Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

The coach came to a halt, and through the window I saw a bleary-eyed stable boy emerge from the darkness.

"We're for the house," the duke said, opening the door and lowering the step. "We'll get your horse back to you in the next day or two. He needed rest before making the return journey, though Atlas is the envy of all who behold him."

I climbed out, my joints feeling about ninety-seven years old. "Why did I name my horse Atlas?"

His Grace accepted a lantern from the stable boy, a dark-skinned lad whose age I'd put at about seventeen. Grown into his height, not yet grown into his full strength.

"You didn't name him. His former owner did. You bought the horse to fund that fool's passage home from Spain," His Grace said. "Let's find our mother, shall we?"

My ducal brother knew a good deal about me, and this struck me as simply part of his nature. He would know just as much about these married sisters. He saw himself as the Caldicott patriarch, and staying informed was his responsibility.

Whereas I appeared to be nosy by nature. Not very gentlemanly of me.

We traversed a darkness punctuated by the strains of a pair of violins playing a slow air in close harmony.

"The party is not yet abed," Arthur said as we approached a sizable fa?ade, lights showing in many of the ground-floor and first-floor windows. "That's fortunate in one way."

But also unfortunate, to the extent that my situation wanted discretion. I could puzzle out that much. "You will climb right back into the coach, Your Grace, and rejoin Banter in Dover by sunrise. If our mother bides here, I will manage adequately with her assistance." Dover by dawn wasn't likely. Dover by noon was possible.

"You would not recognize your own mother if you fell over her, Jules. Banter will sail without me if need be. Traveling is legendarily full of uncertainties."

And this brother of mine was legendarily dutiful, bless him. "I refuse to be a burden to somebody who has already—"

The duke held up a hand. "We can go in that French door. That's the estate office. I will find Mama, and you will cease bleating. You could never, ever be a burden. Banter would agree with me, and so, if he were alive, would Harry."

Harry, who had served with me, whom I could not recall in the slightest.

We entered a room that would have been in pitch darkness but for the lantern Arthur carried. He used that flame to light a branch of four candles and left me in solitude for what felt like six eternities. Music floated on the air, as did the murmur of occasional voices in the corridor, but conversations were indistinct.

I could not bear to sit, I hadn't room to pace, and I was tempted to open the door just to have a peek at this Tweed House. Perhaps familiar sights would jog some memories loose?

The door opened, and His Grace returned with two ladies and an older man. He wasn't my father—that good soul had gone to his reward years ago, according to my brother—and he was in evening attire. He looked too old to be another brother, and surely the duke would have mentioned a sibling also biding at this house party.

"Jules." The younger woman spoke first. She was a lovely creature, if a bit shorter and curvier than fashion preferred. "I'm Hyperia."

"Miss West, good evening." I bowed and looked askance at the older woman. She qualified as red-haired, and she was aging well, making the transition from striking to dignified. In addition to classic features, she was tallish, and any fool could see the worry in her gaze.

I bowed again. "Your Grace, apologies for inconveniencing you and Miss West."

The older man spoke. "You don't know who I am, do you? The rumors are true, and you have no idea who I am."

I did not know who he was, but I did not care at all for the hint of gloating in his question. Before I could remonstrate with him, the duchess rounded on him, her hands fisted at her sides.

"Gideon Harve Marchant, if you continue in that vein, you are no friend of mine. My son risked his life, repeatedly, to keep you and the bloviating nincompoops you aspire to join in Parliament safe from the Corsican menace. A better man than you will ever, ever be has been brought temporarily low by a malady inflicted by unkind fate, and you haven't the sense to show any compassion. If you hope to hold a prayer of moving safely in Society, you will apologize to his lordship this instant ."

Ye gods, I was the son of a dragoness. The Marchant fellow visibly shrank as the duchess concluded her tirade. Miss West took the place on my right. Arthur stood to my left.

"Apologize," Miss West said, "then get out. This is a family matter, Mr. Marchant, and you are intruding."

Marchant flicked a gaze at the duke, who remained magnificently silent. "Apologies, my lord. I meant no offense, and I wish you a speedy recovery." He slipped out of the room.

