The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “Bugger,” he said again to himself and wiped his face down with a kerchief.

  A glance at his timepiece confirmed that it was well past seven o’clock, and he wondered why Randolph hadn’t shown his face yet. He would give him a good scolding, to be sure, likely docking his wages for the day, and then they had to get on down to the warehouse – the warehouse!

  The previous evening came flooding back in a tidal wave of anger and contempt. He had to go to Bow Street, that much was sure. If not only to clear his name in any sort of misunderstanding, but also to secure an accident report for the solicitors.

  “Vultures,” he said to nobody and began the horribly hungover and slow process of making himself presentable. He kept spare clothes in the office for such occasions and fumbled with his huge hands to undo the ties of his elaborate garments, now soiled by a night in a chair and in full range of a drunk man’s drool.

  After fussing with some clasps on his new outfit for a time, he slammed his hand down on the desk in frustration, the vibration of which sent both bottles spiralling to the floor, breaking one into tiny pieces of fired sand.

  “Randolph!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Randolph! Where are you?”

  Randolph never appeared, and as the time wore on past ten o’clock, Julian knew he had to make a good showing down at Bow Street. So, grumbling on to himself about the worthlessness of the working poor, Julian went down his creaking stairs and out his front door, locking it behind him.

  He knew people were talking about him as he stood there, hailing a carriage. Surely the fire was the talk of the town; it would undoubtedly dominate the news of the financial district. Julian dared not look at a paper for fear of growing even more furious with the morning.

  “Mr. Bastable!” a familiar, haunting voice rang out from down the block.

  “Not now,” Julian cursed. “Not of all things.”

  “Mr. Bastable!” Lawrence shouted out, waving his hat in the air with a face of joy and merriment. For a moment Julian considered giving him the cut and continuing on his way, but some deep practice of repetition forced him to halt uncomfortably and face Lawrence.

  “Mr. Seton,” Julian said, exacerbated, still trying to wave down a carriage, which were either all full or just ignoring him. Julian suspected the latter, as he often assumed the worst in people.

  “Busy morning, isn’t it?” Lawrence said, catching up. “You’ve heard of the fire, I’m sure? How terrible! Nothing like this has happened in years.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Julian said, still waiving at the street, growing angrier still.

  “Talk of the town indeed,” Lawrence said. “I hear they suspect arson. Well, how could they not? Is someone not always responsible for everything, one way or another?” There was an obvious smugness in Lawrence’s voice, and it scratched at Julian’s temples, driving inwards with a screwing pressure.

  “As I am sure, I have heard that they suspect an accident. Something about a faulty furnace.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lawrence snubbed. “Where are you off to then? Can I join you for breakfast? I have taken nothing today but a sip of coffee.”

  “No, Mr. Seton, I must reject your most gracious invitation. I’m off to Bow Street,” Julian said. “My warehouse was one of the buildings destroyed in the fire.”

  “No!” Lawrence said. “What dread misfortune! I could not express my further condolences.”

  “I am sure you think so,” Julian said. “No, excuse me, Mr. Seton, my day is only made worse by your company at present.”

  A carriage had finally stopped for him, and he climbed in directing the driver to Bow Street.

  “Best of luck, Mr. Bastable!” Lawrence called after the coach with smug satisfaction. “Best of luck to you sir!”

  “What an arrogant cit,” Julian mumbled, rolling in towards the Bow Street office. “He’ll get his one day, I’ll see to that I’m sure.”

  * * *

  Lawrence Seton watched Julian hobble away. Lawrence was beaming, elated by the success of his father’s schemes. Seeing Julian so distressed was an added bonus to the knowledge that his financial world was disintegrating around him.

  Lawrence went along his way, pacing towards one of the many insurance houses in the financial district. He had been to the orphanage mentioned by Mary-Anne’s old employer and inspected their records.

  The orphanage ledgers had shown him a name, one Mary-Anne Barnes, discharged at age fourteen, and it was marked eight years prior. That had to be her, Lawrence decided, and so he took the news to his father. Morris was still thoroughly convinced that there was a larger secret about this woman.

  Lawrence was sent on a survey of all the major insurance houses and shipping offices, looking for the name Barnes. Morris was convinced that she was connected, somehow, to finance. To find out how had been Lawrence’s task.

  While they had waited for Julian to return to London, Lawrence had been hard at work. Now he came to the last broker on his list for the morning, and walked through the jingling doors with purpose, elated from his encounter with Julian. The thought briefly crossed his mind that since the warehouse caper had gone off swimmingly, there was perhaps no need to pursue this woman’s personal history. Then again, his father had insisted on this course of action, and Morris could not be disobeyed.

  “Can I help you sir?” The clerk sat behind a grand marble desk. Lawrence was envious of these offices; they imparted strong, calculated success.

