Chapter 9

I had missed bookshops terribly when I’d served in uniform. On leave, I’d made it a point to stop by Hatchards and place large orders, and I thus became something of a regimental lending library. If I left camp to impersonate a shepherd in the hinterlands, all and sundry knew my books were to be freely borrowed in my absence.

Books were civilization to me, proof of learning and laughter, full of wisdom and entertainment. That I’d stopped reading for pleasure after Waterloo had alarmed even me, even in the dull and melancholy state into which I’d fallen. Eventually, I had managed poems—short poems—but I had yet to tackle lengthy works of fiction.

The afternoon was turning blustery as I entered my old haunt, a familiar sense of foreboding dogging me. What had changed here, where I had spent so many pleasant hours? What was the same? Could I still enjoy the treasure trove that was a well-stocked bookshop, or had that pleasure died on the battlefields along with my youth and innocence?

The scent hit me first—vanilla and leather, though most of the inventory wasn’t yet bound. Customers could see to their own binding or order the process to suit their individual tastes. Arthur preferred brown calfskin for most of the library at Caldicott Hall. For my books, I’d chosen the more durable goatskin, usually dyed red.

“Good day, sir. Welcome to Hatchards.” The clerk was too young, too serious, and unknown to me. “Might I assist you to find something in particular?”

I wasn’t ready to shop. I was still noting where a fern had replaced a chair, or a set of shelves was full of bound volumes that had once housed only magazines.

“I’ll browse for a time first. Is Mr. Aiken still employed here?”

The young man’s expression brightened. “Of a certainty. Shall I fetch him for you?”

“No need.” Comfort enough to know the old fellow was still bustling about, muttering to long-dead authors and conversing in Latin with ancient poets. “I’ll find my own way.”

I wandered among travelogues, biographies, agricultural authorities, French plays, Restoration comedies, and the Bard and his contemporaries. Fashion had a few shelves all to herself—that was new—as did art history, language manuals, dictionaries…

Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders hadn’t held half so much treasure.

As much as I’d fought to regain European markets for London’s merchants and to overthrow an emperor ruling by conquest rather than divine right, I’d fought for these books and what they represented. I found a chair and sank into it, unnerved to have stumbled upon that insight.

Napoleon would have burned the lot of them, or hauled every tome in England back to France for the delectation of his bloodthirsty populace. He’d plundered Alexandria, Rome, and half the world in between. But for Lord Nelson’s seamanship, l’empereur would have sacked London as well.

Hatchards’ lovely books thrown in the flames, Twinings a ruin, Tatts a shambles…

“Upon my word, Lord Julian Caldicott, I bid you welcome!”

Lean, gray, and always coming undone somewhere, Mr. Flavian Aiken charged toward me with an outstretched hand. I rose in time to intercept his overture and to endure a hearty clapping on the back.

“My lord, you are a sight for these old eyes, indeed you are. Come for more Catullus, have you? You are looking well, sir, if I might venture such an observation.” Aiken ceased thumping me and lowered his voice. “One worried for you.”

I focused on a black leather edition of Horse-Hoeing Husbandry by Jethro Tull, blinked severally, and swallowed.

“The Catullus was much appreciated. Very much appreciated. Clever enough to be interesting and ribald enough to inspire mirth.” Aiken had sent me a bound volume as a homecoming token, if your lordship will forgive the presumption, and I had needed the mirth desperately.

Catullus had pulled me through some dark hours, as had Sappho, Donne, Shakespeare, Virgil… I’d read novels and histories at war. I’d retraced my way to peace through poetry, verse by verse.

“Have you come to renew old acquaintances, my lord, or are you in search of a particular tome?”

“Some of both. My sisters have set me to browsing on behalf of one of their friends. She’s not yet thirty, adores life in the shires, has a strong interest in agriculture and herbals and a good sense of humor. A vigorous woman with a solid literary foundation and who also is an accomplished equestrian.”

I might have been describing half the young women in England, but it was enough to have Aiken looking thoughtful.

“She’d like Mrs. Burney and Mrs. Radcliffe, I’m sure.”

“She’s doubtless read their every word.”

