The Missing Duke
Chapter One
London 1814
“And
then, Lucien, my good fellow,” continued Lord Adam Bateman,
tapping a sheaf of papers on the library table in front of him, “I
wish you to take a hackney into the City and deliver this letter to
my man of business. Mr. Liversedge has requested some personal
information with respect to my brother and I do not care to entrust
it to a messenger, nor yet even one of the footmen.”
“Very good, sir. So,
if I might be so bold as to enquire, your brother was never found?”
His voice was light. It matched his slight build but bordered on the
effeminate.
“No, he was not.”
Adam considered his secretary, debating how much to tell him. He was
young, fair and very enthusiastic. Fresh down from Oxford and newly
appointed to the post on the recommendation of Mr. Liversedge, the
youth was proving diligent and efficient. He had given his age as
one-and-twenty, but appeared much younger. “An extensive search was
carried out. My father had every blade of grass overturned, it seems,
as well as men on the lake, dredging to the bottom with long poles.
No trace was found beyond his cap,” he revealed at last. “My
nursemaid said she saw a rowing boat on the far side of the lake, but
again, neither it nor the two men supposedly in it were discovered.”
“Yet you still
believe the Duke is alive?”
“Yes, I do; with
every fibre of my being. No doubt that sounds the stuff of madness to
you, but I assure you there is no necessity to have me committed to
Bedlam! My brother and I are twins. Twins have a special bond, one
which others cannot ever know. Were he dead, I should know it, deep
within.” Feeling somewhat foolish, he tapped his chest. The quest
to find his brother had become the all-consuming purpose of his life.
“This is why, now my father has died, I will not take the title.
Indeed, I cannot. There is no reason to suppose he is dead. I will be
as the Prince Regent is for the King; I will be the acting Duke of
Wardley, in that I will oversee my brother’s estates and concerns
on his behalf until such time as I am assured he is truly no longer
alive.”
He stood up and walked
across to the window. A long garden led to the ducal mews, hidden
behind a high brick wall. The wall was bathed in warm spring sunshine
and barely visible for a riot of reddish purple honeysuckle stems
just beginning to come into flower. Beneath it was a wrought-iron
seat and a stone sun-dial. He swallowed a lump which rose in the back
of his throat. Young as they had been, Robert had been fascinated by
the instrument and the movement of the sun, an interest their father
had fostered.
Robert could not be
dead. It was simply not conceivable. It was why Adam had dedicated
his whole life to the search for him and why he had made the long
journey to Ireland six years ago at the behest of Sir Arthur
Wellesley, as his Grace had been then. It was why he had joined
Wellington’s secret intelligence brigade at that gathering of
like-minded men in the home of the Earl of Hartland. Yet what could
have been the motive for kidnap? No ransom note had ever been
received – or if it had, his father had taken the knowledge with
him to the grave.
Sighing, Adam turned
back to face the room. It was a calm, restful place. He withdrew here
whenever the pressures of being the Duke of Wardley’s younger
brother became more than he could bear. The walls were yellowing to
cream with age and smoke; the furniture was solid walnut and leather.
Bookcases lined two walls, filled with reassuring, leather-bound
tomes covering fascinating topics of the arts, the classics,
sciences, law, religion and many more – more than a man could read
in several lifetimes. He could lose himself in here for days, he
mused, if only duty – and his mother – would allow him to do so.
The secretary had
twisted around in his chair and was regarding Adam gravely without
uttering a word. Once more in command of himself, Adam cleared his
throat.
“I made myself a
promise I would keep searching until I found him, one way or the
other. It leads me into some nefarious places… and on occasion I
overhear conversations… snippets of information which might benefit
others. I will ask you to forget what I have just told you – I do
so only so you might be prepared should sensitive questions ever be
asked.”
“I understand
completely, sir.” The secretary paused for a moment. “In the
notes I was copying yesterday, I read there were three servants
charged with the care of you and the Duke on that fateful morning;
your nursemaid, a footman and a groom.”
“That is correct.”
“May I enquire what
happened to them? I assume they were dismissed?”
“Not Evans – the
groom. He is now the under-coachman. He was in charge of the carriage
and was not responsible for our care. The other two were discharged
from service, but my father was lenient and did not prosecute them
for negligence, according to my mother.”
