the reins to the groom. “Did you witness the event?” he asked as he loosened his luggage from the back of the horse’s saddle.

“Naw, I was too busy seeing every beast was saddled and every man was horsed.”

“Ah, you are the stable master then, Mr.…?”

“Gormley’s the name. John Gormley.”

“Did you hear the gunshot?”

“Can’t say as I did, but my hearing ain’t the best. I certainly heard the hue and cry, though, when the hunters came back in.”

“What were they saying?”

“Not much fit to repeat in decent company, but the main of it was that the duke had been shot and that Mr. Turold was the man as had pulled the trigger.”

“Did you see Mr. Turold with the men?”

“Aye, he was there, well enough, all Friday-faced after causing an accident of that kind.”

“So it
was
an accident?”

Gormley scratched his head. “I wouldna think it could be otherwise, Mr. Turold and the duke bein’ bosom friends for ten years or more.”

“And there was no falling out between them?”

“Not that I heard tell of.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gormley,” said Pevensey. “You’ve been most helpful.” He watched Gormley lead his hired nag into the stable and hand him over to a younger man, his hair the same color as the straw on the stable floor. “Ah, I see you have help here,” he called out. “Might I ask your fellow groom some questions while I’m here?”

“Who, Martin?” Gormley grunted and pointed a thumb in his fellow groom’s direction. “The man’s tongue-tied. Dumb since birth.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed into a glower, and he pulled the horse’s head a little more sharply than was necessary as he led it into its box. He might be mute, but he was clearly not deaf, and Pevensey could see that he did not like to have his deformity discussed.

Pevensey wandered away from the stables, pulling out a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. As he neared the steps to the house, he sketched a rough picture of the silent groom with a menacing look in his eye like a boxer about to plant a facer and a thick black “X” over his mouth. In Pevensey’s experience as an investigator, it was always the ones who couldn’t speak who had the most to say.

* * *

Dinnertime had come and gone
without any formal gathering in the dining room. Once again, Henry had ordered trays be sent up to each of the rooms so that the family and guests could grieve—or not grieve—as they each saw fit. He took his own dinner in his mother’s rooms, although in truth, neither of them ate much.

The duchess swayed back and forth rhythmically, her dry eyes having already cried all their tears. “Perhaps it is not something a mother should say, but sometimes, almost, I would rather it had been you than him.”

“Might I inquire why?” asked Henry, his
amour propre
a little wounded.

“I can hardly explain it…it’s not because he was a better person than you—no, quite the opposite. He was a selfish man with little control over his passions. I take no pleasure in saying that, and I blame myself that I did not curb his nature more while he was still a child. But he was on the cusp of something—marriage. And if marriage and children cannot change a man, then what can? It was my one hope that his union with Miss Malcolm would bring about a reformation in him. But now…too late.”

Henry pressed her hand. “I am sorry, Mother.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I can take that as a compliment then, that you do not consider me in need of a reformation.”

She sighed. “I’m sure we’re all in need of reforming in some way. But no, you’re not in
dire
need.” She planted a kiss on his forehead.

A knock sounded on the door, and one of the footmen entered. “My lady, your grace—the investigator from London is here.”

“Investigator?” The duchess’ dark gray eyebrows crinkled in concern. “Why? I thought Rufus’ death was an accident?”

“Just a formality,” said Henry, rising to leave the room. He paused, leaning one arm against the door frame. “It is possible, though, that he may want to ask you some questions, Mother. Are you well enough to speak to him?”

“Tomorrow I will be.”

And Henry knew that was true. She had buried two husbands, and soon, one son, and she would carry on, her head held high, and do whatever was required of her.

Henry’s boots beat a tattoo on the stairs. He found the investigator waiting in the entrance hall.

“Mr. Jacob Pevensey, your grace,” said Hayward.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” said Henry. “I admit, I did not expect you until tomorrow morning.”

The slight, red-haired man smiled. “Sir Richard Ford at the London magistrates’ office was eager for us to assist, and so I came on right away.”

“Hayward, ask Mrs. Forsythe to ready a room,” said Henry. He looked at the visitor appraisingly, trying to decide if the man was as competent as Stephen’s father had claimed. “You must forgive me—I am not familiar with the normal procedures in such matters. Now that you are here, what do you need to do first?”

“Normally, I would speak with the magistrate and constable in charge of the case. Your letter mentioned a Mr. Cecil. Is he still here?”

“No, I regret he has returned home for the night. He will come back in the morning.”

“Then the morning will be the best time to get started.” Pevensey cocked his head. “Or perhaps I might ask you a few questions tonight to familiarize myself with the people involved?”

“Yes, of course. Let us go to the study.”

Henry led the way through the saloon and over to the dark-paneled study that was now his. The investigator sat down lightly in the chair opposite the desk and crossed one leg over the other.

“Well?” Henry did not mean to be abrupt—he simply thought it better to dispense with the pleasantries and relate to Jacob Pevensey as a man of business.

“Please acquaint me with the members of the family.”

“There is my mother, the Duchess of Brockenhurst, in residence. My father, as you must know, has been dead three years or more.”

Pevensey gave a slight nod and folded his hands in front of him.

“There is Robert Curtis, my mother’s son by her first marriage.”

“And Mr. Curtis is in residence?”

“Not permanently. He is here on a visit. And then there is my sister Adele—a permanent resident until such time as she weds.” Henry paused. “That is the extent of the family.”

“You leave out yourself,” replied the investigator.

“I believe my existence is implied since you are speaking with me.”

