The Duke's Last Hunt (29 page)

Part Three

29

E
liza turned over the letter in her hands. She had not expected Adele to write at all, but here it was, two months since their stay at Harrowhaven and she had already received two letters from her. This last one was Adele’s official notice that she would be coming to town soon to purchase her trousseau. The Duchess of Brockenhurst had relented and agreed to curtail the official period of mourning for Rufus so that Adele and Stephen could celebrate a Christmas wedding.

There were other tidbits of news as well. The Reverend and his family had moved away from Sussex—to America, Adele had heard. Poor Miss Ansel, thought Eliza, feeling a pity for the girl she had never met. No doubt rumors had spread about her and the duke, and her father, unable to protect her by any other means, had given up his living to his curate to re-settle elsewhere.

The Ansels were not the only ones being forced to re-settle. Eliza laid the letter down on the window sill—the only flat surface left in her room besides the bed. These were the Malcolms’ last few days in their town house, their last few days in London. The house had already been put up for sale and most of their belongings sent to an auction house. A distant cousin had offered them the use of a cottage in Northumbria, and so they were preparing to go north before the cold weather set in, traveling by post and with only a few trunks containing their dearest possessions.

Adele was coming to London, but by the time she arrived Eliza might very well be gone, with little chance of ever returning to town or, indeed, to society. The disappointment of missing Adele was further enhanced by the whispering thought that where Adele was, Henry might be close. Eliza had no doubts that he was in London right now—probably had been for some time—but they orbited different suns now, and with Eliza’s father descending into bankruptcy and genteel poverty, there was little likelihood that, without contrivance, their paths would ever cross again.

Contrivance—Eliza meditated on that word for a moment, as she had for the eight long weeks since they had returned from Harrowhaven. How many times she had wished that she’d never begged for Ned Hornsby’s opinion on Henry’s character! Better to think him a scoundrel now that he was lost to her forever than to know what a misfortune it was for her to lose him.

She placed Adele’s letter in her reticule and pulled out a well-worn calling card from the handbag. Her thumb ran over the black lettering that spelled out Henry’s title: Duke of Brockenhurst.

Contrivance—it was something Henry Rowland was quite skilled at. She remembered him introducing her to his family: “Miss Malcolm is a great friend of mine from London.” And then later, his taradiddles about how they had promenaded together in Hyde Park. She had made that promenade with Ollerton every day for the past month—but there had been no sign of Henry Rowland on foot or on horse.

No, if she was going to contrive a meeting between them in the next few days before her departure, she must show even more imagination. She breathed in deeply. Could she—was it possible—would she dare try to discover where he lived? She breathed out. Yes, she would dare, and perhaps if she sent a letter round he would visit before it was too late.

But how could she discover his address?

“Ollerton!” said Eliza, pinning on one of the two bonnets she had kept for herself. “I am going out to take the air. Will you come?”

“Now, miss?” asked Ollerton, in the middle of cleaning out a wardrobe of linens. It was unlikely that they would be able to keep her on after the move to Northumbria, and the anxiety of separation was weighing heavily on both her and Lady Malcolm.

“If you please,” said Eliza, heading for the door.

Grumbling, Ollerton fetched a shawl and followed Eliza out the door. “But miss,” she said, as Eliza turned east down the street. “The park’s the other way!”

“So it is,” said Eliza, continuing her direction. “I would like to see the city a little today—it might be my last time.”

Ollerton grumbled some more about the impropriety of the expedition, but hastened to catch up with Eliza’s long legs. It was no meandering jaunt. After thirty minutes of brisk walking—and ignoring Ollerton’s persistent demands to turn back—Eliza found herself staring up at a stone front of the most impressive building on Bow Street.

“Miss Eliza!” hissed Ollerton, watching a pair of blue-suited men in cavalry boots entering the building. “This is where the Bow Street Patrol meets. It’s not a proper place for a lady. Come away!”

“Ollerton,” said Eliza, turning to face the maid without a hint of embarrassment. “I’m going inside. You can come with me or wait on the pavement.”

