by Aston, Alexa
He returned to where their boots and stockings lay and sat a moment, winded from all of his work. He was still weaker than he should be but he couldn’t delay any longer. It was important to stop the farce of a funeral before it took place and have Francis taken into custody. No longer did Andrew feel the need to beat his half-brother to a bloody pulp. He merely needed him taken away to prison. Better things lay ahead for Andrew.
His life with Phoebe.
Gathering their items, he made his way back to Falmouth Cottage. He had overheard her tell the magistrate that she’d rented the cottage for six months. He wondered when she had arrived in Cornwall and why she’d chosen this spot to put down roots for a short while. It didn’t matter. Soon, she would the Duchess of Windham and have numerous places to call home. Of course, when her sister’s time drew near, Andrew would accompany Phoebe to London so she could be with Letty. He sensed the close bond between the women and knew his darling had served as a mother to her sister. As long as he could accompany Phoebe, he didn’t mind being in London.
Andrew arrived at the cottage and saw Caesar pacing in front of the house. The cat was a creature who enjoyed the sun and today was overcast and cool.
“Are you locked out, my friend?” he asked jovially. “You should have yowled. Your mistress would have let you in.”
Scooping up Caesar, he marched to the door and opened it. The cat sprang from his arms.
“Phoebe, I’m back,” he called and went straight to the bedchamber, a small part of him hoping she awaited him naked in bed. Never had the need for one woman enveloped him so.
She wasn’t there, though. He started to set their things down on her trunk and stopped.
It was gone.
Alarm filled him. He dropped what he carried and opened the wardrobe.
Empty.
Panic rippled through him.
“Phoebe!” he shouted, hurrying back to the other room, turning in circles.
Then he spied a page resting on the table, his name scrawled across it. With apprehension, he reached for it and opened it with trepidation.
Andrew –
I’ve just received news that my sister is gravely ill. Both she and the baby are at risk and her husband asks that I come at once.
I wish I could tell you goodbye in person but perhaps this is for the best. The sweet memory of our time together will always be in my heart.
The cottage is rented through the end of the year. Stay as long as you need.
Phoebe
Andrew sank to his knees. Tears stung his eyes.
Phoebe was gone. Gone. London was a good five or more days away and who only knew what route she might take. He couldn’t go charging off after her. Not with Francis deep into his horrible scheme to steal the dukedom away from him. He would need to confront his half-brother and clear up that grisly mess. Only then could he search for Phoebe. If he had to knock on every door in London, he would. He had to find her. Life without her would be no life at all.
Caesar came and rubbed his cheek against Andrew’s leg. He petted the cat.
“She left us both,” he said sadly and stood. Folding the note, he slipped it into his pocket and picked up the cat. “I don’t care if you came with the cottage or not. You’re coming with me, Caesar. I promise you no matter what it takes, I will find her. She’ll not be rid of the both of us so easily.”
Andrew returned to the bedchamber and placed the tabby on the bed. He sat and put on his stockings and worn boots for the long walk ahead. His breeches and shirt were ragged from wearing them so much. Once he returned to Moreland Hall, he would burn everything he wore.
Then he went and picked up one of Phoebe’s stockings. He lifted it to his nose and caught the subtle fragrance of her. Slipping it into his shirt, he picked up Caesar again and placed him in one of Phoebe’s baskets. It would be easier to transport the cat that way.
He looked around the cottage one last time, remembering his thoughts on buying the place. Once he solved his problem regarding Francis, he would meet with the leasing agent. Surely, the man would have a record of information regarding Phoebe, even her previous address or that of her sister’s. Satisfied that he could trace her that way, Andrew set out for Falmouth. It was the closest town and he knew just where to go.
Half an hour later, he’d arrived and went straight for a place he knew well from Phoebe’s colorful descriptions. He entered the emporium and marched straight to the counter, where a woman waited on a customer.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said in his most haughty tone, placing the basket with Caesar on the counter. “Might you be Mrs. Butler, wife of the proprietor?”
