Chapter 1

“You have to help him, Julian.” Hyperia West put her plea to me quietly. “John Tait is one of my oldest friends, and he can’t ask anybody else for this sort of assistance.”

We strolled along Caldicott Hall’s lime alley, the ground beneath our boots dotted with golden leaves. The time of year was sweet, also sad—my only surviving brother was soon to take ship for an extended tour of the Continent. The closer the date of Arthur’s departure came, the more melancholy my mood grew.

“The estimable Mr. Tait is not, in fact, asking me to aid him,” I replied. “You are putting his case to me in his stead.”

At first glance, Hyperia West was an unremarkable specimen. A trifle too abundantly curved for current fashion, shortish stature, medium brown hair, and a bit long in the tooth by Mayfair’s matchmaking standards.

I nonetheless loved her dearly, and if I did take an interest in John Tait’s situation, I’d do so because Hyperia expected it of me, rather than out of noble generosity on my part.

“John has his pride,” she said. “I assured him he could trust your discretion.”

If so, he’d be trusting the discretion of a former officer whom most of Society regarded as a traitor. “What is the urgency, Hyperia? You tell me Tait’s wife has been missing for some time. Why does her husband wait until now to investigate her fate?”

We walked along in the afternoon sunshine, leaves crunching underfoot, a gentle breeze riffling the lush autumn grass.

“I suspect John is finally ready to move forward,” Hyperia said. “Some of his habitual sorrow has left him. He blames himself for Evelyn’s departure, and the guilt has been a heavy burden. I sense he’s focused more on the future lately and less on the past.

As was I, oddly enough. “How long have you known him?”

“Since childhood. Our mamas were old friends. His mama is my godmother. You know how that works.”

My own godmother, Lady Ophelia Oliphant, was a frequent guest at Caldicott Hall. Godmama was a terror when it came to Society’s secrets and foibles, and she could be blunt to a fault when dispensing her opinions. She also served as Hyperia’s nominal chaperone, and thus I rubbed along with Godmama as best I could.

I dreaded the day when I had Caldicott Hall to myself, if such a thing could be said about an edifice with sixty rooms abovestairs and staff sufficient to keep them all dusted.

“I will discuss the matter with Tait,” I said. “I’m not promising I can find his errant wife, but I’ll hear what he has to say. I assume he’s petitioning the courts to have his wife declared dead?”

“I don’t know as she’s been gone long enough, Jules. That aside, litigation is expensive, and the courts drag their feet for years. John is almost certain that Evelyn met an untimely death. He believes she would have written, if not come home, if she’d been able to. They were very much in love, but two strong personalities can clash, especially two strong, proud personalities.”

Despite my low spirits, questions began to swirl in my mind: Had Evelyn left a note? What had she and her spouse quarreled about if a spat had precipitated her flight? Where had John Tait searched for her? Where else might she have found a safe refuge? Did she speak any foreign languages? How much coin had she taken with her?

Had Tait murdered his wife, and was he only now going through the farce of investigating her disappearance because incriminating evidence was no longer a worry?

As a former reconnaissance officer, I had a penchant for assembling observable facts into theories. Why was the priest the only stout person in a poor Spanish village? Was he perhaps augmenting his meager income by informing against his parishioners? Why did a woman who claimed to be illiterate have pencil, paper, and a radical pamphlet in her reticule?

Those sorts of observations.

Since coming home after the Battle of Waterloo the previous year, I’d turned my investigative abilities to discreetly solving the problems that vexed polite society. A missing heir, a missing prize hound, the provenance of a small boy—my own nephew, as it happened—left to fend for himself in a disobliging world...

I wasn’t defeating the French Army single-handedly, but I was fighting a war of my own against gossip and slander. Contrary to the gossip, I had not betrayed my country, my command, or my late brother, Harry. I refused to oblige malicious whisperers by fading from Society when there were puzzles to be solved.

Then too, I enjoyed the challenge of ferreting out truths that malefactors preferred to keep hidden.

“So I’m to find proof that Evelyn Tait has been gathered to her reward, preferably by natural causes?” I asked.

“Or find Evelyn Tait.”

I paused to regard Caldicott Hall, sitting on its slight rise on the opposite bank of the creek. My boyhood home was aging well, and yet, its simple, Palladian dignity looked lonely in the mellow afternoon light.

