Chapter House


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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