“Sir,” she said imperiously. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Somersham. I believe you have my daughter here.”
The man stopped, eyed her suspiciously then bowed briefly.
“Your daughter?” He said. “Her name is?”
Her name? There was a question.
“She is the present Duchess of Somersham, but has taken that title only recently. She could be here under the name of Lady Susan Hartleigh.”
The young man shook his head.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, “I cannot know the names of every patient here, but I am sure we have no members of the nobility. It would help if you know the reason she is a patient here.”
She paused. It was embarrassing to admit that her daughter might have some pauper’s disease, but it seemed there was no other option.
“I was told she is suffering from suspected typhoid.”
The young man looked doubtful.
“I am certain we have no contagious illness at this time,” he said. “However, I will be happy to show you around our wards so you can see for yourself. It would not be unusual for a member of the nobility to use a false name, to prevent publicity.”
He turned and led the way up the wide, wooden staircase. The Duchess looked down at her feet as she walked, clinging onto the handrail and thankful for her gloves. The wooden stairs were worn from use and didn’t look very clean, despite the maidservant on her knees at the bottom of the flight with a bucket and scrubbing brush.
The wards were smaller than the Duchess had expected and the narrow beds looked very uncomfortable. She walked slowly along the centre aisle between the patients, the young medical student beside her, but she saw no familiar face.
They repeated the action over two more wards, but it was apparent that Susan was not here, had likely never been here.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” the man said. “Let us go to the Almoner’s office. He will be able to tell you whether your daughter has been here recently. It is possible you just missed her.”
Veronica knew before she even got to the office that the Almoner would be of no help. He had a large register in which were listed the names of all the patients and she described Susan to him. No one could forget that beautiful dark hair, but he declared that no females of that age group had been admitted for some time. She expected nothing else.
Susan wasn’t here, had never been here. Veronica had been lied to by her son-in-law and she had a very good idea of just why that was.
***
Christopher had enquired at every inn and tavern he could find, even some so far away she would never have got there while carrying the infant. None of them had seen her or anyone like her. Perhaps she had left the baby with someone so as not to draw attention to herself, but he thought that was unlikely. He could not see her parting with the child to anyone, much less a stranger.
And now he was seriously worried. Where the hell was she and how was she living? He knew where he would have to look next, and he dreaded the task more than he had dreaded anything, ever in his entire life.
It was getting late and would have to wait until the morning and if he were to find his beautiful wife in a union workhouse, he would never forgive himself. Exhausted, he dozed and had the most curious dream. It was of Susan, but not as she was in his last dream, not begging on the streets, but in his arms, in his bed, making love to him.
He woke with a start, his body stirring in response to the dream and realised that what had woken him was a shrill, familiar voice, calling out his name.
“Where is she?” The Duchess demanded, the angry voice getting closer as it climbed the stairs. “What have you done with her?”
The door to the bedchamber slammed open, bouncing against the wall behind it as she strode into the room and stood glowering at him like some angry goddess from Greek mythology. Medusa, that was who she looked like. Christopher could almost see the snakes where her hair should be; he was rather surprised that he was still flesh, that he had not yet turned to stone.
“Aunt,” he said, reaching for his robe and swinging his legs out of bed.
“Well?” She screeched at him. “You lied to me. I knew it, both you and your father. You lied to me, told me she was ill, but the people at the hospital had never seen her.” She moved closer and peered into his face. “You killed her didn’t you?”
Now he had to take a step back and away from her. Being this close, he was tempted to strike out, to put his hands around her throat just to shut her up.
“What are you talking about?” He answered angrily.
“My daughter, my beautiful Susan. I knew it was a mistake, letting her wed a man with your temper. What happened? What did she do? Did she disagree with you, was that it, let you know that she, too had a brain?”
Somehow the accusation that he would expect a woman to obey him without question was too much to contain his mood. His anger drained away and he was left feeling surprisingly hurt.
“Is that really what you think of me, Aunt?” He said. “I thought your disapproval of me and my brother was simply because of my mother’s origins. But it is far worse than that, isn’t it?”
“I do not dislike Mason,” she answered. “You are the one who nearly killed that poor farmhand when you were but sixteen.”
“I had a good reason for that.”
“That is a matter of opinion.”
“And you think I would hurt a woman, any woman? It seems that one incident is going to follow me for the rest of my life. Both Mason and my father asked me the very same question: ‘what did you do to her?’
“That just supports my own opinion.”
He drew a deep breath. He was not sorry for his treatment of the farmhand and he never would be. He was only sorry his whole family seemed to think he had no good reason for his actions. He could not help but wonder if the Duchess’s opinion of him would change if she knew the truth, if she knew that he was the honourable one who had rescued her daughter and the entire family from the worst kind of scandal. But no, he wouldn’t tell her. Her opinion of him was of no consequence when compared to Susan’s wellbeing, to her reputation, to the opinion of her which her family held. Those were the important things, not what this pompous, arrogant snob thought of him.
