Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  “My father?” Tavia’s breath snagged in her throat, and the burn of welling tears stung her eyes.

  His death had come unexpectedly, leaving her devastated. At moments like these, she realized her heart hadn’t fully healed from his loss. Some days, she didn’t think of him as gone but traveling. She’d hated his absences but loved when he returned home full of colorful stories about his art-seeking adventures in foreign lands.

  “Your father served us faithfully for years, Miss Fowler.” The queen stared into the fire before finally turning back to face Tavia, her orb-like eyes aglow. “I was very sorry to hear of his passing.”

  “How did my father serve you, ma’am?” And for years? Never mentioning any of it?

  “These are delicate matters, Miss Fowler.”

  Tavia shook her head. It didn’t make sense. The Fowlers had never been wealthy or friendly with nobility. Though Tavia’s mother had been the youngest daughter of a viscount, the family disowned her when she ran off and married a commoner.

  As an art and antiquities dealer, Tavia’s father had occasionally visited the estates of wealthy aristocrats, but he’d never mentioned a word about service to the Crown.

  “He was a seeker of sorts,” Queen Victoria added cryptically.

  “Yes, of paintings and sculptures.” An odd pursuit when the queen already possessed castles brimming with precious collectibles.

  “He was a brilliant man, Miss Fowler.” The queen seamed her lips as if that was the end of the matter and she would say no more.

  Tavia’s father had been a secretive man, keeping his office door locked and burning letters as soon as he’d received them. Tavia had ascribed his habits to tidiness and an excessive predilection for privacy.

  “You had no notion of his service to the Crown?” Queen Victoria arched both pale brows. Her dog seemed to sense her unease, shifting to watch her mistress closely. “Lord Cecil assured me you’d inherited your father’s cleverness.”

  “Lord Cecil knew my father too?”

  “Indeed. They were colleagues for a time and quite fond of each other.” The queen tipped up her chin and inspected Tavia, nodding as if not entirely displeased with what she saw. “Perhaps you have inherited your father’s qualities, Miss Fowler.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I understand he was quite particular regarding your education.”

  “Yes, I was quite fortunate.” Though she’d resisted being sent away to boarding school, Tavia found the curriculum challenging. Not the usual rounds of decorum, art, and lessons in refinement, but deep study in history, mathematics, and the sciences. And, of course, her father had supplemented her formal education by teaching her to use the weapons he kept in his private collection.

  Moments and memories flashed in Tavia’s mind, uneven around the edges like puzzle pieces. She’d always felt her father hid too much from her, but now she understood his preoccupation with his work. She’d missed him during his frequent travels, but there was solace in knowing he’d been motivated by more than finances. That when he’d left her alone for weeks at a time, it had been to serve to the queen.

  “I suddenly wonder if I knew him as well as I thought I did,” Tavia admitted.

  “Perhaps we are blinded by our closeness to those we love.” The queen cast her gaze toward the mantel, where an ebony frame held a photograph of Prince Albert, captured forever in handsome youthfulness. “We know them so well, we miss details. Affection allows us to perfect loved ones, buffing away every flaw, smoothing over questions we later wish we’d asked.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Idolizing her father had come as naturally as air to Tavia. Her mother had died when she was a child, and her father had become her everything.

  After taking another sip of tea, the queen asked, “Could you feign a Yorkshire accent, Miss Fowler?”

  “I think so.” Despite lingering questions, Tavia was grateful for the change of topic. “My first governess came from Leeds.”

  “Excellent.” Gina rose to her feet when the queen leaned forward. “You’ll need to venture north for this hunt.”

  “Hunt?” Tavia’s mind spun with possibilities. Had someone absconded with royal jewels, private letters, or some vital diplomatic document?

  “What we’ve lost is quite dear to us, and we are entrusting you with its recovery and return.”

  “Why me?” She could no longer hold the question back. Whatever confidence she’d built in the past year, Tavia was all too aware of her shortcomings.

