Chapter 6

“I’ve read them all.” I passed over Evelyn’s diaries. “She was heartbroken by the time she left you.”

Tait accepted the three volumes. “One knew as much, my lord, and I wasn’t exactly flourishing either. How will you proceed from here?”

Tait could apparently switch from doting swain to disgruntled, abandoned husband in a moment.

“Having given the matter some thought, I will move forward on the assumption that Evelyn is alive, and that attempting to trace her flight from your side is a pointless endeavor.” Coaching inns kept records, but the identities of ticket purchases were impossible to confirm.

“What does that leave?”

The very question I’d spent much of the night considering. “She took her jewels, and pawning or selling them would best be done in London. If nothing else, the diaries attest to loyal correspondence between Evelyn and her sisters. She doubtless sought assistance from one of them, made the rounds of the shops on Ludgate Hill, and decamped for parts unknown when she was flush with cash.”

“That’s why you’re off to London—to interrogate jewelers?”

“In part. I will also pay calls on Ardath Deloitte and Lina Hanscomb, if that lady bides in Town.”

Tait set the diaries on the sideboard, poured himself a tot of Arthur’s finest brandy, and downed the drink at one go. His presumption astonished me, but then, we were discussing the fate of his wife and possible collusion by her siblings.

“Evvie’s sisters don’t care for me, but I can’t see Ardath abetting Evvie to the tune of abandoning me altogether.”

What Tait did not know, or what he chose to ignore, was the volume and regularity of Evelyn’s correspondence with her sisters. Her journals recorded nigh daily sendings and receivings of mail among the four ladies, with occasional epistles noted from cousins, old friends, and former neighbors as well. Based on those diary entries, Evelyn had been frank regarding her marital frustrations.

Margie condoles me on Mr. Tait’s bad behavior. Counsels patience.

Ardie is wroth with Mr. Tait for his caddishness.

Babs threatens to call Mr. Tait out if he doesn’t soon outgrow his foolishness. I would gladly serve as her second.

Pages and pages of same, and yet, castigating Tait for misbehaving years ago would serve no purpose, nor was it my place.

“For all Ardath knew,” I said, “you had given Evvie permission to take the waters before the weather turned disobliging. The excursions to Ludgate could have been presented as outings to the modistes, and the purchase of a coach ticket to Bath was, in fact, a coach ticket to York.”

Tait eyed the decanters. “I’ve set you to chasing a loose pig about on a farm lane?”

“You’ve set me a challenge. Mrs. Semple professed to have no idea where Evelyn bided, but I, too, have a sibling whose fate is shrouded in uncertainty. I can assure you, Tait, on my best day, ten years hence, I will not be able to discuss that situation as calmly as Mrs. Semple appeared to deal with the prospect of her missing younger sister.”

Tait poured himself another half a tot. “You think she knows something.”

I hoped she did, another conclusion gained while tossing and turning. “I suspect she knows enough not to worry overmuch. A letter once a quarter, word through mutual acquaintances, something allows Mrs. Semple to be at peace regarding Evelyn’s fate.” That was the sole insight I’d gleaned after pondering my interview with that lady. A hunch, a theory, an educated guess, nothing more.

“I am not at peace,” Tait said, finishing his second drink. “I am increasingly not at peace.”

Rather apparent to the casual observer, but what had rattled him? The genial squire had been by turns voluble and quiet at the meal, and his composure was all but deserting him now.

“You’ve endured this long,” I said. “Let me see what I can discover in London. I’ll send word if I’m not returning directly to the Hall.”

“Please do. As much as I worry that Evelyn has met a bad fate, I’m also unhappy at having to set you on her trail.”

He wasn’t half so unhappy as the woman who’d written those diaries. “See Mrs. Ingersoll home. She’s pleasant company and a sensible creature. You will hear from me soon.”

“Right. Eyes front, forward march.”

Tait attempted to do just that, but his arm caught the stack of diaries on the sideboard, and they tumbled to the floor. He and I reached for the same volume at the same time and nearly bashed our heads together, but with some dithering, we managed to put all three books into Tait’s keeping.

I escorted him to the front door, where final farewells were being made. Tait’s coach and four waited at the bottom of the steps, while Arthur, Hyperia, and Lady Ophelia offered good-byes.