In the next instant, the duchess had me in a fierce hug. "I am so sorry. Gideon has a bit of the ghoul in him, and he tagged along, and I was too worried…" She stepped back and looked me up and down, the anxiety still evident in her gaze. "Don't fret, my lord. You are among allies, and all will seem better in the morning. You need rest and time, and we will see that you have both."

His Grace of Waltham had spoken the truth. I would not have recognized this Valkyrie as my mother, though others probably saw a resemblance in our features. I knew two things, though, without a single memory to confirm my conclusions: These women would protect me to their last breaths, and never had a son been more fiercely beloved.

The duchess stepped back, her presumption upon my person apparently embarrassing her.

"My thanks," I said, "for your defense of me in my present state, Your Grace. I apologize for burdening you, His Grace, and Miss West with my malady."

One corner of the duchess's lips quirked up, resulting in a resemblance to her firstborn. "You haven't forgotten your manners, my boy. Perhaps we can credit your upbringing for that. Arthur, will you bide here until morning?"

Her question had a subtle neutral quality. I did not want him to leave, of that I was certain, and yet, he and Banter clearly longed to take ship.

"No need to stay," I said with as much confidence as I could muster. "Time and tide wait for no man. I'm sure Mama and Miss West will have me put to rights ere long."

I hoped they would. I prayed they would.

"You just quoted Chaucer," Miss West said. "That bit about time and tide is from ‘The Clerk's Tale.' The memories are there, Jules. You'll find your way back to them as you always do."

Her reassurances carried weight with me, though I knew not why. I could not recall "The Clerk's Tale," nor the author Chaucer, but Hyperia West had made a sound point. I could retrieve the quote, ergo, the source material was still knocking around my upper story somewhere.

"And you called me Mama ," the duchess muttered.

I was again all at sea. Arthur had called her Mama, she was my mama, but she was also a duchess. "Did I give offense, Your Grace?"

"No," she said, slipping her arm through mine. "In fact, I might hold you to it. Come, Miss West, we must see his lordship tucked into bed, and then I will have a pointed discussion with Gideon. How dare he make light of another's misfortune like that?"

"I'll have a word with Marchant," the duke said. "And then I will be on my way."

I extricated myself from my mother's grasp. "Your Grace, safe journey. My thanks for all you've done to get me here." Please don't leave me . I suspected that sentiment had little to do with my poor memory and everything to do with the late brother, Harry, whom I could not recall. I was down to one extant brother, and he was off to the wilds of France.

A notion I detested for no logical reason.

"Jules." Arthur took my hand, then pulled me in for a hug. "By God, sir, you shall write to me regularly, and I promise to return the courtesy. I wish you were in better fettle, but I am leaving you in the best possible hands."

I wanted the embrace to end, and I wanted to cling to this serious, solid fellow who had changed his plans without notice to see his younger brother to safety.

"Have a splendid journey," I said, clapping him on the back. "Smooth sailing and fair winds."

He let me go, kissed each lady on the cheek, and withdrew. A sense of focused energy left the room with him, and I was abruptly ready to sit again. I was capable of sleeping in a chair. I did not need my memories to confirm that fact.

"Come," the duchess said, possessing herself of my arm again. "The hour is late, the day has been interminable, and you need your rest."

"Yes, Mama."

Miss West took my other arm, and they escorted me to a comfortable parlor done up in green plaid. I was greeted by a small boy, whose scowl for some reason warmed my heart.

"I'm Atticus, and you ain't dicked in the nob, guv. You're just a might forget-ty sometimes. I'll get him to bed."

This pint-sized martinet's assurances were sufficient to see the ladies turn me over to his care. Miss West kissed my cheek—her scent was lusciously floral—while the duchess patted my arm.

"We'll have a tray sent up for your breakfast, Julian. Sleep as late as you like."

She seemed to want something from me, but in my fatigued state, all I had left were those manners she'd alluded to.

"My thanks. Good night, Miss West. Good night, Mama."

My tired eyes might have been playing tricks on me, but the duchess's gaze seemed to have acquired a suspicious shine. Miss West accompanied my mother from the room, and the boy Atticus glowered up at me.

