“Disappointed?” Grayson asked.
“Not at all,” Derek assured him. “Merely ... surprised.”
“I can see that,” the duke commented dryly. “Had I known of your interest in antique musical instruments, I would have returned sooner.”
Emma moved to Derek’s side. She appreciated his chivalrous instincts, but it was maddening to stand behind him, unable to see the duke. If something dreadful was about to happen, she wasn’t going to let Derek face it alone.
She was content to let him do the talking, though. So far, the two men were acting as though this were nothing more than a chance encounter at a somewhat unusual house party. Derek’s sangfroid suggested that it was perfectly normal to be facing a murderous madman in a secret room, lit only by the dimming beam of a dying flashlight and the brief white fire of lightning.
“It’s this ghastly weather that brought me home,” the duke was saying. “It may clear up overnight, or it may settle in for a week. Since neither Kate nor I could countenance another week in Plymouth, home we came, jiggety-jig.”
“Leaving Susannah behind you?” Derek asked.
“Indeed not.” The duke turned his head, distracted by a loud thump and a few muttered words that came from the dowager’s bedchamber. The keening wind made it impossible for Emma to identify the voices. She gripped Derek’s arm involuntarily as the duke turned back to them, smiling.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “Dr. Singh gave Susannah the all-clear, so we brought her with us, one big happy family. She’s in her room how, with Mattie and Nurse Tharby.” Grayson looked at Emma. “Nurse Tharby is Dr. Singh’s assistant, though she’ll be his equal once she’s completed her studies. I believe you met her proud mother at the Bright Lady.”
Emma nodded. She recalled Mrs. Tharby very well. She also recalled how loyal the villagers had been when facing the onslaught from the press. They wouldn’t welcome anyone who threatened the generous lord of the manor. They might even see to it that Susannah took a sudden and entirely plausible turn for the worse. The same thought must have crossed Derek’s mind, for his arm had turned to steel beneath the soft cotton of his blue workshirt.
“Like to see her,” he said, with absolute composure. “Susannah, that is. Welcome her back. Let her know she’s among friends.”
“Not possible, old man.” The duke raised his hands, palms out. “Nothing to do with me. Nurse’s orders. If she declares that Syd and Mattie are to be Susannah’s sole companions this evening, I’m afraid we must bow to her authority.”
Derek relaxed a bit. “Syd’s up there, is he?”
“Planning to camp there, by the looks of it. I say, Emma, it was awfully clever of you to put him to work in Grandmother’s garden. Magical place, that garden. It’s done him a world of good.”
The duke turned his head again as a wavering glow began to penetrate the darkness in the dowager’s bedroom. Fire? Emma thought. She cast an uneasy glance at the marble walls and tried very hard not to imagine what would happen if the duke barred the only exit after setting the well-oiled antique instruments ablaze.
“Please,” said the duke, facing them once more, “won’t you join me? It’s frightfully uncivilized to stand chatting in doorways. And we have so much to talk about.” As he turned on his heel and left the room, Derek looked down at Emma and smiled encouragingly. Emma couldn’t quite return his smile, preoccupied as she was by thoughts of how thick the walls were in Penford Hall’s hidden passages, and how easy it would be to seal someone—or a pair of someones—in an out-of-the-way dead end. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Derek was probably as good at demolition as he was at restoration. With a bit of luck and the blade of his penknife, they’d be able to dig their way out. In a year or so.
Gathering her courage, Emma followed Derek through the doorway.
They reentered the dowager’s bedchamber in time to see Crowley rise, red-faced, from the gold-veined marble hearth, where his exertions had produced a brightly burning fire. Emma saw at once that the divan had been moved to one side of the fireplace, a high-backed gold brocade armchair to the other, and the ornate end tables had been pushed together to form a coffee table.
Hallard stood nearby, illuminating Crowley’s labors with a gold candelabra filled with flickering white candles. Kate was there, as well, in an oatmeal-colored fisherman’s knit pullover and dark-brown trousers, standing with folded arms before the door-concealing tapestry. No one seemed surprised to see them.
