The Duke's Christmas Mystery: A Regency Romance Christmas Mystery

by Kate Carteret

  As she spoke, there was a thud behind her. Jane’s screaming had stopped as she fainted, finally having her own fears confirmed.

  Esme hastened to Jane’s side, stooping down to lightly touch her cheek. At that moment, Lord Beresford arrived on stage, his booming tone not adjusted one iota to suit the circumstances.

  “What the devil is going on?” He demanded, forgetting his undying deference to the Duke for a moment.

  Jane looked back at the Baron, who was perspiring greatly, his eyes wide as he took in the scene around him.

  “Oh dear.” Lord Beresford said slowly. “There has been some terrible accident.”

  “This is no accident.” The Duke said in a steady tone full of comforting authority. “This is murder.”

  Chapter Four

  “Beresford, for heaven’s sake get that curtain pulled across and say a few words to your guests.” The Duke said and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder hard enough for Esme to hear it.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” The Baron said vaguely, his voice suddenly quiet with shock.

  Esme assumed it must be shock, for the man did not seem at all bothered to see his only daughter in a dead faint on the stage, still clutching the dagger she had pulled from her sleeve when the drama was reaching its frenetic crescendo.

  Esme found her attention wandering from Jane to the dagger and, as curiosity got the better of her, she gently prised the dagger from the unconscious woman’s fingers. She held it gingerly, yet immediately saw the warm and slippery blood transfer to her pristine white glove.

  Undeterred, she held the handle of the dagger in one hand and gently pressed her gloved fingers to its sharp tip with the other. The blade was unyielding, far from the prop she had imagined.

  It was an evil-looking thing and would be even without the blood. As she peered closely at it, Esme could see a tiny thread clinging to the blade where it joined the wooden handle.

  “What on earth are you doing?” The Duke was suddenly at her side, crouching as she was and whispering into her ear.

  Esme was amazed that his warm breath on her neck had any capacity to affect her at all in such a grisly moment, but it did. She shook her head briefly and vigorously before turning to look him full in the face.

  “These things are supposed to give, are they not?” She whispered back, giving the Duke a demonstration of all she had learned so far.

  He studied the dagger in her hands with interest, diverted from his initial surprise that an Earl’s daughter would think to handle a bloody dagger, no doubt.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Perhaps this prop has malfunctioned. Goodness, poor Jane.” She said and looked down at the young woman who was beginning to stir.

  “That is no prop, Lady Esme.” The Duke leaned against her absent-mindedly as he studied the dagger more closely still. “That is a dagger. A real one, I mean.”

  “Then this is a murder, Your Grace, just as you said,” Esme said. “A dreadful murder.”

  At that moment, Lord Beresford came unsteadily to them, still seeming not to notice his daughter laying on the stage, the front of the cream satin gown she wore covered in blood. The blood of the man she had loved. Esme swallowed hard and refused to let her emotion get the better of her in that moment.

  “Well, what is to be done?” Beresford’s tone was beginning to regain some of its former voluble glory. “The man is dead.”

  “You must dispatch a servant immediately to run for the village constable.” The Duke was impressively calm as Esme studied his handsome features.

  But as she looked at him, she wondered if she herself were not impressively calm also. She certainly felt it and wondered if the whole shock of the thing would hit her later on.

  “Yes, of course.” The Baron went on.

  “And you must have a few words with your guests. You must try to settle them before one or two of the more curious try to make their way up.”

  “Perhaps it would be better to release them with your apologies, Lord Beresford.” Esme added.

  “But what if one of them is connected to this?” The Duke said and looked at Esme seriously, already perceiving he would get more sense out of Esme.

  “But how, Your Grace? I saw none of them come up to the stage at all, and I was one of the first to arrive this evening.” She gave a pained look to describe the agony of being early to one of Lord Beresford’s events and was rewarded with an amused, knowing smile. “If any of them had tried to swap their own dagger for the prop, they would have been seen. And how would they know to do such a thing, unless they knew what play was to be staged, and knew it in great detail.” She shrugged, flagrantly ignoring her mother’s timeless advice that one should never display their intelligence to a man.