“Have – forgive me
if I speak out of turn – have they been located? There might be
some information they remembered afterwards or did not divulge at the
time which might help.”
“No, I do believe I
had not considered that. We must rectify the omission.”
“Do you remember the
boat the nursemaid saw? I realize you were very young, but sometimes
children retain such details, I am told.”
“You seem uncommonly
interested in this matter.”
The youth fingered the
narrow band of lace at his cuff. “I beg your pardon, my lord, if I
appear overly inquisitive. My intention is only to be of assistance.”
“There is no need to
apologize. You are very young to be concerned with something which
happened so long ago, that is all.” He stopped, deliberating. “I
have a vague recollection of an old rowing boat pitching on the
water, but I cannot tell you if it is a genuine memory or more a
matter of the maid’s assertions having been repeated.”
The secretary picked up
a notebook from the desk before him and sifted through its’ pages.
“At the time, Evans
stated he saw ‘a ruffianly fellow watching the two boys with undue
interest as he rode past when they were playing in the meadow.’
Could this person perhaps have been in league with either the
nursemaid or the footman, or indeed, both?”
Adam considered this.
After a moment he shook his head. “No, it is unlikely. It was the
first time Mary, the nursemaid, had been in charge of us in the park.
She had no prior knowledge of the excursion. Nurse Wilson had been
taken ill that morning.”
“The footman, Francis
Mead, had but recently been taken on, I understand?”
“I believe so. Mr.
and Mrs. Ashperton were responsible for the hiring of household
servants. They were noted for the high standards they demanded from
the other servants, whilst being scrupulously fair. I cannot imagine
they would have taken on anyone without good references.”
“Nevertheless, sir,
it is an avenue which should perhaps be investigated. Given
sufficient reason, people will do or say things they might otherwise
not.” His voice rose towards the end of the sentence. He coughed
and continued in a gruffer tone, “As I can attest from my
experiences while up at Oxford, young men are prone to… distraction
from certain… low pursuits. If, perchance, he owed someone money…”
He allowed his voice to fade away and straightened a quill in the
standish in front of him.
Adam looked at him
curiously. Was the lad blushing? Well, well! Perhaps there was more
to his quiet secretary than he had first supposed.
“Indeed, I can attest
to that myself!” he remarked with a laugh. “Fortunately, I had a
generous allowance – and a father usually well disposed towards
bailing me out of difficulties, even if it cost me a thunderous
jobation. You make an excellent point, my boy. I confess to having
concentrated my energies on seeking information on the boat, the men
in it and the fellow riding by.”
The secretary lifted
his gaze from his desk. Large blue eyes, suspiciously luminous,
surveyed him. Downy, golden lashes framed them, fanning over the
youth’s pale cheek. They were far too pretty for a man, he
reflected. He must beware not to send the boy to any rough places in
his stead or Robert might not be the only one to disappear without a
trace into London’s underworld. Giving his head a quick shake to
dispel such thoughts, he forced his mind back to the present.
“I can make some
enquiries for you, my lord.”
“Yes.” Adam
returned to the library table. “I think we must widen the field of
enquiry. As you suggest, there may be some connection to the
servants. It is possible they were innocent of any wrong-doing, yet
were somehow duped.”
“I further read, in
your notebooks, of the late Duke’s belief that his adversary in the
quest to progress the science of ballooning was somehow responsible
for his heir’s disappearance. You do not appear to have supported
that theory.”
Adam sighed. “No. I
cannot think it to be true. The Earl of Brandford and my father had a
bitter rivalry at times, but such an action is not to be thought of.
So far as I am aware, Brandford is an honest man. He fought beside
Grosvenor at the Siege of Copenhagen, and early on in the Peninsular
campaign. His son and I were at Eton together, although he was some
years ahead of me. He was well liked, as I recall, if prone to
bullying his fags, and always in debt. If I remember rightly, the
Earl’s fascination with balloons was from a military aspect. He
believed they could be used to oversee enemy movements on the
battlefield. There is such an obsession, though – a mania, almost –
amongst those desirous of taking to the skies, I daresay there were
others with fewer scruples.”