I bowed over Mrs. Ingersoll’s hand, and she curtseyed. “A pleasure to have made your acquaintance, my lord.”

“Likewise, ma’am.”

She leaned close, and I thought she might presume to kiss my cheek—country manners could be appallingly informal—but she merely nudged a sprig of lavender closer to its mates and allowed Tait to escort her down the steps.

When the coach horses were trotting along the carriageway, Lady Ophelia was the first to speak.

“That man must enjoy making a cake of himself. I declare, if he’s not pouting, he’s flirting. Hyperia, I know you consider him a friend, and perhaps we’re not seeing him at his best, but he’s honestly rather tiresome.”

She took Arthur by the elbow and left me and Hyperia on the terrace.

“I agree that John was not at his best,” Hyperia said as the coach neared the gateposts. “He was distracted, but I suppose that’s to be expected. I liked Mrs. Ingersoll.”

“So did Tait.” I should not have made such an ungentlemanly observation, but Tait’s behavior suggested that at least one puzzle had a simple explanation. He was more than ready to move on with his life, if not with Mrs. Ingersoll, then with some eligible parti.

“Don’t be catty, Julian. He’s lonely.”

Mrs. Ingersoll was lonely, too, but she wasn’t swilling brandy, making sheep’s eyes, and losing her dignity as a result.

“I will be very lonely when you return to London.”

Hyperia swiped my boutonniere right out of my lapel. “Good.”

She left me on the step, and I remained there as the dust slowly settled over the drive. Some fact or observation about the meal was trying to gain my notice, some detail that had slipped past me at the time…

Try as I might, I could no more lay mental hands on what bothered me than I could have collected the dust raised by the departing coach. I refused to go back into the house, fearing I’d leave a precious mote of truth wafting about on the autumn breeze. Instead, I took myself around back to the garden walks.

Tait had been unsettled throughout the meal, off-stride, though his manners had certainly been up to the challenge of a ducal table. Lady Ophelia hadn’t mauled Tait too badly, and Hyperia had been uniformly pleasant to him.

Mrs. Ingersoll had been all that was polite, as had Arthur and I.

I appropriated a few more sprigs of lavender, and rather than tucking them into my lapel, I pinched the flowery heads to release the aroma and…

The scent of honeysuckle.That was the detail I’d noticed. On Mrs. Ingersoll, the fragrance had been pleasant. On John Tait, something of a surprise. When we nearly bumped heads in the library, I’d caught a whiff from his person, and the note was the same as that worn by Mrs. Ingersoll.

Well, well, well.

Coincidence possibly, but I’d washed my hands in Tait’s breakfast parlor, and that soap had been scented with lemongrass. Honeysuckle was a bit unusual. Either Mrs. Ingersoll had gifted Tait with a few bars from her own stores, or the gentleman had had occasion to wash his hands—or perhaps his entire person—while very recently under Mrs. Ingersoll’s roof.

Naughty, naughty, John Tait. Naughty indeed.

* * *

Escorting a lady on her travels is usually a thankless undertaking. When I’d last performed that service for Godmama, I’d at least been able to ride inside the coach with her. Godmama, being a widow and family friend of very long standing, could be private with me in a closed conveyance for hours at no risk to anybody’s reputation.

Hyperia was not a widow, and thus I faced the prospect of riding up top with John Coachman or covering the distance to Town in the saddle. My presence was necessary to handle coin, give orders to hostlers and porters, and generally ensure the lady’s safety, but my company in any meaningful sense wasn’t part of the arrangement.

And yet, I wanted to escort Hyperia wherever she pleased to go, and thus I was up early on Monday and prepared for a trying day.

“Wait twenty-four hours,” Arthur said when I entered the breakfast parlor to find His Grace dining in solitary splendor. “Wait at least until noon. Nobody makes good time on muddy roads.”

His suggestion was accompanied by the steady patter of a purposeful autumn rain on the parlor windows.

“Better to start early, while the roads are still passable. The rain will keep traffic to a minimum, and that helps too.” I dished myself out a serving of omelet from the sideboard and speared a few slices of ham as well. The fare at many coaching inns was to be avoided if at all possible, and the traveling coach would be well stocked with cold sustenance.

“What’s the rush?” Arthur asked, pouring me a cup of China black as I took the place at his right hand.

“I want this business with Tait concluded, and the next steps of the investigation lie in Town.”

