Duke of a Gilded Age

by S. G. Rogers

  Wesley was mildly surprised when the housekeeper showed him into the library, where Mr. Oakhurst was sitting at his desk. The attorney wore a dressing gown, and his arm was in a sling. When Wesley entered the room, Mr. Oakhurst made as if to stand.

  “No, please don’t get up. You’re fine as you are.” Wesley sat in a chair facing the desk.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “Pardon my attire, but it’s devilishly tricky to manage dressing myself with only one hand.”

  “Forgive my interference, Mr. Oakhurst, but shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  Mr. Oakhurst laughed. “That’s debatable, but since my daughter has gone off to London, I need answer to no one.”

  “I suppose not,” Wesley said, chuckling. “Have you heard from Annabelle?”

  “She’s coming home tonight. My sister wrote to tell me Annabelle is suffering from a severe case of premarital jitters.”

  “It’s more than that, sir. Annabelle left a communication for me, which I happened to read just today. Although she didn’t say so openly in the letter, I believe she isn’t entering into this marriage of her own free will. She claims to be protecting you from Errol.”

  “Protecting me, eh?” Mr. Oakhurst shook his head, sadly. “Since her mother died, I’ve done everything in my power to take care of Annabelle, but I often wonder at times if it hasn’t been the other way around.”

  “I wouldn’t press the matter if it weren’t of the utmost importance, Mr. Oakhurst. Can you speculate what Errol may be threatening?”

  “My life has been lived aboveboard, so I can’t imagine what he may have told her that she would have believed.”

  “What do you know of him?”

  “Not enough, I warrant, although I was acquainted with his father several years ago. Mr. Richard Blankenship was a respectable gentleman who made vast sums of money investing in South African diamond mines.”

  “Perhaps we could contact Mr. Blankenship to ask a few subtle questions about his son?”

  “Unfortunately, the poor man perished of malaria shortly after losing much of his fortune. His wife, Maude Delacroix, was a retired stage actress who since remarried. Errol seldom speaks of her, and I gather he doesn’t approve of his mother’s new husband.”

  “I find it curious that Errol would move to Mansbury and immediately attach himself to Annabelle. She’s exceptionally beautiful, but a man like him strikes me as the sort who would rather marry for money.”

  “Your grasp of the fellow’s character is discerning, and I’ve wondered the same thing. I did make him aware that Annabelle’s dowry is modest, but he wasn’t dissuaded. It’s all very puzzling.”

  “It’s maddening.”

  Mr. Oakhurst’s frown deepened. “My sister’s letter has me quite worried about Annabelle’s frame of mind.”

  “I’ll do anything to help, Mr. Oakhurst. Anything at all.”

  “My relationship with Mr. Heathcliff has been strained, to put it mildly, but I thought if I mended fences it would cheer her greatly.”

  “Annabelle had some harsh words for her grandfather at one time, but I detected a certain wistfulness when she spoke of him. It definitely would help lift her from her doldrums if he showed interest in her.”

  “To that end, I sent Mr. Heathcliff a letter, inviting him to the wedding, but I’ve not heard back. It’s possible he may be harboring some rather understandable ill will. Would you be willing to travel to Gloucester, to speak with him on my behalf?”

  “I’d be delighted to be of service, and if Mr. Heathcliff can return with me to Caisteal Park, so much the better. I’ll have you and Annabelle over for dinner and we’ll surprise her.”

  “Excellent. I knew I could count on you.”

  Mr. Oakhurst took his arm out of its sling long enough to write a Gloucester address on a piece of paper.

  “You’ll find Mr. Heathcliff at this address. Will you do me one additional service?” he asked.

  “You need only ask.”

  “Before Annabelle and I embarked on our journey to America, I took out a small mortgage on this house. I thought it would be wise to have extra funds along, in case of an emergency. Since I didn’t spend anything out of the ordinary, I can repay the note of indebtedness immediately.”

  Mr. Oakhurst produced a leather envelope full of cash and a letter to the bank manager, written in spidery handwriting.