  The queen clasped the silver head of a cane Tavia had noticed resting amid the folds of her raven-black gown. She planted the walking stick on the carpet and eased herself off the settee. Tavia stood too, and Gina immediately jumped down to subject the edge of her brown woolen skirt to a thorough sniffing.

  “Others have attempted this mission and failed.” She strode forward to the fire’s edge and reached out to stroke her fingers over the framed images on the mantel. “You are fresh, young, clever, and will have the advantage of surprise. No one would expect us to send Octavius Fowler’s daughter. Not even your father would imagine this strategy.”

  “For once, I will be the one to travel.” During his many ventures, he’d insisted she remain at home. He’d been protective, sometimes suffocatingly so.

  “Never traveled?” The queen pivoted and cast Tavia an inquisitive stare. “You do have the mettle for this task, don’t you, Miss Fowler?”

  “I will, ma’am.” In the previous thirteen months, she had emerged from her country-girl upbringing. Now it seemed all that she’d learned had led to this moment. Tavia believed in fate. “Whatever you ask of me, I will do. Faithfully, as you said my father served you.”

  The monarch liked that answer. Her shoulders softened, though she maintained an impressively straight posture for her age.

  “What have you lost, ma’am?” All this time in her presence, and Tavia was no closer to knowing exactly why she’d been summoned. “Jewels? Letters?”

  “Nothing so simple, I’m afraid.” One dove gray brow winged high. “You see, Miss Fowler, I’ve lost a duke.”

  Chapter Two

  “A duke?”

  “A soldier, a man who fought heroically in one of the most devastating battles our Empire has ever seen. He did not expect to inherit his title, you see, but he has. And now he must do his duty.”

  A recalcitrant duke? Where was the mystery for her to solve? The only case she’d taken regarding a missing person had been for a doctor whose patient absconded after using a false name and not paying his bill. A duke, a man of power and influence far above Tavia’s social station, was another matter entirely.

  “Your Majesty, I’m honored by your request—”

  “But?” She edged her plump chin up an inch. Despite her round features and overall grandmotherly appearance, the action made her look fearsome and regal. Like the empress she was. “There is a but in your tone, Miss Fowler. We are not at all fond of prevarication. We do not take decisions lightly, nor were you summoned without due consideration of other measures we might employ. Be assured, many have already been exhausted.” With a wave of her hand, the queen’s bejeweled bracelets tinkled out a discordant tune. “Now, proceed with your but.”

  Fear and doubt bubbled up, a leaden weight catching in Tavia’s throat. Swallowing against the tide, she continued, “I am inexperienced. Woefully so. I wish to carry out whatever duty you lay before me, but you must know London is brimming with investigators far more experienced than I.”

  “Their experience is precisely why we require your assistance. ‘An ingénue with fresh methods of detection and a fiery determination.’ That is how you’ve been described, Miss Fowler.”

  “By whom?” She’d be sure to request a letter of recommendation from them to share with every potential client.

  “We keep our sources close.” The queen’s mischievous smile reminded Tavia of the look her father used to wear when he wished to keep his secrets to himself.

&nb
sp; “Very well, ma’am.” Her next breath turned ragged, and her pulse thrummed in her veins. “I am at your service.” It was the same zing of anticipation she felt on the cusp of every new investigation, but magnified. Sharper. No endeavor she’d ever attempted compared to serving at the direct request of her monarch.

  “Excellent.” Queen Victoria clasped her hands together and beamed. Gina raised her head, letting out a little yip of approval. “Lord Cecil will provide you with funds and all the details required to begin your journey. There will be an additional sum once the matter is resolved.”

  He’d entered the room as stealthily as a soft-footed cat. Rising silently from a buttery-gold settee that blended with the damask wallpaper in the back of the room, Lord Cecil gestured toward the door they’d entered. “If you would accompany me, Miss Fowler.”

  When Tavia approached, he cleared his throat dramatically and cast his gaze toward the queen. Immediately recognizing her error, Tavia stopped in her tracks, turned toward Queen Victoria, and dipped into a curtsy.