Which was utter rot, of course. “How long has Evelyn been gone?”

“Five years.”

I was a competent tracker. Had the lady been gone five days, I’d have had some cause for optimism. “Five years, Perry? I will hear what Tait has to say, but I make no promises.”

“Thank you, Jules.” Hyperia bussed my cheek and set off in the direction of the Hall.

I followed, though I wanted to tell her not to kiss me like that—no warning, no time to savor the pleasure—but then she might decide not to kiss me at all, so I kept my remonstrations to myself.

“Why the forced march back to camp?” I asked, catching up with her easily. “You haven’t given me the Town gossip, and I haven’t told you all about Arthur’s latest plans.”

“Arthur changes his itinerary as often as I change my gloves. I vow I will be relieved when he and Banter take ship. Lady Ophelia says the same.”

I would not be relieved. Not at all. I had some good memories of my time in uniform. My older brother Harry and I had frequently crossed paths, and because we’d both been reconnaissance officers, we’d had plenty in common besides the usual sibling connections. On the whole, though, my time on the Continent had been grueling and lonely, even before I’d fallen into French hands.

“Lady Ophelia will follow Arthur and Banter to Paris in a few weeks,” I said. “Or, that’s the plan. They will send George home with her.” George being Banter’s young godson. “Will you travel with her?”

“I might. Probably not. You?”

“If I never set foot in France again, it will be too soon.”

Her steps slowed. “You are doing better, Jules. You seem to gain ground with every investigation you take on.”

She was right—I was improving—but I still needed my blue-tinted spectacles in strong sunlight, I still had nightmares, I still lacked the stamina I’d had in uniform, and I was still prone to low moods and fretfulness.

“I doubt I can do much for your friend Mr. Tait,” I said as we crossed the arched stone bridge that was rumored to date from Roman days.

“People don’t just disappear, Jules. If Evelyn is alive, I know you’ll find her.”

People did disappear. They sailed to the Antipodes. They expired in obscure locations. They changed their names and nationalities in an afternoon and were never heard from again. I’d done plenty of disappearing on reconnaissance in Spain and France, though those experiences ought to aid me in locating Mrs. Tait.

I stopped halfway across the bridge. “Whose coach and four is that?”

“John’s. I told him to pay a friendly call. Arthur is the ranking title in the neighborhood, and His Grace is preparing to go on extended travel.”

Arthur, also styled His Grace of Waltham, was one of the leading titles in all of Britain. “Perry… if I’d declined to involve myself in what is very likely a hopeless case, the situation would have been awkward.”

“But you didn’t decline, did you?”

“I still might.”

Except that I wouldn’t. Not as long as Hyperia West had put the request to me.

Mr. John Tait had climbed down from his coach. He stood at the foot of the terrace steps, his attire that of the country gentleman whose Bond Street accounts were quite current.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and possessed of wavy dark hair and a pair of limpid blue eyes.

“My darling Hyperia.” He took both of her hands and bowed, which should have looked ridiculous, but on him it appeared charming. “You truly do grow more lovely every time I see you. John Tait, my lord, at your service.”

Forward of him, to introduce himself when Hyperia was on hand to see to the courtesies.

I bowed. “Lord Julian Caldicott. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I was lying. John Tait was so robust and hearty, so genial and composed, that I resented him on sight. He was what I had once been—an exuberantly masculine blend of innocence and arrogance. I would find his missing wife if she yet drew breath, because Hyperia had asked it of me. Also because this handsome bounder had no business putting on bachelor airs when he was, in fact, no sort of bachelor at all.

Assuming, of course, the lady wanted to be found.

* * *

“I loved Evelyn,” Tait said, his soulful gaze roaming between me and Hyperia. “I still love her, but she’s become a shade, and life is for the living. As I’ve grown older, I’ve felt a greater need to know the truth. I hoped she’d return—for years, I’ve hoped—and now… How can a mere mortal man subsist on hope alone, my lord?”

Tait was subsisting on excellent tucker, fine tailoring, and at least five thousand pounds a year, based on available evidence. The signet ring on his smallest finger was gold and matched his ornately figured cravat pin. He had good taste—to concede the obvious—but his version of subsisting would be the envy of most.

