Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “Herron, you aren’t well,” whispered his mother. “You don’t know what you are saying—”

  “That is what I have been trying to tell you, Gwendolyn.” Lord Claude’s voice was harsh with strain. “The boy’s mind isn’t whole. He needs to be sent away. I know a place where they can treat cases like this, where he’ll be safe from these delusions—”

  Herron laughed again, and advanced on his uncle with a deliberation that was frightening to see. “Oh, it would suit you very well if I were mad, Uncle, I can see; I would be as good as dead, but without the inconvenience of another murder. You’d not even have the poisoned wine to explain away.”

  “As if I needed an explanation.” Lord Claude fell back a pace as his nephew continued to advance. “How could there be anything in the drink? Where would I possibly get poison?”

  “It’s easily found, if you look. But then, you wouldn’t even have to look very far, would you? Not with your loyal son and his laboratory.” He was closing the space between himself and his uncle, bearing the glass before him purposefully. “He could have obliged you easily by stirring up something lethal.”

  “Herron, that is enough,” Charles commanded, moving to intercept him. “Put down that glass.”

  “Not until my uncle drinks.” Herron’s eyes never wavered from his uncle’s face. “That is the only way he can clear himself now.”

  With an attempt at dignity, Lord Claude straightened. “You are speaking wildly, Herron. I will not dignify these insane accusations by listening to them further.” He turned to the duchess, whose face had gone white, and held out his hand to her. “Come, my dear; we need listen to no more of this.”

  Her eyes flicked back and forth between him and her son, and she made no move toward his outstretched hand. Suddenly Herron lunged at Lord Claude, but Charles was there first, seizing the arm that held the goblet, forcing it out of Herron’s hand. In the scuffle the liquid slopped out of the glass and onto the table, staining the white cloth pale yellow. The duchess gave a thin shriek, and Lord Claude staggered backward, knocking over his chair.

  “Get out of the way, Charles,” Herron hissed. “My uncle and I have a score to settle.”

  “This is not the way to settle it.” Charles had grasped Herron by both arms and held him firmly.

  “He is right, of course,” came my father’s voice, lazy and offhand; when I looked, I saw that he was the only one not on his feet. He reclined in his chair, one hand idly toying with the stem of his port glass. “The proper way to settle such accusations is with a duel.”

  “This is a family affair, sir, and we’ll thank you not to interfere.” I had never heard Charles so angry. “No one has mentioned duels.”

  “It was only a matter of time,” my father returned, with no change in his languid posture. “The boy has made a grave allegation against your father. When one man insults another in such a fashion, the accused must defend his honor. You insolent puppy, you were begging to be called out.”

  “No.” The low whisper came from the duchess, but it went unnoticed.

  “I shall certainly not call out my own stepson,” returned Lord Claude, with new spirit, seeming to revive; there was authority in his voice now. “The boy is raving, in any case, and should be locked up. I see that we have been too lenient with you, Herron; we should have had you sent to an asylum long before now.”

  “Herron isn’t mad.” It was Charles’s voice, strangely distant and very, very quiet. “The Chartreuse was poisoned.”

  All eyes turned toward him as he pointed to something that lay on the floor beyond the foot of the table. It was Zeus the spaniel, who had been lapping up the spilled liqueur. He lay too quietly for any living thing.

  “Oh, no,” I cried. I had not believed until now that the drink had been poisoned, that someone could have died, but here was brutal proof. All the security I had felt came crashing down around me. Death had found its way into the house.

  Until then, I think the men had forgotten that there were women present. My cry had startled them into remembrance.

  “Gwendolyn, you and the girl should not be here,” Lord Claude declared, his voice charged with shock and something like outrage that we should have been witness to all this. “This is not a scene for ladies.”

  “I will not leave.” The duchess’s chin was set at its most formidable angle. “You cannot ask me to go at such a time.”

