Perhaps, too, what she had learned, in the schoolroom and in the last twelve years, had helped remove a shadow from this man’s heart.
When they sobered at last, she sat up and bent over him and kissed him. “If something bad happens,” she said, “we must promise each other to remember all the times like this when we laughed. And until something bad happens, we must enjoy ourselves. We are most fortunate people, Lucien. I am a most fortunate woman, and I mean to enjoy my good fortune as much as I can.”
“I should enjoy it better,” he said, “had we only the normal concerns of life. A deranged servant out to murder my wife is not a normal concern.”
She sat back. “In the harem, there was always somebody wanting to kill somebody,” she said. “I heard it was even more dangerous in Constantinople, in the sultan’s palace.”
“That’s why I’ve become deranged and you haven’t,” he said. “To me, this is outrageous. To you, it’s normal.”
“If he were here,” she said, “trying to poison my food, or creeping into my room with a knife, I would know what to do.”
“You would?” he said.
She nodded.
He thought for a time. Then he climbed out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“To ring for a servant,” he said. “All this talk of poisoning reminds me that we haven’t dined. I’m famished.” He crossed the room and pulled the rope. “And you’ve given me an idea.”
Eighteen
Monday, 11 May
Everything goes into the newspapers. In other countries, matters of a public nature may be seen in them; here, in addition, you see perpetually even the concerns of individuals. Does a private gentleman come to town? you hear it in the newspapers; does he build a house, or buy an estate? they give the information; does he entertain his friends? you have all their names next day in type; is the drapery of a lady’s drawing-room changed from red damask and gold to white satin and silver? the fact is publicly announced.
The observations the American ambassador, Mr. Rush, recorded in his diary about the amazing English press were much the same as those he’d made at dinner on the night he and his wife and a few privileged others had met Lord Lexham’s youngest daughter.
And so it was hardly surprising that the amazing English press would report the doings of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmont. Anyone who could read would read in the newspapers that the new duchess had made substantial changes in the household staff and was shortly to embark upon an extensive refurbishment of Marchmont House in St. James’s Square.
Anyone who could read would read in the papers that the Duke of Marchmont meant to set out on the following day for Lancashire, on urgent legal business related to one of his properties there.
His Grace’s former house steward, Harrison, could read, and did so, while he drank his coffee in the room he’d taken at the Black Horse Inn in Haymarket, immediately after Mary Dunstan’s abrupt departure.
“‘Normally, His Grace’s agent would act in his place,’” he read aloud as he’d always used to do when he and Mrs. Dunstan breakfasted together. “‘But the matter of these fishing rights has apparently reached a pitch such that his personal attendance is wanted to avert a lawsuit.’ Oh, certainly. That’s what sends my lord duke out of London at the height of the Season to travel some three hundred miles, to the wilds of Lancashire. Fishing rights, my foot. It’s she. She’s driven him out of his house.”
Had Harrison given his temper time to cool, he could have spared his master the ignominy of running away from his wife. But Harrison had acted rashly and botched the business. Not only had the Harem Girl failed to die in the carriage smash-up, but she’d escaped with scarcely a scratch.
She’d gone out dancing that same night—at Almack’s! She—the Harem Girl—at Almack’s!
A proper lady would have taken to her bed for a fortnight. She wasn’t a lady. Why were only a handful of servants able to see her for what she was?
“We could have told him she was common,” he said, as though Mary Dunstan were still with him, listening as she always did. “She’s made turmoil in his house. His Grace can’t abide that. He likes his peace.”
He sighed deeply. “I knew him better than he knew himself, did I not? It was my responsibility to do so. What’s he to do without me? Where’s he to go for peace and quiet? White’s? That’s well enough for some, who haven’t anything better to do. It won’t do for him. To spend all his days and nights there? Out of the question. He’d be bored witless. Where else, then?”
Harrison considered. “Unwise to go back to the dashing widow. The Harem Girl would hunt him down. Vulgar scene bound to ensue. I know her sort. Knew the instant I clapped eyes on her, she was never Lord Lexham’s daughter. It was the Princess Caraboo all over again, and she took them all in. Even the Queen. Not that it’s so hard to fool a sick old woman.”
He returned to the newspaper. The article went on to share with readers one of the duke’s humorous remarks. According to an unnamed source at White’s Club, when asked about his impending journey, his grace had said, “If your wife was redecorating the house, would you hang about?”
Harrison repeated the riposte aloud, and laughed. “Have I not always said the master was the cleverest wit in London? ‘Would you hang about?’ Ha, ha. That is good.”
His amusement faded when he remembered that he would not, ever again, be present to hear one of the duke’s witticisms. He would not be able to enter the hostelry where the crème de la crème of London’s servants gathered, and tell his envious friends what his clever master had said and done lately.
“Where shall I find another like him?” he said. “Where should I find another place like that one? Ireland? France?” He shook his head. “Oh, Mary, Mary. How could we hold our heads up if we sank to that: presiding over one of those hovels they call inns in those savage countries.”
