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 heard 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.
