Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"Jules, you're soaked." Hyperia rose from the settee and took my hat from my hand. "What could you be thinking?"

I'd been soaked for days in Spain. I'd slept in wet clothes, marched in wet boots, and would have promised my soul to Old Scratch himself in exchange for a pair of dry wool socks.

"I wanted to remind Atticus that I'll be traveling to Dover tomorrow and to catch up with the boy where we wouldn't be overheard. He's pining for Lady Ophelia and making great friends with Leander, apparently."

As I locked the door to the corridor, Hyperia set my hat on the sideboard, where the fire's heat would dry it slowly.

"Boots off, my lord."

I sat and tugged my footwear free. I did not adhere to the fashion that said a gentleman's boots must be painted onto him, such that agonies of pulling and wrenching were necessary to remove them.

Hyperia set the boots beside the sideboard. "You are missing Lady Ophelia."

True, though I hadn't quite admitted as much to myself. "She has a keen mind, she knows everybody, and she intimidates Marchant."

"Whom you do not care for. Coat."

I started on the buttons. "He annoys me for the pleasure of twisting my tail. That is the antithesis of gentlemanly behavior. How was your hike with Canderport and friends?"

"Miss Frampton has a wicked sense of humor, Miss Bivens has read everything ever written, and Charlie Canderport is surprisingly well-read too. We were a jolly party, though going by the lanes, we barely made it back to Tweed House in time to avoid the rain. What of you and Lady Barrington?"

I took my damp jacket to the bedroom and found myself a dressing gown and dry socks. Before I put them on, I divested myself of my cravat and undid three shirt buttons.

"My chat with Lady Barrington," I said, returning to the sitting room, "was exceedingly unjolly. She, too, indulged in a passing liaison while in mourning, and she, too, regrets the folly." I explained what details I'd been given. "The gloves belonged to her swain, whom she referred to only as Hans, and whom she parted from rather than allow a hint of scandal to jeopardize what little access she still had to her children."

"Children make us vulnerable," Hyperia said, which struck me as an odd observation, until I thought of Lady Ophelia… and Her Grace.

"Children also bring joy," I countered, "though Lady Canderport might argue the point. I've had a thought about her."

"Charlie was oddly silent about his dear mama, but then, I suspect you are correct that he's a gentleman, at least most of the time."

"Shall we compare notes?" I gestured to the settee, and Hyperia took a seat in the middle. I came down beside her, fatigue making itself felt, though we were yet in the middle of the day.

"Lady Canderport is a widow," I said.

"With a hoyden daughter to launch, much like Lady Barrington has step-daughters to launch." Hyperia toed off her slippers and drew up her knees.

I looped an arm around her shoulders. "By Canderport's admission, his mother despises the duchess. Her Grace should be helping to launch Lottie, and by extension, Lady Barrington and Mrs. Whittington are probably burdened with the same expectation."

"So Lady Canderport resents her fellow widows," Hyperia murmured, head on my shoulder. "She circulates in Society enough to have heard old rumors and whispers, and she is apparently less than well-off. She has motive and opportunity to blackmail the other ladies, either for coin or for their matchmaking influence."

"Precisely." I wasn't as clear on how Lady Canderport, half sozzled and supposedly focused on Lottie's prospects, could have learned of the love letters, gloves, and locket, but the half-sozzled business could be a ruse, and a canny brace of servants could learn much by lurking and watching.

"Might we share a brandy?" Hyperia asked, springing up. "The day seems to call for it."

As if to underscore her words, a gust of wind slapped a tattoo of rain against the sitting room windows.

"I dislike that sound," I said as Hyperia poured us a drink. "Too much like gunfire."

She went to the French doors and sipped, her gaze on the dreary day. "Marchant must be part duck. He's out in it again."

I joined her in time to see Gideon Marchant climbing the terrace steps. "Maybe he forgot something at the stable. I hope tomorrow isn't this wet." If Atlas pulled a shoe in the mud, I'd be hard-pressed to make Dover short of hiring a post-chaise.

Hyperia moved away from the window and resumed her seat. "Your theory, that Lady Canderport is our thief, halfway makes sense, but attributing the same motive and opportunity to Jessamine or Lottie also makes sense."

I rejoined Hyperia on the settee, turning over possibilities in my mind. "Lottie is angry enough to be foolish, and Jessamine spoiled enough, but with all three females, I cannot for the life of me grasp how they would know the significance of each stolen item."

Hyperia passed me the drink and took up her half cuddle again. "The letters speak for themselves. Whoever took them might not have known Pickering was so young, or of a station so much lower than Her Grace's, but love letters are love letters."

And another source of vulnerability, apparently. "What of the gloves and locket?"

