Henry did not take time to mince words. He reached for the bell rope in the study and rang it sharply four or five times. Several of the staff came scurrying, and Henry sent them back to call the others for an emergency assembly in the saloon.
Meanwhile, Pevensey ran out to the stables, presumably to check with Gormley about the status of the horses. By the time he had returned, the caps of the maids were fluttering around the saloon like a bevy of white butterflies.
As the servants gathered on the floor below, the family and guests congregated on the staircase above. Adele and Stephen came down with Henry’s mother. Lady Malcolm and Sir Arthur were not far behind. Robert poked his head out from the top of the stairs to see what all the commotion was about. Henry noted that only Eliza was missing.
Pevensey ascended a few of the steps in the grand staircase so that he could project his message into the crowd. In short order, he explained about Walter Turold’s confession, his attack on Cecil, and his disappearance. “He has not taken a horse, which means he is either hiding here in the house”—a gasp went up from the maids—“or has escaped through the window and is making for the woods on foot. I shall need every able-bodied man to help with the search.”
Henry heard Constable Cooper clear his throat from the back of the crowd. “Excuse me, Mr. Pevensey, the gentlemen should be arriving for the inquest quite soon.”
“It’s not an inquest anymore,” said Pevensey. “It’s a manhunt. I’m sure we can use the extra help. My lord?”
Henry stepped forward to sort the male domestics into pairs and sent them off to search different quadrants of the house. He told the maids to stay in the kitchen with Hayward and asked his mother and sister to step into the morning room with the Malcolms. “Stephen,” he said, “go out to the stable with Robert and have Gormley saddle our horses.”
“I say, Hal,” said Robert, “I think it would be better if I stayed here to guard the ladies.” He blinked his poor, shortsighted eyes.
“Suit yourself,” said Henry. The crowd started to disperse, each to his own assigned location. “I’ll be with you momentarily, Stephen.” Taking the stairs two at a time, Henry reached the top and strode down the corridor. He reached Eliza’s door and knocked sharply.
“Who is it?” The thick wood of the door deadened her voice.
“Henry. I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t think there’s anything more to say.” He could hear her voice closer now, as if she had moved directly in front of the door.
He took a chance and turned the door handle.
“Lord Henry!” she said, affronted at the imposition. Later on, Henry would have no memory of what she was wearing or how her hair was arranged, but he did remember how lovely she looked when she was angry.
“Listen to me, Eliza,” he said, overruling her objection. “Turold has escaped. He’s injured Cecil—badly—and he could be hiding in the house still. I need you to go downstairs with your parents. Immediately.”
She hesitated.
He held out his hand. “Please.”
She placed her hand in his, removing it to the more proper position of the crook of his arm as they went down the corridor. Despite the macabre circumstances, Henry’s mind could not help seizing on what might have been….
As soon as they reached the hard floor of the saloon, she took her arm away. Henry felt an acute sense of loss. “They are in the morning room,” he said—because he was unable to say what he really wished to say.
“Thank you,” she said crisply, and headed in that direction without a backward glance.
* * *
It was nearly nightfall when Pevensey dismounted from his horse outside the small stone manor belonging to the Cecil family. He tied the horse to an iron ring and knocked on the door.
A suspicious housekeeper answered the knocker and was about to shoo him away when he inquired after Cecil until a clear, feminine voice floated towards them from an adjacent room. “It’s all right, Mrs. Potter. He can come in.”
Pevensey was shown into a small sitting room where a young lady sat at her embroidery, working away at an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves on a large hoop. Her curly black hair hinted at her identity right away.
“Good evening, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey with a bow. The lady’s black curls, half of them unpinned, fell forward over the shoulders of a pale blue day dress, a slightly softer shade than the blue of her eyes.
“Good evening, Mr. Pevensey,” the young woman said, gesturing toward a nearby chair. He sat down. “Any luck in the search?” She laid her embroidery hoop in her lap.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” said Pevensey. It had been a grueling day of searching the woods on foot and on horse with a pack of bloodhounds that never picked up the scent. “I heard your brother was transported here by carriage. Is he…?”
“Quite well,” she said reassuringly, “or at least as well as one can be after such an ordeal. I believe he came to his senses before the doctor even arrived at Harrowhaven. He has a good-sized bandage and a splitting headache, but he may be walking about in the morning.”
“Is he asleep now?” asked Pevensey. They had never had the chance to speak together after Walter Turold’s confession, and Pevensey dearly wanted to know what had transpired upstairs directly before the suspect’s flight.
Miss Cecil smiled. “Probably not. He wanted to come down for dinner, but I insisted that he follow the doctor’s orders and stay in bed for at least one day.”
“I hope you at least sent him up a tray.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Of course. I hardly think I could have enforced fasting, even if the doctor had required it.” She stood up, laying her embroidery down on a small table. Pevensey rose to his feet as well. “Shall I show you upstairs?”
“Yes, please.” Pevensey fell in behind her as she left the sitting room.
They went up a narrow staircase, and she opened a door leading off the top landing. There was Cecil, his black hair wrapped round with a strip of muslin. He was propped up in bed with half a dozen pillows, a tray of cold meats and soup on his lap. “Pevensey! I hoped you would come.”
