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There was what looked like a folded sheet of some sort in a dark fabric. She shook it out to find that it was the Jolly Roger, the skull face grinning back at her. She felt disappointed—it was likely left by the previous owner. Folding up the flag she left the room closing the secret panel after her.
* * *
The Marquis de Bordeaux was having a phenomenal success in mingling with the gentlemen of the Millgate Club. With a brandy in one hand and his silver-tipped cane in the other, he was telling them all the story of how he escaped the Revolutionaries.
“Et puis, my friendet moi, we escaped Paris, in the back of a wagon, filled with cabbages!” he said, elbowing his friend, Le Duc du Champignon.
“Oui,” Charles said, taking a sip of his gin and tonic. He did his best not to soak the cotton in his mouth as he drank. He was reduced to monosyllables, in a vain attempt to sound barely literate in English. He winced at the taste of the beverage, which had been handed to him after he had tried to order a bourbon, in his awful French accent.
“My God,” Lord Fulton said, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine. I’m so glad that we’re all so red-blooded English around here that the peasants couldn’t rise up against us.”
“Quite right,” Lord Pritchett agreed. “They know that we have their best interests at heart.” He had his daughter, Lady Violet’s, red hair, but that was where the similarities ended.
The Duke of Longmire walked up to them. “Oh, do meet the Duke of Longmire,” Lord Fulton said. “Alexander—these are two refugee nobles, from the Continent—the Duc du Champignon, and the Marquis de Bordeaux.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, My Lords,” the Duke of Longmire said, frowning a little, likely at their odd names.
“And yours, Your Grace,” Lord Dunsmore said, in his very thick French. He sipped his drink, thankfully pausing in his tale of woe and danger.
“Are congratulations in order, Your Grace?” Lord Pritchett asked the Duke of Longmire.
“Well, since I sent the Lady a horse, I think things are going along well. Her father has agreed to let me court her; however, Lady Arabella has not yet agreed.”
“Lady Arabella?” Lord Fulton asked. Arabella’s name was like a lightning strike through Charles. “I told you, she’s going to be a tough sell.”
“Not at all. You just have to know how to manipulate her. A Lady like her believes that she knows her own mind, but the truth is, she has no idea what she wants. The Duke of Tiverwell told me all about how he keeps her in line.”
Lord Dunsmore gripped Charles’s sleeve.
“Ah, mon ami, you are gripping your glass so tightly, your hand is pale,” he whispered in Charles’s ear. “You don’t want to break it.”
The Duke of Longmire was continuing on, about how to manipulate Arabella. Charles took a large gulp of his drink.
“He keeps going on about how glad he is that someone will take care of Lady Arabella as she is used,” the Duke of Longmire went on. “The Duchess will be happily ensconced in Bath, so I won’t have to worry about any pesky Mother-in-Law.”
“Can you blame him?” Lord Prichett asked. “I mean, if I were getting letters of that sort, I would be doing all of my estate planning, forthwith. Lord Drysdale did. Did you know he left a tidy sum for Lady Violet?”
“I have ‘eard about these murders,” Lord Dunsmore cut in.
“How could you not have?” the Duke of Longmire asked. “They’re all over the papers.”
“Have any of you received them?” Lord Dunsmore asked.
“I have,” the Duke of Longmire replied.
“Alexander!” Lord Fulton exclaimed. “Have you told the constables?”
“I have not,” he replied. “Nor do I plan to. I agree with the Duke of Tiverwell—so long as I’m not walking about alone after dark, or in some seedy inn, I should be fine.”
“You are a very brave gentleman,” Lord Dunsmore commented in his faux French accent. “Who do you theenk eet eez?”
“Mr. Charles Conolly,” the Duke said, without hesitation. It took every ounce of Charles’s self control not to panic visibly at the sound of his own name. “He’s the link between all of the others. Not to mention, he had the absolute gall to ask the Duke of Tiverwell for Lady Arabella’s hand.”
“What?” Lord Pritchett asked. “But…he was in my house, just this week, talking to my Violet.”
“I would watch out,” the Duke said. “He’s a social climber, set on marrying a lady. He’s angry that he can’t have Lady Arabella, so he’s going to punish both of us. Once we’re out of the way, he means to swoop in and have her.”
“Have you told the Duke of Tiverwell?” Lord Fulton asked. Charles’s heart was pounding in his chest. If they knew that he was there…If he was recognized, then things would likely go very badly for him. He kept his face a blank, as though he had never heard his own name before.