“But your residence is not, I think, permanent?”

“No, no, I reside in London.”

“And you are here, as your brother Robert, on a visit to the late duke?”

Henry hesitated. “Yes.” There did not seem to be any point in explaining that it was not the
duke
he had been visiting.

“Are there others visiting?”

“Yes, there is Walter Turold, whom I mentioned in my letter. There is Stephen Blount, a friend of the family. And there are Sir Arthur and Lady Malcolm and their daughter Miss Malcolm.”

Pevensey’s hands were still folded in his lap. Henry marveled that the man was not pulling out some notebook to jot down the details.

“You said in the letter that Mr. Turold takes responsibility for the shot that killed the duke?”

Henry inclined his head. “Indeed. He says he mistook the movement for a deer and fired unawares.”

“And you believe him?”

They had moved out of the realm of fact into a scrutiny of Henry’s insides. “I’m sure my belief is of no consequence. It is for you to discover whether his statement is true.”

“I should not like to conjecture,” said Pevensey, leaning forward in his chair a little, “but such an answer leads me to suspect that you do
not
believe him.
Why
not?”

Henry frowned. “You are very precipitate, Mr. Pevensey. I assure you I am simply keeping an open mind on the matter. It could very well have been an accident, as Turold says.”

“Ah.”

That single monosyllable made Henry feel as if
he
were on trial here. “Is there anything else you need to know tonight?” he demanded, trying to take charge of the conversation.

“Could you explain the relationship of the guests to the family? Why were they visiting?”

“Walter Turold was a friend of my brother’s. They were inseparable—Walter always visited Harrowhaven anytime my brother did.”

“Is Mr. Turold a man of property?”

“No, his late father lived roundabout on a small parcel of land, but I believe Walter converted it to ready money many years ago and has been living off of it ever since.”

“And Stephen Blount.”

“A friend of the family, as I said.”

“Of which member of the family?”

“Of mine.”

“But as you said, you are not in permanent residence here. Did Mr. Blount come down from London with you?”

“No. He is courting my sister, Adele, if you must know. Although I do not see how that is pertinent to your investigation.” Henry was beginning to view these questions as an invasion of his family’s privacy.

“Every detail helps to give me a fuller picture,” said Pevensey smoothly. “And the Malcolms? Why were they visiting?”

Henry’s collar felt much too tight around his neck. “They were visiting Rufus.”

“Were they longstanding friends like Mr. Turold?”

“No.” Such prying was beginning to be insufferable.

Pevensey paused. “Was this their first visit to Harrowhaven?”

“I do not know. I believe so.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about the family?”

“No, I was not acquainted with them prior to last week.”

Pevensey rose from his seat. “Thank you for your thorough explanation of the matter.”

Henry could not tell whether there was a hint of irony on the word
thorough
.

“I will conduct interviews with the family and the guests in the morning. And might I also have your permission to interview the servants?”

“Of course,” said Henry, rising from his own chair and walking toward the door. “One of the footmen can show you to your room.”

Pevensey bowed. “Thank you, your grace.” He lifted an eyebrow “It
is
‘your grace,’ isn’t it?”

Henry nodded, maintaining perfect control of his features. “Yes, the title devolved on me at my brother’s death.”

“Of course,” said the investigator with a smile, and he disappeared down the corridor leading back to the saloon.

Henry clenched his right hand into a fist and hit it against the side of his leg. Stephen’s father had been right—this fellow was good at his work. He would certainly get to the bottom of whether Rufus’ death was accidental or intentional, but Henry feared he would also get to the bottom of other things as well….

* * *

Pevensey laid out his clothes
for the next day across the back of the chair in his room. The housekeeper had ordered up a tray of chilled soup and cold meats for him, a kind gesture. He placed an exploratory hand on the bed and found a generous pile of down over the straw ticking. In his profession, he was used to being treated on the level of a tradesman, but here they were feting him almost as if he were a guest.

The footman who had brought him to his rooms, a friendly fellow by the name of Frederick, had proven remarkably more loquacious than the new duke. Pevensey, with very little trouble to himself, had learned the names of all the servants as well as some further information about the inmates of the house. The most startling piece of news? Miss Malcolm, the daughter of the family that Henry Rowland had mentioned, had apparently just entered a betrothal with the now-deceased duke.

Pevensey sat down on the edge of the chair and removed his boots, his feet enjoying the freedom after the long day in London and the hot ride to Harrowhaven. Why had Henry Rowland omitted this? What other matters had the new duke withheld from his attention? He was beginning to think that he ought to confront Henry Rowland regarding this misinformation before proceeding with the rest of the investigation.

Pevensey stood up to take off his jacket, taking care to remove his notebook and pencil from the pocket before laying the garment out neatly. There was a small table beside the chair, and he settled down to sketch. A picture of Henry Rowland soon materialized—dark, broad-shouldered, broad-featured, handsome in a way that women would find attractive. There he was leaning back in the chair behind the desk, masculine, confident, secure, as if the study in which he sat had always belonged to him.

From what the footman had said, Rufus Rowland could have been depicted in much the same manner, save for the fact that his hair was red, not brown. Two masterful men, little more than two years apart in age, yet divided by the vast gulf of primogeniture. Pevensey’s inquiries in London had unearthed some interesting stories surrounding the Rowland inheritance—and the ill-feeling it occasioned. One brother, with the sole advantage of being born two years earlier, had obtained the title, the land, and the money that accompanied them. The other, nothing but the remote expectation that he might inherit if his brother died childless.