“Nobody judges you, John,” Hyperia said. “Julian might well find that Evelyn is happily dwelling in a bigamous relationship with a Dover sea captain. For you to face that prospect takes significant courage.”

Tait gazed manfully into his tea cup. “As long as she’s happy, I could bear that. I’d even pursue an annulment, if she asked me to. Evvie is still a young woman, if she’s extant. I’m not exactly doddering myself.” He aimed a beamish smile at Hyperia, which she graciously returned.

I swirled my tea and considered accidentally spilling it on Tait’s skintight chamois breeches.

“Oh, there you are!” Lady Ophelia, occasionally doting and more often vexatious godmother-at-large, paused in the parlor doorway. She had a gift for making entrances, and one ignored her at one’s peril. “You young people have no sense. On a day this glorious, you should be taking tea on the terrace. John Tait, the last time I saw you, you were just down from university. You may make your bow and then tell me all the best gossip.”

She swanned over to our guest, who—like me—had risen at her arrival, and proffered her hand. Tait did the pretty damnably well, and then her ladyship was accepting a cup of tea from Hyperia and directing the gents to resume their seats.

She inquired after Tait’s sisters and declared him to be a naughty fellow for playing least in sight for so long. Town was always in want of handsome swains who could stay sober long enough to dance an entire quadrille. And really, if everybody took to hibernation as dear Julian had, London would be a dull place indeed.

“I have come out of hibernation,” I said. “Be fair.”

Lady Ophelia twinkled at me. She was a willowy blonde, aging splendidly despite being twice widowed. To the casual observer, she was just another chattering specimen of a beautiful, vain, and largely pointless Society.

On closer inspection, she had a nigh infallible memory, grasped human nature with a connoisseur’s expertise, and knew the origins and denouement of every scandal in the last half century.

Some of which, she’d instigated. The Regent took care to remain in her ladyship’s good books, and on my better days, I did too.

“My darling boy,” she began, “venturing down the carriageway with Hyperia in broad daylight is hardly resuming the social whirl, though it’s true you no longer strictly qualify as a recluse. When His Grace is absent, you will be expected to entertain in his stead. I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you, but how much more pleasant to catch up with old friends.” She sparkled in Tait’s direction, then swiveled her gaze to Hyperia.

“My dear, I simply must steal you for a moment or two. We’re hosting company for Sunday supper, and the menu… Mrs. Gwinnett tries, I know, but you have such a way with a delicate conversation, and I’m afraid His Grace will take ship early if we inflict eight full courses on Vicar in the middle of the day.” She rose and left Hyperia no choice but to attempt to speak peace unto the kitchen.

The ladies departed, and Tait held out the plate of tea cakes to me. “Hyperia is such a treasure. She insisted I speak with you about Evelyn’s situation, or my situation. Our situation.”

I shook my head, and Tait helped himself to three cakes.

“While we have some privacy,” I said, “I should arrange for a lengthy conversation with you where we will not have an audience.”

“Hyperia and I have no secrets.” He popped an iced cake into his mouth. “We’re old friends. Our mothers are old friends. Our grandmothers were old friends on back to the Flood. You know how it is among gentry who prefer to ruralize.”

“Nonetheless, I will call upon you tomorrow for a private interview. Between then and now, please consider that ignorance of your wife’s situation might well be preferable to the truth.”

“The dashing-sea-captain sort of truth?”

I had been to war. Tait had not. I had been taken prisoner by the French and subjected to horrors that had for a time parted me from my reason. My capacity for imaginatively peering into abysses of human depravity doubtless exceeded Tait’s on his gloomiest day.

“What if she caught a packet for the Low Countries, Tait, and was sold into bondage fifteen minutes after reaching her destination? What if she’s dying of consumption in a London brothel? What if she’s borne three children to another man and will swear that you tried repeatedly to kill her if you ask her to leave that man? What if she has lost her reason?”

Tait considered his second tea cake. “One hears you did not fare well in uniform, my lord. I understand that you mean me no insult. You are parsing hypothetical conjectures, each one more alarming than the last. I have considered them all and well know that Evelyn remains my legal responsibility, regardless of her situation. I married her because I esteemed her deeply and held her in great affection. I will soon reach the thirtieth year of my age. The time has come to face the truth, whatever that truth may be.”

