The Duke's Last Hunt (18 page)

And Rufus
had
died childless—yet, seemingly, on the road to producing an heir. His marriage with Miss Malcolm would reportedly have taken place in short order, and if the lady were fertile, an heir might not have been far behind. Had Henry Rowland tried to catch the nearest way to wealth by eliminating his brother before it was too late?

Pevensey closed his notebook and laid it on the table. It was too early to tell. But as he fell asleep, his last thought was that there might be far more to this shooting than the word “accident” conveyed.

18

E
liza debated whether to come downstairs for breakfast. Henry had said that an investigator was coming…surely, it was too early for him to have arrived already? She decided to chance it, and after Ollerton had laced up her blue morning dress, she glided down the corridor to the top of the stairs.

She remembered yesterday morning, when
he
had been there, waiting for her. She remembered her hand traveling down the banister toward his, and stopping just short of contact with him. She remembered his fingers reaching up to close the distance. “Do not marry my brother!”

There was no one standing at the foot of the stairs today, but Eliza caught her breath sharply to see a man standing on the landing. His back was to her, as he stared at the portraits on the wall. His bright red hair was the same color as Rufus’. For a moment she thought she was staring at a ghost. But no, he was smaller, much smaller—two of him could have fit inside of Rufus’ frame.

The stranger turned around. He had seen her. She could hardly retreat quietly to her room now. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand on the banister and began to descend the stairs.

“Good morning!” said the intruder, his freckled face splitting into a smile. “You must be Miss Malcolm.”

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” she said, reaching the landing and finding herself an inch taller than him.

“Jacob Pevensey at your service. Attached to the magistrates’ office in London.”

“Oh, I see. You must be the investigator H—his lordship spoke of.”

“Yes, exactly. I am especially hoping to speak to you this morning. I realize that it is a difficult time, but your words might be able to shed some light on this dark tragedy.”

Eliza opened her mouth to reply, but a firm voice from the bottom of the stairs preempted her.

“Any questions can wait until Miss Malcolm has had her breakfast.”

She looked down to see that Henry had entered the saloon.

“How thoughtless of me,” said the investigator. “Of course, you are eager to break your fast. May I escort you to the dining room, and perhaps we can talk there? I will be taking the witnesses’ official statements later, but there are just a few preliminary questions I wanted to ask you.”

Flustered, Eliza took the arm that Mr. Pevensey offered and continued down the staircase with him. She could see Henry’s eyes narrowing, but he turned and led the way to the dining room, throwing open the doors and pulling out a chair for her to sit down. Mr. Pevensey walked around the table and sat opposite to her while Henry walked over to the sideboard to fill a plate with food.

Eliza could see the investigator watching her, studying her. She dropped her eyes to the glaring white of the tablecloth. If only he would ask his questions and get it over with. She had nothing to hide except her fear of strangers. Henry gently placed a full plate in front of her, complete with fork and knife, and returned to the sideboard to fill another plate. Eliza’s palpitating heart hoped that he was planning to sit down as well. Whatever she was going to say to Mr. Pevensey could surely be said in front of Rufus’ brother.

“Bacon, Pevensey?” Henry asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Eliza’s face fell. Apparently, he was merely serving breakfast to the investigator. She watched him slide another full plate to the place across from her.

But then, instead of leaving the room, he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. He was not eating, but he was also not leaving. He would not abandon her to face the investigator alone. “Well then, Pevensey?”

Mr. Pevensey’s thin red eyebrows lifted, but he made no objection. It was surely not normal to have a chaperon of this kind, but he did not deny her the comfort of Henry’s presence.

“Miss Malcolm, as I investigate the cause of the late Duke of Brockenhurst’s passing, I must ask questions to everyone on the premises that day. Please answer me to the best of your ability.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Eliza murmured. She gripped the handles of her fork and knife, having forgotten to take a single bite of her breakfast. She saw Henry place his right arm on the table and look intently at the investigator.

“How long have you been acquainted with the duke?” said Pevensey.

“About one month.”

“Where did you first make his acquaintance?”

“In London, at a ball.”

“And how quickly did your acquaintance progress?”

Eliza blushed.