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t perish from my wound, or no one would have known this money was secreted underneath the false bottom of my trunk. Would you take it down to the bank and bring the cancelled note back to me? I’d be exceedingly grateful.”

  Elated to be embarking on a course of action at last, Wesley gathered up the leather envelope, letter, and Mr. Heathcliff’s address. “I’ll return from the bank within the hour, and then Cavendish and I will take a train to Gloucester this afternoon.”

  “Where shall I say you’ve gone, should Annabelle inquire?”

  “If she asks, tell her I went to town. Just don’t mention which one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mr. Hamish Heathcliff

  MR. HEATHCLIFF’S COUNTRY ESTATE, called Brimstone Manor, was located about ten miles from the Gloucester rail station. Built of gray Cotswold stone, the structure was constructed in an open-ended E shape, with a steeply pitched brown stone tiled roof. The grounds were extensive, with a mix of open fields, stands of trees, and gardens. As Wesley and Cavendish emerged from the cab onto the courtyard, Wesley gave the house an appraising glance.

  “It’s rather Medieval-looking,” Wesley observed.

  “Sixteenth-century Elizabethan architecture, I believe,” Cavendish said.

  “I like it.”

  Cavendish asked the driver to wait. Wesley’s boots crunched in the light gravel as he made his way to the door. The cast-iron door knocker was fashioned in the head of a lion, and Wesley laughed.

  “Is something funny?” Cavendish asked.

  Still chuckling, Wesley pointed at the door knocker. “It’s just so Dickensian.”

  “You Americans are quite easily amused.”

  Cavendish lifted the iron ring and let it drop. After a short wait, a butler opened the door. “Welcome home, sir—” The man’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “Oh, pardon me, gentlemen. I thought you were the master. May I help you?”

  “I’m the Duke of Mansbury, and this is Mr. Cavendish,” Wesley replied. “We’re here to see Mr. Heathcliff.”

  “He’s not here, but I’m expecting him back from London any moment. Would you care to wait?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Wesley said.

  The butler ushered Wesley and Cavendish inside and showed them into the drawing room. “My name is Trask. Please ring should you require anything.”

  He bowed and left. Cavendish took a seat on one of the elaborately carved sofas, and entertained himself by admiring the many intricate and colorful tapestries hung on the walls. Wesley focused immediately on the enormous oil painting hung over the large marble fireplace. The beautiful woman depicted therein bore a striking and uncanny resemblance to Belle.

  “That must be Belle’s grandmother!” he exclaimed.

  Cavendish tore his gaze away from a ten-foot long tapestry, and peered at the painting instead. “My heavens, the likeness is remarkable.”

  The woman’s hand was resting on the back of a chair, and a pretty little girl wearing dark ringlets was sitting at her feet.

  “The child must be Miss Oakhurst’s mother,” Cavendish mused.

  “I wish I could’ve met them both.” Wesley glanced around the room. “No painting of the current Mrs. Heathcliff?”

  “That must annoy her exceedingly.”

  A commotion in the entry hall heralded the arrival of Mr. Heathcliff. After a brief, muffled conversation in the corridor, the man himself entered the drawing room. His imposing presence preceded him; steel gray hair encased his head like a warrior’s helmet, and intelligent blue eyes sized Wesley up a
s if he were a battle to be fought.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Mr. Heathcliff said.

  Wesley bowed. “My name is Wesley Parker, the Duke of Mansbury. Please allow me to introduce Mr. Cavendish.”

  Cavendish bowed graciously. “At your service, sir.”

  Mr. Heathcliff returned their bows, but his gaze immediately focused on Wesley. “You’re that American chap I read about in the newspapers.”

  Taken aback, Wesley hesitated. “I didn’t realize I was in the papers.”

  “You’re in quite a few articles, as a matter of fact. Your heroics on the voyage to England were impressive, as were those of your valet. My son-in-law acted heroically as well. Apparently, Oakhurst got himself shot while foiling an attack on you?”

  “Yes, sir, but he’s at home recovering.”

