The Devious Duchess Read online

  She cleared her throat and prepared her speech carefully in what she considered a fiendishly clever manner. “I’ve discovered a mouse in my room and want to poison it. I was looking for that envelope of arsenic, and I see that it’s gone from the dining room. Do you know where I might find it?”

  Cook looked up and stared at her. “There’s plenty of mousetraps in that drawer, Miss Gower. I’ll give you a piece of cheese to bait it.”

  “No, I want the arsenic, Cook. Perhaps you know what became of it?”

  “I don’t know what arsenic you’re talking about,” Cook replied blandly. “I seldom leave my kitchen.”

  “You girls, have you seen it during your cleaning?” Deirdre persisted.

  “No, miss,” they both said, staring at her with great, frightened eyes.

  Deirdre continued with this fruitless questioning till she finally got an admission that the girls had some dim recollection of having seen the envelope there at some time within the past few years. But they had no more recent memory of it, hadn’t touched the envelope.

  Cook walked to the drawer and pulled out a mousetrap. “You’ll be wanting this—for the mouse in your room, Miss Gower,” she said. “Just wait and I’ll get some cheese.”

  “Never mind. I’ll take up the cat tomorrow,” Deirdre said, and left.

  She was a failure as an investigator. Dick would have invented some cunning ruse to reveal the truth, but she was too tired. She went up to her bed no wiser than before. She didn’t undress, as there was a possibility Sir Nevil or some neighbor might call. She lay on the bed and saw Dick’s note on her dresser. She was too tired to pick it up, and anyway she knew it by heart.

  Dear Miss Gower:

  Thank you for a delightful visit. I would appreciate it if you would also convey my thanks to her grace. Your faithful servant, Belami.

  That was all. Her passionate lover, her fiancé, had become her faithful servant—a written formality on a piece of paper, as meaningless as her life was without him.

  Chapter 7

  When Belami slammed out of the door of Fernvale to his waiting carriage, he thought he was glad to be leaving. He must have been mad to ever think of associating himself with such creatures as Charney and her crew. That no-good Sir Nevil Ryder—who would want to be any kin or connection to the likes of him? As to Deirdre Gower! If lying to his face was her notion of proper behavior, he was well rid of her.

  This trip had been an unmitigated disaster thus far, not only for Belami but for Réal as well. The unfortunate groom now had the temerity to ask which direction to head the carriage, as his only instruction had been to harness up and bring the rig around.

  “Have you no capability to think for yourself? Go to Beaulac, of course,” Belami told him, and strode to the carriage door while his valet hopped to get it open. There was no fooling around when his lordship was in one of his tempers.

  The valet and Réal exchanged weary glances. To be heading off to Bedfordshire at this hour of the night, and in the dead of winter, too! It promised to be an extremely bad journey, made worse, of course, by this pelter the master was in.

  Just as he ducked his head to enter the carriage, Belami pulled back. “Make that London, Réal. Or perhaps . . . Oh, damme, I don’t care where you go just so long as you take me away from this godforsaken spot.”

  “Banting, peut-être?” Réal suggested warily.

  “Now what the deuce would I want to go to Banting for?”

  This seemed the proper moment to mention what Réal had learned in the stable. He’d get his ears chewed off no matter what he said, so he’d proffer that tidbit and hope for the best. “I thought the young lady with Sir Nevil might be of interest,” Réal suggested.

  Belami straightened his shoulders and looked up at the box. “What young lady? Where did you hear this?”

  “From the groom of Ryder. He travels to the inn with a young lady—Adelaide is the name. From Bath they are coming.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner! Have I nothing but idiots and incompetents in my employ?"

  He slammed into the carriage then and scowled at his valet, who had ducked onto the other seat. Réal assumed his destination was Banting and turned toward it. Already Belami was beginning to feel ashamed of his tantrum. It wasn’t Réal’s fault that Charney was a murderess, after all. He had a few qualms about that terse note to Deirdre as well. But there hadn’t been anything irreparable in it, had there? At least he hadn’t written any of the scalding things he’d been thinking at that moment.

