by Lynn Messina
In this, Mr. Mayhew had been right.
Of course, Kesgrave had been unwavering in his insistence that he was immune to the slings and arrows of scandal and its purveyors. As the Duke of Kesgrave, he did what he pleased and allowed others to ape his ways. The moment he engaged in a particular activity was the moment that particular activity became the rage.
But what had he ever done that was shocking, she wondered now. He was the consummate nobleman who belonged to the correct clubs and possessed the correct skills and behaved in the correct manner. All his affairs—and she meant that in every sense of the word, even if the thought of his mistresses made her heart tumble, especially now that she knew intimately what that position entailed—were conducted with discretion and aligned with the expectations of the day.
Kesgrave had never veered from the path, not in any significant way. What did it matter if he had, for example, worn unadorned trousers to court, rather than the embroidered breeches of custom?
He was, Bea thought, rather like Job professing his faith in the midst of abundance.
Marrying her was the first time he had stepped off the path, and she feared he could not comprehend the consequences because he had never suffered any before. Briefly, she glanced at him and noted how untroubled he appeared by the disaster she seemed determined to bring to his door. Nothing about this investigation would remain private, and she wondered how firmly he would hold to his faith once it had actually been tested.
To be sure, Bea did not consider herself the embodiment of a curious god’s uncertainty or even a May game set into motion by a conniving devil. Nevertheless, she thought it would be prudent to forego paying a visit to the constable.
Instead, she asked Parsons again about the temperature of Monsieur Alphonse’s body, a question to which he had taken great offense during their first interview. “Was it still warm to the touch or did it feel a little cooler than usual?”
Appalled anew, he stammered that he had not made contact with the chef’s skin. Then he shook his head fiercely and admitted that his finger might have grazed the chef’s hand while he was settling the tablecloth over him.
“And how did he feel?” Bea asked, knowing that the answer would provide only minimal insight. She had no idea how quickly a body cooled, but given the time frame she was dealing with—between one-thirty and five—the only useful answer was if Mr. Réjane’s temperature had felt normal. That would indicate that the murder had just happened.
Alas, Parsons was unable to answer this question without any equanimity. He babbled that the chef had felt warm but cool and then cool but warm, then coolish and warmish. Then tears flooded his eyes and he cried in earnest for a full minute before composing himself and apologizing quite ardently for his lack of control.
“After I put the tablecloth over him, I banished everyone from the kitchen until Mr. Mayhew came down to take over the matter,” he said, quickly adding that he had done that because he thought it was disrespectful for everyone to stand there and gawk, not because he was hiding something. “I instructed everyone to return to their daily chores. The silver needed polishing and the mirrors needed cleaning and the lamps needed trimming and the clocks needed setting.”
It was an ambitious list to attempt, Bea thought, with a beheaded servant lying under a cloth in the kitchen. “Did the chores get done?”
Parsons shook his head. “As far as I know, nothing has been done properly today. Earlier, I watched Henry polish the same fork for twenty minutes.”
“What happened after Mr. Mayhew took over?” Bea asked.
“He sent Henry to fetch the constable, and then went into his study to wait for him. He did not go down to see the…um, Monsieur Alphonse until after the constable came. They had a long consultation in his study, and then they went down to the kitchen together to examine the scene. After inspecting the evidence, the constable agreed with my assessment and considered the matter resolved. He had just issued instructions to his men for removing the body when Annette came running down the stairs calling for smelling salts. Mrs. Mayhew had fainted, and she couldn’t revive her. Mr. Mayhew grew quite distressed, and I volunteered to get smelling salts from the neighbor.”
Solemnly, he thanked his grace for the loan.
Kesgrave, unaware of his own generosity, assured him it was no bother.
“And Mrs. Mayhew was still in a faint when you returned?” Bea asked.
“She was, yes, but the smelling salts brought her around immediately,” he said. “By then the constable’s men had removed the body. As soon as it was gone, Mr. Mayhew ordered Henry to remove the le peu so nobody else would get hurt. Everything had sorted itself out nicely until you arrived.”
The butler’s tone was neutral, but Bea felt the implied criticism and sweetly apologized for undoing all his excellent work in hiding the true cause of Mr. Réjane’s death.
Horrified, Parsons sputtered with embarrassment, apologizing profusely and insisting that was not what he had meant. “In truth, your grace, I am very grateful for your interest. My behavior this morning was rash and deplorable, and I am ashamed of it now. If you had not come, my actions would have stood and then we would never discover what had really happened to Monsieur Alphonse. I am not so blinded by personal antipathy that I do not recognize what a tragedy that would have been.”
Bea did not know if she should take him at his word, but it was a persuasive speech well delivered. “Tell us about your argument with him regarding the wine cellar.”