  “Seldom have I ever approved of my son-in-law, but his behavior on that occasion was admirable,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “Your granddaughter is getting married very soon, and Mr. Oakhurst sent you a letter inviting you to the wedding.” Wesley nearly choked on the words, but he pushed forward. “He hopes you’ll attend for Annabelle’s sake. Since you’d sent him no reply, I came to plead his case.”

  “I never saw the letter.” Mr. Heathcliff rang for Trask, who appeared in the doorway promptly. “Bring me any correspondence that arrived in my absence, please.”

  “Right away, sir.” The butler disappeared.

  A sardonic smile crept onto Mr. Heathcliff’s lips. “My wife ought to have forwarded my letters to me while I was in town, but she takes every opportunity to thwart me.”

  Wesley was unsure how to respond. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “As am I. Mrs. Heathcliff and I became estranged over her son Dickie, who is a scoundrel, a rake, and a thief. If he should cross my path, I’ll have him arrested, despite his mother’s remonstrations to the contrary.”

  “Your wife isn’t at home then, I take it?” Wesley asked.

  “No, we’re never in residence at the same time anymore. She left for Italy yesterday, per my instructions.” Mr. Heathcliff folded his arms across his chest and looked at Wesley, askance. “So on the occasion of Annabelle’s wedding, Lionel Oakhurst will finally allow me to meet my granddaughter?”

  Wesley and Cavendish exchanged a confused glance.

  “I don’t understand,” Wesley said. “Forgive me, but I thought your disinterest stemmed from your disapproval of Mr. Oakhurst…not the other way around.”

  “My disinterest?” An expression of sadness transformed Mr. Heathcliff’s face, adding ten years to his age. “In marrying Oakhurst, Lucy disobeyed my wishes, yes, but after my granddaughter was born my opinion softened. By then, however, my son-in-law resented my attitude too thoroughly to allow me to have a normal relationship with either Lucy or Annabelle. To be perfectly honest, I don’t blame him.”

  Trask entered the drawing room with a bundle of envelopes, presented them to his employer, and left. Mr. Heathcliff sorted through the stack until he found Mr. Oakhurst’s letter. He slit the envelope open, and scanned its contents. To Wesley’s bewilderment, Mr. Heathcliff’s eyes widened, his face flushed, and his hands began to tremble.

  “Great Scott!” he thundered, giving full voice to the imprecation.

  Trask burst into the room at a run. “Is anything amiss, sir?”

  “Have Benson pack a trunk for me with fresh clothes,” he exclaimed. “I’m leaving for Mansbury first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Mrs. Wright had prepared Belle’s favorite chicken pie for dinner, but she only ate a bite or two before pushing her plate away. Mr. Oakhurst gave his daughter a worried glance. “My sister mentioned you weren’t eating well, and I can see for myself you’ve lost weight. Can’t you finish your meal?”

  To please her father, Belle picked up her fork. “Yes, Papa.”

  A few bites later, however, she could eat no more.

  “Really, Aunt Meg served a sumptuous breakfast this morning,” she said. “I believe it must have filled me up.”

  “I’m sure it would have, if you’d eaten any of it,” her father murmured.

  Belle pretended not to have heard him.

  “Shopping is very exhausting work,” she said. “I had no idea.”

  “Meg wrote that you’d purchased very little for your trousseau.”

  “Perhaps not, but we did visit a great many shops. Whatever I need can be found here in Mansbury, and it will help the local economy besides.” Belle smiled as she examined her father’s visage. “You look a vast deal improved, Papa. I’m very glad to see it.”

  “I’m healing rapidly. I find I’m able to dispense with the arm sling for short periods of time, and already I’ve managed to do a little work.”

  “You’re doing amazingly well, Papa. Did you know your name is in the London newspapers?”

  “What?”

  “Yes, I brought some of the newspaper articles home with me. In the events surrounding the Apollo and the aftermath of its foundering, you, Mr. Van Eyck, and His Grace are painted as heroes. Even Cavendish received a mention.”

  An expression of distaste crossed Mr. Oakhurst’s face. “I would have preferred to have been left out of it.”

  “Why? You were a hero, and you should be honored as such. Perhaps the publicity will help bring clients in to your law practice.”

