Chapter 4

“That’s the list,” Tait said, passing over a piece of foolscap with a half-dozen names on it. “As best I recall. I was raised in a household of mostly women—two sisters, an auntie, my mama. Papa and I were allies while he was extant, but I learned to be agreeable to the fairer sex from a young age.”

So had I, but if I’d had to list the ladies who could claim I’d toyed with their affections… Hyperia alone might qualify, and she had forgiven me my presumptions.

“A few details, please,” I said, moving two feet to the right to take advantage of the shade available in Tait’s gazebo. We were in that time of year when mornings and evenings could be nippy, but midafternoon still carried some warmth. I needed my spectacles because even winter sunshine could be too bright for my eyes, and the worst torment of all was sunshine on fresh snow.

“The vicar’s cousin,” Tait began, “Miss Sally Brown, is the first on the list.” He rose and leaned against one of the gazebo’s support posts, making himself a portrait of handsome melancholy. He’d asked that this interview be out of doors for privacy, and the octagonal fancy on the rise behind the garden had seemed an ideal location.

“Sally was far from home,” he went on, “and sent south in something like disgrace. We were comrades in naughtiness and resentment, nothing more. Between the vicar’s vigilance and summer being a busy time generally, I never managed any serious sinning with her. She went back north with a fond wave and a smile.”

Plausible. “Amanda Goodenough?”

“A spinster who dwelled in our village at the time. She has since married some squire or other over in Kent. Pretty, sweet, in need of some flirtation. We took long walks by the river, and she listened to me whine about Evvie’s many shortcomings. We kissed a few times, and I was willing, but she… deserved better and knew it.”

Every woman deserved better than to be a spoiled young husband’s crying towel. “Davida Hearst?”

“Lively.” Tait gave a mock shudder. “We crossed paths at a house party near Portsmouth, and she turned up at several other gatherings thereafter, by design I suspect. I literally found her in my bed, and… I did not acquit myself as a gentleman, my lord. She did not acquit herself as a lady either. Evvie got wind of it. She went quiet on me for three months, and they were the longest three months of my life.”

“And what became of Miss Hearst?”

“Mrs. Hearst. She was a widow. She took up with some French comte and was living on the Continent, last I heard. She’s a comtesse now. She’d fit in well there. The French are more blasé about extramarital adventures.”

The French might be surprised to learn that. “Mrs. Emelia Probinger?” I’d met the lady. She was a military widow, self-possessed, nobody’s fool, and inclined to enjoy a widow’s privileges, though never with me.

“Emmy… She led me a dance, my lord. Sampled my charms a few times and found me wanting, as was her right. We are cordial if we end up at the same quarterly assembly. She refused to hear a word against Evvie, and I think it was Evvie’s unhappiness that eventually cost me the association.”

The back of Tait’s neck grew pinkish.

His recitation was consistent with what I knew of Mrs. Probinger. She was no prude, but neither was she a predator. One frolicked, one did not poach. A husband might be unfaithful to his wife, but never disloyal. If Tait had mentioned a single disparaging word about Evelyn, Mrs. P—whose own marriage had weathered a few storms—would have dropped him flat.

“Pamela Walters?”

Tait resumed the bench across from mine. “Five Seasons, no offers. She was past all discretion as five-and-twenty breathed down her neck. I think she was angling to get sent to her auntie in Paris, and she eventually succeeded with my assistance. We were seen canoodling among the biographies at the lending library. I have not set foot in that establishment since.”

Of all places to risk being interrupted… Apparently, both parties had been past all discretion. “And finally, Dorothea Smith.”

“She was bored while her husband was frolicking up in Town. They were leasing the Claridge estate for three years, and I gather Mr. Smith used the place mostly to stash his wife when he sought surcease from her company. She used me to while away the occasional afternoon, nothing more.”

