Page 19 of A Duchess of Mystery

Sanders fidgeted again. “Mr. Atkins and Mrs. Barnes had sent Her Grace and Lady Dora upstairs to their bedrooms. I believe they both went to Lady Dora’s room. They were deeply shocked by what they’d seen. Understandably so. I myself shall never unsee it. Mrs. Barnes said it was best if they both took some laudanum to help them sleep. She had gone with them and administered it. They were both sleeping when I arrived. Mr. Atkins had taken charge of the house. He is a very capable man despite his advanced years, or perhaps because of them.”

“Did you have any opportunity to ask Her Grace how she came to be the one who found him?”

Philip’s face took on a defensive expression, a little hounded. “I did, but not until later in the day, when the constable had been, and Colonel Jarvis. They weren’t with us until the middle of the morning, when the ladies were still sleeping. And of course, the body had been removed and the room cleaned.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t have the ladies seeing the mess on the rug. Atkins had it burned. You will see there’s a new one there now if you care to examine the study.”

So they had called in the authorities in the end. Sander was probably right in saying there’d been no necessity to do so until daylight hours, but all the same… “And when you did speak to her, what did the duchess say had made her come downstairs?”

He was very defensive now. “She heard the shot, of course. I hope you aren’t about to suggest she had anything to do with it, because if you are, you don’t know her. She is a gentle soul who would never harm any living creature. She doesn’t have it in her to have killed her husband, despite what he put her through. And if you’ve been listening to the rumors, then you should know them for what they are. Poppycock. Pure gossip-mongering. An unexpected death like that brings out all the worst in people. They are more than glad to speculate and spread untrue allegations, particularly about their betters. They should be locked up for doing so.” His voice had risen throughout his speech and now he clamped his lips together as though indicating that was the end of this line of conversation.

Richard ignored his angry expression. Now they were finally getting somewhere. Why was he not surprised? That Marcus could ever have made a loving husband was an impossibility. And Philip had been all too quick to jump to Isabella’s defense when he’d not even suggested Isabella might have played any part in her husband’s death. Philip was clearly well aware of the rumors and might even suspect they held a grain of truth. Could that be what he was hiding, or was it something else entirely? “You said ‘what he put her through’? What do you mean by that?” As if he couldn’t hazard a guess.

Philip pressed his lips together even more firmly and spoke through gritted teeth, glaring down at his clasped hands. “I’ve said enough. You will have to speak to the duchess herself if you wish to know more. And Lady Dora. It’s not my place to talk about that.”

Richard sighed. “You forget. I grew up with Marcus. I know what he was capable of.”

Philip’s eyes rose. They were the gray of a stormy day, and full of anguish. “As do I.”

Good God. Had he witnessed what Marcus had probably done to Isabella? To Dora as well? The cruelties, the bullying, and undoubtedly the violence. The treatment which he, Richard, had blithely abandoned Dora to. Guilt welled up in his heart.

Could Philip’s story be taken as evidence that Isabella was innocent? Not that Richard saw himself as any kind of a sleuth, but Philip might well be classed as biased in Isabella and Dora’s favor. Was he as in love with Dora as she was with him? The expression on his face when he’d said her name suggested he was. And if so, why had he done nothing to save her from Marcus’s cruelty?

“I will do as you suggest and address my questions to the duchess,” Richard said, rising from his seat. “But not today. I had a long ride yesterday and another today. I think what I require is a bath, or the ladies will be complaining that I smell, which I undoubtedly do. I shall fetch my manservant in from the stableyard, and he can organize that for me.”

Philip’s face brightened at what must be a point he could help with. “If you require a valet, Mr. Hopkins, His Grace’s man, has remained here. He was ever hopeful of a living heir being discovered who would need his services.” He tapped his fingers on the blotter on his desk. “We were all told you’d left the castle many years ago to join the army. I presume you must have taken some finding, as at first the search was carried out amongst the records of deceased officers, hoping to locate someone who was, in turn, your heir. Mr. Hopkins approached me this morning to enquire whether you would require the services of a valet. He’s been acting as footman, a little unwillingly as he regards it as a step down, since the duke’s death.”

Richard nodded. “You may inform him that I have brought my own man with me, whom I am well used to, and who is more than capable of performing a valet’s duties.” Although this might be a slight exaggeration of Baxter’s mixture of talents. The thought of being looked after by a man who had served Marcus sent a chill to Richard’s stomach. He didn’t want anything that had been Marcus’s, if he could help it. It was bad enough having to inherit his house and fortune. He gave himself a shake, in the hopes of dispelling the chill. It didn’t work.

