Marblestone Mansion, Book 10 Read online

  MARBLESTONE MANSION

  BOOK 10

  (Scandalous Duchess Series)

  By

  Marti Talbott

  © All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art: YOCLA Designs

  Editor: Frankie Sutton

  Table of Contents

  More Marti Talbott Books

  Author’s note: All of Marti Talbott’s Books are clean.

  Alexandra Sinclair was dead, or so most of the world thought. The duchess, on the other hand, was very much alive. Safely hidden away in Canada, she had all the time in the world to consider her next moves, one of which included a new way to seek her revenge for the way Hannish MacGreagor so cruelly set her aside.

  With her daughter now married, and her son living in England, a bored Abigail Whitfield felt useless and lonely. Yet, she had something else on her mind. There was a stranger in town that appeared to be watching her, and she didn’t like the looks of him one bit.

  CHAPTER 1

  After a series of clandestine train, wagon, and automobile rides, the ex-duchess of Glenartair finally carried her luggage and her hatbox full of money across the border from the United States into Canada. In her hotel room a day later, and with extraordinary delight, she read about her sad and untimely death in the first New York newspaper she had seen in weeks.

  Alexandra Sinclair was dead, and was it not about time?

  Days later, she was still elated. The world was no longer looking for her, and therefore, she was free of the threat of spending the rest of her life in prison, or being returned to that dreadful lunatic asylum. To her way of thinking, there was not, and could not possibly be, a happier person in the world.

  Although the hotel had been recently renovated and bathrooms added to almost every room, a shortage of morning hot water often plagued the permanent residents. Therefore, her daily schedule of waking up late and slipping into a bath just before noon worked out perfectly. The duchess added a touch of rose oil to her bath water, swirled the water around with her hand, and took a moment to appreciate the marvelous aroma. Next, she stripped off her clothes, stepped in, and let the warm water envelop her body all the way up to her neck. This, coupled with her freedom and enough money to live on, was a true taste of paradise. After all the misery she had been through – no one deserved it more.

  The price of freedom from her nefarious past was quite high, she realized. Never again could she let anyone know who she truly was, or that there was a bestselling novel in all the bookstores that detailed her thrilling and glorious exploits. Furthermore, the plan to use her daughter as a means to regain her position in London society had to be set aside. What a shame that was, for she dreamed of it constantly, and had her heart set on once more attending a season filled with exciting men and magnificent balls. She even planned what she would wear. The truth be told, she hardly ever thought of Blair in any other capacity. Why would she? She hardly knew her daughter, and when she let herself remember Blair’s youthful beauty, she found it so distressing, she had to force the thought out of her mind.

  For some unearthly reason, she suddenly remembered dancing with the exceptionally handsome Duke of Glenartair, Hannish MacGreagor. Deep frown lines stretched across her forehead and her eyes narrowed. How dare he offer a reward for her capture, and worse still, how impertinent of him to say her very fine facial features were ordinary? The duchess of Glenartair was anything but ordinary, as attested to by many a handsome man. Even Hannish constantly remarked on her beauty before he married her, and vowed to love her until the day he died. At the time, she had not one single hint of how cold and callous he would turn out to be. She might not have married him had she known. There were plenty of other men to choose from. Indeed, marrying Hannish MacGreagor was the biggest mistake of her life. Yet again, the flames of revenge were ignited. Not for one moment had she forgotten her vindictive intentions toward him, nor would she ever. Only now that she dare not show her face in America again anytime soon, it would be much harder.

  Indeed, for her, freedom was not entirely free.

  The duchess felt herself going into that dark, hostile, catatonic place. Involuntarily, her knees began to bend, and slowly, her head slipped under the water. In her last moments of lucidity, she shoved the dark thoughts away and reminded herself she was finally free of his evil devices, free of men looking to collect the reward, and free to be who she really was…if such was possible. She concentrated instead on her future, which included finding a way to enter back into her beloved London society. Laura could help her…if she would, but she probably would not. Lady Estelle Husher might do, for it was unlikely she wanted society to know about the little trick they tried to play on her nephew. Indeed, Lady…

  Abruptly, the duchess sat up and gasped for air.