"Did you read your card, guv? I made sure you had your card in your pocket, and when your wits go widdershins, you're supposed to read your card."

I half fell onto the sofa. "I read the card. God above, I am tired."

The boy went at my boots. "You nigh ruined these, and they are your good pair. You can't fall asleep on that sofa. You're a lordship, and lordships sleep in beds." He pulled off the second boot and glowered at it. "You shoulda never gone to Dover all on your lonesome. I'll learn to bloody drive a four-in-hand so you won't never get far from home with only a card a-tween you and the madhouse."

"Language, child." I yawned.

He disappeared into the next room. "Get yer arse in here, guv, and be quick about it."

I followed orders. I suspected I was good at following orders. "What has you in such a stir, young man?" I asked as I unbuttoned my jacket and waistcoat. "I'm told my memories always return in a matter of hours." Though what could possibly explain this cranky youngster serving as my valet?

"The memories have come back every other time," the lad replied, "but then there's this time and the next time." He disappeared into what was probably the dressing closet and emerged with a blue dressing gown. "You don't sleep in a nightshirt. You sleep in the altogether."

"In my present state, I would cheerfully sleep in a horse trough." We got me out of my clothes, I washed, the cool water a benediction beyond price, then I was abed in lavender-scented sheets. As I drifted into the arms of Morpheus, I thanked heaven for my family and marveled at the good fortune that had given me such loyal, fierce people to guard me in my hour of need.

I woke to the patter of rain on glass and to the knowledge that my world had changed irrevocably.

My mother loved me. She'd been ready to go best of three falls with Gideon Marchant over a bit of passing rudeness aimed in my direction. She'd hugged me—more than once—and when I'd called her Mama , she'd nearly preened and threatened to hold me to it.

She had not exhibited mere vestigial sentiments left over from the obligatory fondness a parent felt for a small offspring. She had shown me nothing less than mother-love, full and fierce, and her devotion had been hiding in plain sight for most of my adulthood.

Why and how had my relationship with Her Grace grown so stilted and uneasy? Even with my memories present and accounted for, I could not answer that question.

"You're awake." Atticus appeared in my bedroom doorway. "I'm Atticus. I do fer ya. You're Lord Julian."

"I know who I am, my boy, and that I had a bad spell last night, but you can cease fretting like a biddy hatching her only egg. I am quite myself this morning."

He squinted at me. "Who sits upon the throne of England?"

"That's a bit complicated. Mad George is king. His son, Fat George, rules as Regent. Next question." I got out of bed, took down my dressing gown from the peg on the bedpost, and pretended to make a production out of scuffing into a pair of worn slippers. The relief in Atticus's dark eyes was that hard to behold.

"When's my next driving lesson?" he asked, advancing into the room and yanking up the bedcovers.

"As soon as the rain stops. Atticus, I am well. I was looked after by those who care about me. Your pocket card did its job. Skirmish concluded, victory to our side without casualties and without prisoners lost to the enemy. Now get to the kitchen, please, and find us a pot of China black and some sweet buns. I'm famished."

"I'm famished too," Atticus said. "I'll fetch yer tea and tell Miss West you've come right. 'Bout damned time too."

I permitted him a touch of rudeness born of battle nerves. He'd slept not on a cozy cot in the dressing closet, but on the parlor sofa, from which vantage point he'd been better able to guard my privacy.

"Atticus," I called as he bolted for the door.

"Aye, guv?" The caution was back, though banked.

"I meant what I said about your next driving lesson, and thank you for looking after me."

"'Tweren't nuffing." He slipped out the door as quietly as a leaf falls to earth.

By the time he returned, I was dressed but for my jacket. His haul from the kitchen included tea, sweet currant buns, ham-and-cheese tarts, and fresh orange slices, a feast fit for the gods to my hungry eyes. I took my portion to the balcony and left Atticus to break his fast while he put the bedroom to rights. He'd share a tray with me, but not with me , such was the dignity of my young tiger.

I could teach him to drive a four-in-hand, though my skills in that regard were merely adequate. Harry had been a noted whip, of course. Harry, whom it had been a guilty relief to have forgotten for a time.

