The Mysterious Death of the Duke Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  The Mysterious Death of the Duke

  The Balfour Hotel Book 3

  Amanda Davis

  Was the Duke of Holden’s death truly an accident, or is foul play to blame?

  James is obsessed with uncovering the truth about his father’s untimely death.

  Was it foul play?

  If so, who is the murderer?

  Or, murderess?

  Following a trail of clues leads him, his wife Lydia, and his mother-in-law to

  The Balfour Hotel.

  Lydia longs for a passionate marriage

  Visiting the Balfour Hotel, where she is surrounded by loving couples,

  only piques her yearning…

  …and, there’s Samuel, the handsome, attentive maître d’

  As they frequent the halls of the Balfour Hotel,

  Will Lydia find the romance she craves?

  Will James learn who’s responsible for his father’s death?

  Everyone’s a suspect in this whodunit.

  Prologue

  Eight months Prior

  It was a still night, even for the late hour, and Byron stifled a yawn of boredom as his eyes traveled toward the door. He hoped that perhaps someone would venture through it. He yearned for some amusement to help pass the dismal night shift.

  I am far too old for this roster, he thought with some misery. I must speak with Samuel about switching my shift.

  He knew it would be a futile request. Young Matthew preferred his daytime schedule and the Balfours seemed to favor Matthew, if only because of his pleasant face.

  They will see me into an early retirement…or grave.

  It was not quite the hour of two but, rather than risk falling asleep at his post, the elderly concierge rose to do his security rounds of the quiet, sleeping hotel. They were at full capacity. Even if a traveller happened into the lobby while he was on rounds, there were no rooms to give. Byron gathered the keys from the desk drawer to lock the front door before heading toward the staircase. With slow, laborious steps, he sauntered up the stairs from the lobby toward the second floor, his old bones creaking with the effort.

  It was not a part of his duties which particularly appealed to him but he had been employed with the Balfours long enough to know they demanded nothing less than excellence. Tempting as it was to forsake the tedious rounds, Byron could only imagine what would occur if he were caught shirking his duties. After all, The Balfour Hotel was renowned through England for more than just its remote loveliness. The staff was always groomed, the service impeccable. It was not a job to be taken lightly but one which Byron cherished all the same.

  As usual, there was not a peep to be heard on the second, third or fourth floors of the hotel. The guest of The Balfour were of the highest caliber, of course. Rarely did incidents occur. And when they did, the Balfours managed to hide the would-be scandals with ease and decorum. It was merely one more of the numerous reasons why the Balfours and their establishment were regarded so highly.

  When Byron stepped a weary foot onto the fifth floor, however, he was overcome with a strange sensation. The muscles in his neck tensed with apprehension. This was where the family lived and, inevitably, there might be some stirring of personal matters, regardless of the hour.

  Matters had been unsettled since the abrupt disappearance of Mr. Xavier Balfour’s new bride some months prior. While Byron did not know the specifics of Lady Elizabeth Balfour’s vanishing, he was, unfortunately, privy to household gossip. From what he had gleaned, Lady Elizabeth had run off with her mother the very day after she and Mr. Xavier wed, and she had not been heard from since.

  Byron did not put much stock in the rumors brought forth by the young waiters and chambermaids, but he did admit to himself that the situation was odd. Byron had seen the young couple together and the adoration they seemed to feel for one another had been quite apparent. He had been just as stunned as the rest of the household by Lady Elizabeth’s abrupt departure.

  Since that fateful day, the tension which always enshrouded the somewhat secretive Balfours, seemed to have escalated tenfold. It was no longer a matter of Mrs. Balfour stumbling from her chambers in a drunken stupor, nor the hints of raised voices which Byron sometimes overheard as he padded through the halls. Overnight, it seemed, there were open arguments between the Balfour men and Mr. Compton, the cries of baby Catherine and the sobs of Mrs. Anne Balfour when she believed she was alone. The hour was irrelevant and the friction was growing to insurmountable levels and felt by all.

  That night it was somewhat unsettlingly quiet on the family’s floor, so much so that Byron paused to listen. Surely, the silence was a good thing but Byron could not reconcile the stillness with contentment. In fact, the silence was downright unnerving, almost as though no one was behind the doors of the closed chambers. Of course, that could not be so. He had bid goodnight to all members of the Balfour family, including Mr. and Mrs. Elias Compton.

  Could they finally be settling back into the way things were before Lady Elizabeth arrived?

  Byron hoped for the best but he could not help but sense that something was amiss—more so than usual that night despite the quiet.

  None of this is your concern. Carry on with your business, a small voice urged him and Byron forced his feet forward across the plush red runner of the corridor. He listened for any sign of life beyond the walls. As he reached the second set of stairs at the far end of the hall, he stopped again.

  Through his peripheral vision, he saw a flash of movement. Before he could fully turn, whatever it was had already disappeared.