Although he had known the question was in the offing, Parsons startled as if surprised and blinked several times. “As you’ve already heard the story, I am not sure what I can add. Monsieur Alphonse defied my authority, arranged my insentience and removed the key to the wine cellar from my person. It was a tremendous betrayal of trust and a thoroughly unethical act, which I discovered only yesterday, when I was assessing the wine needs for the dinner. I confronted him, and he was unrepentant. He actually laughed and said I was getting myself in a lather over nothing, just a few bottles of mediocre wine. Mediocre wine!” he intoned again, unable to suppress the shock in his voice. Then he turned to the duke and implored him to understand the hopelessness of the situation. “Your grace, it was four bottles of Château d’Yquem. If he considered Château d’Yquem mediocre, I cannot begin to fathom what vintage he considered to be excellent.”
Kesgrave, perceiving the injustice, murmured consolingly.
Although Bea did not mind the digression, she had no interest in extending it and brought the conversation back to the topic at hand. “If Mr. Mayhew finds out that Monsieur Alphonse not only stole the key to the cellar but availed himself of its stock, you will be fired.”
Parsons bowed his head. “Yes.”
“You must have been furious over his disregard for your welfare,” she said.
He did not try to deny it, which was sensible because even now his fury over the maltreatment was palpable. But he did attempt to claim that it did not matter. “Getting angry at Monsieur Alphonse was futile because he was like an overindulged child. He took responsibility for nothing and did as he pleased regardless of whom it hurt. He was so skilled and talented that he always got his way, and it simply did not occur to him to deny himself, not even out of courtesy to others. That is why he made free use of the wine cellar without caring that Mayhew would cast me out if he discovered the truth. But he was also kind and generous with his skill and talent—like a child as well. He genuinely loved watching people enjoy his food, and it made no difference to him if it was a scullery maid or the prince regent. He just wanted his work to be enjoyed. That is why it was hard for anyone here to bear him true malice, even myself, although I was irate with him yesterday and would still be irate with him today if he hadn’t suffered such a grievous fate.”
As Bea had heard a variation on the same general idea from several of the other servants, she nodded and reviewed his movements after the party. “You said you last saw him in the garden.”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” the butler promptly replied, “smoking a cheroot, which he frequently did after a dinner party. Sometimes he would sit out there for hours. Mr. Mayhew was aware of the habit and regularly supplied him with cheroots. It was the cause of some resentment in the household.”
Although Annette had already mentioned the valet’s envy, Bea tilted her head with interest and said mildly, “Resentment?”
“Stebbings felt that the same consideration should be extended to him and was bitter that it never was,” he said, then paused as if reluctant to continue. Then he added, “And Mrs. Mayhew did not like it. She feared that showing a marked preference for one servant over the others, even one with such prodigious talents as Monsieur Alphonse, would create tensions among the staff.”
As it had plainly done exactly that, Bea thought Mrs. Mayhew had been right to worry. But Monsieur Alphonse was the recipient of so many advantages, one more hardly made a difference. As Parsons had said, the masterful French chef was spoiled.
Having gathered all the information she needed, Bea looked at Kesgrave to see if he had any questions and when he demurred, she thanked the butler for his time. Unnerved by the courtesy, he apologized again for making a mockery of Monsieur Alphonse’s death by lying about its cause.
Although it was not Bea’s place to absolve him, she offered her understanding and told him it was better to tell the truth later than never at all. “If you recall anything else that might be relevant, however slight, please send a note to Kesgrave House.”
The butler agreed at once, opening the door to leave the servants’ hall and revealing Henry on the threshold with a hesitant look on his face.
“I did not want to interrupt,” he explained as he awkwardly stepped aside to allow the butler to pass, “but I have a missive from Mr. Mayhew that I was instructed to give you right away. He says it’s of vital importance and requires your immediate attention. He is awaiting your reply.”
Bea accepted the note with great reluctance. “Thank you, Henry.”
The footman nodded, visibly relieved to have successfully discharged his duty after an extended delay, and then paused in the doorway uncertainly. Neither the duke nor the duchess seemed inclined to respond to his master’s command with anything resembling urgency, and he was not quite sure if he should hover while they read the letter or leave them in peace.
Obviously, it was the latter, Bea thought, wondering if she was allowed in her new position to shoo servants away.
“That will be all,” Kesgrave said.
Henry mumbled something unintelligible and closed the door.
Unable to believe the letter contained a single sentence that was genuinely helpful, she handed it to her husband, observing that it was most likely addressed to him anyway.
“Yes, his sycophancy does seem of the particular sort that focuses on me. But do not despair, soon you will have a dozen toadies of your own. You must decide how you will want to handle them. As you know, I find ostentatious displays of knowledge to be diverting for them and satisfying for me,” he said, unfolding the note and scanning it quickly. “Ah, he apologizes for the state of the servants’ hall. If he had realized we would be using it as our private study, he would have applied a fresh coat of paint.”
“How very like him to cut to the heart of the matter,” Bea said.
“Mr. Mayhew is eager to update us on the progress of his investigation and to review his list of people who he believes would like to see him suffer,” he continued. “It’s an exhaustive catalogue containing eighteen names, and he worries that hunger might undermine our ability to think clearly so he suggests we share a light meal before we discuss our findings.”
“He’s very clever,” Bea murmured, unable to determine if his invitation stemmed from a desire to stay abreast of their investigation in order to frustrate its outcome or to exploit its opportunity for greater intimacy with the duke.