Birthdays could provoke introspection, and yet, I suspected Tait had some other reason for this sudden bout of connubial courage. An inheritance, perhaps, that could not come to him until his wife was declared dead. I would investigate that theory, but not when the ladies were due to return any minute, possibly with Arthur in tow.

“Very well, the truth wherever it may lead,” I said, “and you should know that when I investigate a situation, I do so discreetly. I will not confer with Hyperia or His Grace or Vicar, for that matter, unless I believe they have relevant evidence to share.”

“My secrets are safe with you?”

If I didn’t plant this poseur a facer before I found his wife, I would deserve at least a long afternoon shopping at Hatchards.

“Secrets are a burden on the soul, Tait. To know somebody else’s intimate business is far from enjoyable.” I was privy to secrets—Arthur’s, some of our late brother Harry’s, and a few picked up along the way when snooping on behalf of His Majesty’s loyal forces. Secrets and confidences weighed on the soul, and before Evelyn Tait’s whereabouts were known, her husband might learn that lesson too.

“You are reluctant to pry,” Tait said, “and you don’t tell tales. I understand such delicacy and appreciate it, particularly when Hyperia West’s opinion of me matters. If the issue you’re dancing around is compensation, my lord, then let’s not mince words. I am prepared to pay handsomely to learn of my wife’s fate.”

Oh, for pity’s sake.“We will not discuss money, Tait. We will discuss much else, but not that.”

He sighed and munched the second tea cake into oblivion. “If you want to know my every fling and flirtation, I can list them, but I hardly see what that ancient history has to do with Evelyn storming off in high dudgeon.”

For the first time in days, I felt a hint of pleasure. “Every unmarried woman with whom you exuberantly flung or flirted had a motive to do away with your wife, particularly if you got the unfortunate lady with child.”

Before Tait could remonstrate with me over that logic—and I was applying nothing save pure reason—the ladies rejoined us. Lady Ophelia invited Tait to join us for Sunday supper, a bit of meddling I could have done without.

When our guest finally rose to take his leave—such a pity, the duke was still out—I noticed that Tait departed without eating the third tea cake.

Good, if that meant I’d given him something more serious to chew on.

“Julian,” Lady Ophelia said as we watched Tait’s chestnuts with matching white socks trotting down the drive. “I do not care for that man. I have my suspicions where he and Hyperia are concerned. Ancient history, but he bears watching.”

My mood took another turn for the worse. “He trifled with Perry?” My darling Perry, who’d left us in the foyer after offering Tait a farewell kiss on the cheek? That Perry?

“They might have trifled with each other. Hyperia is the soul of discretion. This would have been years ago, after Evelyn’s departure and while you were… away.”

At war, losing my mind and my reputation. Splendid. “Might you do me a favor, my lady?”

Lady Ophelia took my arm and steered me back into the house. “If this favor involves seducing Tait, no. My seducing days are behind me, and he presents no challenge in any case. One must have standards even in one’s trivial amusements.”

“All of St. James’s will mourn your retirement into propriety. I want to know with whom Tait flirted and cavorted when Evelyn was on hand. I’d ask Hyperia, but your knowledge will be more comprehensive.”

She stopped at the foot of the grand staircase. “I won’t protect him, you mean?”

“That too.” I was enlisting Lady Ophelia’s assistance at the first opportunity, which slightly contravened my assurances of discretion. Slightly. Somewhat. But she wasn’t Arthur, Hyperia, or Vicar.

“Has it occurred to you, my boy, that Tait might well have done his wife an injury, and when the wound proved fatal, he buried her beneath the roses by dark of night? These things happen, you know.”

“My lady has been reading lurid novels again.”

She patted my arm. “I read the Society pages and the financial pages, which are lurid enough. You will be careful, Julian?”

In my foul mood, I should have resented her question, but she apparently grasped what Hyperia did not. The investigation could grow dangerous—for me, for Tait, or for Evelyn, if she yet lived.

“I will be exceedingly cautious. I’d leave Tait to his uncertain fate, but Hyperia asked me to take a hand in matters.”

“She might regret that request ere long, Julian.”

As it happened, we both did. Bitterly.