  “It is precisely because it is such a time that you must go!” Her husband paused to regain control of his voice, and Charles put in quietly, “I would be grateful if you took Oriel away, Aunt. She, at least, need not be subjected to this.”

  “No, I won’t leave,” I said, but after a considering pause the duchess raised her head in acquiescence.

  “Come, child,” she said to me. “We had better go.” The men were motionless, all discord suspended until they could resume their contention out of range of feminine ears. The duchess gave me a look that brooked no argument; miserably, I followed her from the room.

  “How can you bear to leave?” I burst out, when the door had been shut—and locked—behind us. “It may be Herron’s life at stake, or Lord Claude’s—”

  “Hush,” she ordered. She was moving swiftly toward a small door down the corridor, and I hesitated only a moment before following; there was a purpose in her gait that suggested she was not accepting her banishment so easily as I had thought. “Keep very quiet and follow me. We must know how this ends.” She wrenched open the door and without even glancing behind to see if I was there she caught up her skirts and began ascending, quickly, nimbly, two steps at a time.

  The narrow stair smelled of must and disuse, and I had no idea where we were going. I had shut the hall door behind us, in case any of the gentlemen thought to look for us, so that we ascended in almost complete darkness. Busy as I was, clutching at my too-abundant skirts as I felt my way upward, I had no time to wonder what our destination was.

  We emerged suddenly into a long slice of room, one side of which was constructed of a pierced, decorative wooden screen. Voices were audible through this, and the duchess, with a warning glance at me to remind me of the need for silence, moved slowly over so that she could look through. I followed, holding my hands against my skirts to still their rustling, and looked through the screen. The long expanse of the dining hall spread beneath us, and I realized we must be in the old minstrels’ gallery. We would be invisible to those below, even if they were not so absorbed in their brutal conversation.

  Evidently while we had removed to our hiding place, as short a time as we had been, Herron had again launched himself at his uncle in an attempt to do violence to him; Charles was struggling to regain his grip on him. My father’s voice was the first we heard.

  “This is shabby behavior from a duke,” he commented, and his voice still held that undercurrent of detached amusement, as if the scene concerned him as little as a pantomime. “You would rather throttle your stepfather than fight him honorably in a duel.”

  “I would not trust him in a duel,” shouted Herron. “A man who resorts to something as underhand as poison would stoop to any treachery.”

  “If you were anyone else, Your Grace, I would call that cowardice.”

  Herron’s struggles to free himself ceased—out of resignation, I sensed, rather than any shame called up by my father’s accusation. He was breathing heavily, and his evening jacket was torn. Charles, too, was disheveled, but his grip on his cousin did not weaken. Lord Claude had armed himself with a poker from the fireplace; now, evidently judging that the immediate danger had passed, he reached cautiously behind himself to replace it, never moving his eyes from Herron.

  My father continued, untroubled by the lack of interest his words inspired. “But, of course, I should expect such dishonorable behavior from you: the cad who discarded my daughter after leading her to believe that you had an understanding.”

  Now he had their attention. “There was no understanding,” Herron said, his voice
tinged with bewilderment at this change in topic.

  At last my father rose, and when he spoke his voice had hardened. No longer was he the disinterested observer. “I say that there was,” he snapped, “and only a blackguard would deny it. Now, what should a father do under such circumstances? Horsewhip the young scoundrel? Quite possibly. Call him out? Most certainly. Your Grace, you have trifled with my daughter’s honor, and I demand satisfaction.”

  Herron’s body had gone slack in consternation, and I felt equally baffled. What did my father have to gain by calling out Herron? Why was he using me as a pretext? I could tell from her face that the same questions were passing through the duchess’s mind. She looked at me for answers, but I shook my head helplessly; all we could do was listen.

  “This is preposterous,” Herron was saying, impatient now, trying to dismiss this nuisance. “You have no occasion to challenge me.”

  My father started to speak—to goad Herron further, I had no doubt—but he was forestalled.