  *

  After news of the ex-duchess of Glenartair’s death spread all over the country, life for the MacGreagors settled down considerably. Lady Laura Bayington returned to London just in time to get her twins off to another year in the most prestigious school in northern England. It left Laura with little to do, but all of her dearly departed husband Edward’s ancestors had attended that school, and far be it for her to turn away from tradition. Perhaps she might write a book of her own, she said in a letter to Cathleen. Leesil and Cathleen were not at all keen on that idea, and instead, suggested Laura become more involved in charity work.

  Malveen and Egan wrote to say they were expecting their first child. Therefore, they would be cancelling this year’s piano performances in America, but would try to make it to Colorado next year. All the MacGreagors were delighted with the news of the blessed event, but none as much as Egan’s cousin, Dugan, who had a bit of good news himself. Nanny Beverly was also with child and due in the spring.

  Much to Abigail Whitfield’s chagrin, James and Jillian opted for a simple wedding ceremony, and boarded a train for Chicago where James could study automobile mechanics. Never were two people more in love, and everyone was thrilled for them.

  After that, preparations for winter began in earnest. The hearths required plenty of chopped wood, the horses needed stacked hay, and the last of the fall harvest needed to be preserved in glass jars and put in storage. After reading about the deaths of thirty-six people in California who ate canned pears at a dinner party, the cooks made absolutely certain their canning was done properly. When the work was done, everyone was ready for a good long rest, and a celebration. For that, Mr. and Mrs. Claymore Whitfield decided to host a harvest ball, for which the MacGreagors offered up their ballroom.

  As always, Abigail was not without something or someone to complain about. Because signs of the end of her childbearing years plagued her, she was often a little more irritable, cried over nothing at all, and became overly suspicious. Worst of all, she simply could not manage to get anywhere on time these days. Such was the case when she arrived to help make centerpieces for the refreshment tables at the ball.

  “It has happened again,” she said in a huff, as she marched into Marblestone’s dining room, and glanced at the women gathered around the table. She took off her gloves, handed them to Alistair, and then let him help her off with her coat. Around the table sat most of the members of her sewing circle, plus Gloria and Blair.

  Marblestone’s dining room had not changed much. It still had white wallpaper with pastel pink roses, and tied back rose curtains hung on each side of three large windows. The oak table with matching tall back chairs was situated in the middle of the room, a gold-rimmed mantle clock sat on one of the sideboards, and two electric floor lamps gave the room plenty of soft light. Footmen Dugan and Brookton stood ready to serve the guests, while Alistair went to hang Abigail’s coat in the foyer closet.

/>   “What has happened again?” Cathleen asked. Using a paper pattern, Cathleen’s job was to cut rose petals out of white satin left over from Gloria’s wedding dress.

  Abigail neglected to take off her new hat, which happened to be small and black with a very large, red, silk rose on the side. “The train and the streetcar had yet another collision.”

  “Oh, no, was anyone hurt?” Leesil asked.

  “No, thank the good Lord.” Abigail glanced around the room until she spotted McKenna. “My dear, tell the judge to expect yet another trial, for neither the engineer nor the driver are inclined to admit guilt. Someone must pay the damages. The front of the streetcar is smashed to smithereens.”

  “At least no one was hurt,” said Leesil, as she watched Brookton help Abigail sit at the head of the table. As soon as Abigail was settled, Dugan poured her a cup of hot tea. It was all Leesil could do not to laugh at Abigail’s hat. Lately, Abigail was not always mindful that her hats and outfits matched, and the red rose looked ridiculous above Abigail’s purple blouse and orange skirt. Besides, all the other women had removed their hats and left them in the Marble foyer.

