Page 39 of A Duchess of Mystery

Chapter Eighteen

Richard woke late the following morning with a thumping head and bleary eyes. A little unfair, as he’d not touched a drop of anything stronger than lemonade last night, thinking it wisest to keep a clear head in the face of the onslaught of all those ambitious mamas. Instead, it must be due to the combination of the late night, or rather early morning, the hubbub of noise and heat at the ball, and the stress of having to deal with such an unaccustomed and demanding situation. Not to mention the fact that thinking about what he’d overheard in the garden had kept him awake long after he’d retired to bed. If he never had to host another ball in his life, he would be happy.

He rolled over in bed and peered through half open eyes at where pale light was edging its way in around the thick drapes. The morning was already well on, from the look of things, and too late to have joined Isabella for her early morning ride. If she’d been up to going herself. She’d been throwing herself into her enjoyment of the ball last night with more energetic gusto than he’d been able to muster. Knowing her, though, she probably had been up and out early. He couldn’t imagine much existed that would stop that young lady doing what she wanted. Not even an earthquake.

For a few minutes he remained lying in bed, thinking about the events of last night. Again. What he should have been considering was the identity of the woman who wished Isabella ill, but what he was actually thinking about was that dance with her after he’d returned to the ballroom. Having watched her all evening, he wasn’t foolish enough to think that her charm was anything but deliberate, and yet… she had that knack of making a man feel as if he were the only one in the room of interest to her. Visions of her lissome body in that golden gown, of her sparkling eyes, of the rise and fall of her alabaster breasts… Of the feel of her slender waist under his hands… Well, a man could dream. However, she’d been just as flirtatious with every other man she’d danced with. He had no reason to think he meant anything more to her than any of her other conquests. A list he’d been sure she intended to add him to from the moment he met her. But somehow, he couldn’t stop thinking about her…

A tug on the bell produced Baxter, looking annoyingly chipper and smart in his new uniform of valet, although he’d had to stay up just as late as Richard to assist his master in retiring to bed. While Baxter had been helping him prepare for the ball, Richard had offered to sort himself out after it so Baxter could go to bed at a reasonable time. “I’m an adult, Baxter, and I don’t need nannying. If you take a good look at me, you’ll find I’m exactly the same man for whom you were soldier servant all those years.” But Baxter had insisted that as he was now no longer just a soldier servant and had been transformed, by a miracle, into a valet, it was his duty to attend to his master’s every need. In his own way, he could be as determined as Isabella. In the face of such determination, Richard had acquiesced.

Baxter now set down a tray containing a fortifying cup of the strong black coffee Richard had grown used to on campaign, and drew back the curtains. A disappointing vista presented itself. Gray clouds filled the sky, and rain streaked the windows. Would Isabella have ridden even when it was like this? Again, the conclusion was in all probability. He couldn’t see a bit of rain putting her off. And bang, his thoughts were of her again.

“Good morning, Major,” Baxter said with studied aplomb. He’d evidently been doing his homework about becoming a valet, although addressing his master as “Your Grace” hadn’t yet sunk in. Hopefully it never would. He passed his master the coffee. “Would you like me to fetch you breakfast in bed this morning?”

Richard shook his head. “I hope that was said in jest. I might be a duke in name, but I refuse to adjust my habits to fit the title. So, no, thank you very much. I’ll get up when I’ve drunk this and go down to breakfast. I’ve a few pressing things I need to do today.” He did indeed, and was slightly annoyed at himself for having wasted time sleeping. If someone was intent on making enquiries about Marcus’s death—unscrupulous enquiries—then it was imperative to be one step ahead of them.

Half an hour later, washed, freshly shaved, and dressed in the least formal of his new clothes—a navy coat and buff breeches with a plain waistcoat and shining top boots—Richard descended the oak staircase into the hallway. Empty of any sign even of Atkins. There must be a lot of clearing up after the ball going on. Perhaps Atkins was supervising it, although he, and the rest of the servants, must all be as tired as Richard was.

No one was in the breakfast room. Dora, who’d retired last night looking like a wilted bluebell after a hot day, must still be in bed, and Isabella… well, she might or might not still be riding. Not his concern right now. Food was. Even though he was worried about what he’d overheard last night, he wasn’t about to go out without sustenance.

He ate a quick meal of kedgeree, his favorite, more coffee, and toast and marmalade, and, when Atkins at last appeared, looking flustered, asked him to have the carriage brought round to the front of the house. No point in riding in the rain when he had a perfectly good dry carriage to ride in. Isabella would be shocked, in all probability.

He glanced at his fob watch. Time was getting on, and if he weren’t careful it would be afternoon before he arrived at his destination. Irritation arose again at how late he’d woken this morning when time was of the essence.