  “Hello?” Byron called out in a muted voice. “Is anyone there?”

  His words were met with only more silence. Byron’s greying brows furrowed in confusion. He had been certain someone stood in the shadows but as he retraced his steps, there was nothing of alarm to be seen.

  I truly am too old for this shift, he grumbled to himself, again starting toward the stairs. He had wasted too much time on that floor and there was still the staff’s quarters to be checked.

  With quickening steps, he hurried along his route—only to be startled by a door slamming. Whipping about, his rheumy eyes widened and he gaped at the empty corridor. A shiver of fear raced down his spine.

  I have always known there were ghosts in this hotel, he thought, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. Now I have occasion to believe.

  “Hello?” he called again but now his voice was much lower, barely a croak. “Show yourself.”

  Nothing but silence. Byron decided he had had enough. Moving much faster than his brittle bones appreciated, he rushed to the staircase and began down the steps.

  A shadow flew toward him in the dark, the flickering of candlelight drawing closer and Byron froze in place.

  I am being haunted for my sins. I was a terrible son, Mother forgive me, he prayed, shutting his eyes as the figure closed the space between them. Please God, do not take me yet. I am not prepared to go!

  “Byron! What on God’s earth
are you doing standing there?”

  His bloodshot eyes sprang open and he exhaled with nervous relief as he recognized Joshua staring at him with surprise, a single candle on stick in his hand.

  “I was merely doing my rounds,” he explained quickly, feeling foolish about his fright.

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” the young waiter sighed. “I thought I was taking leave of my senses.”

  Byron peered at the boy curiously, heart still racing loudly in his chest.

  “Why is that?”

  “I thought I saw someone leave through the front doors but that cannot be. You have the key to secure the entrance, do you not?”

  “Yes, of course,” Byron answered quickly, trying to recall if he had locked the front door. He was certain he had. He was nothing if not thorough.

  The servants eyed one another until Joshua broke their uneasy gaze.

  “Look at us,” Joshua chuckled. “Frightening ourselves like small children. Is all well with the guests?”

  “Yes,” Byron replied quickly, brushing past the waiter toward his post in the lobby. Regardless of what he had told Joshua, he could not shake the feeling knotting his gut.

  These nights will be the death of me, he mused.

  As Byron stepped into the grand foyer of the hotel, he turned toward the front door to ensure it was secure. To his shock, he found it unlocked.

  It was locked. I am certain.

  Instinctively, he touched the pocket of his vest to feel for the keys. They were there. He chewed on his lower lip slowly, trying to make sense of who might have left.

  The only others who have keys would be the family. Perhaps Mr. Balfour had pressing business to attend this evening. I did hear a door close. Yes, that must be what happened.

  He willed himself to regain his composure, shamed at the idea he had let his imagination run amok. He did question what might call someone into the night so unexpectedly. Byron retreated to his post where he stayed, his back erect, his body unmoving, for the remainder of the night.

  When dawn broke and Mr. Charlton Balfour appeared in the lobby by way of the stairs, dread again consumed Byron. No one had come in during the night and Mr. Balfour was in the hotel.

  “Good morning, Byron. How was the night?” the proprietor asked.

  “Very good, sir,” Byron replied. There was certainly no reason to bring up the peculiar instance of the previous night, not when there was no evidence that anything had happened at all.

  “Will you send for a pot of tea before Matthew begins his time?” Charlton asked but before he could answer, the front doors opened with an authoritative gust of air.

  The owner of the hotel and concierge gaped at the stiffly dressed man standing on the threshold.

  A duchy guard, Byron thought. From which duchy, he could not be certain until the man strode forward and his crest became apparent.

  He is from Holden. Has he news of Lady Elizabeth?

  Byron’s stomach flipped uneasily and he had a terrible premonition of what was to come.

  “I am in search of Lady Elizabeth Balfour,” the guard stated, not an iota of warmth in his voice. “It is a matter of great urgency.”

  Byron looked nervously at his employer.

  “Lady Elizabeth is not here,” Charlton replied, stepping forward and saving Byron from a fumbling answer. “Who are you?”

  “I must speak with Lady Elizabeth at once,” the guard insisted.

  “Then I suggest you look elsewhere,” Charlton growled, spinning back toward his office rudely. “Byron, my tea.”

  Byron stood nervously, his eyes darting back toward the guard who lost some of his sternness, replaced by confusion.

  “I was told she had married one Mr. Xavier Balfour. Is this not the Balfour Hotel?”

  “It is,” Byron replied and Charlton stood nearby, pretending not to listen. “But I assure you, sir, Lady Elizabeth is not here. She…”

  He faltered, unsure of what else to say.

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake. She has abandoned the martial home. She has not been here in months. What is the meaning of this?” Charlton barked, his face flushing as his own gaze darting about. He seemed concerned that guests might take notice of this out-of-place man in the lobby.