“Sense and Sensibility? Very popular with the ladies, as is Pride and Prejudice.”

I hadn’t cared for either tale, mocking as they did nearly every character however high- or lowborn. Criticizing Merry Olde and her social crotchets was easy, and the author’s primary strength seemed to be criticizing with elegance and wit.

“You get a lot of orders for those?”

“Indeed, we do, and not only from the ladies. Young fellows can offer books as gifts in these modern times. If the curate or the schoolteacher wants to impress a lady with both his devotion and his learning, a gift of literary merit does the job. The happy couple can pass hours in earnest conversation about turns of phrase or themes or character motivations. Courtship-by-book is quite the latest rage.”

“You make me feel old.” Would Hyperia like to be courted with books? “What of poetry? Does nobody read the poets anymore?”

“They do, though the classics are no longer ascendent. Mr. Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads continues to have a following, and his more recent Poems, in Two Volumes has found favor with many. I don’t know whether writing poetry that appeals to the masses improves the masses or compromises the poetry, but there you have it.”

“Come now, Aiken. How can more people reading poetry ever be a bad thing? And it’s not as if Wordsworth is penning cant and slang, is it?” Though as to that, cant and slang, when pressed into the service of rhyme, could be brilliant and hilarious.

“You have me there, my lord. By Jove, I have missed you. Never one to retreat into platitudes.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose, which emphasized their crookedness. “Your young lady might enjoy Arthur Young’s Tour in Ireland or his Farmer’s Tour Through the East of England. Before he got all political, Mr. Young had a sharp eye for all things agricultural. Shall I fetch them for you?”

“Please.” I owed Aiken something in return for his welcome, and nothing would please him so much as inspiring a purchase of books.

I wandered the several floors of the shop, noting where inventory had moved or disappeared—very little French language verse, for example—and found myself beholding Charles Lamb’s Tales From Shakespeare: Designed for the Use of Young Persons.

Leander wasn’t ready for even the simplified Bard, but Atticus might enjoy the more bloodthirsty works when his vocabulary improved.

I left the shop half an hour later, having arranged for three books to be sent around to Arthur’s townhouse. I’d found no insights into Mrs. Evelyn Tait’s personality or preferences, but I’d found a warm welcome, and at the moment, that mattered to me more.

My investigation was not yet at a dead end, and oddly enough, Mrs. Ardath Deloitte had pointed me in the direction I ought to take. I would circle back to Sussex and chat up Mrs. Semple again. Who had flirted with John Tait’s unhappy wife? What efforts had Mrs. Semple made to find her prodigal sibling? And I would confer in person with Lady Ophelia.

Whatever was true of my godmother, she never forgot a scandal, and the Taits’ acrimonious separation was a scandal, if not quite a tragedy—yet.

* * *

“You again.” Healy West sneered the words at me while the butler absorbed himself with taking my hat and walking stick.

“If I am unwelcome,” I replied pleasantly, “you need only say so. I won’t be staying long, and I did promise your sister that I’d call before quitting Town. A gentleman ought to keep his word, don’t you think?”

I was betting that the presence of the butler would prevent Healy from tossing me out on my ear. Healy could snub me with impunity on a deserted bridle path, but when his rudeness had an audience, word of his behavior would soon spread all over Mayfair.

“See that you don’t,” he said. “Stay long, that is.” He marched up the corridor, leaving me in the company of the butler, Deering, who’d known me since I’d been in shortcoats.

Old Deering looked pained in the extreme. He’d known Healy West since that fine fellow had graced his christening gown.

“My apologies on behalf of your employer, Deering.” West could have indicated his displeasure with me more discreetly—by note or with a cool welcome. The petulance on his part before domestic staff was badly done.

Deering sent a puzzled look at Healy’s retreating back. “I’ll let Miss Hyperia know you’re here, my lord. Would you care to wait in the family parlor or the formal parlor?”

“The family parlor.” I chose the more private option, the family parlor having no windows on the street. Healy was annoyed enough that I’d called at all. No need to taunt him by publicizing my presence.

“Very good, my lord. Shall I send in a tray?” The question was a show of support, because the requisite two polite cups meant a longer visit.