The list was unremarkable in one sense. Petty affairs born out of fleeting attraction, opportunity, and venal self-interest, but the list was also… pathetic. None of these women had been smitten with Tait. None of them had found much about him worth lasting attachment.

“Two of the ladies went on to marry happily,” I noted, “one returned north without violating any commandments with you, one sent you packing, and another left the area for livelier surrounds. Were any of these women on hand when Evvie went missing?”

“Amanda had left about two months previous. Mrs. Probinger, yes, and though she was gone for a time, she’s back among us. The rest, no.”

I considered the list. I would waste a lot of time verifying Tait’s comments, or I could call his bet and save myself a lot of effort.

“Either you are trying to distract me with irrelevant information, or you are growing forgetful in your dotage, Tait. Tell me about the domestics.”

The gallant squire sent me a petulant scowl. “I don’t force myself on anybody.”

I was in the presence of rank stupidity, and yet, Hyperia called this man her friend. Her dear friend. “You gave the ladies you employed to understand that you would be receptive to their offers. No woman in service courts the loss of her post and her reputation without some encouragement, Tait. Without a lot of encouragement.”

“My great lapses with the staff amounted to dallying with a pair of undermaids. One after the other, not at the same time. Evvie was being particularly… stubborn, and I was feeling neglected. I was an idiot. We need not debate the point. The first woman knew what she was about and agreed to leave without a fuss when Evvie confronted her. Demanded a good character and severance and told Evvie I wasn’t worth putting any woman’s nose out of joint. The second was simply stubbornness on my part. I wanted to prove to Evvie that I could tempt younger, prettier women.”

Tait stared past me at the edifice he called home. “I look back on myself then,” he went on, “and I want to puke. I don’t blame Evvie for leaving. We were so young and so… overwrought about nothing. I was unworthy of her affection, and she was unforgiving of the smallest slight. If one could drink away shame, I’d be awash in a sea of brandy and regret.”

The words were sincere enough, and yet, I suspected Tait was still lying. “You have produced evidence that suggests none of your amours had the opportunity or motive to see Evelyn harmed. That is reassuring and makes searching for her—or her remains—simpler. How much money did she take with her?”

Tait rubbed a hand across his forehead, the personification of world-weary ennui. “Interesting question, and I am not sure how to respond. Evvie had generous pin money, and I suspect she hoarded half of it. Five years of domestic economizing might have made for a sizable nest egg.”

And that nest egg would have been in cash and coins. “Were you inclined to seek forgiveness for your peccadilloes with gifts of jewelry?”

Tait’s smile was wan rather than charming. “Aren’t we all?”

Some of us tried offering sincere apologies followed by reformed behavior. “She took her jewelry box?”

He nodded. “Left behind silks, embroidered dancing slippers, every letter I’d sent her, the poem I’d written commemorating our betrothal… Took her grandmama’s pearls, coin meant to maintain our home, and her sewing basket. How can you live with somebody for years, love them to the best of your bumbling ability, and know them so little?” Real bewilderment, and possibly a trace of humility, colored his words.

“You’ve had time to ponder that question.”

“I’ve read her diaries,” he said, sitting back and resting an arm along the top of the bench. “Or tried to. They are heavy going, my lord. Evvie wasn’t merely hurt. She was enraged, devastated, furious, in the sense of the Furies of old. I became the symbol of her childlessness, her endless sense of inferiority to her sisters, her resentment of her own gender—Papa Hasborough had no sons, you know. The Bard was right about a woman scorned.”

“The line isn’t Shakespeare’s,” I said. “The sentiment comes from old William Congreve, ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’ From The Mourning Bride, which is a tragedy, if I recall aright. Can you estimate the value of the jewels and coin Evelyn took with her?”

“The coin might have amounted to several hundred pounds, my lord. Her pin money was ample, this is a sizable household, and she ran it most efficiently. She liked to brag to her sisters about that pin money. The jewels…” He rose and stretched. “Nothing all that precious. Evvie was fond of semiprecious stones. Amethyst, jade, turquoise, opal, peridot, lapis lazuli… They went well with her fair coloring, and she took good care of them. Gold settings, of course, given that she was blond—is blond.”

