“Indeed,” said Sir Arthur. “Why couldn’t that blasted Turold have fired a foot to the right? He’s shot a hole in our fortunes, that’s certain. Unless…unless….” Sir Arthur fingered his chin and looked over at Eliza. “Eliza, does it seem to you that the younger Rowland brother has eyes for you?”
“I don’t know, Papa.” Eliza’s voice quavered. It was quite clear what scheme her father was hatching now.
“I think he does. He seems quite smitten, in fact. I wonder if our protracted visit might be for the best.”
“What foolishness is this, Arthur?” Lady Margaret gave a chilly sniff. “Whatever notion you have clamoring in your head, silence it immediately. The younger brother is not at all suitable.”
“He’ll be duke now,” said Sir Arthur, leaning forward eagerly. “That makes him very suitable. And I think that Eliza has already got his goodwill.”
“A ridiculous notion.”
“Nonsense, Margaret. It’s a splendid idea, and very biblical too, if I’m not mistaken—the younger brother marrying the bride of the elder who perishes prematurely. Eliza? You shall do your best. Be friendly to him, yes?”
Eliza crushed a handful of green fabric inside her right hand. “Of course, Papa. As you wish.” It took all her willpower to keep from smiling.
“No,” said Lady Malcolm, the intensity in her quiet voice replacing the volume. “I forbid it. It was enough that you made us come here, Arthur, to throw our daughter in the way of…these people. And look what good came of it! It is not God’s will. He has shown that plainly. We shall keep to our rooms and bide our time and leave at the earliest opportunity. Eliza, you are to have nothing to do with the younger brother. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Mama,” said Eliza, but the light refused to leave her eyes. She looked at her father, but he voiced no argument and merely hunched back in his chair, his shoulders expressing his frustration. As for herself, she had not given up hope quite yet. There was still time for her mother to change her mind regarding Henry Rowland.
* * *
Hayward and Mrs. Forsythe presented themselves together at the door of the study. “Your grace,” said Hayward hesitantly.
At the unfamiliar address, Henry looked up from the account books—old friends that he had not visited these three years or more. “Come in, both of you. What can I do for you?”
“It is late afternoon now, your grace.” Hayward hesitated. “It is not a matter of great importance, but the luncheon for today after the…. It was never served.”
“And no matter the event, people must eat,” said Henry, understandingly. “You are quite right. Set out a sideboard of cold meats in the dining room, and send up a tray to everyone who has retired to their rooms.”
He stood up from the desk.
“What can we get for you, your grace?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Henry. “But I shall bring the tray up to my mother when it is ready.”
“If you please,” said the housekeeper, “she’s had some tea already and has fallen asleep. I sat with her until she did.”
“Thank you,” said Henry. He pressed Mrs. Forsythe’s wrinkled hand. “Then in that case, I shall take up the tray to Miss Malcolm.”
“Of course, your grace,” said Hayward without batting an eye.
Henry sat back down with the account books while he waited for the tray to be sent in. He felt a gnawing in his stomach, but it was not hunger. It was something else.
He had not been able to convince Eliza to stand up against her father and reject his brother, but circumstances had intervened, and now, she was free. That was why he had remained at Harrowhaven—was it not?—to save her from the indignity of marriage to a scoundrel. But was that the only reason? No, honesty compelled him to admit to himself, there was more to it than that.
He thought of her tall, willowy form at the top of the staircase, her shy spirit with far more strength to it than an observer might suppose. He remembered her stricken face from yesterday evening and the silent cry of despair coming from her eyes. Those beautiful green eyes that a man—the right man—could lose himself in. He wanted Eliza Malcolm, wanted her desperately for himself.
Rufus was gone now—his presence would not stand in the way of Henry’s plans. But his absence might. Henry could not imagine Sir Arthur rejecting an offer to continue the betrothal in Rufus’ place. But Eliza? Would she concur? The past five days had set in motion a chain of events each more tumultuous than the last. Perhaps her heart was not ready. Perhaps he should bide his time.
Hayward brought the tray of cold meats, cheese, and bread, and Henry carried it to the stairs. There would be no biding. He must see her. He followed the ribbon of floral carpet to the door of her room and knocked.
“Come in,” said a quiet voice.
Henry balanced the tray on one hand to turn the doorknob with the other and then taking the tray in two hands again, pushed the door open with his elbow.
Eliza was seated on the sofa in the little room adjoining her bedchamber, her legs curled up under her and a book on her lap. The presence of the tray must have registered before his face did, for with barely a glance in his direction, she said, “Thank you. You may put it on the table.”
He stepped inside.
“Oh!” The book snapped shut in her lap. “I beg your pardon—I did not realize.”
“No apologies necessary,” said Henry with a smile. “I rather enjoy having you order me about.” Before she could blush at that, he introduced the object of his visit. “I am sure you are hungry…we have here a little cold ham, and some roast beef, and a lovely goat cheese I think you will enjoy along with bread ordered up from the village this morning.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” murmured Eliza. She made no move to touch the food.