“How did it happen? Did you turn your back on him?”
“Regrettably, yes. We had no sooner walked into the room than he walked over to the fireplace. I went over to the wardrobe to open it, and within seconds, there was a very large bump on the back of my head. But enough about me. What news? Did you apprehend him?”
“Regrettably, no,” said Pevensey. He walked over to the bed and took the nearby chair. Miss Cecil stayed farther back, leaning her black head against the frame of the door. In keeping with human nature, she would want to know what events had transpired today. “He’s gone to earth somewhere,” continued Pevensey. “We couldn’t trace him, even with bloodhounds.”
Cecil frowned. “Did you try the parsonage?”
“It was the first place I looked, but the Reverend swore on his Bible that he hadn’t seen so much as Turold’s whiskers today.”
“Did he seem…surprised to learn of the confession?”
“In my estimation, no,” said Pevensey. “At the same time, though, he made no admission of prior knowledge. He acted doubtful when I told him the shooting had taken place just outside his home.” He cast a sideways glance at Miss Cecil, for whom this information might be too detailed. Turold had wanted them to leave out Miss Ansel’s involvement in the sordid affair—but then Turold had also bludgeoned Cecil on the head and fled the premises. It was perhaps not necessary anymore to honor that request.
“He must have known!” said Cecil, showing no such restraint. His knees nearly overturned the dinner tray onto his bed. “Rufus was in the middle of abducting that girl. She would have told her father. Or at least the housekeeper, Mrs. Hodgins, would have known—where was she in all of this?”
“Locked in a closet, I imagine. And
told to say nothing about it later. Miss Ansel would have given us some clues, I think, but her father forestalled her.”
“So they are accomplices—although I think I can sympathize with their reasons for silence.” Cecil lay back against his pillow. “Where do you think Turold will go?”
“The coast,” said Pevensey. “Hastings perhaps. He will take ship as soon as possible.”
“France?”
“Or America.”
“And if he makes it, what happens then? The case is over?” The cutlery on the tray clattered on the plate as Cecil’s knees moved again.
“Essentially—unless he has the folly to return to England someday. We will publish his name in the Hue and Cry, but there is no hope of retrieving him if he has gone abroad—France and America are not exactly friendly to us at present.”
Miss Cecil entered the room and removed the tray from the bed, placing it on a small table. “I hope you do not mind, Mr. Pevensey, but my brother has discussed the case with me.”
Pevensey raised his eyebrows. Seduction and murder were not usual topics to discuss with well-born females. “I hope it did not distress you unduly, Miss Cecil.”
“Not at all.” She folded her hands in front of the pale blue skirt of her dress. “I was quite impressed with your skills in piecing it all together. But I must confess there is one aspect that puzzles me still. Why would Turold fire a second shot? The clearing was so close to the house that there was no reason for it. Everyone at a distance would have assumed that the first shot took place in the clearing. And it was impractical. He would have to have gone to all the trouble of reloading.”
Pevensey stared at her. This same question had been niggling at him just this morning, but he had suppressed it in all the excitement of the chase and the worry over Cecil. Apparently this young woman’s mind was as sharp as her embroidery needle. “You are exactly right, Miss Cecil. It is befuddling.”
They all stared at each other then, but no one had any answers to give. A few moments later, Pevensey said his goodnights and Miss Cecil followed him downstairs. The formidable housekeeper had disappeared. They paused in the entry hall. A large vase laden with giant blooms stood on the console table, filling up too much of the narrow entryway for comfort.
“I will try to call again tomorrow,” said Pevensey.
“As will others,” said Miss Cecil, nodding at the floral arrangement. The Bertram family name was written in flowery script on the card, one of the neighbors that lived nearby and—if Pevensey remembered correctly—a family with an eligible daughter who had attended the hunt. “But there may be no need. He swears he will be out of bed and ready to mount his horse in the morning.”
Pevensey was surprised to feel a small sense of disappointment, as if a part of him wished to call on the Cecils again in the morning. But then, who was he fooling? He was a London constable who provided assistance to local magistrates about a given case. He was not the sort of man who made calls on gentlemen and their sisters. “Then perhaps he will wish to meet me in the village. I shall be there tomorrow making inquiries and expanding our search for the fugitive.”
“I shall tell him,” said Miss Cecil, and she opened the door to let Pevensey out into the summer night.
27
Eliza awoke to the noise of Ollerton’s industry as the maid busily packed her dresses, slippers, and jewelry away in her brass bound trunk.
“What is this?” asked Eliza, climbing out of bed. “Are we leaving?”
“Just so, miss,” said Ollerton. “The inquest is over, short as it was, and with the murderer having confessed, the investigator said there’s no need for us to be imprisoned here any longer.”
“I see,” said Eliza. She turned her face to the window where the bright sunlight was streaming in with the unfamiliar sound of birdcalls. It would be good to get back to London, to the hustle and bustle of town life that she missed, the crowds of people that she could so easily blend into without calling attention to herself. But at the same time, the idea of leaving Harrowhaven was bittersweet. There was something here that still felt unfinished.