  “I am conducting research,” Lawrence started reciting his rehearsed introduction. “I have been attempting to evaluate the credibility of a possible partner. Can you tell me, good sir, whether or not you possess any unclaimed accounts under the name of Barnes?”

  “Barnes, sir?” the clerk squinted. “Not sure I can give you that information, sir, if we’ve got it or not.”

  “I am Lawrence Seton, sir, of Seton and Seton shipping. Surely, there is somebody here I can speak to with more authority on such matters than yourself,” Lawrence growled in a threatening way. He pressed the desk clerks like this each time, and each time they folded straightaway. It made him wonder about the integrity of his own office staff.

  “Hold a moment,” the clerk replied, defeated. He gave Lawrence a darting look as he ducked behind a large wall of filing cabinets.

  Lawrence tapped his feet, idly watching the window traffic. After what seemed like an hour, he checked his timepiece, only to reveal that ten minutes had passed. Lawrence clicked his tongue and waited anxiously for another twenty.

  Finally, the clerk emerged again, holding a large, leather ledger. Lawrence immediately perked up with curiosity. Everywhere else had simply shaken their heads. The old man is always right, Lawrence shook his head and rose from a wooden bench to meet the ledger.

  “Turns out we have one,” the clerk said, astonished. The leather binding slapped against the marble as it was set down, and the spine creaked out a protest while it opened. “Here we are,” the clerk mumbled, running his skinny fingers down the pages. “1798, it says, report of a shipwreck,” he continued to skim. “Fully insured, policy never claimed,” then he paused and looked up at Lawrence with big eyes. “Policy approved for claimant,” the clerk tapped the line of the ledger repeatedly. “Now this is unusual. Merchant vessel from the Caribbean confirmed shipwrecked by surviving crew. Fully insured under the Captain’s name –one Mathew Barnes. I assume he went down with the ship, for the claim has never been capitalized upon. It must have been an independent operation. Still, normally the family will come and collect. At least a wife or a brother,” the clerk shook his head, confused. “It makes no sense.”

  “Could the policy still be claimed by a surviving relative?” Lawrence pressed, eager to be on the trail. Just who was this woman after all?

  “There are another six years until expiration,” the clerk affirmed. “Not the best practice, leaving money unclaimed. Not sure you want this Barnes as a partner in your next venture, Mr. Seton,” the clerk remarked, sh
aking his head. “All that money.”

  * * *

  Bow Street was as close to the police headquarters of London as it could get, considering London had no standardized police force. Law enforcement was largely privatized; thief-takers would cash in a petty criminal to a judge for a fee, and the constable-patrolled beats were employed by their neighborhood, not by the city. Each different district had its own force, be it the night watchmen or the constables, or the beadles, and they all worked together in a very poor manner. Bow Street was suppose to be something better, at least it started that way. Investigators, free of jurisdiction between neighborhoods and parishes, would get to the bottom of whatever it was, chasing the criminal clear across the country if need be.

  Julian rolled into Bow Street, already holding a grudge against whomever he would have to speak to. Something had rubbed him wrong about Lawrence Seton. The pair always exchanged mocking formalities with each other, but something about him was different today. He had more drive, more purpose in his step. He was up to something, and Julian would discover what.

  After giving his name and the matter he was there regarding, he was shown to a small wooden bench which he hardly fit on. Julian was forced to wait for far too long, as far as he was concerned, checking his timepiece every few minutes. Julian was shown into a small room with a desk between him and the runner, peering over an open notebook.

  “Mr. Bastable,” the inspector said, barely looking up from the pages. He had a thick Scottish accent that poured out from under his tightly maintained moustache. “You were the owner of Warehouse 14 on the North Thames wharf, is that correct?”

  “It is,” Julian said, sighing audibly. “I would like to obtain an accident report for the purpose of informing my solicitor and processing my insurance claim.”

  “Accident? Slow down there, Mr. Bastable, it has to be an accident to warrant an accident report, doesn’t it?”

  “What are you saying, inspector?” Julian protested. “How can it not be an accident? More than just my warehouse was burned if I understand correctly.”

  “Warehouses 12, 24, 14 and 26,” the inspector rambled, running his pencil down the page. “All four were destroyed, with some serious damage to numbers 10 and 16.”

  “All of those buildings are owned by different people,” Julian said, agitated. “How can it not be an accident?”

  “We pulled a body out of your warehouse,” the inspector cut to the chase. “Young lad, can’t be more than thirteen by his size.”

  Julian’s heart fell through his stomach, forcing itself through his skin and slapping against the floor with a thick, wet, thud.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Oh, dead as a doornail,” the inspector said offhandedly. “Burnt to a proper crisp. Tragedy. A night watchman was walking the beat last night heard glass breaking inside your warehouse shortly before the fire started, but he couldn’t see anyone inside. Now, Mr. Bastable, listen to me very carefully.”