“With your
permission, sir, my father’s shop lies not far from Mr.
Liversedge’s office. It is remarkable what a tailor hears during
the course of pursuing his trade. My brother also employs two
apprentices and a boy to make deliveries. The markets are full of
gossip. If I might call upon my family while I am in the City, I may
be able to seek another path or two.”
“Do so, Lucien, with
my goodwill. Anything you may discover can only be better than having
a blank page to consider.”
~~~
Lucien alighted from
the hackney at Temple Bar, paid the jarvey and began to walk along
Chancery Lane, where Mr. Liversedge’s place of business was
located. The day was bright and pleasant, and since it was of an hour
when he might reasonably expect that good gentleman to be partaking
of a worthy luncheon, he decided to go a little out of his way and
pay a visit to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Passing through the gateway
from Carey Street, he entered New Square. His footsteps crunched on
the gravel as he strolled towards the old fountain, its’ column and
sun-dial casting a long shadow, while various sober individuals –
some of them bewigged and gowned in the manner of those stern
practitioners of the law – hurried past him in both directions.
Leaving the square, Lucien crossed Serle Street into the celebrated
‘Fields’ behind Lincoln’s Inn. Away from the bustle of the
surrounding streets, he could hear the sound of birdsong from the
branches of the plane trees within the small park, where even at this
hour fashionable carriages were mingling with well-dressed ladies and
gentlemen taking the air.
He proceeded at a
leisurely pace along the path, enjoying the sweeter air of the sylvan
space. Lord Adam was a benevolent employer and would not begrudge him
these moments of indulgence. It was peaceful in spite of the other
occupants and Lucien found the coil of nerves inside relaxing its’
grip on his stomach. It seemed no time at all before the great range
of Whetstone Park loomed ahead. Walking towards him from the old
Newman’s Row path, he saw two gentlemen conversing and experienced
a pang to the abdomen at the sight of one of them, although he did
not know him and could not have said why he should have such a
reaction. The man was of a similar height to Lord Adam, with hair
darker than walnut juice, a hawk nose and a habit of pulling at his
ear lobe. Perhaps he was nervous for some reason, since he made the
gesture at least three times in as many minutes. The older man was
shorter and stouter, with a balding crown and deep-set eyes. Lucien
estimated his age as above sixty years. He was vaguely familiar and
walked with an uneven gait, as if he had at some time suffered an
accident.
“You ask too much of
me, father,” the younger man was saying as they all converged on
the gate into Lincoln’s Inn.
“Nonsense!” replied
the other. “After that last fall, I am reluctant to do more than
demonstrate the science behind the exhibition. I have taught you all
I know. It is time you took over.”
Not wishful to overhear
any more of a private conversation, Lucien hastened through the gate
with a sigh of regret at leaving the Fields. He stared up at the
august buildings as he walked. His brother had harboured a desire to
become a student of the chancery, until their father had failed to
return from a trading visit to the silk houses of the Continent, thus
preventing such praiseworthy ambition. Releasing another sigh, Lucien
passed beneath the ancient gate-house to regain Chancery Lane.
Turning right, he
walked briskly to the chambers of Messrs. Liversedge and Peabody,
Barristers-at-law for the Nobility and Aristocracy, sited not far
from Southampton Buildings. It took but a few minutes to deliver both
the parcel of documents and the message for Mr. Liversedge entrusted
to him by Lord Adam. Replacing his hat, which he had removed on
entering the chambers, he carefully avoided the shy smiles directed
at him by the lawyer’s daughter and proceeded in the direction of
Fleet Street.
As he turned the
corner, a group of gentlemen in a somewhat bosky condition, to judge
by the way one of them almost collided with a lawyer’s clerk,
emerged from the passage leading to the Cock Tavern, close by the
Temple Bar. Their faces shiny from their gastronomic applications,
they weaved an erratic and noisy course towards him, a motley band of
rakish Corinthians, young bucks and popinjays. Lucien’s lips
twitched. He could almost hear his father’s voice uttering those
same words. One young man in a garish yellow waistcoat nudged the arm
of the man beside him, a fop with ridiculously high shirt points and
a ludicrous nosegay in his lapel.