“I’ll go out now and retrieve Baxter from the stableyard myself, and at the same time he can call into the kitchen and ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Barnes, you said, to send the housemaids to bring hot water to my room for a bath.” He paused, with a short laugh. “Although this reminds me that I have no idea where I am to sleep.” He paused again, fixing Philip with a quizzical gaze. “Do I take it I will be accommodated in the room my uncle used to occupy when I was a boy?”

This foxed the still-uneasy Philip. “His Grace slept in the largest bedroom in the west wing. If that is the one his predecessor, the sixth duke, was accustomed to using, then I would say yes, that should be your room now, unless you require a change. I’m afraid I wasn’t here when the sixth duke was still living.”

“Sounds correct to me,” Richard said, heading towards the door, biting down the feeling of trepidation at having to sleep in Marcus’s bed. “I’ll go up there after I’ve found Baxter.” He paused. “One other thing. Where is Her Grace’s room located? It might be awkward if it adjoins my own.”

Philip’s face gave nothing away. “Her Grace sleeps in the east wing.”

Mulling over that interesting piece of information, as it showed Isabella slept as far away from the ducal apartments as she could get, Richard departed in search of his new quarters. He was pleased to find nineteen years’ absence had not dimmed his memory of the house, and he found his way with no problem back to the hall and up the stairs to the galleried landing. With a brief glance in the direction of the east wing, where Isabella might be right now, he headed into the corridor that led to the west wing, and the room he’d never once been in as a boy. His uncle’s, then his cousin’s, and now his room.

He halted outside the door, for a moment back to being the frightened little boy who’d arrived at Stourbridge all those years ago. Or even the rebellious, angry youth who’d packed his bags and taken off with nothing in his head except escaping the house that had felt like his prison. Then he turned the handle and let himself in.

The ostentatiously decorated room before him was dominated by an enormous four-poster bed with opulent covers and hangings, like something out of a gothic novel. Not that he was all that familiar with gothic novels, but he did possess an imagination.

Two long windows proved to open onto a vista of the parkland, revealing in the distance a folly in the style of a Greek temple. A folly he and Dora had played in as children and pretended was Camelot. There were going to be good memories to stumble on here, as well as the bad ones. When Marcus had gone away to school at thirteen, he and Dora’s lives had been transformed. Until the holidays, of course.

Richard stood at the window in silence for a few minutes, staring out at the spread of meadows and woodland, at the cedars his great-grandfather had planted, at the glimmer of the ornamental lake in the distance near the temple. The lake Marcus had tried to drown him in. Underfoot, the Persian rug felt thick and soft, but he felt no guilt at walking on it in his dirty boots. With a wry grin, he went to the bed and threw himself down on it, legs outstretched. Marcus’s bed. His bed now. Marcus was gone and would never be coming back. All of this was now his.

A tap on the door preceded its opening to reveal Baxter carrying a tin bath. Behind him followed three young maids, each carrying a couple of buckets of hot water. “Here we are, Major,” Baxter said with a conspiratorial grin.

Richard got up. “Ah, that was quick. Thank you all very much.”

Baxter set down the bath by the empty fireplace and the maids, having also set down their buckets, bobbed nervous curtsies to their new lord and master, eyes round as saucers and no doubt bubbling over with curiosity.

Richard gave them a once over. None could have been more than twenty, and all were dressed in gray with starched white aprons and mob caps. But they all had something else in common. They were afraid. Of him.

That Marcus had practiced a reign of terror on him as a boy was without a doubt true, but that he’d never been allowed by his strict father to be rude or cruel to the servants was also true. Perhaps achieving his inheritance had freed him to give vent to his true nature at last. Each girl kept her eyes lowered as though afraid to look him in the eye.

This had to stop.

Richard sat down again on the edge of the bed and smiled in his most friendly manner. “I much appreciate you carrying those heavy buckets up the stairs for me, girls. I intend to be a good master to all my servants and to reward good service as it deserves.” One of them dared a peek at him. “As a consequence, I would like to know all your names. No doubt you’ve already made the acquaintance of my trusty manservant, Albert Baxter.” He grinned. “Do not be taken in by his charms for he is a scoundrel at heart, although a kind one.” He winked at Baxter. “So, what are you all called?”