  “Yes,” said Abigail, “but it is only a matter of time until someone dies. All the while, the owners of the streetcars complain that automobiles are robbing them of business. I swear, we can never make everyone happy. The population of Colorado Springs explodes like a cannonball in war, and the streets downtown are so crowded, people cannot safely cross.”

  “I quite agree,” said Vivian Mabs. “What we need are speed limits for horses and automobiles alike. They seem always to be competing, and when one goes around the other to get ahead, a person trying to cross the street on foot can easily get plowed under.”

  “Is that why you are late today?” Pearl asked Abigail. Using flour and water paste, it was Pearl’s job to glue the rose petals to the slender green sticks.

  “Yes it is, I nearly got run over.” Abigail paused long enough to sip her tea and take a deep breath. “I have seen him again.”

  Leesil used the same flour paste to make certain the candles stood upright in the sixteen wooden candleholders. “Who?” she asked.

  “That man. He was walking down the street just as pretty as you please.”

  “Abigail, there is no law against walkin’ down a street,” Cathleen reminded her.

  Pearl wrinkled her brow. “How is it that I live in town, and I have never seen him?” With a wet rag, she washed the last of the dirt off a yellow summer squash, and then applied a thin coat of lard to make the rind shine.

  Loretta winked at Pearl. “Perhaps he is a ghost only Abigail is able to see.”

  Abigail loudly exhaled. “And perhaps not. You must have seen him, Pearl. He wears all black even unto his top hat.”

  “Most men wear black,” McKenna said, “especially judges.”

  “Not like this one,” said Abigail. “He wears a topcoat that hangs down to his knees, the kind that has been out of style since the Civil War.”

  “Perhaps he cannae afford better clothin’,” Leesil suggested.

  “Well, that might be, I suppose,” Abigail said. “Still, I find him most unusual. He neither smiles nor frowns at anyone, and I have yet to learn who he is. Pearl, do you still go to the soda shop each day?”

  “I do,” Pearl answered. “Of course, the sodas are not as good as they were when the druggist was allowed to put laudanum in them. Even so, it is still a fine place to meet new and old friends.”

  Abigail had yet to begin cleaning and shining any of the pinecones the children spent hours gathering for them. “Then you must watch for him.”

  “Is he unmarried, I wonder,” Pearl asked.

  “I cannot think who would have him,” Abigail sneered.

  “Why?” Leesil asked. “Is he unsightly?”

  “Yes…I mean, no…not unsightly, I suppose. He has a black beard and gray eyes the color of steel. I find him most disturbing.”

  “You have been close enough to see the color of his eyes?” Loretta asked.

  “Once,” Abigail said, “and quite by accident. He came round the hat shop corner just as I was coming out and nearly knocked me to the wall.”

  Gloria leaned a little closer to Blair. “He wears clothing reminiscent of the Civil War, with a tall black hat and a black beard? I fear it is the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.”

  Blair mockingly gasped. “A ghost? Right here in Colorado Springs?”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. “He is likely cousin to Provost MacGreagor, the old goat. Do you know, even though most of the world thinks the duchess is dead, the Provost still goes daily to watch for her when the trains come in.”

  “Perhaps he dinna believe she is dead,” said Leesil.

  Cathleen sighed. “My husband is convinced she is, and his word is good enough for me.”

  “Yet, my husband believes she is not,” Leesil argued.

  “Here we go again,” Gloria grinned.

  Blair could not resist the temptation. “She has a gun, you know, and next time she comes, she means to shoot us all.”

  “She is dead, Blair,” Cathleen countered. She laid yet another satin petal on the table next to Pearl.

  “Or not,” Leesil said as she winked at Blair. “I, for one, am glad Provost MacGreagor keeps an eye out for her still. She shall not sneak up on us again, not if he can prevent her.”

  “I say we dig her up,” Blair teased.

  “Dig her up!” a horrified Abigail nearly shouted.

  “Why not?” Gloria played along. “It will not take but a few hours to reach Salina, Kansas, and then we shall know for sure.”