  But she was not at a ball hoping for his attention, she was on the very scene of a bloody murder. Surely the rules did not count in such circumstances.

  “You make some very good points, Lady Esme.” The Duke said, and she was pleased to see that the idea did not surprise him. “Beresford, do you recognize this?” He went on and pointed to the dagger Esme still held.

  “Oh dear!” Lord Beresford seemed a little unsteady as he eyed the blood-drenched dagger.

  He was perspiring more than ever, and he seemed to look instantly disheveled, even a little grubby.

  “Beresford?” The Duke said in a firm tone.

  “Yes, I do. It is my dagger. Well, one which sits on display in a cabinet in the shield room.

  Esme winced, remembering how she and her family had been carted around the dreadfully boring shield room in Beresford Hall some years ago. The Baron had a fixation with war, despite never having served, and had many artifacts of battle displayed with generations of wooden shields, each wonderfully crafted to depict the Beresford family’s coat of arms.

  “And the dagger which should have been used?” Esme asked gently.

  “It is a fakery with a blade which disappears inside itself the moment it strikes something.” He answered the Duke, despite the fact it was Esme who had asked the question.

  “Somebody has swapped the two, Your Grace,” Esme whispered unnecessarily to the Duke. “They have swapped them and led poor Jane to kill a man.”

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, Sheridan! Oh, say it is not true.” Suddenly the other players appeared on the stage, or at least the main players in the little drama.

  Caroline Ponsonby swept onto the stage with the same dramatic vigor she had employed throughout, and Esme silently wondered what had taken the woman so long to arrive. And not only her, but Philip Wallace and Augustus Daventry; where had they been?

  “Miss Ponsonby, please do not take another step.” The Duke rose from his crouch at Esme’s side and held a hand out in front of him.

  “Oh!” Caroline shrieked, looking around the Duke to where her fiancée lay in his gore. “He is dead!” She turned to glare at the stirring form of Jane Beresford. “And there is his killer!” She pointed with determination at the quivering and confused Jane.

  “I do not think so.” The Duke was trying to calm her. “Something dreadful has happened here, but we cannot make assumptions.”

  Caroline swooned a little, but not until she was within catching distance of the Duke. She fell against him, but her color was good, and she was careful not to misjudge her timing and fall too early.

  “Caroline, let me help.” Philip Wallace, Lord Beresford’s nephew, was soon at her side and reaching for her.

  Without a word, Caroline pushed Philip’s hand away and Esme watched as a more telling piece of drama unfolded before her.

  “Oh, Lord help me.” Jane wailed as she became fully conscious again. “The dagger was real. I killed him. I killed him.” She wailed and began to sob, her breathing uncontrollably ragged as it came in dry heaves and screeches.

  “Mr Daventry?” Esme looked up to Augustus Daventry, the only one seemingly apart from the little drama. “Perhaps the servants could be instructed a little, Sir? Some maids t
o take Miss Beresford to her chamber, perhaps?” She looked down at the wretched, blood-soaked young woman pitifully.

  “Of course, Lady Esme.” Augustus nodded, and Esme was grateful that at least one of the Beresford Players seemed to be in complete control of their wits and emotions.

  In no time at all, pale-faced maids had spirited Jane Beresford away and finally, something of a hush fell over the stage.

  The Duke, despite his initial instinct to help, had carefully extricated himself from Caroline Ponsonby, delivering her into the care of a young maid whose eyes continually flicked to the dead man on the floor.

  “Perhaps take Miss Ponsonby to the drawing room for a little brandy.” The Duke said when it seemed certain that Caroline would find her way into his arms again.