"If Lord Barrington knew of those gloves, and some servant overheard them mentioned, that same servant could have done exactly as you did—parsed initials and come to a reasonable conclusion."

A bit convoluted, but entirely possible. "The locket?"

Hyperia stared hard at the flames dancing on the hearth. "Lady Canderport could have seen the locket and come across a portrait of the late general somewhere. Mrs. Whittington wore that item frequently, though not always where it could be seen. A casual discussion in a ladies' retiring room might have been overheard, or a few oblique questions passed along over a hand of whist."

"How old is Drayson?" I asked.

"Lady Ophelia would know. He looks like he's just down from university, and he has a convincing case of youthful self-absorption, but he was circulating about Mayfair five years ago."

"So he might also have heard stories." Men talked, though we seldom admitted that our talk amounted to pure gossip. "Hans the sportsman was familiar with Town. He might have cried into his brandy where Drayson could have heard him."

"Ian the diplomat knew London as well," Hyperia murmured, taking the drink back and sipping again. "If Drayson was of an age with these fellows, they might have belonged to the same clubs or frequented the same gaming hells."

I did prefer the notion that our culprit was a man, but had no evidence to support such a theory. "How do we connect Drayson to John Pickering?" I asked. "More gossip?"

"Pickering was a skilled musician," Hyperia said slowly, "and a skilled flatterer. If he'd worked the same scheme on some widow in Hampshire, she might have caught wind that Her Grace of Waltham had hired a young man to teach her the flute, and quiet rumors would have started."

"We're into the realm of pure conjecture, my dear. Castles in Spain."

"But not wild conjecture, Jules. Not fairy castles. If Society is bent on one activity other than frolicking, it's gossip. We are discussing possibilities rather than outlandish coincidences. Then too, if Drayson is our man, stealing his own sketches was the perfect ploy to ensure he's above suspicion. Going to the lake ostensibly to sketch every day means he had ample free time to search the ladies' belongings, and he's still apparently dependent on his father for an allowance, hence he needs money."

All very true, very plausible. "Drayson doesn't feel right," I said. "He was hopelessly clumsy about searching your quarters, and yet, the solution to an inquiry often seems outlandish at first glance. A set of coincidences, not a likelihood, until facts accumulate and connect. This is progress, Perry. I am happy to say I feel a sense of progress."

Were this my first investigation, I would not have used the word progress . I would have labeled a proliferation of suspects and theories utter confusion . I was learning, though, that investigating was a cousin to a reconnaissance mission, where close observation and patience often yielded a better sense of the land and the enemy's purpose than all the strategy discussions and map studying in the world.

"You will have to wait to apprise Her Grace of the latest developments," Hyperia said, passing me back the glass. "I stopped by her apartment on the way here, and she's napping before Sunday supper."

"Just as well. She was growing equivocal when I paid a call on her this morning. Not quite suggesting the letters had simply been mislaid, but resorting to mention of sleeping dogs."

"If blackmail is the objective, Jules, the thief has had days to make threats. Her Grace might have a point."

"If I were behind this scheme, I would wait as well, until my victims were isolated and unable to combine forces, until no reinforcements were on hand. I would want my victims to be in a position to write sizable bank drafts made out to ‘bearer.' Time is on the side of the thief. If my objective were to involve the law, I might be content to wait as well."

Hyperia nodded. "You cannot involve the law. Your objective is to quietly retrieve the letters, the locket, and the gloves, regardless of who stole them, and those are likely here at Tweed House—for now. Time is your foe, or one of them. We could attempt more searching."

"Perhaps when I return from Dover, we will. I am concerned Atticus will behave rashly in my absence, though, and undertake some searching on his own. Please do what you can to dissuade him."

"And you told him to dissuade me?"

"Of course." Or I would before departing.

"I wish I were going to Dover with you, Jules."

As did I, but saying good-bye to Arthur was a private obligation. An act of faith in the future that nobody could make for me or with me.

"I should be gone little more than twenty-four hours. Wish me good weather and dry roads."

She kissed my cheek. "Safe, swift journey. You have the cards for your pocket?"

"Always." They had been her idea, else I might not have been as diligent about carrying them. "Could I talk you into napping with me, Miss West?"

Hyperia sighed gustily and straightened. "No, you could not. Too many eyes and ears about, Jules. I'll see you at supper, and if you'd like me on hand when you make your next report to your mother, I'm happy to oblige."

"Promise you'll see me off tomorrow."

She rose and took the nearly empty brandy glass to the sideboard. "Of course, and now you really ought to catch forty winks."

That way lay another sleepless night. "While you do what?"

"Get to know Lord Drayson a little better." She unlocked the door and sashayed into the corridor before I could admonish her to be damned careful.

