Prologue #2
Matthew entered the house, where he was greeted by Ridley.
“We were not expecting you, my lord,” the butler apologized.
“My school term has ended,” he said flatly. “Is His Grace at Redfield or in town?”
“Here, my lord,” the butler told him. With a pained expression, Ridley added, “His Grace . . . has guests.”
He knew exactly what that meant. Raucous parties which lasted late into the night. Heavy drinking. Scantily dressed women dashing through the halls, hopping from one bedchamber to the next.
“I see,” he said. “I will stay out of their way. Thank you for the warning. Might Mrs. Ridley bring me something to eat in my bedchamber?”
“I will see to it myself, my lord.”
Matthew went up the stairs, finding two maids hastily making up his bed. As they left, he opened his trunk, which had been placed in the corner of the room. He unpacked while he waited for his food to arrive.
Mrs. Ridley brought the tray to him. “A few sandwiches, along with some fruit and cheese, my lord. Do you require anything else?”
“No, Mrs. Ridley. Please thank Cook for putting this together for me.”
He sat in the room’s only chair and ate every bite on the tray, not having had anything to eat since breakfast at the beginning of the day.
He hated hearing that his father had guests.
He should have asked Ridley how long they had been here.
Usually, they stayed a week or so and then bored of the country, returned to town.
Once he finished his meal, Matthew found himself restless. He decided to take a walk. This time of year, the sun was just now setting, although he didn’t need sunlight to find his way about Redfield.
He cut through the kitchens, which were quiet now, and went out the back door.
Hearing voices, he paused, thinking they might be coming from the terrace.
As he looked up, he saw a few people standing there, his father amongst them.
They were laughing, snifters of brandy in their hands.
His father held not only a snifter but also a bottle of brandy as he twirled about, laughing rowdily.
Then he heard someone say, “I dare you, Reddington. Walk it. The parapet.”
From the shadows, Matthew watched his father climb onto the narrow stone parapet of the terrace. Slowly, the duke began walking along it, swaying as he went, his arms moving wildly as he tried to balance himself. All the while, his guests laughed with him—or at him.
A half-dressed woman climbed up on the far end of the ledge, beckoning to the duke, wriggling her derriere at him.
“Come this way, Reddington. Claim me,” she teased.
His father said, “Wait until see what I plan to do to you,” his words slurring as he unsteadily headed toward the woman, who now lay down upon the ledge, one bare leg hanging off, swinging enticingly.
Just before the duke reached her, he raised his arms in victory, causing him to stumble. Matthew cried out as his father began falling through the air. His body hit the ground below, causing Matthew to wince. The duke was sure to have a few broken bones from the fall.
In the meantime, a few of the women shrieked. Those on the terrace seemed to immediately sober, and not one of them came to render aid to their host. Instead, the entire group quickly vanished, scurrying inside like mice confronted by a menacing cat.
He raced to his father’s side to tell him that he would summon help. When he reached the duke, Matthew saw his father’s neck at an awkward angle. He rolled his father to his back, only to see vacant eyes staring up at him. Stunned, he shook the duke.
“Wake up!” he cried. “Wake up!”
But the Duke of Reddington was lifeless.
A sick feeling washed over him, and he hurried away, spewing everything he had just eaten into the nearby bushes.
He removed his handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and entered the kitchen again.
Going to the small office which Ridley used, he found it empty.
Numbly, he moved down the hallway and knocked on the door to the Ridleys’ sitting room.
The butler opened it. “What is it, my lord?”
Dully, Matthew said, “Send for the constable, Ridley. My father has had an accident. He is dead.”
The butler swore softly under his breath. “Forgive me, my lord.” Then his gaze met Matthew’s. “I mean, forgive me, Your Grace.”
The address took him by surprise. Yes, he had always known he was the heir apparent to the dukedom—but now that dukedom was his. Suddenly, he felt very small and helpless. Yet people would look to him. Depend upon him. Now was the time to rise to the occasion.
“There is nothing to forgive, Ridley. Please send for the constable at once. I am expecting a mass exodus of the current guests. They will be packing their bags now and leaving shortly.”