He was just going out of the front doors, his cape over his arm, when Isabella, a decidedly damp Isabella, appeared in the hallway, her curls drooping forlornly about her pink-cheeked face. His heart performed a little, unexpected leap. How young and girlish and innocent she looked. Surely that couldn’t be the face of a murderess.

“Richard!” She sounded pleased to see him.

He stopped. “I did wonder if you would still ride in the rain.” He chuckled. “I should have realized that you are completely mad, so of course you would.”

She laughed back. “You have assessed me correctly. Nothing would prevent me from riding, unless it was a broken leg, and even then I think I would hoist myself up into the saddle and make an effort.” Her gaze ran over his attire. “But I think you are on your way out? Despite the rain.”

He nodded, having no intention of telling her where he was intending to go. “I find I must attend to some boring estate business. I’m not like you, and I’m not used to the rain, hailing as I do, most recently, from somewhere hot and dry. I’m taking the carriage.”

She made a moue, but he could see she was curious and wanted to delve deeper into his reasons for going out. “And I suppose I must go upstairs and change out of these wet things or I might have offered to accompany you. If only for my amusement. However, I have a hankering for a large breakfast before the servants clear it away, and dry clothes must come first, I fear. Shall I see you later on?”

“Perhaps. I have no idea how long this will take me.”

She gave him a little curtsey, her eyes sparkling in a most disturbing fashion. “Until later, then, adieu, mon duc.”

He swallowed an awkward lump down. “Yes, until later.” Why did he not want to go now she’d returned? She was like a powerful magnet, drawing him in, making escape difficult if not nigh on impossible. With a struggle, he lifted a hand to her and turned away before the draw of her pulled him in. That wouldn’t have done at all. Not when he had important matters to attend to. Matters that affected her.

He went outside, an uneasy sensation of guilt at lying to her settling over him. Dickens, wearing a voluminous greatcoat, was waiting on the gravel with the landau, its hood up. “Colonel Jarvis’s house,” Richard said, as he got in.

Was that a look laden with suspicion Dickens shot him? Were all the servants in on whatever secret Stourbridge Castle was hiding? No doubt the rest of them would find out from Dickens on their return that Richard had been to see the local magistrate. Colonel Jarvis; the man who’d overseen the process following the discovery of Marcus’s body. He shied away from calling it Marcus’s murder. He had no way of knowing yet if it had indeed been a murder or just an unfortunate accident or suicide. And besides which, he’d reached a point where he’d been forced to acknowledge that he didn’t want Isabella to be guilty of it.

He liked her too much. She might be vain and an incorrigible flirt, determined to the point of bossiness, and a sight too inclined to speak her mind to those she didn’t like, but the sense that beneath the brittle public exterior lurked a hurt and frightened girl wouldn’t leave him: that almost everything about her was an elaborate sham, a mask, a disguise of who she really was. A once-innocent girl damaged by ten years of marriage to Marcus. If she’d been forced to adopt any less attractive character traits, then he held Marcus responsible for every single one of them.

The landau moved off, the gravel crunching under its wheels, passing a rider in a shabby brown coat heading around to the stables. A tradesman, perhaps. Richard had other things to think of. Was he being a fool? A fool taken in by a pretty face? Perhaps. He sat back against the upholstered interior as the horses ate up the road across the park, still not sure he was doing the right thing. That old adage his nurse had been wont to remind him of surfaced. Let sleeping dogs lie.

He shook his head to dispel his doubts. If he didn’t do this investigating, then the man in the employ of that woman was going to, and neither he nor his employer seemed to have any scruples about falsifying evidence if they had to, and paying for it. The fact that he was sure evidence must be frequently falsified in courts across the country in order to gain a conviction did nothing to improve his confidence. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping his headache would begin to improve. It didn’t.

He soon discovered that Colonel Jarvis, the elderly magistrate who had eventually been called to the castle on the morning Marcus’s body had been discovered in the library, lived some seven miles distant, to the west of Newbury. A good hour’s drive. He owned a substantial Palladian style mansion set in a small park on land that gently sloped down towards a river, by way of a mound that might well have been the motte part of an ancient motte and bailey castle. At any other time this glimpse back into history would have fascinated Richard, but not today.

Dickens brought the landau to a gentle halt outside the porticoed entranceway of the house, and Richard wasted no time in descending and hastening under the shelter provided by the elegantly peaked roof. The door was already being held open by the colonel’s butler, so he hurried up the wide stone steps and into a spacious front hall.

The butler closed the door behind him and bowed. “Your Grace.”

Did everyone in this blasted place know who he was? The thought that it would be nice to be able to go incognito surfaced, only to be brushed away. His likeness to the previous incumbent was never going to allow that. Being a duke was to be almost constantly in the eye of the public. The only thing worse than that would be to be a member of the royal family. Which brought back to him the Prince of Wales’s interest in Isabella.