“No need. I will journey down to Caldicott Hall when I depart these premises. The traveling coach is stuffed with refreshments.”

He left me outside the family parlor, a place where I’d once been welcomed as a close friend. I made myself comfortable, half closing the curtains on the garden windows. The morning sun was bright, and the less I saw of bright sunshine, the happier my eyes were.

The room was vacant somehow. No worn pair of slippers sat by the swept hearth. No sewing basket occupied a windowsill. Neither magazine, nor books, nor correspondence suggested anybody had spent a pleasant hour in what should have been one of the most comfortable rooms in the house.

I was contemplating closing the curtains altogether when Hyperia arrived.

“Jules.” She left the door half open. “A pleasure to see you.”

I bowed, though Hyperia hadn’t curtseyed or offered her hand in welcome. “Likewise, always. You’re looking well.”

My dearest Perry looked ruthlessly composed. She wore a day dress of rust brown, a color that should have flattered her, except that this morning, the darker hue left her washed out.

“Healy was rude to you, wasn’t he, Jules?”

Some unwritten rule said that gentlemen kept their differences from the ladies, but this was Hyperia, and I was keeping enough from her thanks to Tait and his missing wife.

“Your brother disapproves of me, but he stopped short of turning me away. I’m at something of a loss to know why he continues to hold me in dislike.”

She stalked across the room and drew the curtains open. “He thinks you’re courting me.”

Good.I turned my back to the morning sun. “I’ve explained to him that procreation is beyond me, and you’ve been made aware of that limitation.” I should have blushed to admit my failing aloud, except that I was angry with Healy West, angry with John Tait, angry with Evelyn’s prevaricating sisters, and I’d soon be out of patience with Evelyn herself.

“You told him? Jules, that’s private.”

“Hyperia, the curtains…”

She yanked them closed all the way. “Sorry. I hadn’t considered your eyes. What business is it of Healy’s if you and I are friends?”

“I don’t typically declare my love for mere friends, Perry, and Healy is no fool.”

She glanced at the door, waved me to a corner of the sofa, then took a wing chair at a right angle to my seat.

“Healy is up to something,” Hyperia said. “I don’t know what troubles him, but he’s cross with the staff, out until all hours, then closeted with the solicitors for half the afternoon. I dine alone at every meal, and yet, he all but insisted I return to London. I thought I knew my brother, but he’s become an increasingly unpleasant enigma.”

I did not want to hear this, though Hyperia’s confidences were always safe with me. “Shall you return to the Hall with me?”

She traced the brocade pattern on the chair’s upholstery. “I daren’t. Healy was wroth that you escorted me to Town.”

“Have you any notion why his animosity is so intense? He believed that I jilted you, so I shared the relevant particulars with him, but today he was barely civil to me.” The old scandal—that I was a traitor of such shameful iniquity that I’d traded my brother’s life for my freedom—might fuel his distaste, but Wellington himself had acknowledged me before polite society.

Who was Healy West to question the Duke of Wellington’s judgment when it came to my military career? Who was I, for that matter?

“Has Healy been unlucky in love?” I asked. Nothing soured a young man’s disposition as could Cupid misfiring an arrow.

Hyperia stared at the carpet. “Possibly. Parliament is back in Town, and yet, Healy isn’t socializing. He inveigled me home by claiming to need a hostess, except that he apparently doesn’t.”

“He needed you away from me.” Why? Unless Healy was, indeed, thinking of marrying Hyperia off. “Does he object to me courting you, or are all suitors off-limits?”

Her head came up. “Healy well knows my views on childbearing, Jules.”

The syllogism completed itself easily enough. “And he knows I cannot inflict that fate upon you. Ergo, you might well marry me in some sort of friendly union of mutual, passionless convenience.”

The notion broke my heart, but to see Hyperia marched up the church aisle into the arms of another would shatter me utterly.

I had no use for being shattered utterly. France had taught me that, at least.