But Mary wasn’t there to answer. She’d run away, and the Runners had caught her, as he’d warned her would happen.
Naturally the Runners were looking for him. He knew they’d be doing their sharpest looking along the roads leading out of London. He’d explained to her: He had friends in London, so many friends who owed him and who would make sure he wasn’t caught. They wouldn’t want to risk his telling all he knew about them. For him, there was no safer place to be than London.
“Oh, Mary, Mary.” He glanced sadly about the empty room. “I was in liquor that day. It frightened you, I know.”
He wasn’t the kind to drink to excess. He’d done it because of the horses.
He’d acted too hastily, and he’d paid for it. He’d heard the horse’s screams in his head long after he fled King Street. He’d seen the blood even when he closed his eyes. He’d begun drinking and had kept on drinking until he was senseless and couldn’t hear or see any of it anymore.
He’d always been so proud of His Grace’s cattle: the finest beasts in London. When he’d burst out of Cleveland Yard that day, he’d attacked in a frenzy. When the hot anger dissipated, he’d grieved for them.
She, he would hurt without a second thought or the smallest regret afterward. She’d destroyed him, utterly. She’d killed his future and made a fool of his master and polluted the house.
Now, when it was too late, the duke had discovered his mistake. Why else would he leave his new bride behind and set out on a lengthy journey at the height of the Season?
Harrison set down the newspaper and refilled his coffee cup. He stirred in a few lumps of sugar and added a generous dollop of cream. Though he’d fallen on hard times and was temporarily inconvenienced, he was far from impoverished. The room might be smaller than what he was used to, yet it was comfortably appointed, and his friends kept him properly provisioned.
This wasn’t much solace for a man utterly and irrevocably ruined, who had no future worth having. Still, so long as he remained in London, it was better to be comfortable than not.
He
was exceedingly sorry for Mary. She’d hang for sure. She should have known him better, after all these years, than to take fright over a few drunken ravings. In any case, she could do him no harm and their enemies no good. She didn’t know who his friends were. He had helped line the pockets of the high, middling, and low. He had friends among the goldsmiths, linen drapers, and furniture makers. He knew tavern keepers and innkeepers, fishmongers and bakers and vegetable sellers, tea and coffee and spirit merchants, the candle makers and coal merchants and more. There wasn’t a trade in London in which he didn’t have at least one friend.
Mary didn’t know who they were. She’d always preferred not to know. Thus she wouldn’t know, any more than the Runners and patrollers and constables and magistrates did, where he was.
He put her out of his thoughts and turned his mind to dealing with the cause of all their troubles.
He turned his mind to the first day he’d met the Harem Girl and the way she’d humiliated him in front of a footman. Keeping that incident at the front of his mind would keep off regrets. The next time, he wouldn’t need to stupefy himself with drink. Next time, he’d leave everyone else out of it. He’d do what any good servant must do. He’d remove from Marchmont House what should never have been allowed into the house in the first place.
He couldn’t expect thanks for it, but he was used to being taken for granted. A proper servant, in fact, took pride in being taken for granted. And as always, the good servant must derive his satisfaction from a job well done.
Tuesday, 12 May
The Duke of Marchmont took leave of his wife with a reluctance obvious to onlookers on the other side of the square. He didn’t care how obvious it was.
When she followed him out to the traveling chariot, he gave his neighbors the shock of a lifetime by making his horses wait. Instead of springing into the carriage, he held her hand and repeated all the instructions he’d already given—twice—indoors.
“You will not leave the house,” he said. “You will not step into the garden until the footmen have patrolled it first for intruders. And then you must have Jarvis with you at all times. With her umbrella. Promise me.”
“I promise, I promise,” she said.
“While you’re here, the servants can keep you safe. Outside of the house, you’re vulnerable.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I know you will.”
“Perhaps, after all, it would be wiser to take you with me,” he said.
“It’ll take me hours to pack, and if I go with you, the journey will take twice as long,” she said. “Men never make a fraction as many stops as women want. This way, you’ll be back in a few weeks—perhaps as little as a fortnight. Then we can enjoy the rest of the Season.”
“I can’t believe I must leave you alone while I go away to quarrel about fishing rights, of all things, at such a time.”
“They wouldn’t send for you if it wasn’t necessary.” She stroked the front of his coat. “Please don’t fret. I won’t be alone. I’ll be safer here than anywhere else. And I shouldn’t enjoy going out to any sort of entertainment without you, in any event.”
“I worry that you’ll be bored, Zoe. When you become bored, terrible things happen.”
“I won’t be bored at all. I’m excited about refurbishing the house. I’ll have plenty to do, looking at fabric swatches and paint charts and deciding how to arrange the rooms. If I begin to feel dull, I’ll send for my sisters to argue with me.”
He gazed down at her for a long while, into her sparkling blue eyes and sunny countenance. “Perhaps you won’t miss me very much after all.”
“I shall miss your body very much,” she said. “But while you’re gone, I can think of new and different ways to make use of it.”
He wondered what new and different ways she could devise that she hadn’t already done. Still, she did seem to have a boundless imagination.