As immaculate as ever, Grayson was dressed in fawn cavalry twills, a hacking jacket, an ivory shirt, and a silk tie. He nodded cordially to Crowley as he sank into the gold brocade chair and motioned Emma and Derek toward the divan.
Crowley tugged his waistcoat into place, straightened his black tie and upright collar, then gestured for Hallard to follow him through a pair of white-and-gold doors that led, apparently, to the hallway.
For a moment, the only sounds were the moaning wind, the snapping fire, and the distant rumble of thunder. Then another rumble sounded, just outside the bedroom doors.
“Watch where you’re going, you nincompoop!”
“Sorry, Nanny, but your needles nearly caught me in the—”
Emma jumped as the bedroom door banged open and Nanny Cole swept in, magnificent in a red plaid robe and brown corduroy slippers, clutching a yarn-filled basket bristling with half a dozen lethal-looking knitting needles. Chief Constable Trevoy trailed after her, carrying a flashlight and keeping a close watch on the basket.
“You’re a ninny, Tom Trevoy, and you always were,” Nanny declared. “A poke in the goolies might stiffen your backbone, but I doubt it. Now, stop your whingeing and fetch me a chair!” She paused to glower at Derek and Emma, growling, “Nosey-parkers. Can’t bear nosey-parkers.” Peering around the shadowy room, she demanded, “Where’s that blasted daughter of mine? Comes mincing in without so much as a by-your-leave. Ah! There you are!” She crossed over to Kate, while Chief Constable Trevoy hastened to move the other gold brocade chair close to the fire, then sat meekly on the low bench at the foot of the bed, stroking his red mustache.
“Kate, you look like death,” Nanny Cole barked. “Off to bed with you, my girl, quickstep march!”
“I’d very much like Kate to stay,” Grayson murmured.
Nanny Cole’s lower lip protruded obstinately, but all she said was “Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if the chit keels over. I’ve a good mind to dose the pair of you before the night is through.”
The sound of footsteps in the hall announced the arrival of Gash, the chubby mechanic, and Newland, the taciturn gatekeeper. Newland went over to conduct a low-pitched conversation with Kate, then parked himself before the hall doors, rolling his long silver flashlight from hand to hand with the contained energy of an athlete. Emma’s heart sank as she realized that, although the gatekeeper was in his mid-sixties, he was in remarkably fine physical condition.
Gash approached the duke. “Power plant’s buggered,” he reported. “We’ve got the backup generator for emergency systems and alarms, and we still have the telephone, but the rest’ll have to wait till morning.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best,” said the duke.
“Always do, Your Grace.” Gash nodded to Derek and Emma, then took a seat beside Chief Constable Trevoy.
A moment later, Newland opened the doors for Crowley and Hallard. Each carried a large silver tray, which they placed on the tables at Emma’s knee. Crowley’s tray held an enormous silver teapot, nine cups and saucers, a silver creamer and sugar bowl, nine teaspoons, and a stack of small plates. Hallard’s was freighted with four three-tiered pastry stands filled to overflowing with dainty, crustless sandwiches.
“About bloody time,” grumbled Nanny Cole. “What’s Madama sent up?”
Hallard pointed out paper-thin slices of lamb piled on nutty homemade bread, with a side dish of fresh mint sauce; morsels of lobster on toast rounds, topped with a dab of mayonnaise; triangles of whit
e bread filled with translucent wafers of turbot; a round of cheddar cheese, a bunch of glistening grapes, and a bowl of peaches.
A flurry of activity ensued, as tea was poured and sandwiches were distributed. Although Emma had slept through supper, she had little appetite, and the rattle of her teacup on its saucer betrayed her nervousness. Were she and Derek about to be tried and convicted by the duke’s kangaroo court? She stared gravely at her teacup, then frowned, vaguely puzzled. What kind of kangaroo court served tea to the accused? She raised her eyes to search the faces that surrounded her. How could she feel threatened by these people? They’d shown her nothing but kindness. Newland was an unknown quantity, of course, but apart from him—and Nanny Cole’s knitting needles—did she really have anything to fear? Gradually, Emma’s nervousness subsided, to be replaced by an intense curiosity. What was the duke up to?
“Where’s Bantry?” Emma asked suddenly.