“That’s…” Hyperia rose and paced before the empty hearth. “That’s ridiculous, but logical. Logical for Healy. A white marriage. All the ducal consequence, no more spinster sister cluttering up the house. Ye gods, I wish women over the age of one-and-twenty could dwell someplace like the Albany, all of us in congenial proximity, but independent and unbothered by our wider family.”

She had a point. Ladies could and did live in such arrangements—in bordellos and convents—and never in as great a degree of luxury as the bachelors at the Albany enjoyed. Where on earth could Evelyn Tait be biding?

“Write to Lady Ophelia,” I said, getting to my feet. “She might know if Healy’s gambling losses are overwhelming him, if he’s made bad investments, or if he’s been deemed an unsuitable parti for next year’s crop of heiresses. You know your brother, and if you sense that something is amiss with him, then something is amiss. I’ll interrogate her personally when I’m back at the Hall this evening.”

Something had been amiss with Harry prior to his last disastrous mission. His mood had been off. I’d surmised that he’d been keeping something from me, and thus I’d followed him when he’d left camp by dark of night.

“I’ll miss you.” Hyperia took my hand in both of hers. “I’ve been missing you when you bide only a few streets away. I take it Evelyn Tait isn’t lurking in Ardath’s attic?”

I considered our joined hands. “Ardath claims not to know where Evelyn is, and I shouldn’t even tell you that much.”

Hyperia slipped free of my grasp. “Why not? I might have a material contribution to make to this inquiry, Jules, but you insist on keeping this distance. Ardath Deloitte puts on airs. She was the spoiled youngest sister, with a few pretensions to beauty. Because all of her older sisters were married off, she knew she could have a second or a third Season, and she enjoyed herself accordingly.”

Information I’d not had, but it explained one small puzzle. “Then she has reason to hate John Tait, because her flirtation with him is why she was married to Deloitte after a very short courtship. Tait ended her reign in Mayfair, if a reign she had.”

“Flirtation?” Hyperia resumed her seat. “Ardath and John flirted? Surely that was nothing more than friendliness on both of their parts. I can’t imagine John truly crossing such a line with his wife’s sister.”

Botheration and perdition.“You will please not mention my admission to anybody, especially not Tait, and I really must be going.”

Hyperia was back on her feet. “You really ought to tell me what you’ve found out so far about Evelyn, Jules. I am sure I do know something useful, except I have no idea what that might be because you insist on being so blasted closemouthed.”

“Not closemouthed, Perry, please. I am endeavoring, with limited success, to treat Tait’s situation confidentially.”

She glowered at me. “You didn’t treat the situation at the Makepeace house party confidentially. You didn’t treat Viscount Reardon’s disappearance or Leander’s contretemps confidentially.”

I wish I’d never agreed to investigate Evelyn Tait’s disappearance. “Tait esteems you greatly, and he’s concerned that his reputation remain untarnished in your eyes. Even something as unimportant as misconstrued friendliness with Ardath might reduce your respect for him, and he doesn’t want that.”

“John is a good man. He’s not a saint. I of all people know that. I’m not a saint either.”

I put a fingertip to her lips lest she go on to admit that they had been unsaintly together while I had frozen my manly humors to bits in the Pyrenes.

“Let’s leave it at that,” I said, tracing the outline of her upper lip. So soft, so stubborn, and so dear. “Please, for the sake of my dignity, let’s part on a less acrimonious note.”

She caught my hand, then caught me close and commenced kissing me like a woman intent on proving a point. Gently at first, then with increasing ardor, until I had both arms around her and was returning fire with everything in me.

God in heaven, Hyperia felt good pressed close to me. Alive, lovely, eager for shared pleasure… I was so involved in the sensation of her tongue tracing my lips that when arousal stirred to life, I simply went on kissing her.

Hyperia found her self-control before I even thought to make the attempt, so enthralled was I with her means of parting on a less acrimonious note. We stood in a loose embrace, panting and, in my case, dazed.

I was dimly aware that the door was only half closed, though Healy was more than welcome to find us in flagranti osculum.

“Jules?”

“Hmm?” She bore the wonderful fragrance of jasmine. Her shape was wonderful. Everything about Hyperia West was wonderful.