  As Lord Cecil ushered her from the queen’s presence, the monarch’s strident voice called out.

  “You are equipped to defend yourself, aren’t you, Miss Fowler?”

  “Quite prepared.” Her father hadn’t only collected historic firearms, knives, and swords. He’d taught her how to wield each one, even teaching her a defensive martial art he’d learned on a trip to Japan. “Do you consider this mission dangerous?”

  For a long-drawn-out moment, the queen offered no reply. Just stared into the waning fire in the grate. “Not the mission, but perhaps the man.” She spoke softly, barely audible in the high-ceilinged room. “Whispers of murder have lingered around Major Killian Graves, now the Duke of Strathmoor. No charges, you understand. Very little evidence. The merit of the rumors is yet to be determined, but Strathmoor has hidden himself away for nearly a year to avoid being called to account. Many have sought him on my behalf, and he has evaded them all.”

  The fizz of excitement in Tavia’s veins began to chill. The queen wanted her to hunt a potential murderer? She’d definitely need one of her father’s revolvers for this trip. Perhaps two. And a few well-concealed knives.

  “At the queen’s request, I’ve prepared a dossier that will assist you.” Lord Cecil approached and placed a thick leather folio in her hands. “I shall join you in the outer vestibule momentarily.” He closed the door on her, but a bit more politely than when they’d first approached the queen’s chambers.

  Tavia balanced the folio on one arm and flipped through the documents. Newspaper clippings, pages from gossip rags, and official documents from the Home Office were neatly organized, seemingly chronologically. At the bottom of the pile, there was even a square of newsprint announcing the man’s birth. After several daughters, the whole of London society celebrated the arrival of the long-awaited heir to the Strathmoor dukedom. Then she noted the given name. The heir mentioned was not the duke she’d been sent to search for but his older brother.

  Voices echoed from within the queen’s chamber, and Tavia leaned toward the door, pressing her ear to the lacquered panel.

  “You’re certain of the Fowler girl’s abilities?” Queen Victoria sounded far more dubious than when she’d spoken to Tavia.

  “Quite sure,” Lord Cecil assured. “She is Octavius Fowler’s daughter, after all.”

  “I am aware of her parentage.” After a long pause, she added, “She’s quite young. Are we truly going to send an innocent into the lion’s lair?”

  A duke, a murder suspect, and now a lion? Hardly a man Tavia looked forward to finding.

  “Strathmoor will respond to her innocence.” Cecil cleared his throat meaningfully. “Though I trust whatever shred of honor he retains will prevent him from fully succumbing to Miss Fowler’s wiles.”

  Wiles? Tavia wasn’t certain she possessed half the stratagems Lord Cecil gave her credit for.

  “And that hair!” Queen Victoria interjected.

  Tavia reached up and patted the knot of wayward red waves at the back of her head.

  “Strathmoor will see her coming from miles away.” The queen let out a titter of laughter at the same moment Tavia’s brow knitted into a frown. “Advise her to cover those distinctive locks, won’t you?”

  Tavia heard footsteps approaching and sidestepped away from the door, ducking her head to examine the dossier again.

  A moment later, Lord Cecil emerged and glanced over her shoulder.

  “He’s the second son of the late duke and duchess,” he said quietly, noting the clipping under her fingers. “The first Strathmoor heir died in a tragic carriage accident just four years after assuming the title.”

  “Are those circumstances relevant to the new duke’s reclusiveness?”

  “Possibly, though the Forsythe matter must be considered the prime cause for his departure from all good society.”

  Tavia sifted the newspaper clippings until the name Forsythe caught her eye. STRANGE DEATH IN BELGRAVIA, read the headline. A Neville Forsythe had been found, shot, in the mews of his Belgravia town house and later expired from his injury.

  “Was the duke involved in this man’s shooting?”

  Lord Cecil offered her an almost sympathetic look, the first sign of warmth she’d seen from the man. “That question remains unanswered. All the details we have are there in the dossier. Review the documents during your train journey.” He approached the door that led to the carriage circle and stopped, indicating she should precede him.