The elderly maid fumed, uttering half a dozen threats with Lady Malcolm’s name attached to them, but in the end, she chose to escort her charge inside the building. Eliza felt a few tremors of anxiety as they went up the steps, but she stilled them courageously. “Please, sir,” she said, asking the first person she saw in the foyer, “is Mr. Jacob Pevensey here? I need to speak to him.”

* * *

“Sir Richard wants to see
you in his office,” said a snub-nosed errand boy, the moment Pevensey stepped into the building.

Pevensey knew better than to delay. Sir Richard doubtless wanted an update on the Southwark highwayman, the latest lawbreaker that Pevensey had been attempting to identify and apprehend. When he entered Sir Richard’s office, however, he discovered that the magistrate was not alone. He was in the middle of serving tea to an elegant young lady and her older companion. Richard Ford was decidedly well-versed in the petticoat line, but it was unusual for him to entertain his Cythereans here at Bow Street. And besides, this auburn-haired female looked respectable, and—by Jove! Now that she had turned her head, Pevensey recognized her immediately as Miss Eliza Malcolm.

Pevensey bowed crisply. “Sir Richard. Miss Malcolm. How can I be of service?”

Sir Richard set down the teapot. “This young lady here needs some assistance which, I understand, only you can provide.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Miss Ollerton,” he said, approaching the maid and offering his arm. “It’s not every day that we have ladies at Bow Street. It would be an honor to provide you with a tour of the courtroom while Miss Malcolm transacts her business with Mr. Pevensey.”

“Oh, I don’t think…” began Miss Ollerton. But Sir Richard was not a man easily denied. The flustered lady’s maid soon placed her arm in his to commence a tour of the building. They left the oak door of the office open, and Pevensey found himself alone with Miss Malcolm.

“Mr. Pevensey,” said Miss Malcolm, and her color rose a little, “I have an unusual question to put to you, about which I hope you will exercise your discretion. I am looking for the address of Henry Rowland, the Duke of Brockenhurst.”

“And you are unable to locate his address through the normal channels,” said Pevensey, raising a red eyebrow, “for fear of…discovery?”

“No…well, yes…but it is nothing improper.”

Pevensey highly doubted that that was the case. And yet, something about the girl’s hopeful eagerness made him wish to oblige. He had investigated Henry Rowland’s details the day he embarked on the trip to Harrowhaven, and there had been further news about the man in the London papers just five or six weeks ago. He looked at the girl’s long white fingers gripping the handles of her chair in trepidation. What harm could there be in telling her?

“You will find Henry Rowland at Maurice’s Hotel.”

The lady’s face broke into a smile of breathless excitement. “Thank you, Mr. Pevensey! Thank you!”

Pevensey stood up and showed her back to the entrance hall where Sir Richard was manfully and charmingly combating the lady’s maid’s attempts to return to her mistress’ side. They bid the two ladies farewell, the younger with an expression of fervent expectation, the older with thunderclouds forming on her brow.

“Very clever of you, sir, to realize Miss Malcolm wanted to speak to me alone,” said Pevensey, giving his superior a wry grin.

“Yes, I do have a knack for deciphering young ladies,” replied Sir Richard. It was no idle boast. “Did you locate the Southwark highwayman?”

“No, but I did help two young people establish a secret tryst.”

“Hmm…very good then,” said Sir Richard with a grin. “All in a day’s work, Pevensey, eh?”

“Indeed, sir,” said Pevensey. “Indeed.”

* * *

Henry stood in the alcove,
watching the waiters rearrange the tables in the dining room for the third time. It would be full every night once the season began. He knew it was possible to fit a couple more tables inside without the feeling of overcrowding—if only the correct arrangement could be found.

He overheard voices at the front desk—another client trying to book a room. There were precious few rooms left to let—an excellent problem to have. It was not so long ago that Maurice’s was begging for customers, and now…now it was the most luxurious and exclusive hotel in all of London.

The maître d’ floated into the dining room. “My lord, there is a young lady at the desk asking to speak with you.

“Her name?” He had been forced to grow wary ever since Rufus’ demise. He was no longer the impoverished younger brother, and the London misses and their mamas were forever on the prowl.

“Miss Elizabeth Malcolm.”