  Esme studied the woman without shame. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair was swept high at the back of her head into an immaculate pleat. The gown she wore as Jane Beresford’s love rival on stage was a close-fitting affair with a neckline that was a little too low to go unnoticed.

  Esme did not know her well, but largely because she had never warmed to her enough to seek her out at society events. And now, watching how she sought to use the death of her fiancé as a stepping stone to the Duke of Burnham made it unlikely that Esme ever would warm to the attention-seeking creature.

  “No, I shall remain. I must be brave and do what I can to help.” She said, and Esme thought her acting skills comparable to those on stage before the tragedy had occurred.

  “Then let us sit over here,” Esme said, taking Caroline’s arm firmly and leading her away into the depths of the staged drawing room. “At least sit down, my dear.” Esme used her most strident tone, the sort which declared her title aloud in times of necessity.

  “Very well.” Caroline said miserably.

  “There, you must take care of yourself, my dear. You have suffered a dreadful shock.” Esme carefully sat Caroline in a chair which faced away from poor Sheridan Winchester and, more importantly she thought, the Duke.

  “Yes, I have.” Caroline looked put out to have been pulled away from the Duke, but she was doing her very best to disguise it.

  “Miss Ponsonby, it very much appears that somebody had swapped the fake dagger for a real one from Lord Beresford’s collection.” Esme began. “Do you remember when you last saw the harmless version of the dreadful thing?”

  “This morning,” Caroline said and turned dry-eyes upon Esme. “We had a full dress-rehearsal this morning and we ran through every part, including the … the…” She faltered, and Esme would have believed her distress had it not been for the dry eyes, but perhaps she was being a little hard on the woman.

  “And where is the fake dagger kept? In between rehearsals and what-have-you?”

  “With everything else at the back of the stage. There is a little table with hats and scrolls of paper, all the things we need for the play ready to pick up as we make our way onto the stage.”

  “May I see it? The table, I mean.” Esme used an even gentler tone.

  “It is back there.” Caroline waved her arm vaguely, clearly having no intention of leaving the scene of the drama to accompany Esme.

  Esme nodded and hurried away, aware of the Duke’s interested eyes following her as she went. She nodded at him to reassure him all was well before disappearing through an even heavier velvet curtain at the back of the stage.

  She felt herself to be in a strange little world. It was the far end of the Beresford Hall ballroom, and yet it felt like another place altogether. It was quiet and felt deserted, even though she could hear the murmuring of the remnants of Lord Beresford’s Christmas guests just yards away.

  There was a rail with shawls and tailcoats hanging from it, carefully arranged, no doubt so that they might be easily found and put on between scenes.

  And there was the table, closer to the back of the stage than the rail, with everything Caroline had mentioned resting upon it; hats, a walking cane, and two paper scrolls, the purpose of which the play had never reached.

  Esme paused in front of the table and peered down at it, imagining the dagger resting there. In her mind, she pictured a nervous Jane Beresford picking up the dagger and sliding it into the sleeve of her gown, feeling its cold metal against her skin as she found some way to keep the thing in place and not have it fall out on stage.

  She shuddered suddenly and was glad to be alone and not witnessed in that moment. Poor Jane, if only she had recognized some difference when she had picked up the dagger. But perhaps her nerves would account for a lack of deeper study of the thing.

  Esme made her way back through the curtain and over to where Caroline Ponsonby still sat. Her armchair had been moved, presumably by the woman herself, so as to have a better view of all that was taking place around her.

  “Miss Ponsonby,” Esme said with a little less caring than before since she was forming the opinion that Caroline was a most cold young woman. “Did you see anyone other than Jane Beresford by the table of props in the moments before she took the dagger from it?”

  “No,” Caroline said levelly. “That stupid, mousey fool!” She went on in a tone so vitriolic that Esme was taken aback.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She is a stupid woman indeed if she could not tell the difference. I would not have been as stupid as her. I would have known the dagger was real.” Caroline said, and Esme remained silent, thinking it prudent to let the woman keep talking; perhaps she would say something which would give her away.