“He seems an agreeable sort.” Arthur had placed the jam pot beside his own plate. His Grace of Waltham was a fiend for raspberry jam, and the strawberry preserves never lasted long in his presence either.

“Tait is very good at being agreeable to ladies,” I replied. “Too good, in fact. I suspect he and Mrs. Ingersoll were intimately agreeable as recently as last night, and yet, her presence at your table came as a surprise to him. You will please not pass my speculation along to even Lady Ophelia.”

“Her ladyship comes to her own conclusions without any help from us.” Arthur appropriated two slices of toast from the nearest rack, and though both were already buttered, he commenced adding more. “She’d travel up to Town with you, did you ask it of her.”

Meaning I could travel inside the coach, with her and with Hyperia. “Leander is partial to her ladyship, and she to him. A day in the elements is nothing for a former soldier.”

Arthur topped his buttered toast with generous portions of jam. “A former soldier who twice came home more dead than alive had best be careful of his health. You are my heir. I will not forgive you if you are carried off by a lung fever you caught playing the gallant for Miss West.”

We were private for the nonce, and I had made Millicent a promise. “Speaking of carrying off… Is there any truth to the rumor that you’ve considered taking Leander to Paris as company for young George?”

Arthur shook the butter knife at me. “Listening at keyholes, your lordship? Wellington might have appreciated that skill, but I’ll not have it.”

“Then be more careful when you and Banter assume you have privacy. Millicent got wind of your schemes, and she disapproves of uprooting the boy.”

“We’d uproot her, too, of course. I trust she understands that much?”

“So she can be your unpaid governess for two lively boys who are not close enough in age to be true confreres. I’ll not have it.”

Arthur contemplated his toast, which he would manage to eat without spilling so much as a crumb on his plate or a drop of jam on his cuff.

“What are we to do with her, Jules? When Leander’s patrimony became clear, I thought the conundrum resolved, but Leander’s mama is proving to be a riddle unto herself. I am leaving you here to sort out that situation, and that doesn’t feel fair to me.”

Arthur was asking me, not for advice, but to take on a matter squarely with his purview as patriarch, a matter more delicate and complicated than the daily correspondence.

“She needs pin money,” I said, starting on my omelet. “She needs the keys to Mama’s sewing room and two seamstresses to work at her direction. She needs a lady’s maid assigned exclusively to her, one of the younger ones, even if the maid mostly sits on her tuffet and squints at her mending. She needs access to our accounts at every shop in the village, and she needs time.”

Half of Arthur’s first piece of toast met its fate. “You are right. Millicent deserves indicia that she is as much our family as her son is. Spot on, Jules. Anything else?”

I sipped my tea and enjoyed the novel pleasure of advising my titled brother. “Write to Leander and include a few lines to Millicent in every epistle. Warn her that you are sending Leander a sketch of this or that or a set of Hessian tin soldiers. Treat her like his mama and as you would one of our sisters.”

Arthur embarked on his second piece of toast. “Our sisters would never hide in the nursery, Jules.”

You don’t know that.I thought of Evvie Tait, so bitterly and frequently disappointed in her spouse, in her empty nursery, in looks no amount of heirloom pearls could make anything other than plain and stout.

“When the ladies lose patience with us, they become unpredictable.”

“I defer to your greater experience, but I can assure you Miss West is not losing patience with you. She got a letter from her brother earlier in the week, and he’s doubtless agitating for her to play hostess for him once Parliament resumes. That man needs a wife, but he’s too selfish to settle down.”

Polite society muttered the same about Arthur—erroneously, of course. “West would rather Hyperia settled down, though not with me.”

“Then Healy West is not merely selfish, he’s a selfish ass. You ate the last of the toast, you plundering Visigoth.”

“I ate the two pieces you left for me. You drank the last of the tea.”

Arthur scowled and picked up the newspaper, and I wanted to weep. He and I should have years to bicker at breakfast, but he was leaving me for France. If there was one place I would never set foot again, it was bloody, bedamned, beautiful France.

“Tait is a member at the Highlander,” Arthur said from behind the financial pages, “and I believe he was accepted at the Contrarian. He’s not much of one for time in Town. Does his boots and hats by mail order, says Tatts tends to be overpriced.”

“You’ve made inquiries?” Not that I was investigating Tait, of course.

