‘What the deuce do you mean you can see Freddy? Have you been drinking the communion wine again Percy?’
‘He must have found a way in,’ rasped the curate. ‘Can you help me down Sir?’
‘That mean’s there’s an opening,’ mused the Reverend completely ignoring Percy’s legs waving frantically just above him. ‘You stay there,’ he ordered, ‘while I go and investigate.’
‘Don’t leave me here… no Freddy, this is not a game, bad dog.’ Percy’s words were interspersed with growls and yaps as the excited foxhound decided to play nip the curate.
‘Thunder an’ turf, Percy, would you believe there’s a gate?’ came the Reverend’s enthusiastic voice from about ten yards to the right. Seconds later, the large man was back. ‘Right then, let’s get you down,’ he declared, taking hold of the curate’s feet.
‘No, wha…stop…’ Percy got no further as Reverend Shackleford gave his legs a good shove catapulting the small man headfirst into the shrubbery.
Seconds later the Reverend reappeared on the other side of the wall. ‘Clever dog,’ he murmured, mussing the foxhound’s head affectionately. ‘What the deuce are you doing down there Percy?’
∞∞∞
The doorbell was answered by an ancient butler much like Bailey the elderly retainer her husband refused to get rid of in their London town house. The sight heartened the Duchess, as she believed it demonstrated a similar kindness in Admiral Atwood. Although to be fair, he hadn’t shown much in the way of compassion towards his nephew.
‘Is the mistress of the house at home?’ she enquired, taking care to keep her voice a combination of politeness and imperious demand. ‘Please inform her that the Duchess of Blackmore is here to see her.’
The butler stared silently at her and for a second, she wondered if he was deaf. ‘I said…,’ she started again, only to stutter to a halt as the ancient servant simply turned and shuffled away. Grace stood irresolute at the door, unsure of what to do next. This wasn’t going exactly as she’d planned. She assumed the fact that the butler had left the front door open indicated his intention to fetch Mrs Atwood. Hesitantly, she stepped into the shadowy hallway. Looking around, she could see only one or two candles lighting the gloom, despite the lack of sunlight. In her experience such a lack indicated only one thing.
The Admiral didn’t have a feather to fly with.
Why though? As the new Viscount Northwood, he clearly had access to a large fortune. To her knowledge, the Estate was not short of funds. Why else would the Admiral and his obnoxious offspring have sought to put an end to Gabriel?
Anxiously lingering in the hallway, she began removing her gloves, mainly to give her hands something to do. After five minutes passed without either the butler or Mrs Atwood making an appearance, her nervousness began to turn to irritation. Indeed, she was just about to march towards the door she’d seen the butler disappear through, when a woman materialised in the gloom. So sudden was her appearance that Grace stepped back involuntarily, half believing the figure a ghost.
There was a short silence as both ladies stared at each other, then, ‘May I ask what you are doing here your grace?’ So, this was Admiral Atwood’s wife. She was a small woman who Grace guessed had once been beautiful, but now her features were gaunt, and her gown hung off her thin frame. Clearly her life had not been a happy one.
Grace took a deep breath. ‘I am here to make enquiries about your nephew Mrs Atwood,’ she stated firmly.
There was a pause as the chatelaine of the house stared at her, evidently nonplussed. ‘Gabriel?’ she questioned finally. Grace nodded. ‘The very same,’ the Duchess responded, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.
‘Gabriel Atwood is dead. He died in Spain. It is common knowledge your grace. I am surprised you were not aware.’
‘He was believed so, it’s true,’ answered Grace carefully, ‘but I have it on good authority that Gabriel in fact survived…’ She paused and took another deep breath. ‘In fact, I have reason to believe that Viscount Northwood may well be in this very house.’
‘The present Viscount Northwood is indeed resident in this house.’ The loud masculine voice came from the top of the stairs and Grace looked up startled, her heart speeding up rapidly. The man was undoubtedly Admiral Benjamin Atwood and as he descended the stairs, she could see he was in no better state than his wife. Curiouser and curiouser.
Grace backed up closer to the front door. She finally began to see how foolish she’d been to come here alone. She had mistakenly believed that her title would provide her with the protection she needed, but truly she should have known better.
The Admiral reached the bottom of the stairs without taking his eyes off her. As he got closer, she could clearly see the resemblance to Gabriel.
‘What brings you to the belief that my nephew is still alive?’ he asked coldly, ‘and why the devil would you think him here?’
Heart beating suffocatingly, Grace swallowed and drew herself up. It would not do to show any weakness.
‘Your nephew, the rightful Viscount Northwood is indeed alive,’ she declared in a voice that was every inch a duchess. ‘And I know this because he came to see my husband who I’m sure you are aware is the Duke of Blackmore. The Viscount’s intention was to seek my husband’s aid in foiling a dastardly plot to murder him in cold blood and seize his inheritance.’
For a few seconds she wondered if she’d gone too far, then to her surprise, the Admiral laughed. ‘Then where is he?’ Benjamin Atwood demanded, still chuckling. When Grace didn’t immediately answer, he sneered. ‘Mayhap your grace has drunk one too many glasses of sherry,’ he suggested, ‘or perhaps given your delusions your husband should be looking to lock you away. For your own safety naturally.’
He had stepped nearer to her as he spoke forcing Grace to slowly retreat, her fear mounting. The Admiral spoke like a man who simply had nothing to lose. His impertinence showed complete disregard for her standing and too late she remembered her husband’s dry comment that she was far too like her father for her own good. Evidently, he was correct. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d made a mull of the whole thing and was now most assuredly in the basket.
Doing her best to stifle her alarm, Grace stared coldly back at the man in front of her, finally realising that he too had the same unkempt look as his wife. His clothes were tattered and none too clean, and more importantly his face had the hectic look of someone either half sprung or sick as a cushion.
Admiral Atwood was clearly a man in torment.
‘I do not know for certain that Gabriel is here,’ she commented warily after a second. ‘However, itiscertain that he was taken against his will, and my sister with him, not two days ago, by a bunch of gallows birds who were in the pay of your son Henry.’