  A light two-seat vehicle had been brought round, a far more modern design than the lumbering growler that had delivered them. After assisting her into the carriage, Lord Cecil braced a hand on the open window frame. “Safe journey, Miss Fowler. I urge you to succeed, and quickly. This is a matter of utmost concern to Her Majesty. Employ whatever means you must to convince the man to return to London—disguise, falsehood, coercion.”

  Tavia leaned toward the window, just stopping herself from clasping his hand. She had so many questions. He hadn’t given her enough time. According to her fob watch, less than an hour had passed since he’d first entered her office. Her whole life had been upended in those fifty minutes.

  “How shall I coerce him? May I say the queen commands his return? Is there any living family member who might require his presence for a birth or wedding?”

  “Consult the documents. All you need is there.” Lord Cecil aimed a long, bony finger at the dossier clutched in her lap. With a tap on the body of the carriage, he indicated the coachman should depart. As the traces jangled and the horses began trotting from the inner court, she heard Lord Cecil shout one final bit of advice.

  “And, Miss Fowler, do consider a hat.”

  “I must speak to Lady Langham.” Tavia tried to keep the desperation she felt from her tone, softening her request with a friendly grin.

  The Langham housemaid, a young woman she’d never met on previous visits, seemed supremely unimpressed. “Expecting you, is she, miss?”

  “Not expecting me, but if you’ll inform her that I’ve come to call, I’m sure she’ll see me.” During their years together at boarding school, they’d become close friends. Tavia worried their camaraderie would alter once Margaret married an earl, but she’d remained the same loyal, steadfast friend.

  The housemaid who’d admitted her continued to eye Tavia dubiously while showing her into the drawing room. “Wait here, miss, if you please.”

  While she waited, she perused the dossier Lord Cecil had given her. A pocket stitched in the back contained several photographs. In the first, dozens of eyes stared back at her. The image featured a group of men in military dress. One man’s face was circled, as if someone had used a knife to incise the photograph but decided to leave his image in place. “GRAVES” was printed above his head, and Tavia knew she was staring into the face of the man she’d been sent to retrieve—Major Killian Graves, now the Duke of Strathmoor.

  Another document listed his eyes as blue in shade, b
ut they must have been the lightest of blues, like a clear winter sky. They glowed out at her from the photograph. Holding her. Capturing her. Every other face around his blurred. Pain lurked beyond those haunted eyes, written in the pinched lines between his brows and the hard set of his sensual mouth.

  “Darling Tavia!” Margaret’s lilting voice filled the drawing room. “I planned to call on you tomorrow. It’s been too long since I’ve heard of your investigatory adventures.”

  Tavia stood and embraced her friend, who deposited a kiss on each cheek. “That is, in part, why I’ve come to call.”

  Lady Langham lifted a finger to her lips and rushed to close the door. After planting herself against the paneled wood, she demanded in a whispery tone, “Tell me everything.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t this time.”

  “Of course you can.” Margaret swept forward, seated herself on the pretty chintz-covered settee, and patted the space next to her. “Richard is off on a trip to Bristol to see about a new business venture, and I’m sorely in need of a diversion.”

  Tavia gave one tight shake of her head. “I’m sorry, but I must be utterly discreet in this matter.”

  Her friend’s eyes rounded. “Goodness, you sound dreadfully serious. “Is it a…”—she peered over each shoulder, as if she feared a servant might be hiding in a corner—“a murder?”

  “No.” There was the matter of Neville Forsythe’s death, but that mystery would have to wait. “I’ve been asked to find someone.” At a little flip in her belly, Tavia wondered if perhaps that admission was revealing too much.

  Margaret screwed up her mouth the way she’d been apt to do when pondering a difficult mathematics problem when they were at school. “This someone has gone missing and you must be mum about the details? Is it anyone I know? Is that why you won’t tell me?”

  “I don’t believe you’re acquainted with him.” Though as a countess and one of the most popular hostesses among London’s upper crust, she’d probably heard of the Strathmoor duke.