“Thanks!”
She grinned her big, toothy American smile and took a booth by the back, even as she contemplated whether she really wanted to stay. The outing was Nicola’s brainchild as the innkeeper had grown weary of watching “forlorn tourists sit by the fire gnawing on biscuits and old straws.”
According to Nicola, the George & Dragon was the best pub in town. It was also the only pub in town and “filled with a bunch of old goats most days of the week,” but they had palatable food and plenty of pints for desolate American travelers. It would do for the likes of her.
Once seated, Annie glanced around. The pub’s diners did indeed include a distribution of grizzly souls, plus a family trying to control their toddler son to no success. Annie ordered tea plus a bacon and brie with cranberry. She told the waiter to take his time.
As the man walked away, Annie reached into her bag and pulled out the book. She turned to the spot where she’d left off earlier that morning when she stole a few pages while Laurel showered. It was marked with a photograph of Eric, which she pressed against her chest before reading on.
What happened to the duchess? What happened to the woman who dated kings and princes and statesmen? In 1934, the duchess left her castle as well as society and the very foundation of her existence. Or, as friends and family would tell it, Gladys Deacon vanished into the pink horizon.
“Pardon me,” said a voice.
A man appeared beside her. Annie had noticed him when she first walked in. Most of the pub’s customers were short, molelike, with Rudolph the Reindeer noses and exaggerated, furry ears. But this guy was tall, tanned, and had a thick mass of wavy white hair. He looked like an aging film star, the other patrons his background players.
“That book,” he said, without introduction. “Where’d you get it?”
“Oh.” She paused. “A local bookstore?”
The words were out of Annie’s mouth before she could question why she said them. What was it about The Missing Duchess that made people want to lie?
“Trudy’s place?” he asked. “She had a copy?”
“Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
She glanced away, hoping he wouldn’t think to verify her story with this Trudy person. The man continued to stand there and so Annie returned her eyes to the page.
As reports would go, the duchess left Blenheim Palace at dawn, taking her innumerable belongings as well as her title. All her possessions, loaded onto lorries, destination unknown.
People inquired after her, and how could they not? Gladys Deacon’s visage was so superior, her looks so fabled, John Singer Sargent refused to paint her portrait for fear of not possessing the talent to properly capture her beauty.
“The duchess.” The man tapped her book. “She used to live in this town. As the legend goes.”
“So I’ve gathered,” Annie replied without looking up. “Though I haven’t made much progress. No spoilers please.”
“Is it good? The book?”
“Like I said, early innings, but it’s okay so far. The author tends to digress though.”
“Well, the guy was a hack. Only thing he ever published.”
“The book is swell,” she said, vigorously keeping her gaze down. “I was kidding.”
Go away, you old geezer, she thought, though did not mean it. Truth be told, it was nice to have company, to hear another person’s voice.
“Why’d it catch your eye?” he asked. “At Trudy’s?”
Annie studied the cover. It was blue, textured, and plain, the original jacket long since gone. Why would it catch her eye? It’d not stand out in a library of two.
“I was, uh, already apprised of the Duchess of Marlborough,” she said. “Seemed like an interesting subject. I hadn’t run into the book before.”
“I think there are approximately three people on planet earth who’ve run into the book before.”
“So she wasn’t a hot topic in town?”
“Oh, she was a ‘hot topic,’ all right. Imagine a woman, a rumored duchess, with spooky blue eyes who ran round Banbury helter-skelter, shooting guns and shouting obscenities. People bolted in the opposite direction whenever they saw her.”
“Sounds like a reasonable reaction, given the firearms.”
“Well, you do have to pay attention to the crazy ones.” He tapped his forehead. “Either they’re dangerous or the exact kind of people you want to know.”
“Why would you want to know them?” Annie asked, finding herself amused.
She slipped Eric’s photo back between the pages and closed the book.
“Because, young lady,” he said. “The dens of the mad often hold the greatest riches.”
“Um, okay.”
She laughed nervously. Though he was charming and older-man handsome, Annie couldn’t help but wonder which den of madness this guy might’ve crawled out from.