“I mentioned to Vicar that I was to entertain a man with whom I was only passingly acquainted, and Vicar obliged with a few facts. Mrs. Vicar would have had the truly useful information, but I leave her to your kind offices. I wish you’d wait a day to travel, Jules. Coach accidents can be fatal as can a putrid sore throat.”

“My will is in the safe. Look after Hyperia and Atticus, if anything happens to me.” Lady Ophelia would look after them without my having to ask.

Arthur folded down the newspaper. “The boy, I grant you, is in need of constant supervision, but as for the lady, she, firstly, can look after herself, and secondly, looking after is usually a spouse’s prerogative.”

“You know why she and I ought not to marry.”

Arthur set aside the paper. “I do not care a boot-boy’s curse for the succession, Jules. We have enough personal wealth to manage without all the ducal properties. Life is short. I’ve nearly lost you too many times to demand that you sacrifice what’s left of your three score and ten to the dictates of a dukedom neither of us did anything to deserve.”

Travel was apparently already broadening the mind. “I see.”

“You think I’m in high spirits because I’m going off on holiday, and you’re right, but I’ve also been the duke, and it’s a blessed lot of tedium for not much return. I’m telling you, travel up to Town when the roads are dry.”

In other words, tarry with Hyperia at the Hall for as long as I could.

“I appreciate the sentiments—all of them—but we will depart as soon as Hyperia is ready.”

As it happened, Hyperia presented herself in the breakfast parlor, within the quarter hour. The coach was brought around to the porte cochere less than an hour after that.

A groom held Atlas’s reins, an oilskin tarp protecting the saddle still in place. That saddle would be cold and wet within the first mile, and when Atlas tired, I’d tie him to the back of the coach and enjoy the bone-racking paces of a series of hardmouthed rented hacks.

“Ride inside with me,” Hyperia said. “When the weather clears up, you can exile yourself to the elements.”

“Hyperia…” A gentleman would start the journey in the saddle and finish it in the saddle.

“Please, Jules. I promised I would not interrogate you about John Tait, and you can promise not to interrogate me.”

Whatever could she…? “Is there a reason I should be interrogating you, Hyperia?” I abruptly suspected there was. I feared there was.

The rain beat down, cold and miserable a few feet away. The offside leader stomped a hoof, and the footmen finished lashing our smallest trunks to the boot. The rest of Hyperia’s baggage would follow at a modest pace, accompanied by Atticus and a groom or two.

“No reason for anybody to interrogate anybody, Jules. Will you ride inside?”

“Yes, until we find dry roads.” Which we might never do, literally or figuratively. I instructed the groom to take Atlas back to his cozy stall, and if a horse could look grateful, mine did.

I not only sat beside Hyperia on the forward-facing seat, I tucked an arm around her shoulders, and she gave me her weight. Within a few miles, Hyperia was dozing at my side, or pretending to, and thus did we pass most of the journey to London.

My darling, precious, dearest Perry had lied to me—she knew something relevant. I was sure of it. Had I once again been cast alone and starving on the freezing slopes of the Pyrenees, I could not have felt more desolate.

* * *

“Won’t you come in for a cup of tea, Jules?” Hyperia asked when we’d arrived in her brother’s mews.

I stood on the alley’s slick cobbles, cold drizzle making the whole scene dreary—drearier—and bowed over the lady’s hand.

“Thank you, no,” I replied, keeping her gloved fingers in mine. “I’d like to get John Coachman out of the wet, and Healy will want you to himself for a bit.”

Hyperia chose to let that euphemism pass. Healy wanted his sister away from me, not quite the same thing as delighting in her presence himself.

“You’ll call before you leave town?”

The question had doubtless cost Hyperia some dignity. “I will call before I leave, I give you my word. When I return to the Hall, I will write, though I might resort to subterfuges involving Lady Ophelia’s aid. I will send my sisters around on reconnaissance when they are in Town, and I will invite you and your rubbishing brother down to the Hall for the Yuletide holidays.”

A slight, pleased smile was my reward for that recitation. “You’ve thought about this.”

Mile after mile, I’d thought about telling Tait he could take his handsome, beleaguered self to Coventry, for all I cared, because this distance between me and Hyperia was intolerable.

“Lady Ophelia will enjoy regular correspondence from you as well, I trust?” I asked.