  “I, on the other hand, do,” said Charles, and I gasped before I remembered the need for silence. A block of ice seemed to form in my stomach. I had a terrible feeling I knew what he was going to say, but I could not guess why he was going to say it.

  Charles’s grip at last relaxed, and Herron turned to stare at this new, unexpected accuser. “Whatever have you to do with it, Charles?” he demanded, wonder overcoming even his anger.

  I wished I could read Charles’s face. From above, all I could see was the top of his head. “I found Oriel,” he said quietly, “the night you attacked her.”

  There was silence at this; Lord Claude and my father looked equally confused, and the duchess slanted a look at me.

  “You did indeed behave like a cad to her.” Charles folded his arms across his chest and stood unmoving, facing his cousin. “You stripped her almost down to the skin and then abandoned her there. I do have cause to challenge you, Herron, and the cause is a lady’s honor.”

  The duchess whispered, “Did Herron do this to you?” and I nodded. At the sight of the shock that flooded her eyes, I averted my gaze. She was learning things tonight she should not have had to know.

  “If this is true,” said my father, and his voice resounded not with indignation but with satisfaction, “then it is my place to defend my daughter’s honor.”

  “No, it is not,” Charles returned strongly. “I hope to become Oriel’s husband, so it is my place, and mine only, to challenge her attacker. And Herron has questioned my honor as well, by accusing me of brewing poison to kill him. I have two reputations to defend.”

  “Charles, you will not defend anyone.” Lord Claude had rallied from his surprise. “No one will fight. It is preposterous to debate questions of honor with a lunatic.”

  “This madman has enough honor to avenge those you and your son have wronged,” snarled Herron. “I’ll meet you both, if you wish, one after the other.”

  There was argument over this. Lord Claude did not want Herron to duel anyone; my father and Charles both claimed the right as theirs. They haggled like cooks at a butcher’s shop, and had it not concerned the men dearest to me, I could have found the situation to be not without humor. I wondered desperately why Charles was so insistent, why he was so eager to duel Herron.

  Under cover of the men’s raised voices, the duchess leaned over to me and murmured, “Charles must love you very much to be so quick to defend your honor against his own cousin.”

  I shook my head, baffled. “There must be another reason,” I insisted. “Herron did me no harm; Charles knows that.”

  “Enough,” thundered Charles at last. The squabbling died away. “Herron, I am calling you out. Even if you care nothing for the lady you dishonored, you will surely not let pass the chance to spill the blood of your poisoner.”

  Herron’s eyes shifted; now that it came to the crisis, his certainty seemed to waver. “My uncle was the poisoner.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. After all, as you pointed out, I am the one who has the readiest access to deadly chemicals. Besides, you know your stepfather will never fight you. I am his champion, if you will.” Charles half smiled at his father, who stepped forward in horror. “Whatever quarrel you have with my father, you have with me. We are the same person, as far as this matter is concerned.”

  “Very well, then.” Herron spun away from them, strode toward the door. “If you are to be my uncle’s scapegoat, then I will meet you.”

  “Herron—” Lord Claude started to speak, but trailed off when Charles gave a warning shake of the head.

  “At dawn, then, at the potter’s field,” he said calmly. “We’ll expect you and your second.”

  After that, the duchess and I crept away. There seemed little reason to stay. In silence we walked to her room, and I bade her a bleak goodnight.

  Her hand shot out to grip my arm before I could move away. “Go change your dress,” she commanded. “We cannot possibly go in these gowns; we would be far too conspicuous. Your green riding habit should do.” I stared at her blankly. My riding habit, at this hour? “I shall meet you in your room as soon as I have changed,” she went on, her voice sure and decisive. “We shall have to saddle the horses ourselves—we can’t let the servants know what is happening—but I believe that if we are careful we won’t be seen.”

  “What are you talking about?” I whispered.

  I had never seen such determination in those soft blue eyes. “You cannot imagine I will let my son and nephew duel each other and not be present? We must be there when they meet.”

  “Do you think we can stop them?” The idea sent hope blazing through me.