  He threw his curled beaver onto the seat and leaned his aching head back against the squabs. He felt a blistering headache coming on, and no wonder. Deirdre had a magic touch with his migraines. Her cool, gentle fingers—so soft and loving—eased away the pain and made him feel nearly human again. He’d go to the inn and order a bottle of brandy, then get well and thoroughly disguised. He wouldn’t he able to hold up his head tomorrow, but at least he’d sleep tonight.

  But before he slept, he’d just make a few inquiries at the desk—find out about this rumor Réal had picked up at the stable. He’d probably gotten it wrong. Réal was falling flat on his rear this trip. Why would Nevil take Adelaide Pankhurst to the inn at Banting? What possible reason could he have for doing such a thing? And he was sly enough that he hadn’t mentioned a word of it to Charney, even when Adelaide’s name arose in the conversation. Something about Dudley making some provision for her in his will was all he said.

  Had Dudley sent for her? he wondered. Once his brain became engaged on the case, other facets of it began popping up as well. His answer from Marsh, for instance. He really shouldn’t run off and leave that up in the air. It would undoubtedly show that Charney’s stew was full of arsenic, and the old girl wouldn’t have a hope in hell of clearing her name. Deirdre, too, would be dragged through the papers, smeared by her relationship with the duchess.

  A memory of Straus’s hateful, knowing smirk came along to goad him. How he’d love to upset that man’s apple cart! Already Belami knew he wasn’t leaving the neighborhood, but he tried to rationalize that it was the case alone that kept him. Really, it looked as though it would be a fascinating case. A pity to miss out on the experience it would give him. If he could devise some scheme to save Charney's neck . . .

  The short trip was over almost before it began. Belami leaped out of the carriage at the front door of the Green Man and looked around to ensure that he wasn’t overheard. "Réal, did you hear anything else I should know—about that lady you mentioned, I mean?”

  Réal's heart rose to see how his lordship’s brow had lightened. His voice, too, was much softer, the voice of apology, though Belami was unaware of it. He only knew he didn’t like to be at odds with his servants.

  Réal emptied his budget of all its details—the respectable apartment house at Bath, the use of “Addie.” He wished he had gleaned more information, but he stopped just short of inventing it.

  “Did the groom say anything about Sir Nevil buying a Bath chair?”

  “Comment?” Réal asked, thinking he had misheard.

  “Did they bring a Bath chair with them?”

  “But no. It was not in the carriage. I will ask here at the stable if there was one.”

  “You do that and let me know as soon as you find out. Try to discover everything Ryder did in Bath. And the lady, too, if you can.”

  “You want I should go to Bath tonight?”

  “Lord, no, you fool. Just inquire around the stable about the chair.”

  ‘‘Just h’as well, with that tear in the leader’s mouth,’’ Réal felt confident to reply as he whipped up the team to continue to the stableyard.

  Réal was quite simply delighted to see that Sir Nevil’s carriage was there. The groom was in the common room and greeted Réal like an old friend when he hastened in to meet him. It cost Réal five pints of ale, but before he left he knew every step Sir Nevil’s carriage had taken in Bath. Knew where he had slept and whom he had v
isited, but most important, he knew he hadn’t gone near any shop that sold Bath chairs.

  Belami also had a pleasant surprise greeting him. It was his careful perusal of the registry that led to it. He noticed that Adelaide Pankhurst had signed in that same day. His blood quickened at the sight of her name, written in dainty script five lines above his own bold scrawl, but it wasn’t this signature that cheered him so much as the totally illegible blot below it. Nobody but Pronto Pilgrim would sign himself in so badly. Yes, certainly that was a P, and halfway along the signature another P, followed by a long smear.

  “What room is Mr. Pilgrim in? I’d like the one next to it if it’s free.”

  “Would across the hall do as well, milord? A nice suite with a view of the front road and . . ."

  “That’ll be fine. Just dandy.”

  He was smiling by the time he was handed the key to his man, and when he mounted the stairs, he went two at a time, pulling off his coat and tossing it to his valet as he went.

  “Light the fire and unpack me, please. Then you can go and order some dinner. You must be starved, Nick,” he said to his servant.

