“Just who are you?” the detective asked bluntly.
“A friend—well, not exactly a friend—more of an adversary actually. Prince Razarit Nicolescu Cojocaru Lupei Grigor, at your service,” he said, bowing. “A very long name, to be sure, but my friends call me Rasha. You may also call me that, Charles.”
Rasha. The name on the postcard!
“How do you know she likes pink roses, and why do you even mention it?” the marquess asked as he resumed his journey towards the gate. “Forgive my rush. I’m already late for an appointment.”
“Yes, so I know. I also knew you would emerge from the kitchen door at that very moment, or at least there was an eighty-nine percent certainty of it. And she’s always loved China Pink roses. I used to buy them for her in Paris.”
“I suppose that was before she discovered what a scoundrel you are and chucked you out of her life. Pity that, though don’t expect me to mourn,” Sinclair replied, deciding not to allow the stranger’s presence to disarm him. Anyone who could appear out of nowhere had to be, at the very least, a hybrid of some type working with Redwing, or at worst, a demon or fallen angel. “I found your postcard. She has no intention of forgiving you.”
“So you might think,” the young man replied in a thick Romanian accent. “But you would be wrong. Elizabeth will come back to me, in time. She always does.”
“So, are the flowers from you or Romanov?”
Grigor laughed. “Anatole is such a romantic! He actually believes such sentimentality endears himself to her, but he is wrong. Elizabeth prefers a strong hand.”
Sinclair stopped and turned, his right hand itching to connect with the creature’s jawline, but he mastered the impulse. “If you ever touch her again, I will kill you.”
“Really? And how would you do that?” Grigor asked, his pupils lengthening into narrow slits. “I am not so quick to seek harm to you, Prince Charles.”
“I am not a prince.”
“Oh, but you are, and you know it. And one day, England will proclaim it. Trust me on this. I have foreseen it.”
“I place my trust and faith in the only one who deserves it.”
“Yes, I know you do. For now. Give it time, my royal friend,” Grigor continued, walking beside the marquess. “You will soon realise that the I AM has no use for you. Oh, I should warn you that Elizabeth’s fool of a stepfather intends to harm her.”
“And you do not?” Sinclair shot back.
“Why would I do anything to hurt her? I love her! And as she loves you, I make it my business to protect you. For the present.”
“You have absolutely no concept of what love means, Rasha or Razarit, or whatever I’m to call you. Just how did you manage to escape hell, anyway?”
“My, how clever you are, Prince Charles,” the adversary remarked. “No one told me you had such wit! I’ve no need to escape hell, for I have never been imprisoned there. Of course, the name hell itself is rather ambiguous. There are many levels to the underworld. Shall I give you a tour?”
“Not today,” Sinclair replied, wondering if a bullet might have any effect on the creature.
“Perhaps, another time,” the dark entity said. “Tell me, what did you think of my uncle?”
“Your uncle? Is this a speculative question, or one that seeks a genuine reply? As I said, I’m a bit pressed for time.”
“Not speculative at all, but a most serious one. Anatole can be stuffy, but he means well. I suppose it’s a consequence of spending so many centuries in foreign diplomacy, always trying to mend fences. Neither I nor my father have any such limiting distractions.”
“You’re implying that Romanov is your uncle, which must also mean you have lived centuries. You have very few wrinkles for an ancient. Don’t tell me that it’s down to eating well and clean living. I doubt either is true.”
Rasha laughed as he snapped his fingers. The breeze stopped, bees froze in mid-air, the clouds ceased to move. “Tell me, Prince Charles, just what would you give to save your duchess?”
Sinclair realised that he could hear nothing other than the being’s irritating voice—even his own heartbeat had been silenced. “Why? Do you plan to strike her again?”
A sardonic smile spread across Razarit’s face. “Perhaps. It depends on my mood. Elizabeth can be difficult to handle at times, but I’m sure you know that. It is the real reason that you have decided to keep her from knowing the truth, isn’t it? The less she knows, the easier she is to control.”