  Shock colored the guard’s expression.

  “I-I was unaware of the circumstances,” the guard muttered, looking abashed. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  He turned to leave but not before Charlton called out again.

  “If she should happen to come about, what should I tell her?” the proprietor demanded. The guard paused. Byron read the uncertainty in his eyes.

  “This is news that should be delivered personally to Lady Elizabeth,” he insisted but Byron could see him relenting where he stood.

  “I am her father-in-law,” Charlton snapped. “Out with it before my patience expires entirely.”

  Slowly, the man turned back to look at Charlton.

  “Mr. Balfour, sir, it pains me very deeply to tell you this but the Duke of Holden has passed.”

  Byron’s eyes bugged slightly but he knew better than to gape upon hearing the news.

  “Passed? He has died?” Charlton demanded bluntly and through his peripheral vision, Byron thought he saw a glimmer of pleasure light Charlton’s face.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see. How did this occur?”

  The guardsman did not speak, apparently collecting his thoughts in proper order.

  “It appears to have been an accident,” he muttered but even Byron’s old ears caught doubt in his words.

  “Indeed,” Charlton muttered. Without hesitation, he turned away again. “I will relay the message if she should reappear. Good day.”

  Charlton then closed himself in his office, leaving the guard to bow awkwardly and continue on his way.

  When Byron was alone in the foyer, his mind began to spin. He thought of the strange activity the previous night and the unlocked front door.

  Could the Duke’s death be connected somehow?

  Byron forced the terrible thoughts from his mind and hurried toward the kitchen to fetch his employer’s tea.

  If Charlton Balfour had some hand in this matter, it was certainly no business of Byron’s. His loyalty was not to some duke he had never met. It was to the Balfours and their hotel.

  1

  Her mother turned up her nose in a deliberate fashion, scorn apparent on the woman’s face. While Lady Elenora Blackwell had yet to speak her mind openly, her expression spoke volumes. Lydia was quite aware that it was only a matter of seconds before her mother’s cutting words commenced.

  With a white gloved hand, Lady Blackwell ran her index finger along the sleek ivory of the piano and peered skeptically at it. From where Lydia stood, there was not a speck of dirt to be seen.

  “The manor is certainly not well kept, is it?” Lady Blackwell sighed, forcing her daughter to smother a groan of discontent. It was not as though Lydia hadn’t foreseen her mother’s critique but she had, perhaps naively, hoped for a pleasant visit. It was Elenora’s first since Lydia had returned to Pinehaven with her husband, the newly appointed Duke of Holden.

  “I have not had cause for complaint,” Lydia replied softly, not wishing to be contrary but she knew if she did not discourage her mother, the list of grievances would be endless.

  “Perhaps I did not raise you to be as proper as I had hoped,” Lady Blackwell sniffed, sliding through the parlor. “Or, perhaps your standards have been lowered significantly already.”

  “Mother, please,” Lydia begged. “These past months have been very trying for all involved. I would much rather we spend our time pleasantly.”

  The older woman cast her a dubious look.

  “Would you rather I act as though I am pleased that you have left Whittaker to come to this monstrosity?”

  “I would prefer that, yes, Mother,” Lydia replied honestly. “Most ladies in your position would be quite enamored with the notion that their daughter has become a d
uchess.”

  Lady Blackwell scoffed.

  “If they did not know the circumstances of how it had come to be,” Lydia’s mother conceded. “They might be elated for such a prestigious endowment. I, however, know better.”

  Lydia felt a smidgen of apprehension shiver through her.

  “I do not know what you mean, Mother,” she fibbed. “You know precisely how I came to be here.”

  Lady Blackwell scowled angrily.

  “I will not fall victim to your plaintiveness, Lydia. You know from where my fears stem. Where is the dowager duchess? She has not stepped foot in Holden since the death of her husband from what I have heard.”

  “Mother, you should not pay mind to active gossip. I daresay that is advice you have given me on many occasions.”

  “This is not merely gossip and you know it well!”

  Lydia could read the indignation on Lady Blackwell’s face and she instantly regretted her words. Her intention had not been to further incense her mother but to ease her mind.

  Alas, I should have realized that there is no reasoning with a suspicious mind.

  “Mother, you must forsake this idea that the late duke’s demise was anything but an unfortunate accident.”

  “An accident!” The contempt in the lady’s voice was familiar.

  “Mother, please!” Lydia begged her. “I do not wish to recount the sordid details of the late duke’s passing. The matter still deeply troubles James.”

  “I would imagine so. His mother is likely responsible for what occurred.”

  “Mother!” Lydia snapped, her fair complexion waning as she looked covertly around to see if the servants were nearby. She did not wish for them to discuss Lady Blackwell’s theory to her husband.

  Not that it is a new one. The duchy has been alight with rumors and innuendo since the duke passed. The consensus is that the dowager duchess somehow had a hand in her husband’s death.