What the Duke Wants (17 page)

“Figures…grumpy as ever. Seen your da recently, then?” taunted Kelly.

Alaistair glared at Ciarán, but didn’t respond.

“Enough,” interrupted Stonebridge. “Ciarán, you are correct in that it is best if Grace doesn’t see the rest of you.”

“Grace?” interrupted Ciarán, brow raised at his familiar use of Miss Radclyffe’s given name.

He ignored Ciarán. “I’ll lead off. Two days ago, I met with my butler, Boneswaithe, regarding the night of the attack on the Prime Minister. He was butler here at the time and was able to recall much about the ongoing house party as the attempted assassination created quite an uproar. It seems that an assassin attempted to enter the Prime Minister’s room late in the evening on the first night. Fortunately for the Prime Minister, a snuff servant, a young Irish boy by the name of Seamus O’Brien, happened by at the exact moment our would-be assassin attempted to enter the Prime Minister’s room. A struggle ensued and the boy, being the weaker of the two, barely managed to escape by slicing his attacker in the cheek with his snuffer.”

“Guid, aye? Our man Murphy has a right nasty scar on his right cheek just there.” MacLeod pointed to his cheek, the approximate location of their captive’s scar.

“Undeniably. Of course, at that point, the assassin runs off as the household is beginning to stir what with all the racket from the fight. He gets away and the boy raises the alarm, but by the time a search party is organized, the man has all but disappeared.”

“He couldna made it far with a bleedin’ gash in his cheek without someone making note of it,” said MacLeod.

“Aye. Someone was bound to notice that,” agreed Kelly.

“Nevertheless, he seemingly vanished without a trace.”

“That suggests help—and nearby—especially if the assassin arrived the first night of the Prime Minister’s stay and knew which room to enter. Are we sure the Prime Minister was the intended target? Who else was at the party?” queried Cliff.

“Of course, Boneswaithe can only base his knowledge on what he witnessed, but certainly they were all convinced the Prime Minister was the intended mark. As we presumed, the Prime Minister was reluctant to put too much effort into the hunt, but my father was furious that someone would attack a guest in his home, putting his family and people at risk. Incidentally, the servant boy, thankfully, was unharmed. He also remains in the area and might be able to identify the assassin. He was only ten at the time; he’s a young man now.”

“Our captive assassin might be difficult to recognize. He’s quite gaunt and has aged significantly from his suffering over the last seventeen years, yet somehow I don’t think he will be denying his involvement, so the point may be moot,” added Kelly.

“One can hope. As far as the attendees at the party, they are as follows: The Prime Minister, of course—and his army of assistants, advisors, and secretaries; Viscount Branbury; the Earl of Swindon; Lord Fox; Lord North; Lord Middlebury; Mr. Randall Smythe; and the Honourable Henry Roxburgh of Bury.”

“Och, quite the eclectic mix of powerful men, then. Pitt’s entourage muddles things up a wee bit—any one o’ them coulda been involved, ye ken, but Fox and North?”

“Indeed. They are the most obvious suspects considering their intense opposition to Pitt’s policies.”

Stonebridge paused to let everyone digest the possibilities before continuing, “Boneswaithe confirmed that my father focused exclusively on finding the would-be assassin in the month between the house party and his death. Secretly, the household thought the two were related. That’s pretty much it. Boneswaithe will let me know if he recalls anything else no matter how insignificant. Also, he will retrieve the housekeeper’s records for that party so that we can have a full account of all the guests, including the aides, valets, etc. I’ve asked him to send the books to you, Cliff. I intend to interview the rest of the staff and continue searching my father’s papers for any notes he might have left behind. I have to imagine he was on to something, hence his unexpected demise.” He paused at the tightening in his chest. After taking a deep breath, he continued, “Ciarán, what have you to report?”

“We have our friend from Ireland securely tucked away nearby.”

“How nearby?”

“Very,” Kelly gave him a meaningful look before continuing. Oh,
that
nearby. “He still insists upon speaking only to you. I recommend we arrange that straightaway.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow night, then. Alaistair, anything to add?”

“Nae.”

“Right. Ciarán, speak to Seamus O’Brien. He’s at the Duck and Anvil in Bristol. MacLeod, arrange my meeting with Murphy for tomorrow night. Cliff, I want to know more about the aristos in attendance—their allies, political leanings, and solvency, especially Middlebury, North and Fox. Also, check out the housekeeper’s records.”

“What about Swindon?” asked Cliff.