The woman behind the counter looked him up and down with curiosity. “I am. What’s it to you?”
“I am His Grace, the Duke of Windham.”
Mrs. Butler fainted.
Andrew hurried behind the counter and lifted the woman in his arms, placing her prone on the counter. The customer gaped at them.
“Fetch Sir William Rankin at once, Sir. He’s the local magistrate.”
Jaw still dropped, the man turned and ran from the store. Andrew only hoped the man would bring back Rankin. He quickly perused the store and found a bottle of smelling salts. Opening it, he waved it directly under Mrs. Butler’s nose.
Her eyes flew open and she sputtered, choking and coughing. He raised her up and gave her a few whacks on her back.
“There you go, Madam. You’ll be fine.”
She regarded him with wide eyes. “You really are His Grace? You aren’t dead?”
“I am Windham and I’ve never been dead. I don’t plan to be for some years.”
“It’s just that—”
“I know. There was a terrible misunderstanding. I’ve sent for the magistrate and he will help iron out the situation.” He glanced around. “My, you have a wonderful store. Moreland Hall is near here.”
“I know, Your Grace. I’ve been by it before. Prettiest estate around. I hear you’ve another one even nicer in Devon.”
“Yes, Windowmere is where I grew up. But I do like this village. Who is your mayor?”
Andrew kept asking her questions until he slipped in the question he desperately needed an answer to.
“I think I will recommend this area to my friends. Is there a leasing agent that rents properties?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Booth handles rentals in the area. Everything south of Truro and to Lizard Point. He’s your man.”
The door swung open and the same customer from before hurried in, pointing to Andrew and saying, “That’s the one, Sir William. He’s mad!”
An older, staid gentlemen entered and came toward Andrew. “You claim to be the Duke of Windham?”
Andrew helped Mrs. Butler from the counter and to her feet and replied, “I don’t claim to be. I am Windham, Sir William. I have things to share with you.” He looked to Mrs. Butler. “Might you have a room where Sir William and I could speak privately?”
She looked torn, as if she wanted to be a party to any conversation between the men but knew the polite thing to do was accommodate him.
“Well, Mr. Butler and I live upstairs. I suppose you could go there. You can reach it through the storeroom. Past those curtains.”
“Splendid.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. She tittered nervously, blushing like a schoolgirl.
“We won’t be long, Madam.”
Instead of turning to the magistrate, Andrew passed through the curtains and marched up the staircase, arriving in a cramped parlor. He took a seat and prayed Rankin had followed him.
The magistrate appeared and said, “See here, Sir, I—”
“Sit, Rankin,” he ordered in his most ducal tone.
The man obeyed him, resting his hands on his knees. He started to speak and thought better of it.
“I am the Duke of Windham,” Andrew assured him.
“You’re certainly not dressed as any duke I’ve seen,” Rankin said testily.
/> “I had gone out for a ride in old clothes,” he began. “I decided to walk for a bit and when I returned to my horse, my half-brother, Francis Graham, awaited me. Unlike my father, who regularly bailed Francis out of debt, I gave him a quarterly allowance and a property to manage to teach him responsibility. Francis begged me to pay off his numerous markers in London, which I refused. Then he shot me.”
“What?” the magistrate roared, coming to his feet.
Andrew unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head. Only a small bandage remained and he ripped it off. Sir William took a few steps toward him and leaned close, frowning.
“My half-brother wanted to be the next duke so much he would kill for it,” Andrew said quietly. “Twice.”
“Twice?” Rankin asked, his expression puzzled.
“My valet is a former soldier under my command,” he explained. “He was wounded in the war and is recovering at Windowmere, my country seat in Devon. Francis knew that. The body he claimed to be mine? I’m afraid it’s someone he killed. Since the poor victim had a scar on his back, Francis invented a scar for me. With no valet to challenge this identification, you and everyone else took him at his word.”