“What I mean to say”—the inspector corrected himself—“is how well did you come to know him during the past four weeks?”

“I…I only knew him slightly. My father talked with him more than I did.”

“Why did he ask your family to visit him at Harrowhaven?”

Eliza set down her silverware, hands shaking. Surely, he must already know the answers to these questions—otherwise, why would he ask them?

“Miss Malcolm?”

“I believe he wanted to improve our acquaintance.”

“What day did you arrive here?”

“On Saturday.”

“And how would you characterize the time that you spent with his grace during the past five days?”

How would she characterize it? Difficult. Uncomfortable. Demeaning. She glanced over to Henry, her green eyes begging for help.

Henry leaned forward. “Perhaps you are not aware, Mr. Pevensey, that my brother proposed marriage to Miss Malcolm the day before the sad event. They were engaged to be married.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, miss,” said Pevensey, a glint of something inscrutable in his eyes. He looked at Henry. “Your grace failed to mention as much last night.”

“It must have slipped my mind.” Henry’s voice was unapologetic.

The investigator’s eyebrows lifted again. He took several bites of his eggs and bacon. “Miss Malcolm,”—he paused a moment to swallow—“now that we’ve reviewed your acquaintance with the late duke, perhaps you might enlighten me as to your acquaintance with the new duke. How long have you known this gentleman?” He pointed a fork at Henry.

Eliza’s heart raced. How ought she respond to that? Under the table she felt a gentle pressure on her right slipper as Henry touched it with his boot.

“Oh! Mr. Rowland and I met in London ages ago.” She smiled wanly.

“Ah, how interesting!” The investigator’s eyes flicked back and forth from Eliza to Henry. “I think, Miss Malcolm, that I shall postpone the rest of our interview until a time when we can be less encumbered by an audience.”

Henry’s lip curled up into a devilish smile, but Mr. Pevensey was no longer looking at him. He stood up and carried his plate, still half full, back over to the sideboard and placed it on the shelf below for dirty dishes. “Until later, Miss Malcolm.” The redheaded investigator departed from the dining room to take his interviewing elsewhere.

Eliza and Henry sat in conspiratorial silence until they were sure that Mr. Pevensey had moved far out of earshot.

“Did I say the right thing?” Eliza asked anxiously.

Henry laughed. “Well, considering that I told him we had just met last week, probably not.”

“Oh, Henry, how awful! He will think me a liar. I suppose I am one….”

“Not at all, my dear. I’m certain he thinks
I’m
the one telling taradiddles. Ah well—what does it matter? It’s not as if this has anything to do with his investigation.” He took her right hand in his and began to rub his thumb over the back of it.

“No, of course not,” said Eliza. Her face turned pink all the way up to the roots of her auburn hair. She nearly drew away her hand, but the feel of his skin against hers was too compelling.

She
hoped
that his interest in her had nothing to do with the investigation….

“Elizabeth Malcolm!”

Standing in the open doorway was the stern and angry figure of Lady Malcolm. Eliza gasped and snatched her hand away from Henry’s. Her mother advanced to her chair and pulled it back so she could rise from the table. Henry stood as well, a look of seriousness suffusing his face.

“Mr. Rowland,” said Lady Malcolm, inserting herself between the offending gentleman and her daughter. “Please be aware that we are not interested in any further connection to your family. We will be leaving this place directly following the inquest—perhaps sooner if this kind of behavior continues.”

“I beg your pardon, madam.”

Lady Malcolm sniffed. “I forgive you, as I must, but do not think this means that I shall relax my vigilance. Come, Eliza, we shall read together for the remainder of the morning.”

* * *

Henry sat down at the
table and raked his hands through his hair. He had been counting on Sir Arthur’s avarice to advance his suit, but it seemed that Lady Malcolm might be the more formidable of Eliza’s parents. And she—for some unexplainable reason—had taken a pet against him. He chided himself for losing control of his hands. How foolish of him to touch Eliza, and how unfortunate that her mother should enter just then. He had been forbidden—perhaps permanently—from entering Eliza’s presence, and all his racing blood could think about was how much he desired to touch her skin again.

“I could not help but overhear....”

Drat! It was Pevensey again.