Henry felt his jaw twitch and the muscles in his shoulders tense. “I will be there momentarily, Gervase.”

He motioned for the waiters to adjust a table by a hand’s breadth, and then taking a calming breath, exited the dining room.

There she was—her auburn hair pulled up into a column of curls at the back of her head, her white hand resting lightly on the edge of the marble desktop. “Miss Malcolm,” said Henry, forcing a smile onto his face and finding that one had already appeared of its own accord. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” As soon as he said it, he knew that it was true. It was a glorious and ecstatic, albeit painful pleasure to see the woman who had refused him and whom he had tried, for these last two months, to utterly expunge from his mind.

He took her hand and pressed it—he wanted to press it to his lips, but no. He would not take such a liberty. Not yet. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

She blushed at that and pulled her hand away. “It seems we are to leave London, and I needed—I wanted—to say good-bye before we depart.”

“How kind of you,” said Henry. He felt that perhaps it was more than kind. “I must call on your family before you leave.” She had forbidden him to call. But this, surely this, was a change of mind.

“We leave very soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the day after.”

There was a tinge of desperation in her voice. Henry glanced behind her and saw the angry eyes of an old woman sitting on a bench. It was her lady’s maid—he remembered the face—and she was not happy to be witnessing this conversation. There had been no change of mind, then, on Lady Malcolm’s part.

“Then if I cannot call on you tomorrow,” said Henry brightly, “we must have our tea now.” He put Eliza’s hand in the crook of his arm, nodded his head slightly at the maître d’, and moved towards the dining room. Within seconds the busy waiters had vacated the room, leaving it empty except for Henry and Eliza—and the sullen lady’s maid glowering at them from a nearby table.

Gervase placed a pot of the most excellent Souchong tea on the table along with some sugar dusted biscuits. “Will you pour?” asked Henry. He could see that her hands were shaking, but she filled both teacups without mishap.

“Where are you traveling to?” he asked, casually sipping his tea.

“Northumbria,” she said. The word came out as dull and gray as river rock.

“Do you have family in those parts?”

“Distant relations.” She put her teacup down and glanced up at the ceiling of the dining room. The carved wood around the edges had been freshly gilded, in preparation for the season. Henry kept his eyes on her, admiring the rapt look of her own admiration. “This hotel is beautiful,” she said. “I have never been here before.”

“It does have its charms,” said Henry modestly.

“I did not expect you would be staying here still—after inheriting your brother’s town house.”

Henry flexed his shoulders. So, she did not know. She thought he was a guest here, too busy or too lazy to set up his own establishment.

“A wise man once told me that hotels manage themselves better when the owner is in residence.”

She looked around the room. “Owner? You?”

He laughed. “Why yes, my dear, this is my hotel. The name of the place is Maurice’s, but two months ago, he decided he’d had enough of catering to his guests’ whims, and he allowed me to buy him out.”

She picked up her teacup and stared at him. “Buy him out? How did you get involved in the hotel business in the first place?”

“It’s a bit of a story,” said Henry, “but three years ago I came to London poor as a church mouse. Maurice took me on as his hotel manager—my salary to be a percentage of the profits. At the time, there were no profits. The hotel was bleeding money like a stab wound. I helped Maurice right the budget and improve the quality of service. Within six months, we were starting to fill our rooms. We made the establishment more elegant. We charged more money. We filled even more rooms. There’s hardly a room to be let now during the autumn, and none once the season starts.”

He watched the curve of her perfect pink lips caress the edge of her teacup as she drank.

“Last season my percentage of the profits went from a trickle to a typhoon—Maurice’s too. He’s old now. He wants to retire. So he asked if I wanted to purchase the hotel from him, and of course, the answer was yes.”

“But…how on earth did you know how to run a hotel?”

“It’s not so different from being a steward,” said Henry. “And in any case, I had Mrs. Forsythe’s expertise whenever I ran into a matter I couldn’t handle. A hotel is really just a larger version of Harrowhaven.”

“Mrs. Forsythe
knows
you run a hotel?”

“Indeed. She knew it long before my own mother did. I thought she might cut me off when I poached her head housemaid—promised her higher wages to work at Maurice’s—but she forgave me eventually.”