  Julian bobbed his head silently. The pieces were falling into place in front of him.

  “Did you have anything to do with this fire, Mr. Bastable? For reasons of insurance fraud or otherwise?”

  “No,” Julian said, coldly. “I did not.”

  “Very well, thank you,” the inspector said. “And did you, in any way, have knowledge of the fire prior to the inspector’s visit last night?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Bastable? Anyone who might want to hurt you financially?”

  “Morris and Lawrence Seton of Wimpole Street.”

  “The Setons?” The inspector was peering over the top of his notebook. “And would you consider them the type to commit such a crime?”

  “I would.”

  “One more thing,” the inspector said. “It states here that you have an employee, one Mr. Randolph? Are you aware of where we could find him?”

  “He rents a bed across the river,” Julian said. “I’m not sure where.”

  “And when will you expect him? Perhaps we can just drop by.”

  “I haven’t seen him today,” Julian said, numbing, realizing the picture unfolding in front of him. The inspector peeked out again, raising an eyebrow at Julian’s last sentence.

  “How old is this Mr. Randolph?”

  “It’s master,” Julian said quietly. “Master Randolph. He is ten and four years.”

  “Ten and four,” the inspector mumbled, scratching at the page with his pencil. “Well, alright then,” the inspector said, scribbling something down in this notebook. “I want to thank you, Mr. Bastable, for coming down to get this straightened out. We’re going to look into all this. Do us a favor and don’t leave the city, would you? And if you see that lad of yours, have him call around.”

  “Of course,” Julian said, getting shakily to his feet. “I will be sure to let him know.”

  “Good man,” the inspector said, shutting the notebook and standing to show Julian out.

  Julian stumbled out of Bow Street in a daze. The world was swirling around him, in part due to the vast quantities of alcohol he had consumed only twelve hours prior, and also because everything he had come to count on in the recent months had come crashing down in a single evening. Somebody was to blame, and he hailed a coach with one thought dominating his brain: vengeance.

  Chapter 22

  It had been a long time since Mary-Anne felt so happy. She had a feeling of fullness within her, driving her onward with newfound energy.

  Since the night on the patio, she had come to terms with her feelings for the Duke. She found him pensive, charming, compassionate, industrial, talented, and oddly attractive. It wasn’t that he looked poorly; on the contrary, the Duke of Rutland was hailed as one of the more attractive peers in all of England. It was how strongly she felt the attraction that shocked her.

  She found herself moving through the house, catching glimpses of his kind face and ducking into a corner to smile at herself. At meals, when she attended to Phyllis in rotation with Ruth, she caught herself staring off distantly in his direction and would hurry to correct herself before anybody noticed.

  What brought her even more joy was catching the Duke doing the same, and sometimes they would both look down at their laps, blushing brightly. Kaitlin was blind to such things, and Phyllis was nearly blind in actuality, and so the two could get away with their covert glances.

  It was fun, she thought, to flirt with these feelings. It was a sort of fun she had not had in a long time, and she had forgotten the fresh thrill of each encounter. It was all like a grand game without any real rules, yet with a litany of foggy restrictions. They could not make their attraction public; such a thing was completely out of the question.

  They were also unable to confirm their feelings for each other without expressing it physically since Mary-Anne was unable to speak. Of course, I could write it out for him, she thought. But none of them know that I can read. Then I would have to write everything out, the whole story. This she could not do, for the circumstances regarding her arrival at the manor still haunted her dreams.

  Of course, they had not expressed anything physically. They had not come nearer to each other than across the table since that night, nervous about what may happen should they meet again in such proximity.

  It is like no other feeling. To yearn for someone, someone who yearns for you, but being unable to rejoice in one another’s affection. What’s more, the whole thing seemed complicated by Phyllis’ health.

  The moments when they spent the most time together was when Mary-Anne tended to Phyllis’ mental breakdowns, which seemed to be coming closer and closer together.

  Such circumstances were far from romantic, and they would both swap nervous, blushing looks while helping the old lady to her feet.

  That evening, Phyllis was eating her roasted beef, slowly chewing the meat between her failing teeth, when she became convinced that Neil was leaving for the war the following day.

  “Are we going down to the shore,
Arthur?” she asked Neil, leaning over her plate obliviously.

  “The shore?” Neil said curiously. “Why would we ever go there, Mother?”

  “Shame on you,” Phyllis rattled. “Your own son leaves for war, and you can’t see him off? We must go down to the shore and see away the ships! All those young lads! Off to Spain! Lord help them all!”

  “They’ll be alright,” Neil said. “They’ve had their training.”

  “We must go and see young Neil off, he may never come back, you know! And it would be your fault! You and your legacy!”

  “Mother!” Neil called, pretending to be his father. “Get a hold on yourself!”