rologue

 

London

October 11, 1812

 

A shrill scream reverberated through the house, piercing the quiet, and Lord Ernest Cornelius Frederick Howe bolted upright in bed. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned and wondered if he dreamed the blood-curdling shriek, until another hair-raising shout of alarm had him leaping from bed.

After pulling on his wool breeches, he donned his silk robe, belted it at the waist, and sprinted, bare-footed, into the hall. A small army of servants ran down the corridor, toward his elder brother’s suite. Curious, Ernest followed suit.

At the double-door entry to the marquess’s private apartment, the butler loomed, with a grim expression. “My lord, something terrible has happened.”

“What is it?” Myriad thoughts echoed in his brain, and Ernest swallowed hard. “Is it Barrington?”

“No, sir.” Ashby shook his head. “It is one of the maids.”

“What about her?” Ernest pushed past the butler, crossed the sitting room, and rushed into the bedchamber, where Doolittle, Barrington’s valet, averted his gaze and compressed his lips. It was then Ernest glanced at the massive four-poster, and he almost retched. “Oh, my god.”

Violent crime was the curse of the poor, not the elite of society, and never had he witnessed anything so brutal. Blood trailed from one side of the mattress to the other, with large crimson spatters dotting the once pristine white sheets.

Lying face up, nude, and prostrate, one of the housemaids, whose name he could not recall in the shock of the moment, had been stabbed to death in Barrington’s bed. Her lifeless eyes fixed on the elegant canopy, with her mouth agape in a silent scream, and never would he forget the morbid sight.

“Ashby, gather the household staff at the servant’s dining table, and send a footman to Bow Street, for the Runners.” The butler nodded and rushed into the hall. To Doolittle, Ernest asked, “Where is my brother?”

“To my knowledge, His Lordship never came home last night.” The valet scratched the back of his neck and shifted his weight, as though he was agitated, and that gave Ernest pause. “Often Lord Ravenwood stays out, but it is not my place to inquire after his plans.”

Reflecting on the situation, Ernest could glean no rhyme or reason to the senseless act, and Barrington had no mistress. In fact, he never entertained courtesans, because it was no secret the elder Howe loved his fiancée, Lady Florence Wilfred.

Ernest loved someone, once. But that was long ago, and he knew not what became of her, after she was taken from him, when they were but children. He often thought of searching for her, but he never did, because he feared what he might find. That she might have found happiness without him.

But that was not the issue, at the moment, and he snapped into action.

So where was his brother?

“Take the back stairs and wait for His Lordship in the mews.” Ernest lowered his voice. “Tell him what happened, so he is not surprised when he returns to find the authorities in our home. I would not have him caught unaware.”

“Aye, sir.” Doolittle dipped his chin and exited the apartment.

A final glance at the horrific scene revealed a knife near the base of the footboard. Peering over his shoulder, Ernest checked to ensure no one witnessed his questionable behavior, as he pulled a handkerchief from the tallboy, squatted, wrapped the bloody weapon in the square of linen, and slipped it into his robe pocket.

No, it was not the honorable thing to do, but it was the right thing for the situation, and he wagered he would pay for it, later.

Retreating into the sitting room, Ernest drew shut the double doors and flagged a footman. “Stand guard until the Runners arrive, and permit no one entry.”

“Aye, my lord,” the servant replied.

Calm and collected, Ernest strolled back to his chamber, drew forth the knife, and studied the crude but lethal armament. Not for a minute did he suspect Barrington committed the murder, but Ernest would take no chances with his brother’s liberty and his family’s social standing, so he hid the dagger in his armoire.

At the washstand, he splashed water on his face and cleaned his teeth. His heart weighed heavy in his chest, as he dressed in a crisp white shirt, sans cravat, a dark blue hacking jacket, and polished Hessians. In the long mirror, he scrutinized his appearance and ran his fingers through his blonde hair.

“I am doing the right thing.” At least, if he told himself that enough, he just might believe it. Yet it seemed some things never changed, because Ernest had spent a lifetime picking up after his older brother, when their relationship should have operated in the reverse. “But Barrington had better have a damn good explanation.”

With that, he inhaled a deep breath, turned on a heel, and trod into the storm he prayed was not of his sibling’s making. On the landing, two gentlemen conversed with the butler, and Ernest rolled his shoulders when they noted his approach.

“My lord.” Ashby stepped aside. “These men are from Bow Street.” He pointed to a tall, swarthy looking character. “This is Inspector Kenworth, of the Runners.”

“Lord Ernest, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, under such inauspicious circumstances.” Kenworth half-bowed. “And may I introduce Special Agent Miles Barrett, of the Counterintelligence Corps. In cases involving members of the peerage, the Home Office requires we notify the corps.”

“Lord Ernest.” A shrewd but elegantly dressed character, Agent Barrett nodded once. “Your butler explained some of the circumstances surrounding the murder.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly.” Ernest extended a hand in welcome. “Permit me to show you the body.”

“Can you provide a list of those who entered the scene?” Agent Barrett brushed past the footman and scrutinized the entrance. “And who discovered the deceased?”