“Beth is off limits,” Sinclair said, inwardly praying whilst trying to maintain calm. “If you harm her, you will regret it.”
“Will I?” he asked, laughing. “Well, I must admit you have me shaking in my hooves. Keep an eye on Anatole, Charles. He changes sides often, and he cheats. Enjoy your picture taking. Smile for the camera’s eye. One never knows what such devices might pick up.”
A whisper of wind whistled in his ear, and just like that, the strange being was gone—vanished, as if he’d been nothing more than a trick of light and shadow. Charles now found to his surprise that he stood beside the Haimsbury gate, and he took note of the time. According to his watch, only one minute had elapsed since he’d left the Queen Anne kitchens. Impossible! The walk across the park took fifteen minutes, easily, and that was when moving briskly.
As Sinclair entered the south doors of the Haimsbury mansion, he could hear Martin Kepelheim speaking with Matthew Laurence and someone else. This entrance led through a broad conservatory with black and white floor tiles and a high ceiling, supported by four marble pillars. A twenty foot construction ladder leaned against one of these pillars, and two newly installed electric chandeliers glittered brightly above the mansion’s owner as he crossed through the south rooms and corridors into the enormous foyer.
Haimsbury House’s ground floor had been designed to accommodate lavish parties with hundreds of guests, so the foyer was comfortably broad, and the frescoed walls rose up through all three storeys, ending in a magnificent dome of stained glass. Two sets of balconies, one on each upper floor, formed a three-sided, double-ringed perimeter providing opportunity for orchestral and operatic performances that might be enjoyed from above or below.
Though designed for pleasure and social gatherings, the house had seen little of either, for the first owner, Charles’s grandfather, had died just four years after construction was complete. Young Robby Sinclair had inherited the title and lands at age twenty in 1849, marrying a few years later and living most of that time at Rose House, the Haimsbury marquessate family seat. Only three dances had ever taken place inside the London mansion. Shortly after the last, the beautifully built home had been shuttered, remaining closed and empty, as if waiting for Charles Sinclair to return from the dead and claim it.
“So, this is our photographic expert, I take it?” the marquess asked as he neared the wide, marble and ironwork staircase. “Good morning, Mr. Blackwood. I’m Charles Sinclair. Sorry I’m a bit late.”
“Ah, yes, good morning, Lord Haimsbury! Such a pleasure to be recording your likeness for posterity today, sir. Is this the first costume, or do you require time to change?”
“The first?” Sinclair asked, looking at Kepelheim. “How many are planned?”
“I think we’ve agreed upon ten, my lord. It’s usual, you know, for a man in your position, but this series will serve you well for many years to come. Mr. Kepelheim, we are planning to photograph the marquess in his House of Lords finery, I hope?”
Charles interrupted. “If we have time,” he said, glancing at the long rack of clothing hanging nearby. On one end, hung a floor length robe of scarlet wool with black ribbon closures, trimmed in a broad collar of white ermine and bearing three and a half bars of the same fur along the side, indicating his peerage status as a marquess. “I presume this is my parliamentary robe? Tory promised nothing dandyish. This looks like something out of the Eli
zabethan era. Do tell me it doesn’t require stockings and a codpiece!”
Kepelheim laughed heartily as he stepped towards the beautifully sewn costume and pulled it out so that Charles could appreciate the robe’s grandeur. “Nothing quite so Shakespearean, my friend. The style is somewhat unusual for today, but it is the same robe your father and his fathers before him wore. Updated a bit, of course, and cleaned. And yes, it is a bit dandin, but it is the man makes the clothing not the reverse, and you would never be mistaken for a dandy, Charles.”
Sinclair sighed, imagining himself in the elaborate costume. “Policing Whitechapel was much simpler than all this folderol. Very well, we’d best get started. I have lots more to do today.”
Matthew Laurence had come down with the Stuarts from Glasgow, having accepted a position as the new marquess’s London butler. The young man now approached and whispered, causing his employer to turn. Sinclair’s left brow arched into a question mark. “Now? Might I speak with him later, Laurence?”