  “No, my dear. There is nothing we can do to change the course they have set for themselves, not now that honor is involved. In affairs such as these, men will never hear reason.” I must have looked as stricken as I felt, for her voice softened momentarily. “But we may at least be there to see what happens. You would not forgive yourself if the man you love were killed, and you not there in his last moments.”

  My mind reeled at the word. I had not allowed myself to think that Charles or Herron—or both—might die. Please, I prayed fervently, please let it not come to that pass. “If we cannot prevent it, can we not at least send for the doctor, so that he will be present?” I said faintly.

  “One of the gentlemen will do that, dear. It is usual at these meetings.”

  With a brief consoling pat on my shoulder she vanished into her room, and I made my way to mine. I fumbled my way into my riding habit by myself; I could not ring for Jane, I knew, and risk her spreading word of my strange activities. In a few minutes a low tap on my door announced the duchess. She, too, was in her riding habit, a dark blue one, and had draped her bright hair with a black silk shawl. “If the gentlemen see us, they will postpone the meeting,” she explained. “We must keep completely out of sight; fortunately there are woods where we can conceal ourselves. Now, try to get some sleep. We have hours to wait.”

  “How can we be sure they will not start early?” I asked. “Their tempers are so inflamed—what if they are at each other’s throats even now?”

  “Hush, child. They are men of honor; they will follow the procedure.” She took a seat on the divan, from which she could see the clock, and arranged her skirts to make herself comfortable.

  How comforting, I thought numbly, to know that there is an etiquette to killing. How could it be that honor had so many contradictory meanings?

  That night was the longest I have ever spent. The duchess and I kept our vigil separately, wrapped in our own thoughts, yet united in fear of what the dawn would bring. We spoke little. Shortly after we had settled in for our long watch, she had lifted her head with a perplexed frown to ask, “What is that noise?”

  “Herron, on the roof,” I answered, and saw pained comprehension cross her face. We listened in silence to the footsteps that marked the passage of the night. “How have you borne it?” she asked softly, after a time.

  I
knew she meant to ask how I had endured that nightly reminder of Herron after he had broken with me. I had suffered keenly at first, until I had thought of a solution, mundane but effective. “Cotton wool in my ears,” I said briefly.

  “He’ll wear himself out,” she murmured. “By dawn he will be exhausted.” Then her thoughts seemed to return to the scene we had observed from the gallery; when she spoke again, it was on a new topic. “Herron taxed Claude with intending another murder. What did he think was the first?”

  I decided it was useless trying to shield her now. “The duke,” I said, as gently as I could.

  All she said was “I see,” but I could tell that in the light of that new piece of knowledge she was reliving the last months with belated understanding, revising all her ideas of what she had thought she knew, finally aware of what had been passing through her son’s head.

  After that we were silent, and the lonely pacing continued overhead, regular and inexorable.

  I could only guess what thoughts kept her company during that long dark night. Mine were far from cheering. Once again I was forced to confront the likelihood that someone I thought I knew possessed a hidden side, one I could not trust. Charles had seemed always to be so reverent of human life, the last person to voluntarily take one. I remembered now what Herron had said about Charles killing in battle, and shivered. He might kill Herron tomorrow.

  He might have tried before.

  The thought I had been trying to force out of my mind ever since the night before had to be faced. Perhaps the reason I had not smelled smoke last night until after Charles left me was that he set the fire himself. But then why pull Herron from the blaze, after having set it? Perhaps others responded too quickly, and their presence had forced him to rescue the man he had tried to kill. And, having been thus thwarted, he had poisoned the wine tonight, only to have been discovered by his father.

  Why, though? How could Herron’s death possibly benefit him? I was certainly not worth killing for, and in any case there was no need of it: I had not even refused Charles. Had I been too quick to dismiss Herron’s thought that he could have been in league with Lord Claude? But I could still not believe that even loyalty to his father would cause Charles to involve himself in murder.