I was pondering that admission when Hyperia appeared at the French door. "It's nigh freezing out, Jules. Are you that determined on your dose of fresh air that you'd risk your death in this weather?"

I rose and hugged her, and to blazes with anybody who might have been spying. "Good morning, my dearest. I wanted some time to think and consider recent revelations. We can discuss them in the parlor if you'd prefer."

"The parlor is more private. This balcony is visible from the path to the stables and from the back gardens."

Given the dreary weather, we weren't likely to be seen taking tea, but Hyperia's caution was warranted. I was reminded of Gideon Marchant's taunt—"You don't even know who I am, do you?"—and his reputation as an éminence grise in Mayfair Society.

More of a tiresome gossip than any sort of eminence. I took my tea into the parlor.

"Have you broken your fast?" I asked.

"I did, as did Her Grace. Nobody seems to be aware of your condition last night."

"Marchant kept his mouth shut, then?" I gestured her to the sofa, retrieved the tray from the bedroom, and noted that Atticus had left two tarts and a sweet bun untouched. I brought the remains to the parlor and set the tray on the low table.

"Mr. Marchant has kept his mouth shut for now. An aspiring MP doesn't risk the wrath of a duke, much less a duchess with your mother's connections. How are you, Jules?"

I took the place beside her, poured a second cup, fixed it with a dollop of honey, as Perry preferred it, and passed her the tea.

"I am in something of a muddle, to be honest."

"Give it time. Your memories are always restored to you in fairly short order." She sipped her tea, then sipped again.

I'd got the honey right, apparently. "My memories have reported for duty, but when they went absent without leave, some long-held notions went missing with them."

She set down her cup. "What sort of long-held notions?"

"Inaccurate ones, regarding my mother." The conversation was about to reflect poorly on me, but this was my dear Perry, who'd dismissed Marchant from her presence like a queen disgusted with an unruly page.

"You and Her Grace are cordial," Hyperia said, taking one of the tarts. "You always have been."

"Not so. When I was a small boy, we were close. My four-leaf clovers, my skinned knees, my imaginary dragons, and little-boy dreams were all entrusted to her. Papa came in for his share of confidences, too, but my mother was devoted to her children, and to me among them."

"You are not a little boy anymore, Jules."

"True, though when I am without my memories, I am as helpless as a child, as vulnerable. Her Grace, ably abetted by your lovely self and dear Arthur, was ready to do battle with the whole French army on my behalf. She wasn't embarrassed by my situation, wasn't inconvenienced by it, wasn't the least bit ashamed of me."

"Of course not. You cannot be held responsible for a malady that—"

I took Hyperia's hand. "That malady leaves me embarrassed and ashamed, Perry, as irrational as I know those sentiments to be. If my family shunned me, they'd have half of Mayfair's blessing for doing so. I have fashioned an opinion of Her Grace that is unfair and inaccurate, labeling her an indifferent mother, when, if I can view her objectively, she is anything but."

"That's good that you can see her in a better light." Hyperia's observation held a question: Where was I going with these peregrinations?

"Perry, just before I left for Dover, Her Grace told me to cease investigating the missing letters. I recall that very clearly and recall seething with outrage that she'd dismiss me while you, Atticus, and anybody with a window looked on."

"Don't forget Atlas."

My horse, my noble steed, whom Arthur would surely see returned to me. "Exactly so. She delivered this blow to my self-regard publicly and unequivocally, though she is a woman who values her reputation, her privacy, and the regard of her friends."

"She values you as well," Hyperia said slowly. "Ah."

"Precisely. She might weather a tempest of gossip about an old affair, might even be able to smile about her own misguided folly. She would not, however, countenance harm to me. I see that now. We thus know that the threats have started, threats that include intended harm to me, and that is progress."

Hyperia let go of my hand and stood. "Progress, of a sort, and also a serious problem, Jules. Arthur, God willing, should soon be on the Continent, and his consequence won't be available to protect you or your mother. Whoever stole her letters put the fear of ruin in her—your ruin and hers, at least, and let's assume mine as well. Her Grace told you to desist, and having puzzled out her motivations, how can you do anything other than as she asks?"

