Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion Read online

  “Oh, well done!” Crista clapped louder than anyone else.

  “The contest seems rather even,” Lady Portia remarked a short time later when another wicket had fallen, and Lord Amos was joined at the crease by the duke. Crista noticed a marked increase in the deployment of fans as the females watched the two brothers, standing in the middle of the wicket, conferring about tactics. Lady St. John appeared especially transfixed.

  “They have better bowlers,” her sister replied. “I think we shall lose this year.”

  “Does it really matter?” Crista asked.

  “My dear, we are talking about a male sporting event.” Lady St. John’s scandalised expression made them all laugh. “They are such little boys, and nothing matters more. Absolutely nothing.”

  “She is right,” Lady Portia said, raising both brows. “My brothers pretend it’s a massive bore, but they actually look forward to it for weeks in advance.”

  “Is anyone thirsty?” Lady Annalise asked. “We shall have to serve ourselves. Almost all the servants have been given the afternoon off to join in the fun.”

  A loud roar went up as the last wicket for the duke’s team fell. There was a brief respite, then the villagers took their turn to bat.

  “They really are like little boys,” Lady Annalise said. “You are quite right about that, Lady St. John.”

  “Oh, do call me Frankie. And I hope I may call you Anna.”

  “Please do. But you are right. Look as them throwing themselves around the field as though their lives depended upon it.”

  “It’s more important than that,” Lady Portia said, grinning. “It’s the family honour at stake.”

  “Now let me see if I am following this right,” Lady St. John said. “The villagers need four more runs to win. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Lady Portia replied. “And they have two more balls from which to score those runs.”

  Lord Vincent was bowling. Crista ought to be supporting the villagers, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she willed his lordship to clean bowl the blacksmith’s son, now wielding his bat in massive fists and making it look like a flimsy stick of wood. All the ladies fell silent as the first ball hurled down the wicket and flew past the blacksmith’s bat. No run.

  “One ball left,” Crista said to no one in particular, chewing the inside of her lip in her anxiety. “The blacksmith must hit a boundary.”

  He squared up, looking as if he had every intention of doing precisely that. When the ball was delivered, he caught it squarely in the centre of his bat and sent it hurtling over the bowler’s head, directly towards the ladies’ position. It travelled at a ferocious rate, causing Lady Annalise and her sister to instinctively take evasive action. Crista, on the other hand, felt unable to move. The ball came closer, and she heard voices shouting her name. A ball hit as hard as this one had been, picking up speed as it shot through the air, could kill her. Crista knew that, but if she moved, the villagers would win. It was a ridiculous thought to have, but she was unable to dislodge it from her stupid brain.

  She looked up and saw the red orb still heading directly for her. Getting closer. Her occupation had given her very good hand-eye co-ordination. She stared at the ball as it fell towards her, and suddenly leapt from her seat. She stepped inside the boundary, reached up and caught it one-handed.

  “Oh my goodness!” Lady Annalise’s voice barely registered.

  The stultifying silence was broken by a roar of voices, including the entire duke’s team shouting How was that? at the umpire. The clergyman considered the matter and slowly raised his finger, indicating the blacksmith had been dismissed. Pandemonium broke out. The duke’s team had won because Crista caught the final ball of the innings.

  Crista clapped a hand to her mouth when it looked as if the entire spectacle was about to degenerate into a massive brawl. “What on earth have I done?” she muttered.

  ***

  Lord Amos was still chuckling to himself about the result of the game as he dressed in a clean shirt and stood in front of the glass to tie his neckcloth. He was anxious to find Miss Brooke and offer his congratulations. That was one of the best catches he had ever witnessed. Anarchy had been saved by the game being declared an honourable draw, but everyone knew the duke’s team had won on a technicality. There was nothing in the rules to preclude a spectator from taking a catch, although the villagers had declared, long and increasingly loudly as they quenched their collective thirst with copious amounts of Jeggins’ ale that in future years there ought to be. Being beaten was hard enough to swallow. Having a female take the winning catch spelt total humiliation.

  Whistling to himself, Amos descended the stairs and walked past Zach’s library. Voices came from within but didn’t slow him down. Zach’s voice however did.

  “Spare me a moment, Amos,” the duke said, leaning through the open door. “You need to hear this.”

  Annoyed at being prevented from seeking out Miss Brooke immediately, Amos turned into the library, and Zach shut the door behind him. Romsey, Zach’s friend from his Oxford days, was also in the room. The gentlemen were drinking whisky, and Zach poured one for Amos without bothering to ask if he would like one.

  “Thank you,” Amos said, taking a sip of his drink, wondering why the mood was so sombre, and what it had to do with him.

  “You are probably not aware that Romsey here is part of His Majesty’s Diplomatic Corp,” Zach said.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Amos replied. “That would explain why you’ve been living abroad, I suppose. Must have been a lot for you to do following the end of the war.”

  “Quite,” Romsey replied. “I came back to England about a year ago, after the pater died, and I assumed the title, but I’m still actively involved at the foreign office. I’ve also just taken over responsibility for the new police office in Southampton and wanted to speak to Winchester here about criminal activity in the area.”