He left the gazebo, and I followed him down the steps.

“Some days,” he went on, “I talk about her in the past tense—she was blond. Other days, she’s present tense—she is a difficult wife. Tell me which to use, my lord, for I genuinely don’t know what is appropriate.”

I was mentally sketching a picture of two young people, both spoiled, both canny enough to be at bottom, insecure. Doting sisters or a fawning mother were not indicative of reliable affection from the world at large. A week socializing in Mayfair, watching far more wealthy and attractive people wield far more power, would have brought that lesson home to them both.

They’d married a bit desperately, while pretending their match was splendid from every perspective, and then no children, no grand entertainments, no passionate connubial romance… just crops planted and harvested, quarterly assemblies, and village gossip, while the rest of the Hasborough sisters married real money, and Evelyn began to hoard her pin money.

“Do you have an inventory of the jewelry?” I asked as we strolled in the direction of Tait’s home.

“I should, for insurance purposes, but I never put in a claim, of course. A wife cannot steal her own baubles. Never wrote Evvie’s obituary. Never gave her clothes to charity. Evvie is having her revenge, does she but know it.”

“Find me the inventory, if you please, and a copy of any document that disposes of Evelyn’s estate.”

“A wife doesn’t have an estate.”

Some wives did. My wife certainly would, were I ever so fortunate as to have one. “What happens to her widow’s portion if she dies before you do?”

Tait halted at the bottom of the steps that led into the weedy garden. “I’m not sure. That’s a question I promise myself I’ll research, but then neglect to follow up on. I think, in the absence of children, my family’s contribution comes back to me with any interest accrued, and the Hasborough contribution is divided between Evvie’s sisters.”

Who apparently had all married well and did not need the money. “Have a look at the settlements and find us a definitive answer,” I said. “I’d also like to examine Evelyn’s diaries.”

Tait trotted up the steps into the garden proper. “Those are personal, my lord.”

“Precisely, and yet, she left them behind. If she wished for you to find her, perhaps without admitting that even to herself, then the clues to her destination are most likely in those diaries.”

He stopped, opened his mouth, shut it, and resumed walking. “Oh, very well, but you mustn’t say a word about this to Hyperia. She thinks I’m a fine fellow, and I’d like to keep her opinion of me in good repair.”

“I have promised you discretion, Tait. Question my assurances again, and we shall have words.”

He guffawed, though I’d meant the warning in earnest.

* * *

The pretty housekeeper showed me to Evelyn Tait’s apartment, then hovered by the door as I stood in the middle of a celadon, cream, and pink sitting room. The color scheme was old-fashioned and feminine, while the appointments were more sturdy than elegant. Culled from the lumber rooms, perhaps.

“I’m told Mrs. Tait liked the view of the village,” the housekeeper said. “The church spire gleaming white above the maples, the creek winding along the thoroughfare. A peaceful scene.”

Tait had referred to the woman only in generic address. My housekeeper will show you to Evelyn’s rooms.

I cracked a window, which took some effort. “You are Mrs.…?”

“Ames, my lord. Agatha Ames.” She turned a stoic eye on an arrangement of hydrangeas gone brown with age and on cobwebs gathering at the corners of the windows.

“Your tenure and Mrs. Tait’s did not overlap?” The carpet was overdue for a beating. The mantel was dusty. The globes of the modest chandelier still held a half-dozen white candles, but the glasses themselves were in want of cleaning.

“I’ve been at my post about a year, my lord, since last year’s Bartholomew’s Fair. The footmen recall Mrs. Tait with respect and affection. They say she wasn’t too high in the instep and always paid on time. Didn’t begrudge a fellow a longish half day and always sent them home to see family in summer.”