  “Cameron saw the pictures,” Cathleen reminded them. “She was shot in the head.”

  “Oh my,” said Vivian, “I had not heard that.”

  “Dinna be alarmed,” Leesil soothed. “The picture is black and white, and for all we know, the blood on the ground next to her body was only water. Hannish put his finger in the ashes of our hearth, touched it to his forehead, and then looked in the mirror. He said that is precisely what her wound looked like.”

  This time, Blair leaned a little closer to Gloria, “Uncle Hannish said the duchess actually rolled in the dirt. I would have liked watchin’ that.”

  “Well, I would like throwing dirt in her grave,” said Abigail.

  “Before or after we dump the rocks out of her coffin?” Leesil asked.

  “And just now I am reminded,” said Abigail. “Why are you not in school, Blair?”

  “‘Tis Saturday,” Blair answered.

  Abigail bit her lip. “So it is.” She finally reached in the bowl, chose a pinecone, dipped the tip of her finger in the lard, and began polishing the layers. She had not yet washed it, and everyone but Abigail noticed she was smearing the dirt. Seated next to her, McKenna saved the day by moving the bowl of pinecones out of reach, cleaning one, and then setting it in front of Abigail.

  Loretta asked, “Blair, does it not bother you to hear us talk about your mother?”

  “Not at all,” Blair answered. “She has no part to play in my life, particularly now that she is dead.”

  “Which she is not,” Leesil countered. She nodded when Dugan offered to pour more hot tea in her cup.

  “Have you read the letters they found in her hotel room?” Cathleen asked Blair.

  Blair shook her head, as she continued to sort through the red and yellow leaves to find ones suitable for the centerpieces. “I have not. Alistair put them in storage for me. Perhaps on some very cold and bitter day, I shall read them…if I’ve nothing better to do, and am of a mood to hear more of her lies.”

  Abigail sighed. “He watches me.”

  Everyone’s attention turned to Abigail, but it was Loretta, who asked, “Who watches you? Provost MacGreagor or the ghost?”

  “Both, if you must know.”

  “Perhaps,” said Loretta, “they believe you are watching them?”

  Abigail scoffed, “They need watching…the both of them.”


  “Have you heard?” Gloria asked hoping to change the subject. “Mrs. Lloyd is convinced her husband has not been carousing with Susan Wayne at the hat shop after all, and has begged his forgiveness.”

  “She is convinced of it, is she?” Vivian muttered before she caught herself. She was in the middle of cutting gold cloth into large placemat squares to put under the centerpieces and paused to see if anyone noticed.

  “My dear, what do you know that we do not know?” Abigail asked.

  “Oh nothing,” said Vivian. She was determined not to say anything more until she noticed Abigail’s frown. She never could keep anything from Abigail. “It is just that I saw him go in the backdoor of the hat shop just last week.”

  Noticing Vivian’s discomfort, Pearl said, “Perhaps he was simply making a delivery. All the merchants are required to deliver to the backdoor of shops these days. By the way, what news of Maude and Wilma?”

  “Both are quite ill,” Abigail answered. “It is the flu, most likely”

  “Mother O’Connell is not yet well either,” said Gloria.

  Abigail continued, “I pray it is not the Russian flu again, but what can we do if it is? We send the children off to school, one has it, they spread it to all the other children, and soon everyone has it. Something must be done to prevent it, but what?”

  “We could keep everyone home until it passes,” Leesil suggested. “The flu is so hard on the little ones.”

  “It is harder on the elders,” said McKenna. “We lose more elders to the flu each year than children.”

  “Speaking of Russia,” said Blair, “my teacher says several of the countries have joined together to make a standardized map of the world. I dinna recall which countries, but it will be nice not to have so many different versions and measurements to study.”

  “Well, now, that is progress,” said Abigail.

  “And the mystery of the odd object hoverin’ over Worchester, Massachusetts has been solved. It is just another flyin’ machine,” Blair added.