“He was fearless. He hated, as much as we all did, attending any sort of fete, ball, or gathering where we were forced to sit still and listen to a parade of eligible ladies sing off-key or play melancholy songs on the pianoforte. Then, right before you left for war, he changed. He became a dandy, a Bond Street Beau, who dressed in the height of fashion, accepted invitations to attend soirees, and frequented men’s clubs in London. At the time, I thought he had decided it was time to assume his role as the next Duke of Conclarton and that life was part of it. Now, I’m not so sure. What if he started working for the Queen as one of her spies before we left? What if he was spying on Devonshire all along?”
A shiver sped over Robert’s skin as he remembered the gravesites of his brother and father. He had found it difficult to accept that they had died in a hunting accident. His mother’s letter had given few details, but it had also been tearstained, and the handwriting shaky.
“They were both remarkable horsemen and hunters,” Robert said in a flat tone. “Some say they were easily the best in Conclarton and the surrounding area.”
Jeremy turned his back toward the village and lowered his voice. “I don’t believe their deaths were accidents. Don’t you find it strange that your brother was spying on Devonshire and then was conveniently killed in a hunting accident?”
“Very. Elizabeth doesn’t believe Donald’s death was an accident either,” Robert said.
“She’s a smart woman, and that would explain the lengths she has gone to in pursuit of exposing Devonshire.”
Raised voices exploded from the tavern as the doors slammed open, and a dozen or more men rushed to the streets. The waiting men Robert had seen earlier now joined the fight.
“Devonshire is getting away!” a man shouted.
Robert and Jeremy exchanged glances. Then, hands balled into fists, they sprinted toward the melee.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In late afternoon, the Frost Fair caravan of a half dozen carriages traveled single file over snow-packed roads as the sun dipped its weary face behind the winter-gray clouds. Inside the last carriage, Madeline retrieved her sketchpad as Elizabeth slept, then glanced out the carriage window toward the rolling countryside. Snow flurries swirled in the crisp air like bits of lace against the shadows of the approaching woods. Normally, a scene like the one she beheld provided endless inspiration. But the only image she wanted to sketch was the duke’s.
She could not stop thinking of him. The way his eyes deepened in shade when he glanced in her direction. Or the breadth of his shoulders, or the strength of his hand when he held hers. She gasped, feeling her face warm, remembering when his body had fallen on hers when they fought the assailant in his room. The incident was brief, and an accident. At the time, she had pushed against him, and he had rolled away. What if she hadn’t? Would he have touched her if she hadn’t pushed him away? Kissed her?
She leaned out the window to cool her skin.
A few miles back, they had stopped for a light meal and to rest the horses. She had hoped to talk with the duke, but no one had seen him since the caravan left the castle. The consensus was that he and Lord Dumont were retrieving a packhorse that had run away.
Her disappointment was profound. She had regretted their conversation during their last encounter. She had meant to rebuke him over his misguided opinion of what was an acceptable subject for women to paint. Although she had not changed her mind regarding the rebuke, she conceded that her tone had been inappropriate.
Her mother had impressed upon her that Englishmen were creatures of tradition, the chief of which pertained to a woman’s role in society. She should have used a gentler touch when expressing her views. But the thought of an apology rose like bile in her throat.
The carriage bumped over something in the road as they entered the winding forest road, jostling her and breaking her hold on her sketchpad.
“Bollocks,” she said under her breath, reaching beyond Elizabeth for her fallen sketchpad. “I will not apologize to the insufferable man. This is no longer the Middle Ages. The duke should realize that women have a right to their own opinions.”
Elizabeth yawned. “Did you say something? Have we arrived at the inn?”
Madeline helped Elizabeth replace the blanket covering her lap. “I was merely muttering to myself. We still have a distance to travel. Go back to sleep if you wish.”
“A good idea,” Elizabeth said, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.
Madeline watched the sleeping Elizabeth. Had she overheard Madeline’s outburst? It did not appear so, but she must be more cautious. Elizabeth was not as she seemed, and although that pleased Madeline, it also meant the lady was skilled at ferreting out a person’s secrets. Madeline had learned in her short stay at Conclarton Castle that if a woman was too bold, she entertained undue attention.
When Elizabeth mentioned she had a story to tell, Madeline never dreamed it involved intrigue and spies. Moreover, she had been delighted beyond measure that the lady’s engagement to the duke was a ruse, created to fool Devonshire into thinking his plan to take control of Conclarton Castle remained secure.
Elizabeth believed Devonshire would fail. Madeline wasn’t as sure and wished her mother was along to consult. Her mother had a gift for dividing difficult problems into manageable sections and sniffing out the truth as well as a solution. A skill her mother had said she had learned the hard way.
Madeline had witnessed her mother’s gift in action, when they had learned that a man by the name of Hunter O’Shea planned to purchase a vacant building across the street from Feathers.
Her mother did not trust the smooth-talking Mr. O’Shea and had researched his background, learned the sort of rough clientele he attracted, and that he planned to build a rival brothel and saloon. Her mother purchased the property herself and turned it into a respectable hotel and restaurant, successfully derailing O’Shea’s plans. The man had left town, but her mother had said he was like a bad penny and might return one day to even the score.
Elizabeth stretched. “Oh, my. I must have fallen asleep again. I fear I have been terrible company. You must have been bored to tears.”
“Not at all. I have my drawings and the view of the countryside. You also gave me much to ponder.”
Elizabeth folded the blanket and set it aside as she glanced out the window. “We have fallen behind the caravan. I cannot see the other carriages. I will ask the driver.” She pounded on the ceiling of the carriage to get the driver’s attention.
After a few minutes, the driver, a thickset man with a pockmarked face, leaned down from the driver’s bench. “Yes, milady. Do you wish me to stop the carriage?”