Fair question, and the answer was already at hand. "My mother protected me last night, Perry, as you and Arthur did, and Atticus as well, in his slightly alarming fashion. This looking-out-for-family business is supposed to go both ways. It's still the case that Mrs. Whittington, who is apparently without family, and Lady Barrington, who cannot rely on her family, are also at risk of harm. At the least, I must ask Her Grace to rethink her decision to capitulate to these threats."

"You want to know exactly how the threats were conveyed, because you believe that will point to their source."

"True." The more awkward inquiry was harder to put into words: What had driven a wedge between my mother and me? When had it started, and why? That wedge had been a painful burden to me and doubtless to Her Grace as well. My illegitimacy figured into the mix somewhere, but pinpointing when and how was difficult.

"I wish we'd never come here," Hyperia said, resuming her place beside me. "This has all been a strain on you, and what should be a matter of some missing letters has bloomed into a small war with an enemy we cannot see. If it turns out this whole affair is the result of Lady Canderport's hurt feelings, I will see her banished to the Outer Hebrides before Yuletide."

"With my blessing, but we've acquired a weapon of which the enemy remains ignorant," I said. Not the sort of weapon Wellington had aimed at his foes, but rather, the sort of weapon a reconnaissance officer had relied on for his very life. "Given Her Grace's behavior, her protectiveness on my behalf, we now operate with a degree of trust that at least on my part was missing previously. I hope that makes a difference to Her Grace."

Hyperia slipped an arm around my waist. "You called her Mama last night, Jules. She was in tears before we reached her apartment. She blamed it on fatigue and the tribulations of the day, but those were tears only a parent could cry for her dear child."

For me. My mother had cried for me. My throat felt unaccountably tight at the thought. I pretended to take another sip of my tea, but the cup was as empty as my heart was full.

My mother was at her correspondence when I sailed into her boudoir. To my surprise, she was wearing spectacles, which gave her a quizzical, bookish appearance.

"My lord, good morning." She removed her eyeglasses and folded them into a velvet-lined case that might have been intended to resemble a music box. "To knock before entering a lady's room is customary."

Wisherd was nowhere to be seen, but then, the morning had advanced past the breakfast hour.

"My apologies," I said. "Good day, Your Grace. I come on a matter of some urgency, and you may be assured that my memories have accompanied me." Some of them surprisingly happy. "Let us resolve the little matter of finding your letters before we proceed on to items of a familial nature."

She rose and shooed me into the parlor. "The letters don't signify. I hope you recall my telling you as much."

"You meant for half the assemblage to see you relieving me of command, as it were, even knowing that a public exchange would humiliate me far more than any private conversation could have. Why be so cavalier with my pride, Your Grace?"

I'd felt her arms around me. I'd seen the tears gathering in her eyes mere hours ago. Without that evidence, I would never have believed this reserved, nigh haughty woman was the mother who'd so generously offered me refuge.

The duchess was back on her mettle.

And so was I.

"I was not cavalier with your lordship's pride. You were shortly to depart for Dover. Time was of the essence lest you poke about the stationers' shops unnecessarily. If I spoke plainly, I did so in the interest of getting you on your way."

I tended to give my mother a wide berth, even in the literal sense, and thus I generally beheld her at some distance. Standing nearly toe-to-toe, my superior height was evident. I did not loom over her, but neither did I yield the floor.

"You were threatened," I said quietly. "You were threatened in such a manner that you feared continuing to search for the letters would bring harm to me. You ordered me to desist because you'd rather face scandal and blackmail on your own than put me at risk of the smallest harm. You put yourself between me and danger."

She scowled at my cravat pin, which featured the Caldicott lion rampant wrought in gold. "How can you know these things?"

I had made logical deductions, but those deductions had been informed by her scathing rebuke to Marchant, her immediate acceptance of my loss of memory, and her embraces. The most dangerous creature in the wild was not the lion intent on bringing down his supper or besting a rival, it was the lioness defending her cub.

"I know you were threatened on my behalf because I pay attention," I said. "Shall we sit, or would you prefer to continue this argument on our feet?"

Her scowl acquired a hint of bewilderment. "Have a seat. The letters truly are of no moment, my lord."