  “Romsey has his hands full. There is plenty for him to sort out on this side of the channel regarding his diplomatic efforts in Europe,” Zach said. His dour expression caused Amos to feel a moment’s concern, a premonition that he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

  “Something I can help with?” he asked politely.

  “Very possibly, but I’ll let Romsey explain.”

  “Looting.” Romsey said succinctly, handing his glass to Zach for a refill. “You would not believe me if I told you the amount of treasure Napoleon and the French forces looted from the countries they conquered. Suffice it to say, the looting was on an unprecedented scale.”

  “I’m not condoning it,” Amos replied. “But it happens in wars, we all know that.”

  “Not on this scale. To the best of our knowledge, he got the taste for it in ’98 when he supposedly liberated the Maltese from the Knights of St. John.” Romsey paused to sip his drink. “He also liberated seven million francs’ worth of treasures from the island’s monasteries, churches and residences while he was about it. Then he moved his thieving ways on to Egypt, and while doing more liberating, this time from the Ottoman Turks, the state treasury was emptied. Our sources suggest that at least half of it went directly into Napoleon’s own purse.”

  Amos let out a low whistle. “Much good it did him.”

  “Quite, but part of my assignment in the peace dealings is to force the French to send back much of what they stole.” Romsey lifted his shoulders. “Hardly surprisingly, many works still remain in French hands, impossible to track down, or have been lost by the soldiers assigned to transport them.”

  Amos and Zach exchanged a glance. “There’s human nature for you,” Amos said.

  “Quite, but I am pleased to say our troops managed to discover a large part of Napoleon’s personal loot. We weren’t taking any chances and decided to remove it to safety until we could identify its rightful owners. Before we did that, we had the sense to have the whole lot catalogued. I oversaw that myself, thinking light fingers were less like
ly to purloin it if we had a full account of what was there.”

  “I’m guessing that didn’t work,” Amos said. “Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “No, I handpicked the squad of soldiers who were to accompany the wagons to a safe and secret location.” He grimaced. “Not so very secret as it transpired. The entire squad was ambushed, annihilated, and the loot stolen.”

  “Ah, I see.” Amos grimaced. “Presumably, very few people knew of this, so you suspect involvement from someone on the inside.”

  “Right, and now some of the stolen pieces have shown up on this side of the channel.”

  “Increasing your suspicions of English involvement?”

  “Absolutely, and I have been charged with finding out who was actually behind it all.” Romsey paced the length of the room in some agitation. It was clear to Amos he felt personally responsible for the lost treasure and the needless deaths of the men set to protect it. “At first I didn’t take much notice, thinking one or two pieces would be bound to find their way into the hands of unscrupulous collectors prepared to pay whatever it cost to possess such rare artefacts. Part of the haul was exquisite gemstones.”

  Amos’s entire body jerked. Now he was starting to understand why Zach had wanted him to hear this, but surely he didn’t think Miss Brooke could be involved.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  Romsey nodded. “Oh yes, there can be no doubt. Some of the stones were very rare and distinctive, and turned up in specially commission jewellery, made by one of the top designers in the country. His work is greatly sought-after and commands top prices. We were closing in on him when he died, was brutally murdered in fact, a few months ago.”

  “What was his name?” Amos asked with a sinking heart, already knowing what the answer would be. This was the missing link that had been niggling in the back of his mind. The connection between the name Brooke and jewellery.

  “David Brooke,” Romsey said.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sorry, Amos,” Zach said, his tone terse yet sympathetic. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

  Amos felt a virulent rage surge through him and moved away from the hand Zach tried to place on his shoulder. “You knew about this and didn’t warn me?”

  “Romsey just this minute told me, and I immediately called you in. He had no idea about Miss Brooke being here before today. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, and still do not, but my first loyalty is to King and country. My second is to the welfare of this district. You said yourself something isn’t right about Miss Brooke. She never told you who her father was, and allowed us all to think she learned what she knows about jewellery from her uncle.”

  Amos managed a curt nod. “If she knew her father was doing something like this, she had good reason not to reveal the connection.”

  “Good point,” Zach agreed “And an equally good question we ought to ask ourselves is why was he murdered if he was in league with the thieves? You said yourself, Romsey, if Brooke made the pieces, they were worth a lot more than if any other jeweller fashioned them.”

  “That’s true, and as to why he was murdered, I cannot say,” Romsey replied. “Maybe he had a fit of conscience and said he would no longer play along.”

  “We need to talk to Miss Brooke,” Zach said, flexing his jaw. “Find out what, if anything, she knows. I thought you would want to be included, Amos, since you know the lady better than any of us.”

  Amos walked towards the mantelpiece and leaned one arm against it, his back to the room. “She made the jewellery for our mother herself,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. “I would stake my fortune on that. But,” he added, turning to face his brother and the earl, “that doesn’t mean she has anything to do with this mess.”