She shook herself, replaying her mother’s admonitions in her own head. That was nonsense. There was nothing here for her. And however kind Henry Rowland had been to her, it made no difference when his true character was taken into account. No, she was just another pretty face for him to dally with, like the Harrowhaven housemaids, that blond courtesan, and the imbecile daughter of the clergyman.
She rose from bed and dressed for travel, hoping that the carriage ride would not be as stifling as the journey here. It was best to get an early start on it—no wonder Ollerton was hurrying so. She knocked on her parents’ door. “Good morning, Eliza,” said Lady Malcolm, further ahead in her toilette than Sir Arthur and trying to spur her husband on to quicker progress. “Yes, yes,” she said to Eliza, “go down and see that the footmen put everything in the carriage correctly. And tell the housekeeper to send up a tray.” She sniffed. “The least they can do is feed us after everything that’s been put upon us during our stay.”
Eliza went downstairs to follow her mother’s directions. Mrs. Forsythe, noticing the commotion, had already thought to send up some breakfast, and she tried to press some on Eliza as well. The prospect of eating made Eliza queasy, however, and she continued outside to gain some fresh air and see to the loading. A footman, whom Ollerton had pressed into service, followed her out the door bearing her trunk. The post chaise they had hired for the journey—at an exorbitant and now unrequited expense—had pulled round in the circular drive and was waiting to be filled.
She went down the steps and stood nearby the coach.
“Eliza!”
At the sound of her name she turned instinctively. It was Henry Rowland, striding toward her with a purposeful look in his eyes. He was in riding dress, his dark hair already windblown by an early morning ride.
Eliza’s lips parted but no sound came out. She looked away. He pressed forward, undeterred by such an ineffectual snub.
As the coachman hoisted Eliza’s trunk onto the top of the carriage, Henry Rowland took hold of her arm and led her around the corner of the house out of sight of the carriage and the front door.
“Unhand me, sir!” she said, working up the courage to show affront at this treatment.
“Eliza, please,” he said, releasing her arm, but then seizing her hand in his when she turned to go. “Please! I know I ought not to speak to you on this subject without your father’s blessing, but—I cannot help myself. Please.” He let go of her hand as she grudgingly forbore her flight and allowed him to say his piece.
“Eliza, I have loved you from the first—from the rosy blush of your cheeks to the freckles on the tip of your nose.”
The words washed over her like a waterfall. Her hands balled into fists as her spirit fought against being overwhelmed.
“I cannot pinpoint the exact moment I first knew it—when I served you turbot at dinner, when I visited the church just to see you once more, when I asked you questions through that flimsy blindfold. Believe me when I say that it nearly killed me to imagine you in the arms of another. You are, and have always been, the only woman for me.”
At this last protestation, Eliza shrank away. He seemed so sincere in that last statement, and yet how well she knew it for a lie. Was that how all these rakehells worked?
“I do not ask you to decide now,” he continued. “I simply ask you to allow me to win you over, to gain your good opinion. Our acquaintance has been short and attended with too many unfortunate events. Please, let me call upon you in London. Perhaps, in time, you will come to regard me with affection, and—dare I hope it?—love.”
Eliza swallowed. For receiving a declaration like this she had no experience to draw on, and a tide of emotions was threatening to sweep her off her feet. She could only rely then on the resolves she had made when her head was c
learer and when her heart had not been beating in such a fashion. “Sir, I thank you for the sentiments you have expressed. Regrettably, the interest is not mutual,”—she felt the lie as soon as it rolled off her tongue—“and I must ask you to refrain from renewing the acquaintance in London. It is better, I think, that we go our separate ways and see nothing of each other in the future.”
His face looked so stricken that she almost recanted then and there. But the thought of her mother’s revelations steeled her—if her parents’ marriage was an example of two people with diametrically opposing moral principles, then she wanted no part of such a thing.
She was afraid that he would turn angry, but in this, it seemed, he was not like his brother. He simply looked on her for a moment, his dark eyes filled with pain, and then turned away and walked towards the house.
Eliza watched him go, knowing that this was the last image of Henry Rowland that would ever appear before her. And her mind could barely quench that unreasoning part of her heart that was bidding her to forsake all reason and blindly run after him.
* * *
Henry entered the house and walked mechanically down the corridor to his study. It would have been easier if there had been some reason for Eliza’s refusal—if he had been too poor to support her, if she had loved another man. But there was nothing, nothing that he knew, keeping her from accepting him except her mother’s opposition. It was especially galling that not one week ago, despite all his brother’s shortcomings, she had accepted his proposal.
What a fool he had been to approach her today! He should have waited till her nerves had time to calm and called on her later in London. And now she had forbidden him to attempt to renew the acquaintance.
He sat in his chair and waited listlessly until he heard carriage wheels in the drive. There. She was gone.
He looked down at the desk. The letter from Mr. Maurice lay there still unread. He unfolded it, scanning the page. His eyes widened a little and his lips parted. Here was news indeed—something to make London a little more palatable despite his too-recent disappointment.
The Duke's Last Hunt Page 27