  Chapter Six

  James was beginning to find Lord Beresford unbearable again, now that he had regained his voice.

  “Well, we probably ought to have the poor fellow moved below stairs to await the constable and get this stage cleaned up.” He bellowed, and James winced.

  “No, we must leave everything as it is.” He said, turning to look at the dagger which lay on the floor where Esme had left it, close to where Jane had fallen. “The dagger included. We have to make sure the constable has as good a look at things as they were at the time.” He spoke with some authority.

  “Well yes, just as you say, Your Grace.” The Baron’s sense of deference was returning.

  “You still have some guests here?” He went on.

  “Some. Most have gone now, although they all wanted the details!” He sounded a little scandalized. “But I have had your dear sister installed in the drawing room with Lady Tarleton.” Beresford nodded, clearly pleased with himself for attending to such details as might win him favor with the Duke.

  “Thank you kindly, Beresford. Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform my sister that I shall be busy for a while. There are one or two questions I should like to ask first, and I intend to wait for the constable.”

  “Yes. Of course.” The veneer slipped, and the Baron seemed a little uncertain about the Duke’s continued presence on the scene of the crime.

  Still, Lord Beresford did as he was asked and headed off to speak with Helena.

  James hoped his sister would be alright. Still, if she was with Lady Tarleton, Esme’s sister, he was sure she could be left in no more capable hands. There was something about the Waterson girls, Esme especially, which he liked.

  They were bold young women, not to mention bright. Perhaps not everybody’s taste, but certainly his.

  Esme had proved especially bold and James knew he was still reeling from the sight of her bravely running for the stage. She had risen to her feet in the same moment he had done, he’d seen her from behind. She had realized that something had gone horribly wrong in the moment he had, and her sudden movement had provoked his own.

  But to see her behave so steadily when all was blood and gore was rather impressive, even for a young woman he had always suspected of having a spirit of adventure. And it seemed she had a penchant for mystery too, for her questions and assumptions thus far had been very cleverly thought out.

  All in all, Lady Esme was becoming more interesting by the minute.


  “Dreadful business, all this.” Augustus Daventry spoke, returning to the stage after shepherding the Baron’s servants and having Jane taken away to her chamber.

  “Quite so.” James said and decided to have a few moment’s conversation with the man in private.

  He knew that there had been some scandal regarding money. Something which had been kept out of the mainstay of society gossip, it was true, but it was also true that there was not much which did not reach the ears of a Duke in the end.

  “What a dreadful end.” Augustus was looking down at the man who had once been his friend. “I’ve known him since Eton, you know. We were as tight as tight could be.” He was already beginning a eulogy, in James’ opinion.

  “I am sure.” James sympathized.

  “The best of friends. It might not have always seemed that way when we argued, but we were like brothers. We laughed, we talked, we hunted, we fought.” He nodded sadly. “Yes, the best of friends.”

  “You must have been, Mr Daventry, especially after that business with the money. Mr Winchester’s investments, I mean.” He did not know the full facts and so decided to be vague enough to make it seem as if he had a greater knowledge of it.

  “I know I lost a lot,” Augustus began to give away more than James really knew. “But I am a wealthy man, and anybody can make a mistake.” He tried to shrug it off, but it was clear that the Duke’s knowledge of it was something he found unsettling.

  “A mistake in terms of investing?”

  “Yes, I must admit, I was put out at first. But that was just a touch of the old pride, nothing more. Investments are always a risk, as Sheridan pointed out at the time.” He laughed as if remembering the very conversation. “That’s what makes them some exciting, no?”

  “A few people lost out on that particular investment, I believe.” James went on, wondering if Sheridan’s behavior had been enough for someone to want to see him dead.

  “Yes, several people, I’m sure.” Augustus said and turned to look dolefully at the body of his friend.