  “When Winchester told me she was here, and you suspected her of making jewellery and being involved with a cove by the name of Reece, it rang alarm bells. You see, the new pieces made by Brooke necessarily dried up after his death.” Romsey paused, his expression sombre. “Then, about a month ago, a few more appeared.”

  “How do you know?” Amos challenged. “They could have been made by Brooke before he was killed.”

  “Oh, I have a network of spies in all sorts of places, and I know for a fact the pieces in question were commissioned after Brooke died. I actually spoke to a lady who owns an emerald bangle. She has no idea the gems in it were stolen, and I did not enlighten her. I don’t want the rogues behind the scheme to know we are on to them. Once Brooke died, his designs became even more sought after, you see, which could be another reason why he was killed. Anyway, the woman’s husband was told when he made enquiries about a Brooke emerald bangle, it was one of the last items the designer made before his death.”

  “Making it that much more valuable,” Zach said with a sardonic smile.

  “Quite, but we happen to know it was made after his demise. We checked his workshop and there were no finished pieces there.” Romsey sighed. “If it was just this one piece, I might accept it was genuine, but others have appeared since then. To the uneducated eye they appear to be Brooke’s handiwork, but experts tell me they were not made by him.”

  “Whom did the man commission the emerald bangle from?” Amos asked. “Surely, you can pressure him to say where it came from.”

  “A respectably established jeweller, who readily gave me particulars of the man who sold it to him.” Romsey shrugged. “That left us chasing shadows, of course. The seller was nowhere to be found, and his name meant nothing to me.” He thumped the arm of his chair with his clenched fist. “It’s damned frustrating. We’ve been chasing our tails for months but these people are well-organised, ruthless, and very good at covering their tracks. I still don’t know the name of the traitor who stole the loot and had all those good men killed, but I won’t rest until I find out.”

  “All right, Zach,” Amos said, shaking his head. “Send for Miss Brooke. Let’s hear what she has to say for herself.”

  ***

  After the rigours of watching the cricket, and Crista’s rather unfortunate involvement in the outcome of the game, the ladies moved into the house to take tea in a small sitting room. They had not been there for long when a footman appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat.

  “The duke’s compliments, Miss Brooke. His grace requests you attend him in his study at your convenience.”

  “You mean he told you to fetch Miss Brooke without delay,” Lady Annalise said, grinning. “Zach never requests, he demands.”

  The footman’s lips quirked. “Quite so, my lady.”

  “Good heavens.” Lady St. John raised a speculative brow. “Don’t allow his grace to ring a peel over you for interfering in their wretched game, Miss Brooke.”

  “Zach is more likely to reward Miss Brooke for giving our side the victory,” Lady Portia said with a wry smile.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” Crista stood up, trying not to show how nervous she felt at this unexpected summons, wondering what the duke could possibly want with her. “If I survive the experience, I hope to see you all again very soon.”

  “If you do not reappear, we shall come and rescue you,” Lady Annalise assured her. “Zach will not bully you in front of us.”

  “Thank you.” Crista managed to smile. “That is most reassuring.”

  The footman preceded her along several corridors. Crista felt a nervous premonition with every step she took, quelling the urge to flee in the opposite direction. She was relieved when her guide stopped in front of a door before she could act upon the impulse. He opened the door and stood back to allow Crista to walk through it. She straightened her spine and did precisely that, expecting to find the duke waiting to receive her alone. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Amos and Lord Romsey there, too. All three gentlemen stood up when she walked in, looking exceedingly sombre.

  “What is it?” she asked, filled with panic, conscious of her heart racing. “Has something happened to my uncle?”
>
  “Please take a seat, Miss Brooke,” the duke replied calmly. “To the best of my knowledge nothing untoward has occurred that affects your uncle.”

  Relieved on that score, Crista perched on the edge of a chair, wondering why Lord Amos seemed so determined not to look at her. She was not left in ignorance for long and listened, with growing despair, to Lord Romsey’s reasons for being there.

  “Ah, so you know.”

  “You.” Lord Amos looked horrified. “You really are involved in all this?”

  “No. Yes.” She shook her head, feeling giddy, relieved, horrified—a whole maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

  “Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Miss Brooke,” the duke said, not unkindly. “Explain everything you know.”

  “Well, my father and Uncle Charles are brothers−”

  “Excuse me interrupting, Miss Brooke,” Lord Romsey said. “But I assumed Chesney was your mother’s brother.”

  “No, their mama, my paternal grandmother married twice, first to a Mr. Chesney, then Mr. Brooke. Technically Mr. Chesney is my half-uncle, I suppose.”

  “I see. Pray continue.”

  “My grandfather Brooke was a jeweller by trade and apprenticed both my father and Uncle Charles to that same trade.” She paused. “To Matthew Boulton in Soho.”

  The duke and Lord Romsey obviously knew the name and appeared impressed. Lord Amos stood statue-like, jaw clenched, square and unmoving, as though she had not spoken. He could not have made his disappointment more evident, and she died a little inside when she realised she had lost his friendship and respect.