Call me Julian. Except that we weren't through with our first argument, and one wanted to bring a certain order to one's campaign.

"The letters matter," I said, taking a seat on the sofa and patting the cushion beside me. "They give some malcontent control over your reputation and the reputations of Lady Barrington and Mrs. Whittington. You are a duchess, and you might weather the talk with little damage, but Mrs. Whittington does not enjoy your standing or your means. Lady Barrington has step-daughters in need of husbands. For all I know, Lady Canderport is tippling madly because she, too, has been threatened, and she also has a daughter who needs every advantage in Society to make a decent match."

Her Grace took a seat at my side. "Next, you'll imply that Napoleon will escape from St. Helena if the letters aren't found."

"Harm will befall innocents, and while I esteem your maternal devotion highly, and thank you for it sincerely, I am a man grown and capable of defending myself—most days. Please tell me how the threat was conveyed to you."

"If I tell you that, you will hare off to peek under mattresses and lurk at keyholes, and I refuse to put your life at risk because I was foolish years ago."

" My life was threatened?"

She muttered something rude in French, which she'd been raised to speak as well as English.

Ye gods and little fishes, such stubbornness. I left the parlor for the boudoir, opened the little box that held her spectacles, and extracted a quarter sheet of foolscap folded in fourths.

Call off your hound, or you shall have a dead dog on your hands.

I brought the note back to the sitting room and held it up to the rain-spattered window. "No watermark. Cheap foolscap such as any household has in quantity." I sniffed the paper, but no particular aroma came through, and the ink was merely black. "Where did you find it?"

"You were always headstrong, in your quiet way. Arthur was dignified, Harry loud, but you kept your manners about you. You went up to bed when told to, and then you'd sneak back down to the library and read until all hours."

A diversionary tactic. She'd be sending her cavalry around my flank if I didn't make my next volleys count. "I often could not sleep, and I like to read, a predilection inherited from my mother. Please explain how this note was conveyed to you, or I will be compelled to question Wisherd."

"I found it in one of my riding boots when Wisherd brought them up from belowstairs. She insists that I use boot trees to keep the leather supple, and there it was."

Meaning the entire household, servants, guests, family, temporary hires from Town, and even the outside staff could have put the note into that boot. Somebody had chosen well.

"When did you find it?"

"The night before last, though I'm sure my boots sat about in the servants' hall for most of a day before Wisherd remembered to retrieve them. The threat to your life is plain, my lord. Continue investigating, and your mortal existence is in peril."

I resumed the place beside my mother on the sofa, lest I start pacing. "My life was in peril every day I served in uniform." Or every day I served in disguise. For much of my military tenure, I'd been a tinker's assistant, a drover, a farrier, a shepherd discharged for drunkenness, a French deserter, an English deserter…

"But you knew then who your enemy was and why you fought." The duchess glowered at the scrap of paper in my hand. "Arthur might well choose to reside on foreign shores for all the rest of his days. Harry has gone to his reward. I cannot lose you over stupid letters written to a stupid woman."

Such bitterness, such self-recrimination, was intolerable. "In the name of all that is dignified, you shall not refer to my mother as stupid. Sentimental, perhaps. Lonely in mourning, certainly. Overly trusting, maybe on rare occasion. Papa had gone to his reward, Harry and I were seldom at the Hall, and you encountered an attractive, talented man who listened to your dreams and woes, who appeared delighted to spend time with you, and whom you had no reason to suspect of bad motives. I see no stupidity in a temporary romantic indulgence."

The duchess patted my knee. "Never has a show of support sounded so much like a scold, but thank you. I was lonely, and Pickering was perfect, blast him. He read me poetry and brought me roses. Even his stationery was scented with roses, and he sang to me and played the violin beneath my window. Your father wasn't the roses-and-serenades type."

If she referred to the duke, he also wasn't my father. Maybe someday Her Grace and I would get around to having that donnybrook as well.

"Pickering offered you romance when you thought your last chance for romance had passed."

She peered at me with a brooding expression. "I suppose… yes. I was easily charmed. Now I am aware that a life is easily taken, my lord, and no scandal, no gossip, no toll Society could exact on my good name is worth risking your wellbeing."

