What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  “What did you find?” she asked before he had even resumed his seat.

  Interesting.

  He didn’t answer, but instead asked, “Did your father know my father?”

  “Not that I am aware of. Why?”

  Again, he ignored her question and asked one of his own, “Is it possible that he did?”

  “I suppose. He often traveled away. He was a well-known authority on ancient and obscure texts. Oftentimes a client would invite him to travel to their homes or businesses to evaluate an old manuscript or book. He also travelled in search of rare items to add to his inventory. Most of the time, we did not travel with him. Certainly, never to your father’s home.”

  “Why do you say that…certainly?”

  “Mainly, because my father would never want to impose on his clients’ hospitality. He would have felt obligated to focus entirely on the job at hand and leave promptly upon completion of his work. He strove to be efficient, unimposing, and discreet. Oh, he’d often talk about the rare texts he saw, but never about the owners themselves. You must understand, he was in trade, and his business was built on his reputation. He would never risk jeopardizing his livelihood by involving himself with a client in any personal way. He drew a clear line and he never crossed it.”

  “Are you quite sure about that?”

  “Quite.”

  “Did your father perchance attend university at Oxford?”

  “Yes…yes, he did.”

  “I see.” His father had attended there as well.

  “I see as well, and I don’t think I like your tone of voice, Your Grace. In fact, I know I don’t like it and the obvious doubt in your mind.” She rose from her seat on the chair. “I believe I shall retire for the evening, Your Grace. It’s been a tiring day. Good evening.”

  “Grace…I apologize. I only ask because the quotation I read to you earlier was written on a paper I found with your father’s name on it. Your father is John Radclyffe, I presume?”

  “Yes.” Grace looked less confident. She plopped back down in her chair; she appeared pale and nervous. Guilt?

  “In addition in the book, I found the full contact information for your father’s direction in Oxford tucked inside.”

  Her eyes widened further, but only briefly.

  “Well that makes sense. If your father had need of my father’s services…”

  “Indeed,” he interrupted. “But then why hide his direction in a book?”

  Chapter 12

  Tap, tap, tap…

  Scratching on the bedroom door startled grace out of her silent reverie. She had been staring out her window, at nothing really, ever since she had entered her room after fleeing the duke’s library over an hour ago.

  “Come in,” she answered, confident it was Bessie.

  “Och, there now, lass. I’ve come with a spot of tea and some cakes.” Bessie nudged her way in the room—arms laden with a large tray of tea and scones.

  “Oh, Bessie. Thank you. I’m sure I’ve asked you before, but really, how is it you always seem to know just what I need?” said Grace with a grin.

  “Well, dearest, normally, I would say that it’s just me job to know, but honestly, today, I must admit I had a wee bit of help. That nice young lad, the Marquess of Dansbury, suggested it. Mind you, I don’t know how he knew, but he has such a sincerity about him, I didn’t think to question him.”

  Already, the smell of tea and warm raspberry scones spiced the air in the room. The aroma and the sight of her maid’s friendly countenance helped Grace relax a notch.

  “Well, in this instance, he was certainly correct. Thank you. Honestly, I’ve been sat here for the last hour thinking about my father.”

  “Och, aye, and such a fortunate man he was, to have such a good family and a comfortable life…not too excessive, mind, but just right.”

  “Bessie, do you know whether or not Papa knew the late Duke of Stonebridge…the current duke’s father?” She stirred the sugar in her tea.

  “Och, now why would I know a thing like that?” asked Bessie with a bit of cheek. “I’m sorry dearie, but no, I do not know. Perhaps they knew each other whilst attending Oxford, or maybe he was one of your father’s clients? Certainly, I don’t recall ever serving him in your parents’ home. I guess you could check your father’s personal papers to be sure.”

  “Papers?”

  “Well, I donna know much about what’s up there, but I know your father kept papers in the loft at the house in Oxford, as sometimes I would see him up there when I cleaned, or when I was coming or going from my room…”

  “Oh, of course. Gracious, why didn’t I think about that?”