  “Believe me, I have all the work I can manage dealing with the young duke’s business affairs,” Mr. Oakhurst said. “I’m feeling so much better, I may take the carriage to Caisteal Park tomorrow afternoon with some documents for His Grace to sign.”

  Although it would be a form of exquisite torture, Belle was longing to see Wesley—even if from afar.

  “Would you mind awfully if I accompanied you?” she asked. “His Grace might like to see the newspaper articles.”

  “Wesley isn’t at home, at present. He went to town for a day or two.”

  Belle tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh. Perhaps I’ll call upon Lady Frederic, then. When last we spoke, His Grace mentioned that she wished to speak with me.”

  “If you finish all of your dinner tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and lunch thereafter, I welcome your company.”

  Belle gasped. “That’s not fair!”

  “Nevertheless, those are my terms.”

  With a rebellious and unladylike snort, Belle picked up her fork again and dove into her chicken pie. Mr. Oakhurst beamed.

  “That’s more like it,” he said.

  “Your Grace, I urge you to spend the night at Brimstone Manor. We’ll take a train to Mansbury first thing tomorrow morning,” Mr. Heathcliff said.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Wesley managed.

  Mr. Heathcliff rang the bell for his butler, who arrived promptly. “Trask, have Anders bring in our guests’ luggage and dismiss the cab,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “His Grace will be staying with us tonight.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And find suitable quarters for the duke’s valet, Mr. Cavendish,” Mr. Heathcliff said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wesley sensed Mr. Heathcliff wished to speak to him in private. “Cavendish, could you check on my luggage?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Cavendish said, with a bow.

  After Trask and Cavendish left the drawing room, Mr. Heathcliff offered to pour drinks. Wesley was beginning to feel the strain of anticipation.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having, Mr. Heathcliff.”

  “I won’t keep you in suspense a moment longer,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “Sir Errol Richard Blankenship, Annabelle’s fiancé, is my stepson, Dickie. He has the face of an angel, but a bigger devil was never born.”

  Wesley gasped in shock and his jaw fell open. “You’re joking!”

  “Amongst his other crimes, which include despoiling several young maids in my employ, he stole the ring you see portrayed in my first wife’s painting. I couldn’t prove it,
but all circumstances pointed to him as the culprit.”

  “Annabelle is wearing that ring, this very moment,” Wesley said. “I’ve seen it for myself.”

  “That’s my proof, I’m afraid.” Mr. Heathcliff shook his head, sadly. “I’m sorry she fell in love with Dickie, but the marriage can’t take place.”

  “She’s not in love with him any more,” Wesley said. “Perhaps she was a little, at first, but she since changed her mind.”

  “Her change of heart coincided with her acquaintance with you, I imagine. Why didn’t she throw him over?”

  Heat suffused Wesley’s face at Mr. Heathcliff’s inference, but he had no wish to refute it. “Although Annabelle wouldn’t be specific, she indicated a sense of obligation. In addition, Errol has threatened her father in some fashion.”

  “Dickie is despicable enough for that,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “The man is a predator and he had Annabelle in his sights.”

  “Are you suggesting Sir Errol came to Mansbury to prey upon her?” Wesley asked. “I can’t understand why, Mr. Heathcliff, unless it was to revenge himself upon you.”

  “It was for money, of course,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “Upon my death, my wife will receive a modest stipend. The bulk of my estate, however, goes to Annabelle. Dickie knew of my estrangement from Lionel and so thought himself safe from discovery.”

  “I said from the beginning he had the eyes of a snake,” Wesley spat. “When I get my hands on Errol, I’m going to thrash him.”

  “Mind that you don’t kill the man,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “I mean to have him arrested so he can rot in jail.”

  “If Sir Errol has any warning of his impending arrest, he’ll flee,” Wesley said.

  “Agreed,” Mr. Heathcliff said. “We must go about it carefully.”

  “Excuse me for asking, but how did you know Mr. Cavendish was my valet?”

  “From the newspaper articles, Your Grace.”

  “The newspapers have it slightly wrong, Mr. Heathcliff. In addition to being my valet, Cavendish is a very good friend.”