PROLOGUE
Chavensworth, outside of London
January, 1864
Emma, Duchess of Herridge, approached the great house of
Chavensworth feeling sick. Her palms were damp inside her
gloves; her skin was clammy, and nausea had been her
constant companion since leaving London.
Her maid, Juliana, said nothing as they entered the long
drive sweeping up to the house but then, Juliana wasn’t
married to the Duke of Herridge.
If Emma could have invented any excuse to avoid this
meeting, she would have. She should have told Anthony that
she was sick in the mornings, that her stomach did not agree
with her, leading him to think – erroneously – that there
were hopes of an heir.
She hadn’t thought that quickly. When she’d received the
summons, she’d immediately left London for Chavensworth.
The tersely worded note from the housekeeper had been a
surprise but regardless of how Anthony had summoned her,
he’d done so, and she was not fool enough to anger him by
being tardy. Anthony was even more vindictive when she did
not obey him instantly. Whenever she thought she’d
experienced the depths of his depravity, he managed to shock
her again.
If only Chavensworth were a greater distance from London. If
only snows had blocked the roads. If only ice had made the
journey dangerous. If only…if only…if only…the wheels of the
carriage seemed to sing that refrain as if mocking her.
The coachman halted in front of the north façade, the most
dramatic face of Chavensworth. Here, the three story,
yellow stone structure was topped with a pediment adorned
with Greek statues in various poses. The fact that all of
the figures were barely dressed should have given her some
hint about Chavensworth.
Emma nodded to Juliana, attempted to rearrange her features
in an aspect that would be pleasing to Anthony, and waited
for the footman to open the carriage door. He did so a
moment later, and all too soon, she was walking up the steps
to the massive front door, her maid a few steps behind her.
Williams, the majordomo, greeted her now, his bald head
ringed by a tuft of white hair, his stocky figure
immaculately attired in the Herridge livery.
“Your Grace,” he said, his usual sepulchral tones even more
muted.
“What is wrong, Williams?” she asked.
Please God, don’t let Anthony have planned another
entertainment so soon.
“Your Grace?”
She turned her head to see Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper
Anthony had employed just weeks before their marriage. In a
sense, she and Mrs. Turner had learned the secrets of
Chavensworth together.
“Mrs. Turner,” she said, greeting the other woman.
“I’m very sorry, Your Grace.”
“Sorry?” She began to remove her gloves, ignoring the sudden
plummeting of her stomach. “Whatever for?”
Had some housekeeping emergency called her to Chavensworth?
The housekeeper’s look, however, did not lend itself to relief.
“His Grace has expired.”
For a moment, Emma didn’t understand. It took Juliana’s gasp
behind her for her mind to race to the unthinkable.
“Anthony?” she asked. “He’s dead?” How very calm she sounded.
The housekeeper nodded. Williams moved to stand beside her.
An armed front?
“He was found in his library this morning, Your Grace,”
Williams said. “Slumped in a chair.”
“Anthony is dead?”
Williams’ face was smoothed of any expression as he nodded,
an indication that the impossible had become possible.
Slowly, Emma removed her bonnet, and gave it to Juliana.
Soon, she would go to the Duke’s Suite or to a dozen or so
rooms that were comfortable in their way. At the moment,
however, she couldn’t move at all.
“If I may speak to you in private, Your Grace,” the
housekeeper said. She looked pointedly at Juliana. So, too,
did Williams.
Emma nodded, and followed Mrs. Turner down the hall to the
main corridor of Chavensworth, saying nothing as they passed
the Yellow Parlor with its welcoming fire and entered the
Chinese Parlor. There, on the other side of the room, was a
bier, already erected by the carpenters.
Emma began to tremble.
“He’s really dead?” she asked softly.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“We shall have to cover the mirrors,” Emma said, all too
familiar with funeral customs since her father’s death two
years earlier. “And close the curtains and set the clocks.”
She would need to have some dried lavender, grown in
Chavensworth’s own fields, moved into the Chinese Parlor,
arrange to have some beeswax candles burning. Should she
have laurel wreaths adorning all the doors, or only those on
the north façade? Did she have enough black-bordered
stationery or would she need to order some? She would have
to give instructions to Cook to prepare the funeral favors,
biscuits wrapped in white paper and sealed with black
sealing wax. Did she have enough black sealing wax on hand?
If Anthony died this morning, the funeral should take place
in four days. So much to do in so short a time.
“We’ve already begun preparing the body, Your Grace,” Mrs.
Turner said, pulling Emma from her thoughts. “Which is why I
needed to speak with you privately.”
Again, Emma thought she might become ill. What had Anthony
done to shock the middle-aged housekeeper, and put such a
look in her eyes? What horror had he committed at the last
moment of his life?
“What is it, Mrs. Turner?” she asked, dispirited at the very
moment she should begin feeling some joy.
Anthony, Duke of Herridge, was dead. Anthony, satyr and
despot, breathed no more. Anthony, who’d done everything in
his power to squander the fortune she’d brought to her
marriage, was to be interred behind stone blocks in the
family chapel. Anthony, about whom people spoke in
scandalized whispers, would never summon her to Chavensworth
again, never insist that she perform in his revels to her
disgrace and shame.
“We were beginning to remove the headband from His Grace,”
the housekeeper said.
Emma was all too familiar with that task because of her
father. As close after death as possible, a three inch wide
band of cloth was placed under the chin and then tied at the
top of the head to keep the mouth closed as the body
stiffened. Once the body was bathed – beneath a sheet in
order to shield the naked limbs of the deceased from view –
the headband was removed and the body dressed.
“Something appeared on the body, Your Grace, that was not
visible when we began to prepare him.”
Mrs. Turner reached out and gripped her arm, something she
would never have done at any other time. But the woman no
doubt sensed that Emma would not advance on the bier without
coaxing.
The coffin looked quite sturdy, and was covered in black
cloth. Did Chavensworth’s carpenters have a store of coffins
waiting for all of them?
Anthony looked restful but not asleep. In sleep, he’d still
worn that half-smile of his, as if he knew that she watched
him sometimes, wondering at his capacity for evil.
“You’re sure he’s dead?” she asked.
Mrs. Turner looked at her. “Yes, Your Grace, he’s dead,” she
said, her voice warm with sympathy. Because of Emma’s loss?
Or because Emma had been married to Anthony for four years?
Did they know, these loyal servants, of the activities that
occurred in the ballroom on the third floor? Of course they
did. Were they horrified? If they were, they had been
careful not to reveal their emotions around the Duke of
Herridge.
“This is what I want you to see, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Turner leaned into the coffin and unbuttoned three
buttons of Anthony’s shirt.
Emma stared, uncomprehending. Understanding came in a rush.
She looked at Mrs. Turner, then back at what the housekeeper
had revealed.
“Dear God in Heaven,” Emma said, an oath no proper lady
should utter.
Of course Anthony could not simply die like anyone else.
She couldn’t breathe; the air would not travel past her
constricted throat. She swayed on her feet and was caught by
Mrs. Turner. Emma began to laugh hysterically, the sound
echoing around the Chinese Parlor until at last it faded,
choked off by panic.
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