A lovely testament to domestic tranquility, and yet, even as a new bride, Evelyn had had her own apartment. That vanity was indulged in most frequently by wealthier couples.

“Where might I find her diaries?”

“Through here.”

The bedroom had even more of a neglected-museum-display quality, the bed hangings fading in irregular swatches from purple to pink, the folding mirror over the vanity dusty and speckled.

“I’ve told Mr. Tait we need to take these rooms in hand,” Mrs. Ames said. “He won’t hear of it. Won’t allow us to put away the bed hangings, though they’re already ruined. Won’t see the carpets taken up, or even permit me to do a thorough dusting. I will close the window you opened because we’re not allowed to air the apartment either.”

Interesting. “Why not?”

She drew a swirl in the dust on the vanity. “He comes up to these rooms late at night. We hear his footsteps. The boot-boy thought it was a ghost the first time he heard somebody moving around in here, but ghosts don’t leave footprints in the dust that exactly match the soles of Mr. Tait’s boots. I had to show the lad that the sizes were precisely the same.”

Either Tait was consumed by guilt, or he honestly missed his wife. “The dressing closets connect her apartment to his?”

“Yes, my lord. I put Mrs. Tait’s clothes in the cedar chests, and I didn’t ask permission to do that. I haven’t been reprimanded for it either. I moved the diaries into a drawer of the escritoire, which so far has kept them from the mice.” The word mice received an emphasis worthy of a reference to the Corsican Monster.

“Then you do look in on these rooms from time to time?”

“I’m the housekeeper. I’m supposed to keep the house, but he insists… I’m sorry. I ought not to criticize my betters. If Mr. Tait treasures his wife’s memory, then he shouldn’t let these rooms fall into ruin. I dust the portrait out of common decency, and he hasn’t objected to that, or maybe he hasn’t noticed.”

Mrs. Tait’s likeness occupied the usual place of honor above the bedroom mantel. Afternoon sun illuminated a young lady with classic Saxon coloring—flaxen hair, blue eyes, fair complexion—and a subtle smile. She wore a heavy pearl choker—her grandmother’s, perhaps—from which the usual demure blue and white cameo descended. Her earrings were more pearls, as was the bracelet about her wrist. More strands of pearls had been draped about her neck.

Tait had liked her willingness to overdo the jewelry, or recalled it fondly in hindsight.

Her dress was a billowy azure affair depicted as having the same luminous quality as the pearls, and her décolletage was more daring than a debutante would risk, and yet befitting of a young matron in the first flush of her marital dignities.

Despite all the finery, the word that came to mind as I beheld the errant Mrs. Tait was plain. One could not accuse her of an oversized nose or prominent ears, nor had she crossed eyes or a pronounced jaw. She was simply… unremarkable. With appropriate attention to fashion, she might be said to approach handsomeness, but her gaze lacked warmth.

Evelyn Tait, even in jewels and satins, looked sturdy, plain, and well aware of her limitations.

Mrs. Ames extracted a trio of bound volumes from a lockable drawer of the escritoire. “She always strikes me as a woman in waiting. As if the sittings for her portrait can’t be over soon enough, but until they are, she will endure the boredom and tedium required of her.”

A housekeeper’s lot could be tedious in the extreme. “I’m told Evelyn Tait envied her sisters.”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord. We can’t all be beauties or marry princes. Wherever Mrs. Tait is, I hope she’s well and happy.”

“As do I. You need not keep me company. I’ll nose about a bit more and then be on my way. Has my tiger made a pest of himself?”

“Not at all, my lord. We’re always happy to pause in our labors to pass the time with a neighbor. Somebody put the manners on that boy, and Cook says he has a splendid appetite.”

Good work, Atticus.“Growing boys and all that. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ames, and I will close the window, so you needn’t bother.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She curtseyed and withdrew, and I closed and locked the door behind her. I would take the diaries with me. Better for the housekeeper if she was unaware of that plan. I closed the parlor window lest I forget, though the stale air in the bedroom offended me on Mrs. Ames’s behalf.