  He tapped thrice on Pronto’s door and threw it open. “Pronto, I haven’t been so glad to see anybody since I fell down the well and nearly drowned,” Belami exclaimed, and pounced forward, laughing, to throw an arm over Pronto’s narrow shoulder.

  Pronto looked up at Belami from his inferior height, half a foot below. There was a disbelieving look in his blue eyes, but his large nose twitched in pleasure. “Eh?” was all he said.

  “Why the deuce didn’t you let me know you were here?”

  “Why, to tell the truth, Dick, I wasn’t half sure I’d be welcome. Demmed boring in Brighton once you folks left. Went on up to London to wait for my wedding invitation, but when it didn’t come and there was no announcement in the papers, I took a fright that something had turned Deirdre sour on you—again. Glad to see it’s no such a thing. Can see by your smile you’re in fine fettle.”

  Belami’s smile faded, and his shoulders slumped. “Dream on,” he said.

  “Eh? You’re not telling me you’ve come to cuffs so soon! By the living jingo, I can’t let the pair of you out of my sight for a minute without you falling at each other’s throats. I’ll have to throw myself in the hold of the boat and taggle along on that Italian honeymoon.”

  “No, you won’t. There isn’t going to be any honeymoon,” Dick said, and pulled the engagement ring from his pocket. It glinted in the palm of his hand.

  Pronto looked at it and shook his head. “Looks like I didn’t get here a minute too soon. Come in and take a load off your feet. I’ve got a dandy bowl of red fustian I was about to light into. Don’t like drinking alone. Well, tell me all about it then, Dick. I suppose Charney has been up to her tricks, has she?”

  Belami shook his head, wondering if Pronto would credit the story he was about to hear. “No, my friend, what she has done heretofore might fairly be called ‘tricks.’ This time she’s outdone herself.”

  Pronto ladled out two hot cups of red fustian and handed one to his friend. “She’d have to go some, to outrun herself. Let’s hear it. I’ll do what I can to haul your chestnuts out of the fire.”

  “I hope you brought a magic wand with you. She’s murdered her brother,” Belami said, accepting the cup and tasting the liquid. Spiced port wine wasn’t really what he had planned to drink, but as Pronto had a gallon of it, he felt it his duty to help him.

  Pronto also tried the drink before answering. He nodded his head in satisfaction at the revolting brew and cast a cagey glance at Belami. “You mean actually killed him with a gun or a knife or . . ."

  “No, with poison. Arsenic, to be precise.”

  “Sounds like a woman’s weapon right enough. Knew it was only a matter of time till Charney either killed someone or was killed. Thought it would be the latter myself.”

  “Well, it wasn’t,” Belami said, and outlined the case.

  Pronto considered the evidence for an important length of time before delivering his opinion. “From the sound of that stew, I don’t know how you ever suspected murder. A calf's head stew would be enough to make a man sick, and never mind poison.”

  “It was, I promise you. I nearly flashed the hash myself. The question now is, what am I to do?”

  “Have another cup of this red fustian, Dick. This ain’t no matter to consider on an empty stomach. Seems to me they’ve got the old girl right and tight. There’s your method, poison; your motive, the money; and your opportunity. She was there and letting on she wasn’t. She’s a goner. Nobody could save her. Not even us.”

  “The motive is not that clearly established,” Dick reminded him. “She thought, or at least said before leaving, that she feared Sir Nevil had wangled the will in his favor. That doesn’t make the money motive feasible.”

  “No, in that case it would be spite, pure and simple. Never did meet anyone as spiteful as old Charney. Thing is, would she have lugged along a bag of poison and only dumped it into the stew if she came to cuffs with Dudley? Bit of a problem, if you follow me. She didn’t know when she went what he’d say or what he’d done with the money. The likelier thing would be for her to try to talk him around to leaving it to her. Have you heard the will yet?”

  “No, it usually takes a few days before the reading.”

  “And in a few days you’ll have your report back from Marsh. That’ll clinch it. When Straus clamps his eyes on that, the duchess might as well deliver herself over to Newgate. Demmed lucky you broke with Deirdre before it became public, Dick. Folks would say you dumped her because of the scandal.”