When she posed the question to Kesgrave, he firmly stated it was obviously the latter. “If Mayhew had realized that having one of his staff brutally murdered in his own home would bring the Duke of Kesgrave to his doorstep, I am convinced he would have chopped off Réjane’s head himself months ago.”
Bea smiled faintly and murmured, “Oh, surely not. He would have chosen a significantly less consequential member of his staff to sacrifice.”
Kesgrave conceded the point and speculated that the banker would have killed the scullery maid or a stable boy.
Suddenly exhausted, Bea suggested they present themselves to Mr. Mayhew at once so they could refuse his invitation and leave number forty-four.
Emphatically, the duke said no.
“You can’t mean to accept!” she cried, aghast.
“Good god, no,” he said, appalled at the prospect. “I mean to have no further contact with him today.”
Bea applauded the plan and wondered how it might be contrived. “Anticipating our refusal, he is no doubt standing at the top of the staircase waiting to waylay us.”
At this prospect, the duke furrowed his brow briefly before announcing a solution. “We will leave by the servants’ entrance.”
It was a good plan, Bea thought, simple, elegant, practical, and yet it caused her to throw back her head and reel with laughter, for it was funny, so very, very funny, to find herself in the exact spot where she had begun. There she was, a duchess with a house so immense she could wander its halls for days and a staff so large she could not keep count, and she was still sneaking out the servants’ entrance like a dreary spinster with no expectations and disapproving relations.
But not alone—oh, no, never alone again—which just made the situation all the more comical, for now she was scurrying through the staff door in the august company of Damien Matlock, sixth Duke of Kesgrave.
His ancestors would be mortified, she knew, by the depths to which she had sunk him. And so quickly too!
They had been married for little more than one full day and already she had brought him low.
No, not already, she realized. Again.
Only yesterday she had unwittingly caused him to be entombed in the basement of a modest-size theater on the Strand.
And now she was compounding the indignity by forcing him to creep out of another man’s house like a thief.
Was there no end to the humiliation to which she would subject him?
Remarkably, he did not look shamed or demeaned or even a little bit annoyed. Just the opposite, in fact, for his expression was one of delight and intrigue, as if suddenly awake to the wonderful possibilities of a secret egress.
It was absurd, of course, for he was a man of wealth and privilege and the ability to move freely had always been his own. No rules of propriety had ever constrained his desire to take a turn around the square, and yet she believed he felt something new and reckless there, with her, in Mr. Mayhew’s servants’ hall.
Abruptly, she stopped laughing, struck by the feeling that seemed to endlessly overtake her—that she somehow loved him more in this moment than she had in the one before.
Against all reasonable expectation, her love continued to grow. Again and again and again, it expanded it directions she could never have conceived—not as a timid wallflower waiting out a ball in a chair by the fig tree in the corner, to be sure, but also last night as a creature of sensation in his arms.
Overwhelmed by the utter incomprehensible beauty of life, she learned forward and pressed her lips against his. It was gentle and sweet, only a light brushing of gratitude before they made their ignominious exit through the servants’ door, but Kesgrave, not realizing her intention, immediately deepened the kiss. His arms pulled her forward while his mouth tilted her head back, and he murmured softly as she fought for breath, “Trembling beneath me.”
The air left her lungs, simply whooshed away, as desire, as uncontrollable as wildfire, spiked through her. But even as her body succumbed to his touch, her mind perceived the stark reality of the situation, for the Duke of Kesgrave was now in actual fact
seducing his wife in the servants’ hall of a Fleet Street banker.
How many generations of Matlocks were turning in their graves?
Dozens, she thought, dozens and dozens stretching all the way back to the Peasants’ Revolt.
Overcome with amusement, swept away by happiness, she stepped back, momentarily breaking contact, then threw her arms around his shoulders in an embrace that was as effusive as it was clumsy. “I love you,” she said, struggling to regain her equilibrium.
Kesgrave chuckled lightly as he straightened them both and regarded her with unsettling tenderness. “How very fortunate, for I love you, too.”
Oh, yes, very unsettling indeed, she thought, staring into the brilliant blue depths of his eyes, for she could easily spend the rest of her life there, right there, oblivious to the requirements of decorum or civility.
But the duke had other plans, trembling plans, and he promptly opened the door and led her out into the passageway, where the servants who had been hovering scattered to various corners and crevices and feigned consuming interest in their dust rags and cuffs. Undaunted by their interest, Kesgrave strolled down the corridor with the blithe indifference of a gentleman sauntering among the shops on Bond Street, and Bea felt an intense urge to giggle.
She did not, of course, for she had no wish to undermine the impressiveness of his achievement, the way he made it seem as though all dukes regularly exited their neighbors’ properties through the servants’ entrance. She maintained her composure after they were outside and Kesgrave linked his arms through hers and commented mildly on the weather, which was inordinately clement for April. She even kept her poise as they entered Kesgrave House and Marlow’s gaze fell upon her with unbridled curiosity. He had questions, so many questions, but propriety prevented him from asking a single one. And duty, of course, for the duke requested that dinner be laid out in his dressing room as previously discussed.