He laughed and grasped her waist and lifted her off the pavement. “I’ll keep that notion in mind, to warm me at night in my cold, lonely bed.”
He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms about his neck and gave him a no-holds-barred kiss in return. She didn’t care who was watching, either. She never held back. With Zoe it was all or nothing, always.
He set her down again slowly, relishing the feel of her soft body sliding along his. They were scandalizing the neighbors, no doubt. Ah, well, he was besotted with his wife. What did he care who saw? Let them watch and let them talk about it all they liked.
Friday, shortly after midnight
His prey was bound to go out eventually, but Harrison couldn’t wait for eventually. He only waited to make sure the duke didn’t suddenly change his mind and return. He listened for rumors and quietly absorbed the information ordinary servants exchanged in their various gathering places.
Half the world had observed the vulgar public farewell in St. James’s Square. The other half heard from those who’d seen. It was her doing, of course, hanging on His Grace’s neck like a harlot.
But her lures didn’t bring him back. The duke had not changed his mind and returned on Tuesday or Wednesday. Thursday having passed as well, the duke would be hundreds of miles away.
The moon, approaching its full, would set in about two hours, but at present its illumination cast shadows in St. James’s Square. In the shadows, well away from the streetlamps’ narrow circles of light, Harrison patiently waited.
He stood and watched as the hall porter fastened the shutters of Marchmont House. From where he stood, he couldn’t hear the man latch the doors, but he knew he’d do so. Shortly thereafter, the porter would trim the lamps in the entrance hall and passages.
Harrison bided his time, knowing the routine of the house. This night, the servants would all be abed. If the master and mistress had gone out, a few must wait up for them. But the master was away and the mistress had not gone out. The hall porter would soon be dozing in his chair. The others would have taken to their beds for the delicious luxury of a few extra hours of rest. They’d be dead asleep. A fire or explosion might rouse them but not much else.
If he were still the house steward, he’d be prowling the corridors, to make sure the male and female staff were in their proper beds. He’d never tolerated any improprieties of that kind. Pregnant maids were dismissed without a character, and the males responsible paid fines.
But he was no longer in charge of them, and the duke hadn’t yet replaced him. There was only Thomas, lately jumped up to butler, and only adequate for that position.
Still, Thomas might be on the prowl, jealous of his new rank and wanting to show off to the new mistress how conscientious he was.
Harrison waited a little longer, watching for any telltale flicker of light.
But he saw none. Only darkness.
And when he slipped in through the servants’ entrance, he heard only the familiar silence of a sleeping household.
Boy and man, Harrison had lived in Marchmont House for twenty years. He knew every inch of it. As house steward, he’d walked these corridors late at night. He could find his way to any part of the house blindfolded.
Still, the Harem Girl might have had furniture moved about. She’d had the table of the breakfast room moved, hadn’t she? She was unlikely to leave anything else alone. Not wanting to risk tripping over an illogically placed chair or table, he carried a small candle, as he always used to do during his nightly inspections.
A good servant goes unobtrusively—preferably invisibly—about his business. To make sure of this, Harrison had always kept the house well maintained. No creaky hinges or squeaky floors announced one’s passage from one room to the next.
He made his way noiselessly to the Duchess of Marchmont’s rooms. The housemaids slept in the attics. Her Grace’s lady’s maid, however, had a small room adjoining Her Grace’s.
He set the candle down on a nearby table in the corridor and cautiously cracked the door open to listen. He h
eard no snoring. He didn’t hear Jarvis moving about, though. He left the candle on the table in the main corridor, slipped through the door, and waited while his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the passage. Then he moved along and found the door to Jarvis’s room. When he opened it, he easily made out her form under the bedclothes.
Swiftly and soundlessly he passed through her room, then through the boudoir, where he removed a small pillow from the chaise longue. He continued his progress, passing through the dressing room. These rooms, having full windows, were not quite as dark as the maid’s, and his eyes had adjusted. He had no trouble finding his way to the door of the duchess’s bedroom.
Her room would be a degree lighter still. Some moonlight would penetrate the curtains, and the dying coals would give off a faint glow. It would be all the light he’d need for his simple task.
He pressed his ear to the door and listened.
Silence.
He had a well-sharpened penknife, but only for an emergency. Knives were untidy. Blood was the very devil to get out of damask.
The pillow was best. Suffocation left no evidence. If he wrung her neck, he’d leave bruises. Still, he’d do what he had to, as discreetly as possible, as a good servant always did.
He opened the door.
He trod quietly over the carpet, toward the bed, and parted the curtains.
He took the pillow in both hands and bent over the figure under the bedclothes.
It sprang up suddenly, and something clanged against his skull.
He dropped the pillow and pitched sideways, onto the floor.
Harrison lay too still. Marchmont cursed silently as he climbed out of Zoe’s bed.
He’d made himself be careful. He’d wanted the man alive. He’d wanted to watch him hang. This was too easy a death for the villain who’d tried to kill Zoe.
About him, the servants emerged from their hiding places. One hurried to the fire and lit a taper, then began lighting the candles.