“Well now, Sidney, my
good fellow.” His voice was high pitched and nasal. “What a
pretty youth is this I see before us, to be sure. What say you? You
could seek some entertainment there, methinks!”
Lucien turned crimson;
he felt the heat of mortification flood his cheeks. Before he could
turn tail, however, the Tulip had lifted a quizzing glass, the velvet
ribbon on which it hung a perfect match for his puce coat.
“You must have eaten
more Hull cheese than Stilton, Ramsey,” he lisped. “I cannot for
the life of me conjecture from where else you could have taken the
notion I cultivate link-boys!”
The rest of the group
roared with laughter at this witticism, the rush of sound capturing
the attention of several other people in the street. Wishing he might
suddenly vanish, Lucien pulled his beaver down over his eyes and
fled. The group’s laughter made his ears burn and followed him like
a murder of crows. He could quite happily commit murder at this
moment. Quickening his steps, he hurried past the protruding bulk of
Saint Dunstan’s church, with nary a glance for the two giants as
they struck the hour or for the row of booksellers in the churchyard.
He narrowly avoided being run down by a phaeton as he hopped back on
to the pavement and deftly stepped around a man and a woman perusing
the wares in the silversmith’s shop. Joseph Brasbridge’s
bow-fronted window always contained a display of finely crafted items
from cutlery to looking glasses, and Lucien usually stopped to view,
with wistful appreciation, the goods on offer. Today, however, he
dashed past, almost running the last few yards to his destination.
Barely waiting long
enough for a lady and her daughter to exit the tailor and silk
mercer’s premises a few doors further on, he entered with more
haste than was perhaps seemly. He pulled up short on the threshold.
Behind an oak counter, his mother stood facing him, rolls of brightly
coloured silks laid out for her customer’s consideration. The
gentleman had his back to the doorway, but Lucien had no difficulty
in recognizing the younger of the two men he had seen in Lincoln’s
Inn Fields.
His mother glanced up.
“Luci… en!” she exclaimed, faltering a little. “Why, my dear…
dearest boy. What a pleasant surprise to be sure!”
“Good afternoon,
Mother,” he replied, tipping his hat to the gentleman, who had
turned his head to look at him. “Good day to you, sir.” As the
other nodded a greeting, Lucien continued, “Mother, is my brother
in the workshop?”
“No, my dear, he had
to step out to make a delivery. He should be back ere long. He only
went to wait on Mr. Gosling… or was it Mr. Sharpe? Never mind, it
matters not. You have a good eye for colour, Lucien. Will you advise
Mr. Saddler for me? He requires strong-hued silks for a balloon
ascent. Is it not exciting? I know you will agree with me, for it is
many years since your dear papa made the balloons for his Grace! It
seems that the oil generally used to varnish the silk dulls white to
yellow, but Mr. Saddler would dearly like white and red stripes.”
Lucien walked slowly
behind the counter, thinking hard. His father had often told him
tales of the first balloonists, of the Montgolfier brothers, Lunardi
and Robertson. They had used the natural milky solution from the
rubber trees of South America, but he was sure improvements would
have been made in the last thirty years.
“I am not an expert
in such niceties, sir,” he said carefully. “Have you perhaps
considered the value of a bright yellow with the red? White would
very soon become grimy from smoke and dust. I believe yellow would
keep its’ fresh appearance far longer.”
“There is merit in
what you say,” Saddler answered. “I am experimenting with other
methods of sealing the fabric, but I doubt my ideas will be finalized
sufficiently before the summer. My father has been invited to
demonstrate a balloon ascension at a grand gala.”
“Indeed, and that is
most interesting, sir,” his mother simpered.
Lucien grimaced. She
had never quite achieved the knack of dealing with customers without
sounding like a girl at her first ball. Although, to be fair, she was
hardly bred for commerce, with her mother having been the daughter of
a rector and her father the profligate younger brother of a baronet.
“Your father must be
well known in the world of ballooning, then, sir?” he observed.
“Wait! Saddler is your name? Your father would not happen to be Mr.
Jacob Saddler, the celebrated scientist, would he? He must be; there
can be no other! Sir, I am honoured to meet you, for I have read much
in praise of your father’s work.” He bowed.