“The gentleman insists that he speak to you at once, my lord. He awaits a few feet away. Inside the turning to the east wing.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Blackwood. One of the contractors has a question. I shan’t be long.”
“Not a problem, sir!” the small man sang out as he lined up a selection of bellows and lenses. “The electric lighting makes our task easier and will hasten the process.”
Kepelheim had been arranging the pieces of various suits on the portable rail, but he left to follow Sinclair. As he neared his friend, he could overhear the marquess speaking to the poor workman, clearly annoyed.
“And just who allowed this man to leave?” the marquess asked brusquely. “Was he not responsible to an overseer or foreman? Did he take the only key with him?”
“He did, sir,” the workman replied sheepishly. “I had just finished installing the new lock, which had a single key to serve it. I asked my assistant to keep watch whilst I nipped down to let Mr. Laurence know I was done, but when I returned, he’d left, and the key was nowhere to be found. My assistant insists that he did not take it, and I believe him. Mr. Rossum is very reliable. I am sorry, my lord. I can install another lock, but it may mean breaking the current one, which could damage the doors.”
“Laurence?” he asked the young butler. “All this is true?”
“It is, sir, and I do apologise. We shall, of course, make copies of the second key before installation. It is a very strange mystery, my lord, for the original key to the ballrooms had also disappeared. Mrs. Partridge and I opened the house a fortnight ago, as you know, and we searched everywhere for the key, but could not find it. It was only the strange occurrence there yesterday that allowed us access at all.”
“What occurrence was that?” asked Martin Kepelheim, as he joined the three men.
Laurence explained. “You should interview the maids for yourselves, sirs, but two of the trainees claimed they heard a voice speaking from within the ballroom, and then the doors simply opened on their own, as if to invite them inside. The girls reported the incident to me, so I accompanied them back there to see that no intruders hid within. We found no one inside, but the room had a very dark smell to it, as if something had died in it long ago. Not surprising, I think, for animals find means of ingress despite our best efforts. It is a very beautiful ballroom, with red tile flooring and thirteen mirrors along the walls. Seven on one side, and six on the other.”
“No, sir, there are only twelve,” the workman corrected. “I counted them. It’s something I do. My wife gets angry because of it, but I’m always counting things, like tools, and coins, and...”
“Keys?” the marquess suggested, annoyed at the entire conversation, but Kepelheim touched his arm, whispering to him.
“Charles, ask me about this room later, after our photographer has completed his work for the day.”
“All right,” Sinclair whispered in return. Turning back to the workman, he tried to sound more patient. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t install another lock. If it damages the doors, then it damages them. Consult with the carpenters if they require repair. It’s not your fault, Mr. Edwards, but do be careful with this set of keys, all right?”
He left the butler to handle further details and found the photographer waiting, a wide grin pasted upon his thin face. “Shall we, sir?”
“Very well,” Sinclair replied, grumpily. “Just don’t ask me for too many smiles.”
Haimish Granger stood as the woman entered the parlour. “Mrs. Hansen? My name is Granger. I work for Lord Haimsbury. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
The madam put out her hand, and the burly driver bent and kissed it gallantly. “No one told me you were so handsome,” she said, her face powdered, lips coloured in scarlet rouge.
Granger stood six foot six, and his coppery eyebrows furrowed into a suspicious groove above his freckled nose. He had heard of Hansen’s establishment from other circle agents, and he was wary of any woman who went to so much trouble to impress a mere coachman. “You’re a lovely woman, Mrs. Hansen, if I may say so, but my purpose is all business. I assume your girl told you that his lordship’s house was broken into recently?”
“She did, and I was shocked to hear it, Mr. Granger. Quite shocked! Whilst the east has its share of dangerous neighbourhoods, ours has traditionally been somewhat sedate and quiet. Seldom do I hear of crimes within our streets. And to think it happened to an officer of the law. Why, it’s shameful! How may I assist?”
“Did any of your ladies happen to notice strangers about, Mrs. Hansen? Rough lads, or suspect individuals? Even carriages or coaches that didn’t quite belong?”