  “I didn’t dump her. She dumped me.”

  Pronto cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at Belami. “I hope that ain’t a roundabout way of saying you mean to take up with her again.”

  “Certainly not!” Dick answered swiftly. “Although it’s not the aunt’s behavior that has turned me against her. That isn’t Deirdre’s fault in the least. She couldn’t possibly have suspected or she wouldn’t have told me about the arsenic in the first place.”

  “What was it that set you to fighting with her, then?”

  Dick shook his head in confusion. “You had to be there,” he said.

  “Demmed glad I wasn’t, if you want the truth. So what do you plan to do? Stick around to see how things turn out, or are we off to London?”

  “I’ve decided to stay here for a few days—till I hear from Marsh at least.”

  “Seems like a quiet little hole of a place to me. Nothing to do all day but strut up and down the one street. Don’t know anyone hereabouts,” Pronto said, nibbling his thumb to aid concentration.

  “There’ll be the funeral the day after tomorrow,” Dick mentioned.

  “Funeral! I hope you ain’t putting that forward as entertainment! Next you’ll be saying we should go to the wake and to the burial.”

  “I don’t expect they’ll bury him till spring. The ground is pretty hard. Although Réal told me they did bury Deirdre’s dog.”

  “Did Charney poison him, too?” Pronto asked suspiciously.

  “No, he died of old age. Deirdre was very upset,” Dick said, and was ambushed by the memory of her sorrow. She had looked so sad and sweet when she talked about Shep. He wondered how she looked now, this very minute. Was she crying over their estrangement? He felt very much like it himself.

  “This is dismal talk. What do you say we go downstairs and have a look around for women? There was a handsome wench landed in from a walk around the village just as I arrived.”

  “I’ve just broken off with Deirdre! How can you talk about chasing women at a time like this?” Belami asked, his sensibilities shattered at such a lack of consideration.

  “I wouldn’t have suggested it if you hadn’t broken off,” Pronto assured him. “If it’s all over, what’s the odds?”

  "I don’t feel like it. I have a headache,’’ Dick said.

  “She was a rare beauty,
” Pronto tempted. “Nice black hair tousled up in curls all over her head.”

  The description rang a bell in Dick’s memory. “What was her name?” he asked, but he already had a good idea of the answer.

  “I didn’t get to meet her, but the lad at the desk told me she was a Miss Pankhurst.”

  “That’s Dudley’s wife!”

  “Can’t be. He said Miss Pankhurst. I asked him twice, just to be sure. Ain’t worth the bother, poaching on other men’s preserves.”

  “That’s her name—Adelaide Pankhurst. Come on, Pronto, drink up,” Dick said, and put down his cup.

  “By jingo, if that was old Dudley Patmore’s wife, he had a colt’s tooth in his head. She ain’t a day over thirty. Not a bit long in the tooth. Is she here for the funeral?”

  “That’s one thing we can find out. But I’ll tell you something. If she knew Dudley was dead, then she knew more than Nevil said he knew, and they came from Bath together.”

  “How’s that again? What was she doing in Bath with Nevil Ryder?”

  “I have no idea. He was supposed to be bringing back a Bath chair, but he brought Adelaide Pankhurst instead.”

  “What did he do with the chair?” Pronto asked, sinking even deeper into confusion.

  “That’s something else to find out. Come on, finish that drink, Pronto,” Dick said impatiently.

  “Hold your horses! Let me get this straight. Nevil went to Bath to buy a Bath chair for Adelaide . . ."

  “No, for Dudley’s birthday.”

  “But he was dead. He should have bought a coffin.”

  “He probably did that this afternoon.”

  “I wonder what Adelaide was doing out shopping when she had just found out her husband was murdered. Buying crape maybe. She’d look mighty fine in black. And she certainly don’t have a husband now . . ." A cunning smile settled on Pronto’s face. He finished off his fustian and said, “I’m ready. Let’s go.’’

  “If she’s downstairs, don’t tell her who I am," Dick said. They were about to leave when there was a knock at the door and Réal stepped in.