In answer, Saddler held
out his hand across the sales counter. “I am honoured to be able to
say he is.”
Lucien hesitated for a
heartbeat and then took the man’s hand. Calloused and
work-hardened, it was yet warm and somehow imparted confidence. It
engulfed his own. Instinctively, he knew he could trust him, although
why he should feel that way he could not imagine. To cover his
surprise, he went to the far end of the shop, bringing back a
footstool which he used to reach a high shelf in the heavy wooden
cupboard on the wall behind them. Carefully, he lifted down a bolt of
buttercup yellow silk before descending again.
“I think this might
suit your purpose, Mr. Saddler. It is a French silk of the finest
quality. My father imported it the year before he… died.”
Saddler fingered the
fabric. A strange expression crossed his face, vanishing again in an
instant. Lucien wondered if he had imagined it. The river of silk
across the desk flowed in sharp contrast to the stiff twill of the
balloonist’s coat. No matter how celebrated the father, it did not
seem that fine clothes were of interest to the son – or perhaps all
the available money was used to fund their fantastical voyages across
the skies.
“Will you have enough
of it?” he asked. “I need a balloon of about two thousand, two
hundred and fifty cubic feet.”
“There is more in the
storeroom, sir. My father deemed it of such quality, he bought all
the available stock. Sadly, by the time the shipment arrived, the
fashion for this shade had changed and it was no longer as popular as
it had been.”
“You think to
discharge an unsaleable commodity at my door?” The tone was neutral
and Lucien could not tell if Saddler were jesting or truly offended.
A slow flush began to mount to his cheeks for the second time since
he had arrived in the City. Have done, he ordered himself
silently.
“Not at all,” he
said aloud. “The colour is striking and no longer commonly to be
seen. I believe it would capture the attention of all who beheld it.”
“I can just imagine
it!” his mother exclaimed. She tilted her head to one side and
sighed. “Such a spectacle it would create! Everyone would flock to
view such a wondrous thing. Why! It would seem the sun itself had
descended to the earth!”
Bravo, Mama.
Perchance she was not so foolish after all.
Before the customer
could respond to this articulated vision, the shop door rattled open
and Lucien’s brother walked in. He was neatly, if soberly, dressed
in a coat of ultramarine broadcloth, its’ only embellishment a line
of tiny silver stitches marching with exquisite precision around
cuffs, collar and button holes. His eyes widened at sight of the
tableau before him, but having closed the door, he walked without
haste to the curtain which shut off the shop from the workshop and
consultation rooms, placed his hat and greatcoat on a peg, then
turned and smiled.
“My apologies, Mama.
I fear I was unavoidably delayed. Lucien, my dear brother, well met!
Good day, sir, allow me to introduce myself. I am Gilbert Mercier,
silk mercer and tailor. I trust you have been well attended to in my
absence?”
Saddler gave a short
laugh. “Yes, if you set aside the attempt to sell me old stock.”
This time it was clear he found the situation amusing. “I require
silk for a balloon and for it to be tailored to precise measurements.
It must be ready for testing by the end of June at the latest. I
understand you are experienced in this field.”
“It was my father who
had expertise in such matters, sir; I will not conceal that from you.
However, I did assist him on many occasions and I am sure we can
fulfil any order you might care to make. Were you wishful for yellow,
or did you have another colour in mind?”
“I did originally
wish for white, if it could be made air-tight without discolouring,
but your young brother put forth a good case for the yellow. I think
I could be persuaded. He assures me you have sufficient.”
Gilbert gestured
towards a second counter near the right-hand wall, where a sofa and
three chairs were grouped about a low table.
“Pray be seated, sir.
Would you care for some refreshment while we discuss your
requirements?”
“Thank you, no.”
The two men sat down.
Gilbert opened a drawer and pulled out his drawing book. Lucien felt
a hand on his elbow and allowed himself to be steered through a door
in the corner. His mother pushed him ahead of her down a narrow
corridor and past a steep staircase, into a small kitchen at the rear
of the premises. Closing the door behind them, she pulled Lucien into
her arms in an enthusiastic hug.
“Lucy! My love, how
good it is to see you. How are you? I worry so, you alone with that
man in his house!”
© Heather King
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