“Would a marriage between us truly be passionless?” She glossed a hand over my falls, where—to my shock and delight—I harbored nascent evidence contradicting all claims to passion’s absence.

I gathered her close. “I don’t know, Perry. I honestly don’t know. I’ve been told to give it time, that the situation can right itself eventually, but it’s been a year, and… I just don’t know.”

I was equally uncertain if she wanted the situation to right itself—she who had a near terror of childbirth—or if she preferred the alternative. An affectionate eunuch of a husband would never threaten her with motherhood.

“Should I apologize for kissing you?” she asked, stepping back.

“Never. Should I apologize for kissing you back?”

“Not if you value your life.” She was very certain on that point.

“Then I will wish you good day and expect you to maintain a loyal correspondence with Lady Ophelia, despite Healy’s disapproval. In a pinch, my sisters can also be relied upon to get word to me of any urgent developments. And don’t forget the pigeons.”

“Right. Pigeons. I won’t be telling your sisters that I miss you.”

I had been missing Hyperia, too, not only in my heart, but also in my mind, in the part of me that delighted in puzzles and investigations, but delighted equally in Hyperia’s unique perspective on life and on me as I went about my inquiries.

“When I have found Evelyn Tait, you and I will contrive a means of spending some time together, and Healy can go to blazes.”

She smiled, albeit the expression was a bit forced. “Agreed. Away with you, Jules, and promise me you’ll be careful.”

I bowed and took my leave, pleased with the kiss, troubled with the discussion, and vexed at Healy West. Hyperia had not seen me to the door, as a cordial hostess would have. I consoled myself with the thought that she’d needed some privacy to compose herself, but the argument was weak, and I knew it.

Damn Healy West and all siblings who took it into their heads to meddle.

* * *

“I didn’t expect you back quite so soon,” Lady Ophelia said as Leander wrapped his arms about my waist. “Child, your uncle merely nipped into Town. What is all the fuss about?”

I picked up the boy and perched him on my hip so that he and I were eye to eye. “You missed me?”

He nodded and mashed his nose against my neck. “Mama said you were a soldier. My papa was a soldier.”

And his papa had died. Ergo, I was an unreliable quantity. “I’m not a soldier anymore, Leander. I will never be a soldier again now that I’m Uncle Arthur’s heir. The next time I go up to Town, your mother might let you come with me.”

He speared me with the look of a child inclined to fixate on details. “Will you ask her?”

“When next I see her, I will.” I didn’t hold out much hope of an affirmative answer, given the uncertainties swirling about the boy. Why was I chasing Evelyn’s Tait’s cold trail when I might have been seeing Leander more firmly situated?

Leander put his hand on my cheek so that I could not look away. “You promise, Uncle Julian? Promise you’ll ask Mama if I can travel to Town with you?”

“I promise I will ask.” I put the child down—he was a solid armful—and he immediately seized my hand.

“Mama said I could show you my soldiers, Uncle Julian. I set them up over by the fireplace. We’re trooping the color.”

Lady Ophelia was looking troubled, the nurserymaid hovered by the window, and I did not want to play soldiers. The journey from Town had been dusty and bone-racking, and I wanted to track Arthur down before supper.

If he hadn’t planned on taking a few pigeons with him on his travels, he would by the time we’d finished our next conversation.

“Come see my soldiers, Uncle Julian.” Leander pulled on my hand, and while I was aware that he’d been through much and was likely at a fretful point in his day and had been worrying at length about me, I also didn’t care for such demanding behavior.

“Be a good uncle,” Lady Ophelia murmured. “Give the lad twenty minutes now, and the rest of his day will go more smoothly.”

Twenty minutes. How many times had I intruded on my father’s morning paper or quiet stroll about the garden and kept him captive for twice that long? I claimed to want children, and then I begrudged my nephew twenty minutes.

“Very well,” I said, taking a seat cross-legged on the carpet and hauling Leander into my lap. “What is this trooping-the-color business, and are those the Coldstream Guards prancing about at the edge of the rug?”