Henry stabbed a fork into the contents of the tray and filled a small plate for her. Then, after handing it to her, he began to fill the second plate which Hayward, with the prescience of a skilled butler, had provided.
“Are you dining here with me then?”
Henry saw Eliza casting an eye towards the door which he had purposely left open. It was a calculated risk to tarry in a lady’s sitting room, but with the door wide open, it was not entirely indiscreet.
“I thought you could use the company. Am I wrong?”
Eliza hesitated. “No.”
Henry noticed she had swung her feet down to the floor and straightened her skirt into a more formal position. Her arms folded over themselves like a fence between him and her.
“Now then,” said Henry, determined to overcome the barriers she had set up. “I am famished. Take a bite, my dear hostess, so that I can begin as well.”
She stared back at him.
“Come, you owe me something at least for not bringing you cold fish, yes?”
She smiled a little at that, and unfolding her arms, tried a morsel of bread and cheese. Between the two of them, they soon decimated the luncheon tray. But as much as he tried to engage her attention, she steadily averted her eyes. How could he recreate that moment of sincerity that they had shared at the bottom of the staircase this morning? How could he restore the camaraderie that she had shown in the stable yard?
* * *
Eliza tried to keep the cover of her book hidden under the folds of her dress. The somberness of circumstances demanded serious reading. She ought to have been meditating on Fordyce’s sermons or some such edifying literature, but instead she had picked up Pamela as soon as she had come back to her room.
Her mother had forbidden her to have any connection to Henry Rowland. The only thing left to her was to read the novel he had loaned her. How mortifying to have him come upon her now with such frivolous reading resting in her hands!
“Feeling better with a full stomach?”
Eliza put her empty plate back
on the tray. “Yes, thank you.”
She waited for him to speak, but it seemed as if he was waiting too. The awkwardness grew until she could bear it no longer.
“What…happened today? I overheard that Mr. Turold mistook Rufus for the stag and fired too hastily.”
“Yes, that is what they are saying,” replied Henry. He leaned forward to put his own empty plate back on the tray as well and then, sitting back, crossed one leg over the other as if he meant to stay a while. Eliza uttered a silent prayer that her mother—or Ollerton—would not decide to visit her rooms.
“Is that true?”
He hesitated. She marveled at how his hesitations always seemed to radiate strength while her own hesitations were the product of painful shyness and self-doubt.
“I don’t know for certain. That’s what Turold is saying. There is an investigator from London coming up to sort things out. Hopefully it will take no longer than a day or two. He’ll ask questions of all the necessary parties and recommend what must be done at the inquest.”
At the term “necessary parties” Eliza blanched. She took a few quick, shallow breaths. “He would not need to interview me, would he?”
Henry regarded her thoughtfully. “I’m afraid he might. You were engaged to him, after all.”
“Oh,” said Eliza miserably. “I don’t know what I would say.”
“I don’t suppose it will make much difference,” said Henry with arched eyebrows. “He will simply want to know if Rufus had any enemies, anyone who wished him ill.”
Eliza looked up from the hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I wouldn’t be able to help much on those matters. I barely knew him. He didn’t, did he? Have anyone who was his enemy?” Eliza stopped there and looked earnestly into Henry’s dark eyes.
For the first time since she had met him, he was the first to drop his gaze.
“That’s the investigator’s job to find out. I certainly don’t envy him the position.”
Eliza shifted in her seat. She had been hoping for a firm denial, but Henry’s response left matters open to speculation. A whispering thought came into her mind that perhaps Walter Turold was not the one who had aught against Rufus, but Henry himself. She had overheard Mr. Turold urging Rufus not to marry her, but it was hardly a heated argument—and what man would kill his friend to prevent his friend from making a foolish marriage?
But Henry, on the other hand, had far more at stake. And he had even offered—how long ago it seemed!—to present his own suit for her hand. There was no great affection between the brothers—she had seen as much when she witnessed their first encounter in the saloon. Was there enough jealousy for Henry to act out of premeditated hatred?
“H-Henry, are you saddened by your brother’s death?” Her words tumbled over each other. “Surely you must be, even though you do not show it. You are simply bearing up well under the grief?”
Henry’s lips twisted up into a wry smile. “You are delightfully transparent, my dear. Yes, I am saddened by Rufus’ death—though not as much as some brothers would be, I suppose. My brother was a scoundrel—you do not know half of the black marks against him. They say that one should not speak ill of the dead, but I have never been one to give convention place over truth. But no, to answer your unspoken question, I did not shoot him. I am a law-abiding man and a God-fearing one. I would never presume to take justice into my own hands in that manner. If someone else did just that today…well, let us just say that I shall ensure he does not go unpunished.”
Eliza’s cheeks reddened. Of course he had seen through her questions—she hoped that he did not think she was accusing him of anything. It was just the smallest sliver of a doubt that had made her ask.
She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and felt the hard spine of the hidden book pressing against her leg. She really ought to return Pamela to him, but she was mid-chapter on one of the most engrossing scenes. The wicked Mr. B. had dressed up as a housemaid and had sneaked into Pamela’s chamber—it was wholly unedifying to read such things, but she could not end the story now. And besides, when she finished it, it would give her an excuse to see him again.