“With the children,” Kate replied. She had pulled a chair over to sit slightly behind and to one side of the duke. “We didn’t want them to be alone on a night like this.”
The duke polished off his sixth sandwich while Emma was still toying with her first. He flicked the crumbs into the fire, put his dish on the tray, then leaned back in his chair to survey the group.
“I think that’s all of us,” he said. “Crowley, Hallard, do have a seat. You hover with great aplomb, dear chaps, but surely it’s inadvisable after such a tiring day.” When Crowley and Hallard had settled soundlessly at the gaming table, the duke went on. “Since this is the first chance I’ve had to see some of you since my return, let me start off by saying what a pleasure it is to find myself once more at home and in your company.
“I can’t tell you how deeply I appreciate everything you’ve done in my absence. Newland’s defense of the perimeter was nothing short of brilliant. Tom’s orchestration of the villagers sent the invaders packing with all due speed, taking nothing with them but the somewhat dazed impression that Penford Harbor is inhabited exclusively by a bunch of daft wheezers.” Gash clapped the chief constable on the shoulder and gave Newland a hearty thumbs-up. “Thanks to the rest of you, I never had a moment’s worry about the smooth running of the household. As you can imagine, it made my task in Plymouth that much easier.”
“How’re we doin’?” Gash inquired.
The duke smiled. “You’ll be pleased to know that the tabloids have deemed Penford Hall unworthy of their attention.” He paused as a murmur of approval washed through the room. “And we owe that happy development to the untiring efforts of our dear old Kate.”
Kate smiled shyly. “I seem to recall that you played a role as well, Grayson.”
“Without your support, I’d’ve wilted,” the duke declared. “Sorry, old thing, I’m afraid you must take full credit for a job well done.”
“Here, here!” called Crowley, and Kate flushed as a ragged cheer went up.
“Your Grace.” Chief Constable Trevoy raised his hand. “About Miss Ashley-Woods—”
“We’ll get to that a bit later, if you please, Tom. At the moment we must attend to our honored guests.” The duke crossed his legs and tilted his head to one side, regarding Derek quizzically. “I can understand your desire to view my grandmother’s collection of instruments privately, Derek, but I must confess that I am somewhat disappointed in you.”
“Not half as disappointed as I am in you, Grayson,” Derek retorted mildly.
“You agreed to keep away from Grandmother’s rooms, did you not?”
“The circumstances have changed.”
“Have they?” The duke shook his head. “Your perception has, no doubt, but the circumstances are much the same as they’ve always been.”
“They most certainly are not,” Derek countered. “I haven’t always known you to be a murderer, a thief, and a liar.”
“Dear me ...” The duke raised a hand to fan his face. “Such heated accusations. I’ve always admired your forthrightness, so I shan’t complain now, but honestly, old man, you quite singe my eyebrows with the warmth of your convictions. I presume you will permit me to offer a word in my own defense?” When Derek nodded curtly, the duke leaned forward, his brown eyes flashing, all trace of good humor gone.
“Yes, I murdered Lex Rex, and I had every right to do so.”
“Look here, Grayson,” Derek began, but the duke would not be interrupted.
“As for being a thief, I deny that categorically. I only took what was mine, and even Milord will agree that hardly qualifies as theft. A liar, though ...” Grayson sat back in his chair again and examined his fingernails. “There you have me, dear boy, for I am nothing if not a liar, and an unrepentant one at that.” He raised his eyes to Derek’s. “The very worst sort. But I feel compelled to tell the truth before you and Emma ... depart. You are an old and trusted friend, Derek, and you, Emma, are my gardening angel. It grieves me to see the suspicion in your eyes. Before this night is through, I intend to put you both out of your misery. My friends ...” He paused, and Emma stiffened as Derek’s arm went around her shoulders. “May I present the late, and most assuredly unlamented, Lex Rex?”
Emma waited, then looked slowly around the room. There was Crowley, sitting quietly, his head tilted attentively toward the duke; Hallard, gazing absently into the middle distance; Nanny Cole, knitting a sweater in cobalt blue; Newland, keeping watch from the doorway; Kate, gazing gravely at Grayson; Tom Trevoy, stroking his mustache; Gash, leaning against the foot of the bed, his hands folded serenely across his round belly. Emma looked up at Derek, saw that his confusion mirrored her own, then turned back to the duke. “Excuse me?” she said.