I considered again the scrap of paper in my hand. "My life isn't in danger." This was an opinion, not a fact, but a strongly held opinion.

"For pity's sake, my lord, that is a threat. If you continue investigating, you will be killed."

"This is a threat," I replied slowly, "also a puzzle. Assume you are the sort of embittered soul who watches from the fringes as Society whirls along. It comes to your notice that three widows have found discreet consolation in unlikely places. You have proof of their liaisons, and each woman has access to some wealth or social influence. You crave to have that wealth and influence used for your own ends. What is your next move?"

The duchess rubbed her temples. "You want me to play chess, and I want to follow Arthur to France."

Please not France. "Do you threaten somebody who has only a very slight chance of locating that proof, or do you threaten the people with the money and influence?"

"Both? I don't know, and frankly, I do not care. Let them have the rubbishing letters. I never cared much for Mayfair in spring anyhow, and the few whom I consider genuine friends don't either."

My mother was exasperated, while I was bewildered. I had leaped to the conclusion that blackmail was in the offing—why else steal proof of three different romances involving three different Society widows? But the thief wasn't acting like a blackmailer—or wasn't acting like a blackmailer yet.

"How do you, Lady Barrington, and Mrs. Whittington know one another?"

Her Grace sat up. "Hellie and I… I knew her when she was married to her first husband, but we grew friendlier when the viscount and His Grace served together on some parliamentary committee or other. Carola's husband served on the same committee in an advisory capacity. Corruption in the military, abuse of command, those sorts of issues. Tedious, thankless, necessary work. His Grace said that whether some pilfering second lieutenant was ever brought to justice wasn't the point. The threat of investigation would make a prudent criminal think twice and go back to picking pockets rather than bilking the Navy of gunpowder."

Whatever committee Papa had served on, they'd had their hands full.

The British military had been the largest customer for nearly everything produced on Albion's shores, from mules to munitions, from wool to wheat, from cooking pots to candles. While war raged, fortunes had flowed from public coffers into private hands at a tremendous rate.

Ensuring that John Bull received value for his coin had been a hit-or-miss proposition, as any infantryman marching in a threadbare uniform had known.

"If you can think of any other connection between you and the other two ladies, please let me know," I said. "You are all widows. You are all well-received in Society. Your husbands apparently knew one another in more than passing, and there must be other common ground as well."

I rose, a sense of urgency descending upon me. "I'm off to confer with Lady Canderport."

The duchess got to her feet as well. "My lord, I have asked, I have ordered, and now I am begging you—let this go. You will make a widow of Miss West before you make her a bride, and that would be a tragedy."

A low and telling shot, but I was primed to return fire. "Do you recall how determined you were last night to see me safely through an episode of lost memory? You were ready to plant Marchant two facers, to blacken both of his eyes, and make a good start on blackening his reputation because he poked fun at me when I was defenseless."

"Gideon apologized to me again this morning, and he will not presume in such a manner ever again."

The man had likely groveled, and well he should have. "You still want to kick him where it counts."

"Provided I can first put on a pair of jackboots. The sheer rudeness, the barefaced, crass, lumpen, loutish, contemptible, coarse, oafish—"

"I feel the same indignation, Your Grace, twenty times over, when I think that somebody presumes to threaten the peace of a woman I esteem very highly indeed. Somebody is threatening my mama , and I am compelled by honor, instinct, and filial devotion to protect her. I will be careful. Hyperia and Atticus will keep a watch on me, you will, too, and even Wisherd will support our cause. Between us, we can foil this enemy."

She studied me for a long moment, her gaze unreadable. "Such stubbornness. You get that from your father. Very well, but be careful, sir. The flames of hell will be as nothing compared to my wrath if you come to harm, and much of that wrath will be directed at you."

"Understood. Any final orders before I find Lady Canderport?"

"Marry Miss West. She deserves the protection of your name, and the two of you aren't as discreet as you think yourselves."

"Our courtship remains a work in progress, Your Grace. I'll see you at luncheon." I resisted the temptation to salute and marched smartly from the room.