Leander explained to me that a parade of regimental flags was an exercise to assist illiterate soldiers to learn which emblems went with which regiment and also a fine day out for the toffs. The first part was dubious lore, the second part entirely true. When the regiments in all their parade finery marched past the monarch, half of London turned out to enjoy the spectacle.

I made a few comments, about the order of the procession and ladies’ hats spooking the drum horses as French cannons never had, and soon half an hour had passed. In the ducal nursery, Leander had an embarrassment of amusements, including Hessian mercenary figures, mounted cavalry, and French hussars.

“You have spent hours with your soldiers, haven’t you?” I asked, rising.

“My papa was a soldier.”

The nurserymaid’s expression was determinedly blank.

“Many men were soldiers, Leander, and ladies followed the drum, too, but Old Boney has been buttoned up on a miserable island far out to sea. He’s not coming back ever again.”

Leander scrambled to his feet, but made no grab for my hand. “He came back once already. We had the Hundred Days and Waterloo. Waterloo was a great battle where Wellington won everything.”

“Wellington nearly lost everything, my boy. I was there.”

Leander looked puzzled. “Did you save the day?”

“I… survived. Many others did not. Weather had a lot to do with who won.” That and the last-minute arrival of Blücher’s reinforcements. “The French set themselves the task of charging across a veritable bog, and that’s nearly always a bad tactic.”

“The Jacobites charged across a bog at Culloden, and Good King George’s army slaughtered the traitors.” Leander stuck out a foot and swept the entire 95th Rifles off their feet.

Maybe I wanted only daughters. “Your grasp of history remains rudimentary, but we have time to address the situation. Your nurse is giving me pointed looks. Is it time to wash up for supper?”

“Yes, my lord. Time and past. Master Leander, please wash your hands.”

Leander dropped to his knees and began resurrecting his sharpshooters. “Mama’s not here. I don’t have to wash my hands until Mama is here.”

His tone was dismissive, taunting even. Bratty.

“Good heavens.” I scowled at my nephew with a severity that was only partly feigned. “You have disobeyed a direct order from your first lieutenant, Private Leander. A very serious offense.”

Leander rose and tried for a smile. “Beekins isn’t a first lieutenant.”

“She is the immediate authority charged with keeping you safely and constructively occupied. You disrespect her or disobey her at your peril, young sir. Recruits have been court-martialed for less. An apology is in order.”

Leander peered at me, probably in hopes that I was teasing, though I was not.

“Sorry, Beekins.”

I did not relent. “And?”

“And it won’t happen again, and I’ll wash my hands now.”

So he did know how to apologize, and he grasped exactly what his offense had been. “Well done. Enjoy your supper. I’ll tell you more about Waterloo when I visit tomorrow, provided Beekins gives you a favorable report.”

Leander trudged over to the wash basin and began scrubbing his paws.

“I mean that, Beekins,” I said. “If that boy gives you trouble, thwarts your authority, or shows ungentlemanly inclinations, you will please inform me.” As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined. Old Mr. Pope had been right about that much.

She watched him using a brush on his fingernails. “He’s a good boy, my lord, but he’s bored, and his mother spends less and less time with him. He’s a smart lad and ready for his letters, but it’s not my place to say what’s to be done with him.”

“You have ideas.”

Leander rinsed his hands and shook them vigorously, sending water droplets all over His Majesty’s forces.

“I’m just the nurserymaid, my lord.”

Meaning, she’d likely been minding children since she’d turned seven years old. “Think about what would improve Leander’s situation, Beekins, and you and I will speak at greater length when we have privacy.”

She favored me with a hint of a smile. “Yes, my lord. Lady Ophelia will likely speak to you on the same topic.”

“I appreciate the warning. Please remind the boy what towels are for, and I will see you on the morrow.”

I left the nursery suite with an unbecoming sense of relief. I’d thought of Leander as a sweet boy to whom life had been unfair. No father, a mother reduced to subterfuges and desperate measures in the midst of penury, uprooted from all he’d known…

Now Arthur was preparing to take ship, the lad’s mother was playing least in sight, and I had business that frequently took me away from home and hearth. Perhaps Lady Ophelia had some notion what could be done to give the boy a sense of stability and purpose, because I hadn’t the first clue.