“My brother’s valet, Duncan Doolittle.” Ernest led the investigators through the sitting room, to the inner chamber. “But before he could warn Ashby, a maid happened upon the body and shouted the alarm.”

“I will need to interview everyone, beginning with Lord Ravenwood.” Inspector Kenworth paused at the foot of the bed. “Do you know the victim?”

“Yes.” Ernest swallowed hard, as he glanced at the youthful face bereft of her customary animated smile. “Her name is Ellen, and Ashby can provide additional information regarding her background, as she has been in our employ for a few years. And my brother is not in residence.”

“Where is Lord Ravenwood?” Inspector Kenworth inquired.

“I am not sure.” Ernest shuffled his feet. “It does not appear he slept at home, last night.”

“Can you vouch for him?” Agent Barrett narrowed his stare. “And what of your whereabouts?”

“I was in my bed.” It was then Ernest realized they viewed him as a suspect, and he was not prepared for that. “But no one can provide proof of what I say, because I slept alone.” Shuffling his feet, he tried to ignore his racing pulse. “As for my brother, I have no direct knowledge of his current location or intimate habits, as I am not his keeper, and he does not share that information with me. But, to my knowledge, he has not been home.”

And the family could ill afford a scandal, given the tenuous state of the marquessate’s finances, and his father always insisted that blood relations reigned supreme, above all else. It was something he beat into his younger son, with cruel regularity, so Ernest would do everything in his power to protect Barrington.

“When was the last time you spoke with him?” Using a bull’s-eye lantern, Kenworth scrutinized the carpets, and Ernest pondered the bloody knife hidden in his chamber. Had he missed something of significance? “And did he behave in a suspicious manner?”

“I am not sure what you mean, because I do not believe, for an instant, that Barrington killed that poor woman.” Ernest checked his tone. “And I took a brandy with him, yesterday evening, at White’s.” He searched his memory to recall the specifics. “It was about five-thirty, and the rooms were crowded, so there are plenty of witnesses who could support my account.”

“We will verify that for the official record, Lord Ernest.” Agent Barrett squatted near the footboard and appraised a bloodstain on the counterpane. “It is just routine, and we mean no insult.”

“Investigative teams should arrive, soon, to commence a sweep for clues and evidence.” Inspector Kenworth stood upright and adjusted his coat. “Until then, we should seal the apartment.”

“Of course.” Ernest led them to the hall, where he signaled the footman. “Permit no one entry without the expressed permission of Inspector Kenworth or Agent Barrett.”

“Aye, sir.” The footman nodded and resumed his guard.

Just then, the valet appeared, and Ernest stiffened his spine. “Please, excuse me.” He waved, and Doolittle strolled toward the gallery. Lingering near a bust of the third marquess of Ravenwood, Ernest folded his arms. “What is it?”

“His Lordship returned, and he hides in your quarters.” Doolittle opened his mouth and then closed it. “He is innocent, sir. He did not sleep in residence.”

“I know that.” Ernest peered over his shoulder. “Stay here, and say nothing to the authorities.”

“Yes, my lord.” Doolittle clasped his hands before him. “And I remain loyal to Lord Ravenwood, as always.”

“I know that, too.” And it did not surprise Ernest, because everyone loved Barrington. Indeed, he was the golden child.

Whereas Ernest was the second son, the lesser Howe.

In mere minutes, Ernest crossed the landing and navigated the corridor to his private accommodation. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he turned the knob, pushed open the oak panel, and slipped into his sitting room, but it was empty.

“Psst.” In the bedchamber, Barrington partially hid behind a drapery panel and waved. “In here.”

“Brother, what are you doing?” Ernest frowned as they locked forearms. “There is a Runner and an agent from the Counterintelligence Corps in the house, and you are not safe.”

“So Doolittle told me, but I killed no one, as I was not in residence last night.” With a wild-eye gaze, Barrington glanced about, as if anticipating an assault. “What should I do, when I am the lone suspect in a crime I did not commit? And who would do such a thing? Who would conspire to entrap me?”

“I know not, but now is not the time to discuss it. Go to my bachelor’s lodging, and wait for me, there.” Ernest considered the knife but did not mention it. “Together, we can sort out this mess and plan a response. Then, we shall summon our solicitor, to protect your interests.”

“Not a chance.” Barrington scoffed. “I am leaving England, at once.”

“What?” Gritting his teeth, Ernest summoned patience. “If you have done nothing wrong, if you have nothing to hide, why would you flee? Do you not see how it will appear?” He canted his head. “Where were you? Who were you with? All you need do is provide support for an alibi, as well as a witness to that effect, and you will be cleared.”

“What if I cannot do that?” Barrington averted his stare. “They will give me a fair trial, and hang me. I must run, else I am doomed.”

“Brother, no.”

With that, Barrington broke free and ran into the sitting room, with Ernest following closely.

“I must leave, now.”

“Where are you going?” He caught his brother by the elbow, but Barrington wrenched loose. “When do you suppose you will return, and what should I tell the authorities?” Without a response, the elder Howe opened the door and tiptoed into the hall. “Barrington—come back.”

Alone. More alone than he had ever been in his life, Ernest just stood there and blinked. At last, he shook himself alert, retraced his steps, peered out the window, and sighed.

Some things never changed.