Annie Burrows - A Marquess, A Miss And A Mystery

‘I’ve boasted that I can unlock any code or cipher anyone could possibly devise.’

‘And can you?’

‘No!’ He’d grinned, then. ‘But you can. You love puzzles and have a knack of solving them. So if we ever come across any coded messages I can bring ’em straight to you. You’ll enjoy doing such work, won’t you? Give you something to keep your mind off...’ He’d grimaced and jerked his head at their aunt, who was jabbing away at her tambour frame at her seat before the fire, embroidering one of her samplers which invariably quoted the sterner verses from the scriptures.

Which reminded her.

‘I don’t suppose you picked up my Bible, did you?’ It wouldn’t do to leave it lying around, where anyone could see the sketch she’d drawn of Janus, to indicate she needed to speak with Lord Devizes in his role as a secret investigator.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Lady Elizabeth distractedly as she removed her bonnet, for, by this time, they’d reached the doorway and there were several maids waiting to relieve the Duke’s guests of their outer wear, so that they could go straight to a reception room where refreshments were being served. ‘I didn’t notice it after you’d gone. I thought you must have picked it up yourself.’

No. She’d been too angry to bend back down again. So...where had it gone? If it wasn’t on the floor of the chapel when Lady Elizabeth had emerged from her pew, then somebody must have picked it up.

She gripped her reticule tightly, for want of any other way to express her sudden spasm of panic. She’d just have to hope that it had been Lord Devizes. That he’d picked it up while everyone else’s attention was on her storming out and Lady Elizabeth and her mother having one of their altercations.

Because if it was anyone else...

No, no, surely she was worrying unnecessarily. Only people who worked for, or with, Lord Devizes knew about his code name. Anyone outside their fraternity would make nothing of a sketch of an ancient Roman deity. Would they?

Although...somebody had discovered that Herbert was on to them. He’d told her, after dropping off yet another of the coded messages, that he was following up a lead that could take him right to the heart of the group of people who were involved in passing information about the state of England’s military power to the exiled French emperor. He’d been close, he’d told her with excitement.

Too close, she’d later realised. So close that whoever it was he’d been tailing had turned round and murdered him.

A chill ran down her spine as she stepped out of the sunshine and into the shaded interior of the house. She fumbled at the strings of her bonnet. She had good reason to believe that Herbert’s killer was going to attend the Duke of Theakstone’s wedding. And if she was going to be hunting that person down on her own, she was going to have to be a great deal more cautious.

Since Horatia and Lady Elizabeth had not taken the direct route back to the house from the chapel, practically everyone who’d attended morning prayers had already reached the yellow salon before them.

Horatia followed in Lady Elizabeth’s wake to the tea table, which was manned by a brace of the Duke’s liveried footmen. Having procured drinks, they then proceeded to another great long refectory-style table, which was piled with all manner of the kinds of things she would have taken on a picnic. There were huge hams, chicken legs, slices of bread, whole boiled eggs and fruit that was so artfully arranged on a sort of pedestal that it would have felt as if she was desecrating it if she dared remove so much as a single grape.

She picked up a plate and handed it over to one of the footmen, pointing out what she wanted rather than helping herself to any of the tempting delicacies on show. Once it was filled, but not piled high, Horatia looked about for somewhere to sit and eat it. Lady Elizabeth had already dutifully gone to sit beside her mother. But there was no way Horatia was going to try to squeeze on to the sofa beside them. The vinegary expression on Lady Tewkesbury’s face was enough to give her indigestion. And there were loads of other chairs dotted about, in little clusters, and sofas set at angles so that the occupants could chat.

Though Horatia had the horrid feeling that what they were chatting about was her. Several times she caught a sly look, or somebody nudging someone else to make them aware she was about to walk by. And, of course, there was Lord Devizes himself, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling females, his eyes following her progress, his mouth slightly tilted in that mocking smile he very rarely went without.

His flirts must all be wondering how she could possibly show her face in public after the scene she’d made in the chapel earlier. If only she had the courage to take her plate and cup up to her own sitting room where she could avoid the stares. Or if only there was a bank of potted plants behind which she could hide.

But there wasn’t. For all his vaunted wealth, the Duke had not a single plant, in a pot, anywhere in this room, never mind a whole bank of them. The best she could do would be to find a corner and hope that once she’d sat down in it, and applied herself to her nuncheon, certain people would find something else to laugh at. She couldn’t help darting the Duke a rather resentful glance before beginning her search. He was standing with a group of men by one of the fireplaces, the over-mantel of which they were using as a shelf for their drinks while they tucked into their food. Which did nothing to improve her mood. It was all very well for men. They could eat standing up and put mantel shelves into use as tables, and all anyone would say was that they were making themselves at home. If she were to do the same...

She resumed her search of the room for a secluded corner and after only a few moments finally spotted a straight-backed chair standing against the wall by a window. It had the advantage of being partially shielded by a heavy velvet curtain. With a sigh of relief, Horatia made straight for it. It was only once she’d sat down that she realised that it was going to be virtually impossible to eat anything while she had her teacup in one hand and her plate in the other. The windowsill was too narrow to be anywhere near as useful as a mantelpiece, as well as being a bit awkward to reach being swathed by such a bulky curtain. Why, oh, why did people not provide their guests with handy little tables? And not just the gregarious ones, who sat upon the sofas in the middle of the room. They were all amply catered for. They had tables to the front of them, tables at their elbows, even tables directly behind the sofa back should they take it into their heads to reach for their teacups over their shoulders.

She was just wondering which of the groups of people who were in possession of tables she could go and join, when the Duke’s intended came bustling over, a little white dog bounding along at her skirts.

‘Miss Carmichael,’ said the dark-eyed, dark-haired, dark-skinned slip of a girl that nobody could believe the Duke would prefer over elegant blonde beauties such as Lady Elizabeth. ‘I am so sorry that I have not had a chance to speak with you before now. I am...’ She hesitated, a tide of pink rushing up her cheeks. And then she took a deep breath as though deciding she might as well say whatever it was she’d thought twice about. ‘As you can probably tell, I am not used to entertaining on such a vast scale. Well, any scale at all, to be honest. But, oh, dear me...’ She waved to a footman stationed at the door. ‘Peter, can you go and fetch a little table for Miss Carmichael? I am so sorry,’ she said the moment he’d strolled away. ‘I should have thought to have a table placed here.’