A man who would steal from a duchess in broad daylight, who would draw any woman he pleased in the nude, and who set his valet to spreading accusations among the staff, all the while presenting himself as a sulking dandy, was not a man to trifle with.

I was paired with Miss Bivens at Sunday supper, which was delightful in one sense—she truly was widely read—and frustrating in another. This particular young lady was extraneous to the investigation. In my usual fashion, I had progressed from reluctant curiosity about some old letters, to a burning conviction that the letters, the gloves, and locket had to be found before the house party disbanded.

My mother sent regrets for supper, and when I attempted another chat with her before turning in, Wisherd informed me in hushed tones that the duchess had succumbed to a megrim. Her Grace had had such headaches periodically throughout my youth, and yet, this one was timed as if to avoid me on the eve of my trip to Dover.

No last-minute admonitions for Arthur, then, no note of parting to be delivered in person. Perhaps her ailment precluded both.

I suffered the occasional sick headache myself, and thus I left my mother in peace. I had arranged for an early departure in the morning, and after another restless night—I truly did sleep better with Hyperia in my arms—I rose, broke my fast, and prepared for some hard riding under a grim sky. The roads weren't muddy, but the day was chilly, and more rain might well be forthcoming.

"I could have Jupe hitched to the phaeton in a trice," Atticus said, leading Atlas up to the mounting block. "Or you could take yer ma's traveling coach."

"The traveling coach is heavy and thus slow. If the heavens open up, I'd be faster traveling on foot than slogging along in that contraption." The traveling coach was comfortable, though. Well sprung, cozy, packed with amenities… I hadn't wanted to ask my mother for its loan, and I truly did want the journey speedily behind me.

"Do you have the letter?" Hyperia asked, her cloak whipping in the breeze.

"In my pocket. If Heeney and Sons are still in business, I'll find them. You two, in the meanwhile, don't do anything foolish."

"Right, guv." Atticus patted Atlas's shoulder. "All foolishness will be got up to by your rubbishin' lordship. Me and Miss West, we'll be mindin' our own business and not worryin' about you a'tall."

I studied the boy, who seemed to be growing out of his clothes overnight. Both yesterday in the stable and this morning, his diction had reverted to the less articulate speech of his humbler days, which was usually a sign the lad was worried.

"Atticus, have you written your report to Lady Ophelia yet?"

"Workin' on it."

"Miss West will include it with my own epistle, which is on the sideboard in my sitting room, sealed and ready for delivery. If you've never sealed a letter before, Miss West can show you how."

Atticus brightened, as I'd hoped he would. He delighted in learning new skills, and something as simple as sealing a letter qualified.

"You'll be careful?" Hyperia muttered.

"Always, I will also be back not later than supper tomorrow. I half expect Drayson or his valet will try to plant the missing sketches in some opportune location while I'm gone. My door is locked. Atticus has the key, and the latch has been appropriately adorned."

I lingered near her, hoping for a kiss on the cheek. We were visible from the breakfast parlor windows, and a parting buss would have been a badge of honor, by my lights.

The duchess emerged from the house, a forest green cloak covering her from slippers to throat. "A moment, my lord. I'm glad I caught you."

I hadn't been running away. "Your Grace, good morning." I waited to be given a missive for Arthur or wished a safe journey. That my mother would see me off was doubtless a display for the sake of the breakfast-parlor audience.

"I wanted you to know…" She slanted a glance at Hyperia, who met her gaze with frank curiosity. "That is, might we walk a bit?"

"Anything that must be said can be said before Miss West," I replied. "She is absolutely in my confidence." As was, in his fashion, Atticus, but he was serving in the capacity of groom at the moment and thus invisible by my mother's reckoning.

"This is personal," the duchess said, very much on her dignity.

"I will give Arthur your love and warn him that if he comes to any harm whatsoever, Banter has orders to return our duke to Merry Olde without delay. I've ensured that His Grace is amply loaded down with pigeons, coin, warm clothing, and—"

"My lord, please cease patronizing me. Arthur is a grown man and notably good at preparations. I have wished him safe journey. My present concern relates to the matter that brought you to Tweed House."

The matter that… the letters. "Yes?"

She glanced at the house, then fixed her gaze on Atlas, waiting patiently at the mounting block two yards away.

"You need not trouble yourself over the letters any further. I'm sure you will be relieved to put them from your mind."

Hyperia frankly goggled at the duchess. Atticus stared at the ground.

While I battled the urge to howl. "I beg Your Grace's pardon?"

"Your hearing is excellent, my lord, and my meaning was plain enough."

My comprehension was in fine working order too. "My services will no longer be necessary?"

She looked pained, also a bit pale and tired, but she nodded. "I apologize for sending you on a goose chase. I'm sure the letters will turn up, and they are of little moment in any case."