  “Well, dearest, your family, bless them, kept you pretty sheltered from the mundane, and with the whirlwind of your father’s death and near immediate removal to your uncle’s house, you probably never gave it another thought. Why would you?”

  “You’re right, as usual. Hmmm. What we need is a way to get to Oxford and find out for sure.”

  “Oxford? Isn’t that quite a ways from here? If you don’t mind my asking, why is it so imperative to know for sure? It seems the point is moot seeing as how both men have passed, forgive me.”

  “I can’t say for certain, Bessie, but I just think it is important. So important, that I think I need to prevail upon our friend, the marquess, and find out for certain.”

  * * * *

  The next morning…

  The pool room…

  Crack…

  The six ball rattled the corner pocket before it sunk convincingly; the sound echoed throughout the room. The room was designed for the sole purpose of playing pool; its only furnishings were the racks built specifically for storing cue sticks and balls and a ledge for holding drinks. The walls were paneled mahogany and a fireplace and large window overlooking a private side garden added warmth, atmosphere, and light. With only a few paintings and one rug, the sound of the balls, colliding and rounding the pockets, reverberated satisfyingly about the room.

  “Careful, Ambrose, or you may end up needing the felt refitted before the end of our match.”

  Ambrose tossed Cliff a brief glare before lining up his cue for another shot. Playing pool was an excellent way to relieve tension. Specifically, slamming a ball hard enough into a pocket such that it rattled around the sides before it sunk was satisfying in a definite way. They all knew it. Needless to say, this room was used quite frequently.

  “I take it your conversation with Miss Radclyffe didn’t go as well as you’d like?”

  “Four ball, side pocket.” Ambrose called out his next shot.

  Crack…

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear every word of that conversation. I know you, remember?” Ambrose chalked up for this third shot.

  Cliff chuckled. Ambrose knew him better than anyone. And his eavesdropping wasn’t really an invasion of privacy; he was well aware Ambrose had wanted him to hear the conversation firsthand so they could discuss it later. At least, that’s what he told himself, anyway.

  “So do you really suspect her father of…Well, hello, Miss Radclyffe. What a pleasant surprise?”

  Thunk…

  Dansbury chuckled at the sound of Ambrose’s miscue.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Dansbury,” replied Grace. She didn’t even acknowledge Ambrose.

  Ambrose slammed his stick down onto the table. “We can talk in the library.”

  “Oh, but I’m not here to speak to you, Your Grace. I would like to speak with Lord Dansbury. In private, if possible.”

  It was difficult for Cliff to keep a straight face. Miss Radclyffe, putting Ambrose squarely in his place; what a sight. She must be truly angry, even though she appeared composed and serene.

  “Why, absolutely, Miss Radclyffe. It would be my pleasure. How about a stroll about the garden? The weather appears ideal for it.”

  “That sounds marvelous, thank you.”

  As he put away his cue on the nearby rack, Cliff tried to remain serious de
spite the shock on his friend’s face. But as he walked by his speechless friend, he couldn’t resist taunting, “I presume we’ll finish our game later, Your Grace.”

  * * * *

  Cliff escorted Grace down the back patio steps. He got his first good look at her in the bright afternoon sunlight. It was immediately apparent that her serene expression was just a façade. She hid it well, but Cliff’s powers of observation were such that he could see the tell-tale signs of strain around her eyes. She was worried. He decided to get right to the point:

  “Darling, what is the matter?”

  She didn’t waste time, either. “Last night I spent over an hour being interrogated by the duke over something I know absolutely nothing about.”

  “I see.”

  “Let me finish, please. I am well aware that you probably already know about this, so please do not insult my intelligence by placating me.” She held up her hand to forestall any further interruptions.

  Aaah. Welcome back my little spitfire, welcome back.