“This is quite a tale you tell,” Sir William said. “And if you are His Grace, then where the devil have you been?”
Andrew didn’t want Phoebe’s reputation dragged into this and said, “A fisherman found me. When I was shot, I fell into the water. This man pulled me to safety and cared for me. I remained on his boat while he made a run and then he returned me back to this area. If you still doubt me, take me to Moreland Hall. My servants will be able to confirm my identity.”
The doubt that had flickered in the magistrate’s eyes lessened.
“I will do just that. Come with me and I’ll have my driver take us there now.”
The two men returned to the ground floor and Andrew said, “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Butler. Once things are settled, I will have you and Mr. Butler come to tea at Moreland Hall.”
“Oh, thank you ever so much, Your Grace.” She beamed at him as he collected his basket.
He accompanied Sir William outside, where a carriage awaited. The magistrate ordered the driver to take them to Moreland Hall and both men climbed into the carriage.
“If what you say is true, then Mr. Graham is guilty of attempted murder—and murder.”
“What would be his punishment?”
“For attempted murder, life imprisonment since he’s not a peer. You would have to testify, of course, as to the circumstances. If your theory is correct and can be proved and Mr. Graham killed a man and substituted his body for yours, then he would hang.”
Either way would satisfy Andrew. Francis would be gone from his life.
They remained silent the remainder of the short ride to Moreland Hall. The carriage pulled up to the front of the house and the butler opened the door to greet them. Immediately, the color drained from his face.
“Your Grace! You’re . . . alive?”
“Yes, Martin. Very much so.”
“But . . . Mr. Graham . . . he said . . . he found . . . oh, dear.”
By now, the housekeeper and two footmen had appeared. The housekeeper shrieked and the footmen looked as if each had seen a ghost.
He turned to Rankin. “Believe me now, Sir William?”
The magistrate nodded. “I do, Your Grace. Perhaps we should go inside and discuss this further.”
They entered the foyer and the housekeeper, who’d recovered her composure, said she would have tea sent at once. Andrew led Sir William to the study, asking that Martin remain. He rested the basket on the ground and Caesar jumped from it, happily exploring the room.
“Fill in the gaps for us, Martin. Tell me everything that has occurred since I’ve been missing. Especially where Mr. Graham is now.”
The flustered butler began to speak but he was rattled. Andrew fetched him a brandy and had him drink it before continuing.
Martin walked him through everything. Francis’ arrival at the hall. The duke not returning from his ride. His horse being discovered. The wait and everyone realizing something had happened to their master.
“Search parties were sent out, Your Grace. Sir William was notified and he and his men also searched for you. Mr. Graham even sent to London and a Bow Street Runner came to investigate. Then Mr. Graham went for a walk along the beach and found a body had washed up. He claimed it to be yours.”
“Because of the scar on its back?”
“Yes, exactly.” The butler paused. “You don’t have a scar there, do you, Your Grace?”
“No. I never have. I believe the dead man did and that is why my half-brother lied about it.”
The servant looked aghast. “Do you think . . . that is, do you believe Mr. Graham had something to do with the man being dead?”
“Since he shot me and left me for dead, it wouldn’t surprise me,” Andrew said calmly.
The butler blanched. At that moment, the tea cart arrived and they ceased their conversation until the housekeeper had poured out for the three of them and left, closing the door.
“Mr. Graham has massive debts, Martin. I wasn’t willing to pay them. He decided he needed to be Windham.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed. “I would shoot him full of lead myself, Your Grace. What a coward.”
“Where is he now?” Andrew asked.
“He’s gone. Back to Windowmere with you. That is, with the body we placed in a pine box.”