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Henry sharply. He frowned as the investigator entered the room and resumed his chair opposite him. He had hoped that the man would be off questioning the servants and viewing the scene of the death, but instead, he was skulking around the house and eavesdropping at the most inopportune moment.

“Your grace, I think it is time for plain speaking between us.”

“I have always appreciated candor,” said Henry, aware that he had exercised very little of that virtue in their previous conversation.

“I am aware that you were not on good terms with your brother.”

“Who is your source for such information?”

“London.”

“London is a very loud-mouthed woman. And you must be aware that her rumors are not always true.”

“But in this case I find her information very persuasive. You received no inclusion, I think, in your father’s will, while your brother received the title and the whole of the estate—”

“As is customary in our country,” Henry interjected.

“Surely, it is more customary for the father to set aside something for a second son—perhaps money to buy an officer’s commission in the cavalry, or money to secure a living in the church. Was your father so uncaring?”

Henry felt his craw stick in his throat. He had asked himself the same question more times than one, but he would not let his father’s memory be demeaned by a stranger.

“My father
did
provide for me in the way he thought best. He established me as steward at Harrowhaven over the Rowland lands in Sussex with a substantial income that he thought would be enough for my needs.”

“And yet, you are no longer steward here?”

“My brother and I had a falling out”—that term “falling out” hardly described the rage Rufus had shown when Henry confronted him about the matter of the Dower House—“and he elected to dismiss me from the post.”

“And so you have even more reason to resent your brother. Penniless, cast off—”

“One could imagine so, but no. I fell on my feet.” Henry refused to elaborate any further.

“There is still, though, the matter of Miss Malcolm. Your brother was about to marry her.”

“Indeed.”

“While you, it seems, have nursed a partiality for her for months.”

“I have only just met Miss Malcolm.”

“And yet she seems to be under the impression that she has known you for ages—and your own conduct not ten minutes ago would seem to confirm the…familiarity.”

“What are you suggesting, that jealous of my brother’s inheritance and his bride, I took the opportunity to murder him in the forest?”

“You must grant that you have the motive and, since you were a member of the hunting party, the opportunity.”

Henry’s fingers balled into a fist—he stopped his hand from pounding against the table. He had never entertained the notion that he himself would be considered a suspect in the case. But then, he really ought to have known—it was the first direction Eliza’s mind had jumped when he visited her yesterday afternoon.

“And what of the fact that Walter Turold has confessed to shooting him?”

“Yes, that is the rub, isn’t it? Is Mr. Turold such an inexperienced hunter then, that he would fire wildly at some movement in the bushes?”

It was Henry’s previous falsehoods that had placed him in this precarious position, and as much as he wanted to say yes, he resolved to stick to the truth from now on. “No. He is an exceptional hunter. I would not expect him to make that sort of mistake.”

“And does
he
bear any resentment towards your brother?”

Henry was silent. That subject—the subject of Catherine Ansel—was not a place where he was willing to let Pevensey tread about with his muddy boots and muck-raking fingers. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I intend to,” said Pevensey, “after I confer with the magistrate in charge about the case.”

* * *

Pevensey went to the windows
in the entrance hall where he could see Cecil’s approach. After the Banbury stories the new duke had been telling him, he was eager to speak with an impartial witness—presuming that Cecil, as magistrate, was indeed impartial.

“Mr. Cecil gave me to understand that he would return at ten o’clock this morning, sir,” said Hayward, the butler.

“Yes, very good. And is Mr. Cecil a punctual fellow?”

“I have never known him to be unpunctual.”

Pevensey appreciated the butler’s professionalism. “And would you describe him, Hayward, as especially friendly to the Rowland family, in particular to the new duke, Henry Rowland?”

Hayward pursed his lips. “No, I would not say so. They are much of an age and grew up here in the same part of the country, but Mr. Cecil had a sickly childhood, and he kept to his home while Master Rufus and Master Henry roamed the woods and the countryside.”

“Whom did Master Henry play with then? His brother?”

“No, Mr. Pevensey. Master Rufus was often with his father, the old duke William Rowland. Master Henry, in his younger years, played with Mr. Turold and another boy from the village, a tavern-keeper’s son.”