  “You played an awful trick on me—bringing me here without telling me the truth about where we were going. And your aunt, was she in on it too? Never mind. Don’t answer that as it is entirely irrelevant. The point is, the way I see it—you owe me.”

  He was stunned and said nothing.

  She took a deep breath before dropping her bomb. “I want you to take me to Oxford.”

  Chapter 13

  An abandoned tenant hut, Stonebridge Park…

  Midnight…

  Stonebridge and Alaistair MacLeod arrived at the abandoned tenant’s hut by horseback a few strokes after midnight. The place would have looked convincingly abandoned were it not for the telltale sign of smoke drifting up through the chimney.

  The front door was there, but held in place by crude wooden bars stretching across the width of the door frame, the hinges having been removed long ago. The duke guessed the bars were improvised by MacLeod to keep their prisoner secured within. As they approached, he couldn’t resist looking over at the Scot, his brow raised in question at the makeshift lock.

  “Och, weel what else was I ta do?”

  Stonebridge chuckled at that.

  MacLeod lifted the bars away and hefted the door out of the opening—setting it neatly against the wall to his left. That Scot was a big man. Two more bars remained on the inside of the opening, in place to keep the loose door from falling into the room when closed.

  He laughed some more and regarded his friend.

  “I’ll juist wait oot here an keep an eye oot,” said MacLeod as he dusted off his hands without looking at Ambrose.

  “Right.”

  He walked into the ramshackle hut, not quite sure what to expect. The place was clearly in decay, most of the furniture broken or long gone. The inside was dark, dusty, and cold despite the fire blazing in the hearth. The blaze made the air smoky and smelly as the chimney was clearly in need of repair, and the meager warmth from its flames battled valiantly but futilely against the cold air drafting in through cracks in the walls and gaping holes in the moldy, thatched roof.

  He took in the remaining furniture: two wooden rocking chairs. One was occupied by their reluctant guest.

  Despite prior words to the contrary, he imagined a strong and wily brute of a man—one who clearly looked like he might have had a chance of taking down the mighty Duke of Stonebridge.

  What he saw was an old man, bent and gaunt, with stringy, unkempt white hair, but with a keen look about the eyes and the firm line of his lips. It was difficult to match the sight before him with the image in his mind’s eye of the man who might have murdered his father. Yet, those eyes undoubtedly held secrets. Yes, this man could have done it, despite his current physical frailty.

  “Aye, it is ye. Ain’t it? Ye have yer faither’s look about ye,” grumbled the old man. His voice held strength despite his weak physical form.

  Stonebridge took a moment more to take in the appearance of this man who might know the truth about his father’s death—who might have been the man to do the deed. The flickering light from the fire danced across the side of the assassin’s face, making his scar appear to writhe on his cheek. The duke suppressed a shudder.

  “Yes, I am Stonebridge.”

  “I know ye want ta know about yer faither’s murder. Who can blame ye, aye? Well, I can tell ye that the two events, yer faither’s accident, which weren’t an accident, and the attempt on yer prime minister were related—the same men were behind it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Have ye any knowledge of a man named Mr. John Radclyffe? Oh, aye, I see that ye do.”

  The man was peculiarly sharp, to be able to determine that in the low light.

  “Yes, I know, but I don’t believe he would have worked alone, if you are indeed implying his involvement. Something like this would have required men with money, men with power. You must know more.”

  “Oh aye, I know more, a lot more. But I’m needing reassurances, aren’t I?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Don’t play games with me, boy. Ye be knowing what it is I am wanting. I’ve made that plain from the beginning—I want passage to America, money to start a life there and reassurances that I won’t have the law breathin’ down me neck every time I take a piss. What I want is yer word that ye’ll make it happen, or I’ll take me bleeding secrets to me grave.”

  “Let me ask you something, Murphy. Do you have proof—hard evidence—that what you tell me is the truth?”

  “I might at that.”