The dressing closet was cedar paneled. Opening the door at the far end presented me with a mirror-image chamber redolent of bay rum. John Tait’s dressing closet was full of gentleman’s attire, tall boots, hat boxes, and the like. I closed that door and did the usual tapping on the wainscoting and testing along the walls.

I found no hidden compartments, no loose floorboards, nothing to suggest another set of diaries, a hidden cache of letters from a doting swain, or a stash of lover’s tokens, more’s the pity. The ideal outcome, from my perspective, had Evelyn eloping with a devoted swain and welcoming the prospect of an annulment. Tait could tell all and sundry his wife had been declared dead, and clothe himself in a widower’s honors rather than a cuckold’s shame.

Such fictions contributed to the peace of many a village, and I respected them for their pragmatic kindness.

I made a final inspection of the only space Evelyn had been able to call her own in the entire rambling manor house and did a quick sketch of the portrait over the mantel. The impatience Mrs. Ames had alluded to didn’t come through to me, but I saw no joy either. No sparkle, no mischief.

No hint that despite her majestic bearing, Evelyn Hasborough Tait had delighted in a brisk Roger de Coverley and loved a good joke.

I gathered up the diaries and made one more visual inspection of the whole apartment.

The rooms puzzled me. I saw no indications that a bold young wife had settled into these chambers. Evelyn’s hairbrushes and combs had been arranged just so on the vanity, and the bedside table didn’t boast even a Book of Common Prayer. No lingering scent of muguet reminded the visitor of the lady’s presence. No colorful shawl hinted that she’d not always been a creature of fashionable pastels.

The rooms were sterile, a harsh word when applied to living beings, and yet, Tait apparently came to this apartment to commune with memories or to wallow in despair.

I departed silently, diaries in hand, and made my way to the stable without encountering my host or his housekeeper. As I waited for Atticus to tear himself away from the blandishments of the kitchen, I did note one detail about Evelyn Tait’s apartment that had caught my eye.

The doors—to her parlor and to her dressing closet—had both locked only from the inside. John Tait had never been able to lock his wife in her rooms—one hoped he’d have never made such an attempt—but Evelyn had been able to lock him and everybody else out.

I found that odd, but what did I know of domestic marital arrangements?

* * *

“You have to make His Grace see reason.” Millicent Dujardin had found me in the conservatory, and clearly, she would not leave me in peace until she’d had her say. “Leander has been tossed about too much in recent months. He’s only settling in at the Hall as well as he is because Lady Ophelia has exerted her influence over the staff. To uproot my son now… I refuse to do it, my lord.”

Was Arthur intent on sending Leander away? If so, His Grace and I would have words—emphatic words—though Arthur and I had been in accord when the question arose as to where Leander and his mama should dwell.

The lad was Harry’s by-blow, and we were as much a surprise to Leander as he was to us, though he was a welcome surprise. Very welcome.

“Millicent, explain yourself.” I collected the diaries I hadn’t yet read and patted the place beside me on the settee. “What exactly is Arthur proposing?”

She perched beside me on the edge of the cushion, as if at any moment, she might take flight and join the pair of swallows darting about the conservatory’s rafters. The outside doors let in a slight breeze, but because the process of moving tender plants indoors had begun, the space was thick with potted greenery.

A good place to hide, usually.

“His Grace thinks Leander would enjoy seeing Paris,” Millicent began. “I gather Mr. Banter’s godson will join the gentlemen on their travels as far as Paris, and then at some point, Lady Ophelia will retrieve young George. His Grace and Mr. Banter will then journey on to Berlin or someplace yet more distant. The duke wants to include Leander as company for George, but the boys are at least four years apart in age, and… I won’t have it. I am Leander’s mother, his legal guardian, and the only authority he’s known. I shall not have it.”