“Very regular.”

I surrendered her hand and felt as if I were going off to war after a particularly lovely leave, but of course, that sentiment was disproportionate to the moment. I’d often been eager to return to my military duties, for all I loved my home and family. I was in the grip of foreboding now rather than eagerness.

“Jules, when His Grace and Banter take ship…” Hyperia glanced over her shoulder at her brother’s house. “Don’t brood. Don’t let the doldrums overtake you. Winter is hard enough with all the cold and darkness, but I’ll worry about you.”

Hyperia was fretful, too, a small consolation. “Lady Ophelia will not allow me privacy, much less brooding.” Except that the plan was for her ladyship to head to Paris later in the autumn to retrieve young George and bring him home. I would, sooner or later, face weeks of relative solitude at the Hall.

A prospect I might have once relished instead filled me with misgivings.

Drat this wretched, sopping, stupid day.

Hyperia crossed the alley, opened the garden gate, and motioned me through. The garden was not private enough—too many windows overlooked it—but what we said was less likely to be overheard.

“Jules, about John Tait… I know my friendship with him troubles you, and I can’t help that. I think you should know that, though we once—”

I held up a hand. “Perry, please, not now. What you tell me may color my regard for Tait in ways that make objectively investigating his circumstances more difficult.” If Hyperia had allowed Tait a lover’s privileges—privileges I might never know or be capable of enjoying with her—then further dealings with Tait loomed as nigh unbearable.

“Perhaps later, then,” she said, “when you make your final report, however redacted. I want no misunderstandings between us, Jules.”

“Sometimes silence is understanding enough. At this point, I have no confidence that I’ll locate Evelyn Tait any time soon.” Or ever.

Hyperia brushed a glance over me that gave away nothing. If she was exasperated with me, well, so be it. I was coping with frustrations of my own, thank you very much.

“I’d hoped an investigation would take your mind off His Grace’s departure,” she said. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

I was not a toddler to be distracted with a picture book while waiting for my supper. “I do enjoy the puzzles, Hyperia. You aren’t wrong about that. It’s more the case that…” How to put this? “The night before battle, soldiers write letters home to be sent in the event of their deaths. They clean their weaponry, enjoy a tot of whatever decent libation they’ve been saving for a special occasion. One cannot exactly contemplate a battle not yet joined, but one can’t forget it either. I’m in that same mental posture. France has stolen one brother from me and made a good effort to steal my wits, my life, and my reputation too. I do not trust France to give me back my surviving brother.”

“You have your reasons,” Hyperia said, “except that we are not at war, Arthur is exceedingly sensible, and Banter is endlessly protective of him.”

Damn Healy West for precipitating this whole, awkward parting. “I am protective of you, Perry. I want to take you in my arms and never let you go, much less see you dutifully pouring tea for your brother. Promise me you won’t brood.”

This smile was brighter. “Ladies don’t brood. We grow thoughtful.”

“Perry, if you find yourself growing too thoughtful, send for me. Arthur’s Mayfair house has pigeons that fly home to the Hall, and you are free to use them. I’ll leave word with the staff to that effect. I’ll meet you in the park, at Hatchards or Gunter’s. Healy is your brother, not your commanding officer, and he’s certainly no authority over me.”

“Pigeons.” Hyperia’s tone was pleased, and I was relieved to think I’d offered her some reassurance she hadn’t been able to ask for. “I’d forgotten about the pigeons. Bless the pigeons, and bless you for reminding me of them.”

We stood beaming at each other in the mizzling rain, my boots getting wet, Hyperia’s bonnet feathers going droopy.

“I love you,” I said quietly and without touching her. That I must be so restrained broke my heart and made me furious. “I will call before I leave Town, and that is a promise.”

“I love you,” she replied just as softly. “Neglect to call, and I will be wroth with you.”

She’d worry, in other words. “I have my orders, Miss West.” I touched a finger to my hat brim—I did not blow her a kiss—and executed an about-face. I waited by the garden gate until my lady was safely under her brother’s roof, then I waved the coachman on and turned my steps for Ludgate Hill.

A few hours of daylight remained, such as that commodity had been in evidence at all, and I wanted Tait’s situation resolved with all possible haste. The walk across Town would give me time to think and time to recover from a farewell that had left my heart aching and my temper uncertain.