He stood up from his chair and deftly picked up the tray from the table. “Can I send a servant up with anything else for you? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
He was so solicitous of her comfort, almost as if he himself were her host…. As he stepped into the corridor, the realization of how matters stood swept down on her like a cavalry charge. He was her host now. He was the new owner of Harrowhaven. Henry Rowland had succeeded his brother as the new Duke of Brockenhurst.
17
Pevensey glanced up at the tall oak trees, their shadows looming over the road like the dark fabric of mourning dress. The last sliver of the sun was still visible over the horizon, and by its light he could make out the stately manor house up ahead.
The journey had been shorter than he had anticipated, and had he left directly from Bow Street, he would have arrived with plenty of light to spare. As it was, however, he had decided to go home and pack a satchel of clothing and make a few inquiries in London about both the man who had written the letter and the man whom the letter was about.
To the left of the house, he saw the dark outline of the stables and, turning his horse’s head, walked the beast over to the building. The door cracked open at his approach. “Who is it?” asked a gruff voice, and Pevensey caught a glimpse of a small, wiry man, much the same size as himself but a couple decades older.
“Jacob Pevensey, at your service, attached to the London magistrates’ office, come down to Harrowhaven on business.”
“Aye, I know what business that’ll be,” said the man. He opened the door wide. “I’ll take your horse, Mr. Pevensey. They’ll be wanting you up at the big house right away.”
Pevensey dismounted and handed the reins to the groom. “Did you witness the event?” he asked as he loosened his luggage from the back of the horse’s saddle.
“Naw, I was too busy seeing every beast was saddled and every man was horsed.”
“Ah, you are the stable master then, Mr.…?”
“Gormley’s the name. John Gormley.”
“Did you hear the gunshot?”
“Can’t say as I did, but my hearing ain’t the best. I certainly heard the hue and cry, though, when the hunters came back in.”
“What were they saying?”
“Not much fit to repeat in decent company, but the main of it was that the duke had been shot and that Mr. Turold was the man as had pulled the trigger.”
“Did you see Mr. Turold with the men?”
“Aye, he was there, well enough, all Friday-faced after causing an accident of that kind.”
“So it was an accident?”
Gormley scratched his head. “I wouldna think it could be otherwise, Mr. Turold and the duke bein’ bosom friends for ten years or more.”
“And there was no falling out between them?”
“Not that I heard tell of.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gormley,” said Pevensey. “You’ve been most helpful.” He watched Gormley lead his hired nag into the stable and hand him over to a younger man, his hair the same color as the straw on the stable floor. “Ah, I see you have help here,” he called out. “Might I ask your fellow groom some questions while I’m here?”
“Who, Martin?” Gormley grunted and pointed a thumb in his fellow groom’s direction. “The man’s tongue-tied. Dumb since birth.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed into a glower, and he pulled the horse’s head a little more sharply than was necessary as he led it into its box. He might be mute, but he was clearly not deaf, and Pevensey could see that he did not like to have his deformity discussed.
Pevensey wandered away from the stables, pulling out a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. As he neared the steps to the house, he sket
ched a rough picture of the silent groom with a menacing look in his eye like a boxer about to plant a facer and a thick black “X” over his mouth. In Pevensey’s experience as an investigator, it was always the ones who couldn’t speak who had the most to say.
* * *
Dinnertime had come and gone without any formal gathering in the dining room. Once again, Henry had ordered trays be sent up to each of the rooms so that the family and guests could grieve—or not grieve—as they each saw fit. He took his own dinner in his mother’s rooms, although in truth, neither of them ate much.
The duchess swayed back and forth rhythmically, her dry eyes having already cried all their tears. “Perhaps it is not something a mother should say, but sometimes, almost, I would rather it had been you than him.”
“Might I inquire why?” asked Henry, his amour propre a little wounded.
“I can hardly explain it…it’s not because he was a better person than you—no, quite the opposite. He was a selfish man with little control over his passions. I take no pleasure in saying that, and I blame myself that I did not curb his nature more while he was still a child. But he was on the cusp of something—marriage. And if marriage and children cannot change a man, then what can? It was my one hope that his union with Miss Malcolm would bring about a reformation in him. But now…too late.”
Henry pressed her hand. “I am sorry, Mother.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I can take that as a compliment then, that you do not consider me in need of a reformation.”
She sighed. “I’m sure we’re all in need of reforming in some way. But no, you’re not in dire need.” She planted a kiss on his forehead.
A knock sounded on the door, and one of the footmen entered. “My lady, your grace—the investigator from London is here.”
“Investigator?” The duchess’ dark gray eyebrows crinkled in concern. “Why? I thought Rufus’ death was an accident?”
“Just a formality,” said Henry, rising to leave the room. He paused, leaning one arm against the door frame. “It is possible, though, that he may want to ask you some questions, Mother. Are you well enough to speak to him?”
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