As far as the world was concerned, Millicent was the boy’s governess, and the lad was Leander Merton Waites, of no specific connection to me or Arthur. Ducal households became repositories for all sorts of stray cousins, dotty elders, and common-law relatives. The boy’s recent arrival at the Hall had occasioned a few puzzled glances, but Arthur’s consequence was sufficient to keep the gossip down to a murmur.

“What exactly did Arthur say, Millicent?”

She rose and paced the distance between the potted orange trees flanking my settee. “I overheard His Grace and Mr. Banter speculating that George could use the companionship of another boy. His Grace mentioned that Leander was likely a bit lonely, too, and travel broadened the mind even at young ages, so perhaps Leander might accompany them. My son is not a diversion for some spoiled little squireling on holiday.”

I didn’t know Millicent well, but my brief acquaintance with her suggested she was a woman of fortitude and common sense and a devoted mother. The thought of parting from Leander clearly had her rattled.

“Firstly, Leander wouldn’t go to Paris without you,” I said. “Secondly, he won’t go to Paris at all if you object. Thirdly, His Grace and Banter talk about everything. They are close. They are friends.” They were an utterly devoted couple, but Millicent could puzzle that part out for herself. “His Grace knows, for example, that young George could well be Banter’s son rather than a mere godson.”

“That is none of my concern.”

My sisters were forthright people disinclined to brooding. They were also the offspring of a duke and a duchess and generally well respected. Millicent’s situation could not have been more different. She’d been raised in a humble parsonage, gone into service of necessity, and become one of Harry’s many trysting partners. That neither she nor Harry had intended for a casual romp to become a passionate affair would be no comfort to Leander when he grew old enough to grasp such subtleties.

That Harry had been swept off his feet was some comfort to me, though.

“What exactly is your concern?” I asked, rising. “Arthur isn’t wrong about travel being educational. Another mother might jump at the chance to see Paris and share the sights with her son.”

“I am not another mother. I am… Leander’s mother, and it’s bad enough he never knew his father. I don’t blame Lord Harry for that, I blame myself. Leander has lost his home. He lost what family we did have. Now we’re here, far from Town and all that is familiar, and… His Grace proposes extended travel.”

I was not at all keen on seeing Leander whisked off to Paris, with or without his mother. I’d be left at the Hall to manage the best I could in Arthur’s absence, and that prospect was frankly daunting. I trusted the stewards and solicitors as far as their responsibilities went, but somebody had to give them direction, and that somebody would be me.

The idea that I could spend the winter growing better acquainted with my nephew had been a consolation.

“I’ll speak to His Grace,” I said. “I won’t tell him he was overheard, but I’ll sort out his plans for Leander.” My first inclination was to urge Millicent to confront Arthur herself, while I happily brought up the rear guard. Arthur, though, was a-swoon at the prospect of travel with Banter, shy by nature, and ducal by inclination.

He might blunder, in other words, and if Millicent chose to take the boy off to John o’ Groats, we had no legal authority to stop her.

“Arthur needs your permission to travel anywhere with Leander,” I said. “We enjoy our nephew’s company at your sufferance, madam. Have you made up your mind about Sunday supper?”

Lady Ophelia was agitating for Millicent to join social occasions at the Hall as a vaguely explained distant relation visiting the family seat with her son. A widow fallen upon hard times, perhaps, and forced to rely on the family patriarch for respite from an unkind world.

Millicent was a pretty blonde, well formed, and well-spoken. She was the daughter of a gentleman in the technical sense, and had life been kinder, she might well have married a gentleman, though she would have been an unusual choice for a ducal spare such as Harry.

Lady Ophelia’s invitations were meant to be kind, but so far, Millicent had resisted. I wasn’t sure why, but had become increasingly concerned with her possible reasons.

“I would rather remain out of public sight,” Millicent said. “As soon as I pretend that I’m other than Leander’s governess, I lose every choice but those you and His Grace are willing to grant me.”