Andrew looked to Sir William. “Then we must journey to Devon at once.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sir William returned to Falmouth to retrieve a couple of men, worried that Francis would give them trouble and wanting to have extra support. The magistrate also noted that he wished to call on his counterpart in Devon and bring him to Windowmere when they confronted Francis. Though the crimes had been committed in Sir William’s jurisdiction, he thought it best to inform the local magistrate of the crimes Francis had been accused of and explain that he would be taken back to Cornwall.
Andrew changed clothes, shedding those he’d worn for over two weeks, and instructing Martin to burn them. In a way, he hated to see his so-called smuggler’s clothes gone. They were how Phoebe knew him, not in his superfine coat and buckskin breeches that he now donned. He asked for his carriage to be readied and learned Francis had taken it to Windowmere. It stuck in Andrew’s craw that the blackguard had claimed the ducal coach and the title and how he now tried to take everything away from the true Duke of Windham.
“Saddle Mercury for me,” he ordered, not willing to wait on Rankin and his men. He also instructed the housekeeper to care for the cat he’d brought home, telling her he would send for Caesar once things were more settled.
It would take a good day to reach Windowmere from Moreland Hall. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon now and he’d have to stop for the night on the road. It didn’t matter. The sooner he reached home, the sooner he could end the fraud being perpetrated upon his family.
As the leagues went by, his thoughts continually returned to Phoebe. How distressed she would be, learning of her beloved sister’s illness. He hoped she reached London in time and was able to nurse Letty back to health as well as she’d nursed him. Phoebe had never spoken of any other family. She would be devastated if she lost her sister.
He also thought of ways to find her. The leasing agent would have the contract she’d signed. Hopefully, somewhere on the document it would list her former residence or next of kin. If it didn’t, the task of finding her in a city the size of London would prove to be monumental. It didn’t matter, though. He would find her. No matter where she was. He might even use the Bow Street Runners to do so, amazed at Francis’ gall of calling them in to look for the very man he had murdered.
Andrew arrived late at an inn and took the only room available. He ate in the tavern downstairs, a thick chowder and roasted chicken leg, along with half a loaf of dark bread and a tankard of
ale. When he finished, he visited the stables again, checking on Mercury. The horse had held up well, despite the fact he’d been pushed hard by his rider. By getting to rest overnight, he should be able to ride the mount all the way to Windowmere in the morning.
Sleep eluded him. After having spent every night by Phoebe’s side, he was used to her scent. Her breathing. Her warmth. He let his thoughts linger over yesterday and the times they’d made love. The beautiful widow was everything and more he could have hoped for in a wife. He fell asleep thinking of her soft skin and alluring curves.
After a quick breakfast the next morning, Andrew was back in the saddle. He thought he could make it to Windowmere by two that afternoon. He came close to the time, riding up to the stables at half-past two and leaping from the saddle as another rider shot past him. He only got a glimpse of him and thought the man looked vaguely familiar. Shrugging it off because he had more important matters to deal with, Andrew tossed his reins to a dumbfounded groom. He strode toward the house and entered through the back door, cutting through the kitchens. A roasting pan crashed to the ground, dropped by an astonished scullery maid. Several others gaped at him as he hurried through.
As he exited, Mrs. Hanks, the Windowmere housekeeper, nearly ran into him. Andrew assumed she came to investigate the noise coming from the kitchen.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed. “What on earth?”
“I’m alive and well, Mrs. Hanks, as you can see. Where are my aunt and Mr. Graham?”
She shook her head and took a seat in a nearby chair, clutching it to steady herself. “Most of the guests have left, Your Grace.”
“Guests?”
Her face scrunched up. “Those who came for the funeral.”
“How is my aunt?” he asked, having worried about her, too, during the ride home.
“Lady Helen has been stoic but is grieving. Your friends have helped comfort her. As for His . . . I mean, Mr. Graham, he left the house an hour ago. Said he had business in Exeter.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hanks.”
Andrew moved toward the stairs, imagining everyone was in the drawing room.
“Major! I mean, Your Grace!”