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Chapter Eleven
The butler had brought Charles the news that he was needed in the Duke’s study, as soon as he was dressed: There had been a break in, and vandalism. The Constable had been called, but Charles was required. He hurried, putting on his clothes, and then rushing down to the second floor, where the Duke’s study was located.
The Duke and Lord Drysdale were in there. The mood in the room was funereal. Both gentlemen were seated—they looked rather pale. Charles suspected that the letters that both had received had something to do with the vandalism and the break in.
“What’s happened, Your Grace?” Charles asked.
“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. There was a decanter of brandy, and both of them had glasses, even though it was barely half past seven in the morning. Charles took the empty chair, sitting down, then waiting for the Duke to collect his thoughts.
“Last night, someone broke in,” the Duke began. “They have…painted a threatening message on the wall in the dining room, in red paint. My daughter found it this morning.”
“Is the Lady Arabella all right?” he asked, concerned for her welfare. It would be the first that she’d been made aware of any of it.
“Upset, mostly,” the Duke replied, his eyes staring at the top of his desk. Charles glanced between the two gentlemen. “I see no reason why she or my wife should learn about the letters. I think if we tell them that it was an isolated incident, the better.”
Charles didn’t agree. “Your Grace,” he began. “If their lives are in danger, shouldn’t they be made aware?”
The Duke fixed him with a stern glance. His pale eyes were cold. “What I tell or do not tell my wife and daughter is my concern, Mr. Conolly.” It was a rebuke.
Charles lowered his gaze. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Lord Drysdale looked ill. “I must be on my way,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I must thank you, Your Grace, for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome, Lord Drysdale,” the Duke said. “If there’s—anything else, please do let me know.”
“Of course.” Lord Drysdale left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Charles remembered back to the night before. He was certain that whoever had been in the servants’ staircase with him and Lady Arabella had been the individual responsible for the message. Perhaps, even the letters, as well. He knew, too—if someone requested an alibi, he didn’t have one—at least, one that he could admit to.
“Mr. Conolly?” the Duke asked, jolting Charles from his thoughts.
He raised his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“We must find the person responsible,” the Duke said. “I cannot subject my wife and daughter to fear like this.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles agreed.
“I—I need you to return to London and begin to search. Meanwhile, I am going to take my family elsewhere. I have a cousin in the Lakes District. That should be far enough away from…whoever it is.”
“A smart choice, Your Grace,” Charles said.
“I will prepare a list of persons with whom I want you to make contact,” the Duke explained. “I want you to question them. Make utterly certain it was not them.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Conolly?”
Charles looked at the Duke. “Please make absolutely certain that my Will is properly recorded,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles said. “We just need two witnesses.”
“I will have Drysdale and Danbury in here,” the Duke said.
“They will do perfectly well,” Charles replied.
* * *
Arabella was in her room, her mother and Annette were attending her, talking to her in soft voices. Arabella had never in her life experienced anything of the like.