  Abruptly, Murphy tossed something at the duke’s head. The duke caught the object, reflexively, and looked down to behold a silver stamp, old and grand. The duke, who was still standing just inside the doorway, walked over to the fire and leaned in to get a better look. The seal was used for stamping an insignia in wax when sealing or witnessing documents. The insignia, worn but clearly visible, was that of a swirled P and an E making up the branches of an English Oak. Chills chased up his spine. He jerked his gaze to the old man watching him.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Aye, I thought that might get yer attention. Now, have ye ever heard of the Secret Society for the Purification of England?”

  * * * *

  Oxford, High Street…

  2 days later…

  Grace could barely contain her excitement as she and Dansbury made their way to her father’s shop on High Street. The current tenants had moved in a month after she left for West Sussex last year. Their occupancy was temporary. They would run the book store on her behalf until she reached her majority, with the assistance of her solicitors and Uncle Beckett, of course, at which time, she could decide how she would like to proceed moving forward. As such, she was anxiously anticipating seeing her father’s legacy in continued action.

  After checking into the main hotel in Oxford yesterday, she had wanted to walk over to the shop straight away, but Dansbury and Aunt Harriett had talked her out of it. Both had suggested she rest and clean up so as to arrive fresh on the morrow. She hadn’t wanted to agree, but she had been admittedly tired, so after a little debate, she relented. What were a few more hours’ delay? Besides, she might be there awhile, looking through her father's papers, and would work more efficiently if well rested.

  Today, she was glad she had waited, albeit impatiently, as she now felt restored and ready. To help matters, the morning weather was unusually fine—bright and sunny, whereas yesterday it had been damp and clouded over. Now, with only one more bend in the road before they reached their destination, she was nigh giddy with excitement on Dansbury’s arm. Her eagerness must have been obvious because every so often, he would look down at her and just smile.

  Well, what did he expect? It had been over a year since she had last stepped foot in her father’s shop, and she was anxious to reacquaint herself with the place. Would it be the same as she remembered? Would the purple primrose still be alive in its pot on the counter? She was flooded with memories reminding her
of the sights and comforting smells inside—the scent of paper, coffee & tea, tobacco, and leather all combining to make up the unique odor of a book store and lounge.

  As they made the last turn before her father’s shop, she was surprised to see five carts, heavily laden, lined up at the edge of the pavement nearby their destination. Her spine tingled inexplicably at the sight, and she unconsciously increased her stride.

  Dansbury, however, seemed to do the opposite. He slowed his pace to the point that she began to drag him along.

  “Grace, darling, let us slow down, shall we?”

  She would have none of it. “Cliff, we’re nearly there, and I cannot help it. Something isn’t right.”

  “Grace.” Dansbury halted their walk and pulled her to the side of the walkway nearest the buildings, his hands resting gently on her shoulders. “Listen to me. When we get there, I want you to keep quiet and let me do the talking. Understand?”

  “But…” she began, but Dansbury interrupted her with one raised hand. She was nauseous, and the child in her wanted to turn back to the hotel and hide beneath the covers. She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  “Grace, I am serious. Just go along with whatever I say, no interruptions. Grace, look at me.” Dansbury caught her eye as she tried to look to the ground at her feet, “Please, trust me,” he said gently.

  “All right.”

  Dansbury searched her expression a moment longer, and a slight warning crossed his eyes before he added, “Good. Let’s go.”

  They began to walk on at a frustrating, leisurely pace. Dansbury looked ready to begin whistling a tune, while Grace, who was beyond nervous now, began to tremble on his arm. The air no longer felt warm. In fact, she felt chilled to the bone despite the sun shining brightly above. Up ahead, it was plain that men were regularly filing in and out of her father’s shop, their arms overloaded with packages that were being placed on the carts out front.

  Nothing was being brought inside.

  As they approached the first window of her father’s shop, she searched past the glass. The place was empty. The familiar display of books to entice customers into the shop, all of it, was gone.