The butler frowned deeply. “Should I rouse the servants? Have them prevent this from happening, Your Grace? The constable will need to speak with them.”
Decisively, he said, “No, we are better off without them. I witnessed the accident. Let us get rid of them now so they do not loll about and expect to continue to be waited upon.”
Even as they were speaking, Matthew heard bells ringing, signaling that various guests were sending for their maids and valets. He hoped Redfield would be rid of the lot of toadies by the time the constable made his appearance.
The next hour was a blur as guests left at a rapid pace.
By the time the constable arrived, the last of them passed by him on the lane.
Matthew stood in front of the house, watching them go.
Not a single one stopped to offer him a word of comfort.
The entire group had been worthless users.
As the Duke of Reddington, he knew he would find himself surrounded by sycophants, and he determined to keep most everyone who approached him at bay.
He greeted the constable and said, “May we talk and walk? I would prefer for our conversation to remain private.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said deferentially. Even at a such a tender age, Matthew would instantly receive respect, all because of his ducal title.
He led them to the rear of the house, where his father’s body now lay covered with a quilt Mrs. Ridley had brought. Matthew had closed the duke’s eyes before he covered the body.
“I am certain it is no secret to you that my father drank to excess.”
Looking uncomfortable, the older man nodded. “I am aware of that fact.”
“His Grace had a group of guests staying at Redfield. They were out on the terrace, all of them deep in their cups. Including my father.”
“You saw this?”
He nodded. “I arrived home from school earlier this evening. You can confirm that with Mr. Davies at the inn. He brought me home in his wagon.”
Pity filled the constable’s eyes. “That is not necessary, Your Grace.”
“I decided to take a walk before retiring. That is when I heard voices on the terrace. It was apparent everyone had overindulged, and they continued to drink. One gentleman—I do not know which—dared my father to walk along the parapet of the terrace.”
The constable winced. “And His Grace took up the challenge?”
“He did. Those present egged him on. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.”
“So, no one pushed him.”
“No,” Matthew confirmed. “He got up on the parapet freely. He walked it unsteadily. And he fell to his death.”
He paused, swallowing, the picture of his father in mid-air embedded in his memory.
“I shouted out. Rushed to him. The fall was not from so great a height. I assumed he might have broken a bone or two.” He took a deep breath. “When I reached him, I noticed his neck at an odd angle. I turned him over. He was gone.”
The constable walked to the covered body and raised the quilt, studying the form beneath it for a moment, nodding to himself. He dropped the quilt and returned to Matthew.
“Looks as if he landed wrong. Broke his neck.” He placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “I know this is hard to hear, Your Grace, but perhaps this was for the best. I have heard of others breaking their necks in a fall and surviving, only to be paralyzed for the rest of their lives.”
“He would have hated that. He was not a man who ever could be still. He was always in motion. Always impatient.”
“I assume the other guests have fled Redfield.”
“Yes. I did not think you would need them since I witnessed the incident. Yes, they were all drinking heavily. Yes, they encouraged the duke to climb up. But no one was near him when he fell. He merely lost his balance.”
Nodding sagely, the constable said, “I see no need to learn the names of these guests from your butler and track them down, especially since we have your eyewitness account, Your Grace. I will write up my report and present it at the inquest. I can tell you now that the ruling will be death by misadventure.”
“Exactly what does that mean?” he asked.
“It is a death which is attributed to an accident that occurred, due to a risk taken voluntarily by the deceased. In a simple accident, the manner of death involves no unreasonable, willful risk.”
“Yes, death by misadventure would be the correct ruling,” he agreed. “Will I be called to testify at the inquest?”
“It is a possibility. Of course, we could present a written deposition and see if that is acceptable, especially due to your age. And rank.”
“I will do whatever is required of me,” he said resolutely. “The sooner this matter is brought to a close, the better.”
“I sent for the doctor. He should soon be here to make his official ruling so that the death certificate might be signed.”
“We will look for him,” Matthew said. “Thank you for coming so late.”
The constable looked at him, sadness on his face. “I am sorry you are going through this at such a young age, Your Grace. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, having intelligence—and the good sense to use it. Best of luck to you.”
“Thank you.”