“Your Grace,” he said at last. “You have my word that I did not hurt my wife, that I would never hurt my wife. She has left me, but not because I hurt her. I wanted to spare you the scandal, the humiliation, so I lied. I apologise.”
“She left you?” The Duchess’s mouth twisted into a mocking tilt and she shook her head. “You expect me to believe that?” She demanded. “You expect me to believe she would bring such a thing down on our heads? No! There is more to this little tale, Christopher, and I intend to find out exactly what.”
She spun around, almost tripping over her skirts, and moved toward the still open door.
“What are you going to do?” Christopher asked.
She didn’t turn round to face him, just stopped briefly.
“I am going to the Runners. Let’s see if they are any good at locking up criminals.”
“Criminals? You mean me?”
Then she did turn and look at him, her face a perfect mask of fury and misery entwined. When she finally spoke, her voice sent a chill through his entire body.
“Murderer!”
***
The office of the Bow Street Runners was dark and dingy and much smaller than the Duchess would ever have imagined. Not that she would have imagined ever visiting such a place, but now she had a duty to learn the truth and to convict the man responsible for her daughter’s death.
And she was certain she was dead; there could be no other explanation for her disappearance with no contact, not a word to her mother or even her sisters. What else could explain Christopher lying about her whereabouts? What else would have kept her from her father’s deathbed or from his funeral?
She wanted to weep, but, as she had done all her life, she controlled hers
elf. Tears were for when she was alone, when she could shed them without an audience. She was far too dignified to allow anyone to know she had emotions.
The man who greeted her was tall and thin and his top hat made him appear to be taller and thinner. He wore a short coat with tails and a high collar and shiny buttons with a leather covered stick of sorts shoved into his leather belt.
The Duchess pulled herself up to her full height, but still felt insignificant beside this man. His manners were sadly lacking though; he said nothing, only stared at her as though she had come in out of the rain and for no better reason than to waste his time.
“I am the Dowager Duchess of Somersham,” she said at once, thinking her title might draw some much needed attention to the matter in hand.
He bowed his head briefly.
“Your Grace,” he said.
“I wish to report my son-in-law,” she said. Her harsh tone concealed her trembling lip and the tears which threatened to burst forth and give her away. “For murder.”
At last the man moved out from behind his desk and drew up a chair for his distinguished guest, before sitting back down and pulling a sheet of paper toward him. He picked up a quill pen and dipped the tip in the inkwell.
“Your son-in-law, Your Grace?” He said. “Do I take it you mean the present Duke of Somersham?”
“I do.”
“Who is His Grace supposed to have murdered?”
“His wife,” she said quickly. “My daughter.”
He had still not written a word, not made a mark on the paper.
“Forgive me, Madam, but what evidence do you have for that accusation? If Her Grace is indeed, deceased, where are her remains?”
“She has disappeared,” the Duchess replied. “He said she was ill, in Guy’s, but they have never seen her. Then he had the audacity to try to tell me she had left him.”
“Is that unlikely?”
“Unlikely? It is impossible! My daughter would never scandalise the family name by leaving her lawful husband.” She fought to calm herself, before going on. “Some years ago, he almost killed a farmhand from our village, for no better reason than that he found the man beating his dog. My husband, the late Duke, hushed the whole thing up, paid them off, but that is how I know what he is capable of.”
“I see,” the Runner said.
Being a dog lover himself, he was not impressed with the Duchess’s implication that it wasn’t important and he felt a sneaking admiration for the Duke for his interference. A man who would do all that for a dog is hardly likely to have killed his wife for no reason.
“Well?” Demanded the Duchess. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“Your Grace, you must understand that I cannot arrest a man on the say so of his mother-in-law and with no remains or, indeed, any evidence to support the accusation. I can’t do that to any man, much less a Duke of the Realm. I will talk to him; it is the best I can do.”
***
Christopher sat on the sofa in the morning room of his London house and scrutinised the miniature of Susan that he had brought with him from Somersham. It was painted some three years ago and he was trying to decide if it still resembled her enough to be of any use. She had filled out quite a bit since then, it was true, looked like a woman now instead of the half grown girl in the picture. It was the smile which captivated him. That smile was one of contentment, of anticipation for a future yet unknown. She no longer wore that smile, hadn’t worn it for a long time and now he wondered just when it had vanished and why he hadn’t noticed when it did.
Still, it was the best he could do. The clock struck nine and he tucked the miniature away in one of the pockets of his jacket. It was time he was leaving. He was on his way to give David the miniature in the hope that one of his private enquiry agents would be able to take it with him. He had promised Christopher that there was no need for him to visit the union workhouses himself, that his agents were more used to that sort of place.
Christopher had to be persuaded, though. He felt it was his duty to go himself, to face the worst London had to offer in an effort to find his wife and make amends for his appalling treatment of her. David did not agree.