“Leave that one to me.”

“Aye and what about our lovely lady friend?” asked Kelly with a meaningful smirk.

“Whit’s this? Can ye no think with yer head instead of yer cock, ye bastard?” MacLeod rolled his eyes with a look of contempt. Stonebridge sympathized.

Ciarán snorted, but his retort was interrupted when the library door clicked open. MacLeod, who was still seated with Kelly on the sofa, stood abruptly and sharpened his gaze, while Kelly remained seated and raised his brow in both question and surprise. His ever-present rakish grin widened further, if possible.

Shite. She’s here.

Stonebridge and Dansbury (both of whom had been sitting on one of the two chairs facing the sofa, thereby with their backs to the door) stood and spun about to find Miss Grace Radclyffe, having clearly just stumbled into the now open doorway, grinning sheepishly.

Bloody hell, someone would be fired for this.

*

“Miss Radclyffe, please sit…”

Stonebridge gestured toward the chair he had been sitting in previously as it was the furthest away from, yet still angled toward, the nearby pedestal desk upon which lay a mess of scattered papers—made up of written reports from his team and other evidence pertaining to the ongoing investigation. With anyone else, he might have sat on the chair next to her, or on the sofa across from her, but then Miss Radclyffe was proving particularly unpredictable. Instead, he proceeded to his chair behind the desk in order to surreptitiously clear it in the event she proved impulsive by not remaining seated.

After the appropriate introductions were reluctantly made, his other ‘guests’ made their excuses to return to their rooms so he could interrogate—er, talk to—her about her suspicious wanderings.

He got right to the point.

“Miss Radclyffe, do you often wander aimlessly through other people’s homes, and more specifically, enter into rooms with closed doors other than the bedroom to which you were assigned, without first knocking and being bade enter?”

He glared at Grace while she clearly sought to formulate a proper response. He covertly stacked some of the papers directly in front him—rude but necessary.

“Not generally, no.”

He jerked his head at the abrupt response. Imagine that. She wasn’t going to even try to offer up an excuse.

“I see.”

Right, so that’s how she is going to play it? Well, two can play at that game.

He waited in silence, grabbed the nearest stack of papers, including his father’s contact journal, and placed them in his top right desk drawer. He tried to make his movements casual while inside, his heart beat a little faster—as seemed to always be the case whenever she was around.

A small, loose paper slid out from the stack he was arranging and fluttered to the floor at his feet. He bent to retrieve it, and after a quick glance, tossed it haphazardly into the drawer with the others. Then, almost immediately, he reached wildly back in to reclaim said paper as its contents registered in his mind. On it, written clearly in his father’s penmanship, was:

John Radclyffe

We cannot enter into alliances until we are acquainted with the designs of our neighbors.

That was all. No other direction or personal information about Mr. Radclyffe, Grace’s father, was written. After a moment, he read the quotation aloud, but did not mention Mr. Radclyffe by name; this was a test.

“It is from the
Art of War
by Sun Tzu,” said Grace automatically.

He stared at her, but she was calm and composed—confident even.

Eventually, he stood and made his way to a shelf on the far side of the library to retrieve his copy of the famous book. As he began to flip through the pages, something fluttered to the floor. It was a piece of parchment, torn and quite old. It was blank on one side, but on the other, he discovered two seals affixed upon it. The first was a seal he would recognize anywhere: Middlebury. It was a symbol that had come to represent so much pain in this life, and his gut clenched at the sight of it. The second was completely unfamiliar to him. The letters looked like a swirly P and an E entwined together making up the branches of an oak tree.

Hmmm…Curious.

He returned his attention to the book itself and quickly found the page containing the quote. A folded piece of paper was tucked tightly between the pages. He pulled it free, opened it, and discovered the complete contact information for Grace’s father written in his own father’s hand.

Startled, he looked across the room at Grace, but her back was to him. She was not even watching; she appeared to be gazing out the window behind his desk. He pulled himself together and walked back to the desk, his curiosity piqued. The evidence was damning to say the least. He had been stymied over why her name seemed so familiar. He must have come across it in his father’s papers before, but had not made the connection. Now, more questions than answers arose.

As he returned to his seat, his gaze remained trained on Grace and her air of innocence. Doubts began to creep up in his mind, but he ruthlessly suppressed any thoughts that would lead him to jump to conclusions, even though all her past actions—including her easy capitulation to travel with Cliff—were suspicious and tried to fight their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

“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.”