No, they were not. Two days ago, I would have been relieved to hear this dismissal, though I might also have been uneasy. Now, I had discerned a pattern to the thefts, I had suspects in my gun sights, and I had motives to attribute to each of them.

"Those letters represent a real risk of harm to you," I said quietly. "Have you forgotten that?"

"My memory is excellent, young man."

Mine was not, but my investigative skills were at least respectable. "You expect me to simply ride off to Dover, wish Arthur farewell, and what? Return to the Hall?"

Atticus squinted at me, while Hyperia was maintaining a diplomatic silence. The one time my mother had sought my aid, and for the one purpose that might truly suit my skills, and now I was supposed to scurry off like a footman who'd spilled wine on his livery?

"I expect you to ride off to Dover, and if you do return to Tweed House, I expect you to comport yourself as the gentleman you are for the remainder of the gathering. This is, I believe, within your abilities."

A scold. A definite, even taunting, scold.

Now Hyperia was staring at the ground, while Atticus glowered at the duchess. That Her Grace would dismiss me was frankly infuriating, but that she'd do so before the boy and before Perry…

That amounted to a betrayal, and I had had quite enough of those. Fellow officers who had known me in uniform now cut me openly. Neighbors had been notably reluctant to call at the Hall when I bided there. In London, men I'd known since boyhood hadn't bothered to call upon me when I'd dragged myself home from Waterloo.

And now this, from my mother . "Does it not matter to you," I said, "that Lady Barrington and Mrs. Whittington have also been victimized? If you hobble my inquiry now, those women and their families are more likely to suffer."

I kept my voice down, mindful of the windows, also mindful that I was a gentleman, and the female so casually expecting me to forget hanging felonies perpetrated against her was due my respect.

At the moment, she had little enough of my liking and none of my forgiveness.

"I will deal with Lady Barrington and Mrs. Whittington," Her Grace replied. "I will brook no argument on this, my lord. My mind is made up. You made a good, if unsuccessful effort, and the appropriate action now is to put the matter behind us as soon as possible."

Beneath my bewilderment and outrage lay questions: Why call off the investigation now? Had Drayson got around to making his threats? Was the staff now circulating rumors that made the truth of the past look innocuous by comparison?

I considered the duchess, so dignified in her velvet-lined cloak, and I considered what I knew about all the missing items. I had made progress, with the help of those I could trust, and in a very short time. I had come when my mother needed me, and she needed me still.

"Madam, your mind is made up, and so is mine. I will be back at Tweed House, God willing, by supper tomorrow, and then I will resume my investigation."

Her gaze would have frozen the Channel from Dover to Calais. "I forbid it. You cannot."

I could, though it might cost me what remained of my connection to my only living parent. "Perhaps it has escaped your notice, Your Grace, but I am a man grown and free from any obligations to the peerage. I am a competent investigator, and you have need of same. I understand that you cannot trust me to see the matter through—"

"I did not say that."

"—and I understand that you fear I will create a scandal rather than prevent one. I promise you discretion and best efforts, but honor compels me to persevere rather than surrender to your present wishes."

I bowed, that fine speech at variance with the riot of feelings battling inside me. My mother had, before witnesses, expressed her lack of faith in me—her lack of any use for me. The sheer magnitude of my humiliation resonated with the enormous pride of small boys and very young men, and the intensity of my ire was reminiscent of soldiers betrayed by bad leadership.

He's going to get us all killed had all too often proved prophetic when the officer in question was some aristocratic puppy with no grasp of warfare. The duchess had no grasp of criminal mischief and apparently little comprehension of my determination in the face of same.

"I'll bid you good day, Your Grace."

"Julian, don't be like this."

She again used my Christian name, and now I could not afford to be swayed by it. "I am sorry to cause you distress, Your Grace, but I am not a footman to be dismissed at your whim. I am your son , the only son you have to call upon in the present circumstances, and by God I will aid you to the best of my ability."

I took the reins from Atticus and swung into the saddle. The discussion had doubtless been observed by guests, staff, and half the shire, and I wanted nothing so much as to thunder down the drive in a fit of galloping indignation. Let the duchess be blackmailed within an inch of her considerable wealth, to blazes with the letters and gloves and lockets.

But a tantrum would not do. Atlas had been standing for some time, and he had a long day ahead of him. I touched a finger to my hat brim and nodded to Hyperia.

"Until tomorrow."

Atlas offered a sedate trot as we departed, and I was mindful of eyes on my back. Hyperia doubtless pitied me, Atticus was furious on my behalf, and as for my mother… as usual, I had not the first notion what she made of the exchange.

I had the whole of a long ride to Dover to puzzle out my own feelings on the matter, and even that lengthy distance wasn't likely to be enough.