“Christopher,” he said, “you have no idea what those places are like.”
“No,” he replied. “But I am not too high and mighty to find out. If there is the slightest chance that I might find Susan in one of those places, and I pray God there isn’t, it is up to me to be the one to do so.”
David sighed impatiently.
“Are you prepared for skinny, half starved children, barely able to walk yet forced to work for their keep? Are you prepared for waif like women, downtrodden and with nowhere else to go, prepared to sell themselves just for a taste of the outside world? Are you prepared for the stink of human waste and sweat from the closed in wards?”
Christopher drew a deep breath.
“If it means finding Susan, making it up to her, yes I am.”
“Let my agents go, Christopher, please. They are used to these places, know how they work and how to get the information. Trust me, please. This is more my field than yours, just as the adoption would have been more my field than yours.”
Christopher shot him a startled look. David was still angry about the way he had swept in, taken over the perfectly feasible plan he had put together with Susan, then let her down at the last minute. And he had every right to be, hadn’t he?
It was a damp and drizzly day, as often appeared in the middle of summer in England, and now he had slipped into his coat, patted his pocket to reassure himself that Susan’s likeness was safely inside, but just as he moved toward the hallway, the doorbell rang out, loud and insistent.
Damn! Who the hell was that? Not the Duchess, paying another visit to harass him; she had her own key. He made a mental note to change the locks at the first opportunity. He had intended to allow all the family the use of the London house, but not if she was going to sweep in whenever she wanted and insult its owner.
He still had no servants here except the cleaning staff, so he opened the door himself to be greeted by a man in the top hat, short jacket with tails and shiny buttons which made up the uniform of the Bow Street Runners.
Christopher took a step back, pulling the door open wider as he did so. I am going to the Runners. That was what the Duchess had said before she marched out of here yesterday in a rage. His heart sank; he wanted to get on, wanted to see David and start the investigation, start the search for Susan before she did something desperate. But he had to talk to this man, this representative of the law in the capital, or it would look suspicious. A man anxious to find his missing wife would be more than willing to talk to the law.
The man lifted his hat and bowed.
“Your Grace,” he said, a little flush staining his cheeks. “I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time? I need to talk to you about the Duchess, your wife.”
Christopher stepped back further.
“Come in,” he said. “I have been half expecting you.”
He led the man into the morning room and gestured him to sit. He did so, his eyes wandering greedily around the fine furnishings and ornaments. Just one of those figurines would be worth a month’s pay to him, perhaps a year’s pay, but just because the man was rich and titled, did not give him leave to dispose of his wife and face no consequences.
“I suppose the Dowager has been telling you tales about me,” Christopher said.
The Runner coughed discreetly, swallowed to give himself courage.
“Her Grace has made an allegation,” he answered with a little conspiratorial grin. “She seems to believe that you have disposed of her daughter.”
He tried to make light of it, but the Duke’s expression was grave. He quite obviously saw nothing amusing about the Duchess’s allegation, but the Runner could easily see that he was worried. Was he worried about the outcome of this interview, or was he worried about his missing wife?
“Things between my wife
and I have not been easy,” Christopher replied stiffly. “She has gone away to think things through, nothing more sinister than that. Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, is not content to believe that her daughter would take such a step without consulting her. She seems incapable of realising that her daughter is now a married woman and our affairs are our personal business and do not need to be shared with her.”
His tone grew ever more bitter as he spoke and he felt his fingers clenching into fists, almost against his will. What he said was right, wasn’t it? Susan was a married woman, the Duchess of Somersham, his wife, and her mother had no right to interfere in their private lives.
Suddenly, he was very angry, wanted to lash out, but he had to curb his temper until this man had gone.
“If that is all, Sir,” Christopher said, “I have an appointment in Lincoln’s Inn. I do not wish to be late.”
The man quickly raised his eyes from his notetaking, lifted his eyebrows as he looked back at the Duke.
“Lincoln’s Inn?” He repeated. “You are talking to a lawyer?”
He was thinking divorce, separation of bed and board, that was obvious. Christopher’s thoughts raced; would it be better to allow him to believe that? It would certainly confirm his own explanation, might even stop whatever investigation his office might be thinking of making.
“That is my own business, Sir,” Christopher replied. “Now, unless you intend to arrest me, I must go.”
“Arrest you, Your Grace?” The Runner replied with an embarrassed snigger. “I hardly have enough evidence for that. It is merely an enquiry and I have to say you have set my mind at rest.”
“I have?”
“I can well understand that if you are taking a legal route to end your marriage, you would not want to share such information with your wife’s mother.”
“You believe me, then?”
“I have no reason not to, Your Grace.” He blushed again then went on sheepishly. “It is none of my business, of course, but I have been married some thirty years and I have to say that things were not easy to begin with. Still, we persevered, and I am very glad we did.”
A Match of Honour (The Hartleighs of Somersham Book 1) Page 10