She sat down, and he did likewise. Hansen leaned forward to allow her ageing figure to assume a more pleasing line, her bustle against the back of the deep cushions. “No, I’ve seen nothing, and my girls are very good about reporting such to me. You understand, I hope, that it is not unusual to see many different carriages parked near this hotel. However, we are cautious in this house, sir. Very cautious, and we pay close attention to suspect coaches and rough lads, as you may well imagine. I permit no one to harm my ladies.”
“And may I ask those ladies the same questions?”
Hansen shook her head. Denying the servant access to such interviews would most likely raise Sinclair’s suspicions, but it was a calculated risk she was willing to take: better to raise the ire of a policeman than to risk Sir William Trent’s wroth. “I fear that my girls are all asleep, sir. And anything they might say, you’ve already heard from me. Do you have a warrant?”
Granger smiled. “No, ma’am, I do not. I’ll let the marquess know just how cooperative you’ve been,” he said, standing and collecting his hat from the side table. “Good day, Mrs. Hansen.”
Granger left, crossing the road towards number 12, and then called to another servant before both entered the house. Meg Hansen watched his movements and then turned away from the windows. She had a very bad feeling. William Trent seemed determined to attract the detective’s attention, but Hansen had no wish to find herself under arrest. She’d need some sort of leverage, a fallback position just in case the baronet’s promises failed. However, betraying Redwing required burning bridges that could lead to self-immolation. Despite her fears, Hansen began to wonder if such a risk might not be worth it.
Ringing for her servant, the madam began to devise an ambitious and very dangerous scheme. One that would require delicacy and perfect timing, but also the aid of an old friend.
Lorena MacKey.
Chapter Sixteen
11:40 am
“The morning post, my lady,” John Miles said as he delivered a silver tray, laden with a stack of envelopes to the duchess. “Shall I take these upstairs and place them on your desk?”
“No, just set them here on the sofa,” she said. “I’ve nothing else to occupy my time, so I may as well answer these let
ters. Has my aunt already left for her luncheon engagement with Mrs. Churchill?”
“She has, my lady. Half an hour past. May I enquire, Your Grace, is the dressmaker visiting today? Lady Adele wishes to know.”
Beth laughed. “Yes, I imagine she would. Madam du Monde asked to drop by sometime this afternoon. I’m not sure when. After four, I think. Is Della still here?”
“No, my lady. She returned to Drummond House with the duke, shortly after the marquess left for his photography appointment. If I may offer a suggestion, perhaps it would benefit the household if you were to hire a personal secretary to manage your diary.”
“That’s a very good idea, Miles. As are all your suggestions, of course. You know, I cannot imagine how I’d have managed my life without you, Mrs. Meyer, Baxter, and Alcorn. Becoming duchess at so young an age forced me to grow up a bit faster than I’d planned, but you four helped make that journey much easier.”
The ordinarily stoic butler broke into a wide smile, his eyes soft. “That is very kind of you, my lady. If I may say so, it has always been an honour to work for the entire Stuart family, but watching you mature into such a noble and generous young woman has been a distinct pleasure. And may I also say, that we are all delighted that you’ve found the perfect husband. Lord Haimsbury is an extraordinary person, my lady.”
“Isn’t he?” she asked, her dark eyes twinkling. Beth reached out and touched the butler’s gloved hand. “Mr. Miles, you are a wonderful person, and I’m blessed to be surrounded by men such as you. As to this secretary, should I advertise?”
“Generally, Your Grace, such matters are handled by agencies. If you wish, I could contact one for you. There is a very reputable company with whom the duke has worked, and he considers them trustworthy. The founder served on the circle for many years. The late Simon Finchley. His daughter, Mrs. Abigail Rosebery, oversees the agency now.”
“Very well,” she answered. “I’ll have to wade through this thick pile of correspondence on my own for today, but if you would contact Mrs. Rosebery, then perhaps she can find someone to help. I could interview applicants next week, if that gives her enough time to select half a dozen or so.”
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