Ah.Post-battle remorse. I was familiar with the condition. “You agreed to come here, agreed that a connection to Harry’s family could only benefit Leander, but now you have regrets.”

She brushed her hand over a pot of mint. “I have uncertainties. If I’m to be a widow, I need a late husband and a fairy tale to recite about our courtship and marriage. I’ll need widow’s weeds at least five years out of fashion. My late husband’s name should be Harry so as not to confuse Leander. Or perhaps my husband is a sea captain, and we fear him lost, but aren’t certain, except that sooner or later, somebody will say something to Leander in the churchyard, and he will be thrown into confusion yet again.”

Leander knew only that his papa had been a brave soldier, fallen in service to Good King George, and that Arthur and I were paternal uncles.

“You’ve been building entire battlefields in Spain, my dear, to bend the aphorism.”

She resumed her seat. “I haven’t much else to do. The staff take excellent care of Leander, and he delights in new faces and new challenges. He’s like his father in that regard.”

Or he was like a normal boy with a normal complement of curiosity. “Sometimes, on the Peninsula, I’d be given a mission, and I’d march out smartly, or sneak out smartly by dark of night, eager to follow orders. Perhaps I was to report on French troop movements, or ascertain where the sympathies of a walled town lay. Invariably, I’d be in a hurry, eager to impress my commanding officers with speedy success.”

She broke off a sprig of mint and brought it to her nose? “But?”

“But to quote one old sergeant, ‘You cannot make a baby in one month with nine women.’ If the French aren’t moving their troops save for training maneuvers, if the walled town hasn’t formed any firm allegiances, then a hasty report could well be a report in disastrous error. Sometimes the best course is simply to watch and wait, Millicent.”

She tossed the sprig of mint into the pot from whence she’d taken it. “I dislike being helpless. At least in service, I had work to do and a wage to call my own. Here, I am of no use to anybody.”

“Not so.” I took the place beside her without asking permission. We were family, after all. “Leander would disagree with you vehemently, and as it happens, I have a question for you.”

She drew herself up. “Ask.”

What topic could possibly justify that upright, braced posture? “You’ve kept house for several families?”

“I have. Good people, gentry rather than peerage, and in Town, a couple of well-off merchant families.”

“Is it usual for a wife to be able to lock her bedroom door from the inside?”

Clearly, that wasn’t the anticipated query. “It… can be. In a fancy household, the wife’s lady’s maid confides in the husband’s valet regarding any matter that might make a shared bed awkward.”

What could she…? “Menses,” I said, as if I’d come up with a great insight. “Headaches, that sort of thing.”

“Exactly that sort of thing. If the couple don’t want the whole household to know of such goings-on, and husband and wife are uncomfortable with a frank discussion—or the husband has no sense of his wife’s bodily calendar—then a locked door communicates the situation clearly enough. I worked for only one family that resorted to such measures. Very formal people and up to four children when I was in service with them. Why that question?”

“Miss West has asked me to look into a matter of a missing wife, and my first priority is establishing whether the lady truly left of her own volition. She apparently did. Now I must determine where she went and if she’s stayed away voluntarily.”

“You’ll be looking for the proverbial needle in a very large haystack, my lord.”

“A needle that might not want to be found, and for good reasons. Like you, though, I am somewhat at loose ends, and an investigation distracts me from more worrisome thoughts.”

She rose. “You’ll talk to His Grace about Leander?”

I got to my feet as well, ready to resume my reading. “I will, and soon.”

Millicent startled me with a hug. “Thank you. Harry was so fond of you, and now I know why.”

The words stunned me, in a good way, but before I could react, the nearest door opened, and Hyperia strode through.

“Oh dear.” She stopped short several yards away as I turned loose of Millicent. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, miss.” Millicent bobbed a curtsey and dashed off, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

Very awkward.