Derek was more severe. “Don’t like charades, Grayson,” he said bluntly. “Never have. If you’ve got something to say for yourself, you’d best come out with it.”
The duke sighed. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Well, all right, then ... Pour yourselves another cup of tea, everyone. This may take some time.”
20
The rain came then, pounding down without preamble. It swept in from the sea and dashed against the bedroom windows, driven by gusts that would leave the rose bushes in tatters, flood the great lawn, and flatten every one of Madama’s vegetables. Emma thought of the freshly turned topsoil in the chapel garden and wondered if it would all be washed away by morning.
Newland, monitoring the storm’s progress through the earphone of a shortwave radio, confirmed that gale warnings had been sounded all up and down the coast and that residents had been advised to sit tight.
Chief Constable Trevoy placed a quick call to the village, where Mrs. Tharby cheerfully informed him that all was well, the boats were safe at harbor, and the only casualty so far had been Mr. Minion, the butcher, who’d slipped on a slick cobblestone and sprained his left wrist. Dr. Singh had seen to the injury and Mr. Minion had recovered sufficiently to hoist a few by candlelight at the Bright Lady.
Gash had long ago wired the hall’s windows with sensors. If a pane was broken, the beeper in his pocket would sound and its digital readout would give him a rough idea of the window’s location. The staff as a whole seemed remarkably nonchalant about the storm.
“We’re part of the headland,” Gash explained. “Whole bloody rock’d have to blow away afore any harm’d come to Penford Hall.”
Hallard added wood to the fire, Crowley refilled cups, and Nanny Cole ate a few more sandwiches, while Derek fidgeted impatiently, and Emma peered worriedly at the driving rain. Very gradually, activity slowed, and a deep stillness fell over the room. Tearing her gaze from the windows, Emma saw that everyone was seated, and that all faces were turned to Grayson.
He was standing near the bedside table, staring down at a photograph in a brown leather frame. Gently, he picked it up, dusted it lightly with his sleeve, and returned with it to his chair, where he sat gazing at it for a few more silent moments before handing it to Emma.
Emma looked down at a portrait of a British army officer. The background
was smoky and indistinct, the uniform unrelieved by gleaming brass or bright ribbons. Slender and fine-featured, light-haired and sporting a pencil-thin mustache, the man bore a striking resemblance to the duke, save for the great sadness in his eyes. In his right hand he gripped a riding crop, but his left sleeve was folded back on itself and pinned at the shoulder.
“My father.” The duke sat with his face turned toward the fire, and his animated hands lay becalmed on the arms of his chair. “The thirteenth duke of Penford was an unhappy man. I leave it to you to decide if it was due to his unfortunate place in the succession, but I’m rather more inclined to blame it on his unfortunate place in history.
“He lost his own father and all of his uncles in the Great War. He lost his first wife in a daylight raid on the Plymouth dockyards, his arm in the Ardennes, and his second wife, my mother, shortly after I was born.” He glanced at Derek, then lowered his eyes. “To pneumonia. Not even a healthy son and heir could put paid to all of those losses, and he became something of a recluse.”
Derek stirred restlessly. “Look, Grayson, I’m very sorry, but—”
“Patience, dear boy,” said the duke.
Nanny Cole glared at Derek. “It’s your fault we’ve been dragged out of our beds in the middle of the night, so you just keep still or I’ll box your bloody ears.”
Chastened, Derek fell silent.
“My father,” the duke continued, “left much of my upbringing to my grandmother, who saw to it that I was educated at home by a governess who has since passed on. My grandmother was a wonderful woman in many ways, but she was ... selectively attentive. If I was neatly dressed and well behaved, she would spend hours with me. When I was bad-tempered—”
“Never had a bad-tempered day in your life,” Nanny Cole stated firmly, and the others murmured their agreement.
“Let us say, then, that I was, at times, overly energetic,” the duke conceded.
“Bouncing off the walls, more like,” muttered Gash.
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