Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

"Lady Canderport had nothing to add," I said as Hyperia opened the cover over the piano keys. "She did not avail herself of any romantic consolations during mourning, and she hasn't since, to hear her tell it."

We had the music room to ourselves, for the nonce. I had closed the door, and if anybody asked, my motivation would have been to keep the heat of the desultory fire in the room and to keep the din of a duet rehearsal muted. At a guess, I'd say MacFadden's criticism of the flue was warranted. The room bore a faint odor of peat, and the roses in the porcelain bowl on the closed lid of the piano were drooping.

"Her ladyship admitted the details of her past to you?" Hyperia settled on the piano bench and began leafing through music stacked beside the rack.

I lit a few more sconces and poked some life into the fire. "Her ladyship was quite candid. I would not call her coldhearted—she's devoted to her children—but she's pragmatic. Her Grace, Lady Barrington, and Mrs. Whittington have reason to be concerned. Lady Canderport acknowledges the validity of their fears and, out of good sportsmanship or whatever you ladies call fair play, hopes they emerge from the situation unscathed. She doesn't consider the other ladies friends, but neither are they her enemies."

"She saves her sentimentality for her children. I caught Lady Jess trying to inveigle Miss Frampton and Lottie into smoking a cheroot. Miss Bivens was their lookout, but her nose was in a book when I strolled into the conservatory."

"Lady Jessamine needs a firmer hand on the reins."

Hyperia paused in her search for music. "You never experimented with cheroots and brandy and such?"

"I did, but my partner in mischief was usually Harry, and we were both eager and willing. I take exception to coercing innocents into folly against their better judgment." I went on to explain about Atticus's brush with Drayson's trickster valet.

"I suppose it's part of a boy's education," Hyperia said. "It's certainly part of a girl's."

What could she…? "You mean a young lady's? A new widow's?"

"Those new widows were vulnerable, Jules. Lonely, at sea, living a very reduced life before they expected to. Along comes this tall, dark, and handsome charmer, and in each case, he's exactly what the lady needs in a consolation."

"And he's traveling under some variant of the name John." I took the place beside Hyperia on the lower register end of the piano bench. "Is that coincidence—Johns are everywhere in the land of John Bull—or significant?"

"Coincidence, I'd say."

"I've focused almost exclusively on the victims, Perry. What did they have in common? Now I'm asking what the lovers had in common."

"Appearance," she said. "All tall or tallish, all dark-haired, all fair of face."

"Ian used lifts on his boots, according to Her Grace. Hans's hair was auburn, John was brown-haired, and Her Grace described Ian as having sable hair. Not quite black."

"Sun can give dark hair reddish highlights, and Lady Barrington encountered her Hans during shooting season, which starts in high summer. Sable is a version of brown."

"Very well, all three were tall, dark-haired, and handsome," I said, "but one was a skilled musician, while the other two appear to have been idle gentlemen."

"An aspiring diplomat isn't quite idle, but he is a gentleman." Hyperia set some music on the rack and laid her hands on the keyboard. "One and two and three and…"

She began to play the primo part of a duet, and from old habit, I came in with the secondo . She'd chosen the middle movement from Mozart's Sonata in D Major for Four Hands. I was rusty, and the opening allegro would have been well beyond me, while the concluding molto allegro called for speed I'd never been able to master.

The flowing and lyrical andante , though, was a pleasure to revisit.

"All three admirers came and went in the course of the affairs," Hyperia said, executing some intricate ornamentation with grace and ease. "John Pickering was always off visiting prospective clients or looking in on some poor relation. Ian the would-be diplomat traveled."

"Hans the dashing dandy repaired to Town, where Lady Barrington could see him only intermittently." We played on, the music exerting a calming effect on my roiling thoughts. "Each man was a perfect fit for the lady he wooed."

"Wooed, but had no intention of winning." Hyperia took a repeat the composer hadn't put in the score. "I can understand why Her Grace would not marry a music master, and Lady Barrington had her reasons for remaining unentangled, but what of Mrs. Whittington? She's comely, not destitute, and yet, her swain abandoned her."

"Almost as if the liaison had served some purpose?"

We reached the final cadence and, as had been our habit years ago, allowed a concluding moment of silence. My eye fell on the bowl of drooping roses gracing the closed lid of the piano, and I was reminded of Charles's reference to the grueling part of the steeplechase. My enthusiasm for this thorny inquiry was certainly drooping.

Hyperia leaned into my shoulder gently. "Every liaison serves one purpose, for the male half of the duet at least."

Said with some asperity. "These fellows troubled to romance the ladies, Hyperia. Her Grace was treated to violin serenades and rose-scented love letters. Ian favored Mrs. Whittington with fragrant bouquets of damasks, and Hans…"

I fell silent as a pink petal fell from a spent bloom.

"Jules?"

"Hans had a fine singing voice," I said slowly, "and roses were his posy of preference when charming a lady. He forgot to change his favorite flower."

"What are you going on about?"

"I might well be daft, Hyperia, but I suspect all three men—John, Ian, and Hans—were the same fellow."

"That makes no sense."

Sense, maybe not, but the facts supported the conclusion nonetheless. "I have been stumped for the duration of this investigation in two regards—at least two. First, what is the motive for the thievery? Blackmail serves handily, but we've received no threats of same. Threats, yes—I will be a dead dog and so forth—but no demands for money.

"Very well," I went on, thinking aloud, "perhaps the thief is biding his time, but why wait until now to purloin the stolen items? Perhaps because opportunity has arisen only now, but that begs another question: How effective would blackmail be this long after the liaisons have concluded?"

"Somewhat valuable, given that Lady Barrington is trying to find a match for a galloping hoyden of a step-daughter."

"So is Lady Canderport, and nobody has stolen anything from her."

"Because, Jules, there is nothing to steal."

I rose from the piano bench and began to pace. "Not so. Steal one of her flasks, attribute ownership to Lottie. Steal three of them, for that matter, and Lottie's chances of finding a husband plummet."

"Perhaps Lottie wants her chances to plummet."

I did an about-face before the mantel. "Then she's kept her powder dry for an uncharacteristically long time, and she has for once not involved her twin in her schemes. Charles reports that this is the third house party in as many months."

I struck off again across the music room. "The second question that has dogged me for the duration is: How could anybody, other than the ladies themselves, know of the love letters, the gloves, the locket? The ladies treasured these items, and gossip might have tickled an ear or two, but the suitor was also aware of each item."

"Ah. Hence you conclude we are dealing with one suitor who was familiar with all three women. The one who forgot to collect his gloves from Lady Barrington, who gave the locket to Mrs. Whittington, and who wrote the letters to Her Grace and well knew where she kept personal correspondence. What of Lord Drayson's sketches?"

I paused before the intricately carved great harp. "Coincidence or a diversion to muddy the waters. I vote muddy the waters."

"Because you don't like Drayson, and he's of an age to have been the suitor. Barely, but he does qualify. Would three notably astute women all fail to recognize a man with whom they'd been intimate? That's quite a stretch, Jules."

I returned to the bench, sitting at a right angle to my beloved. "We don't have all the answers yet, you're right about that, but the one suitor theory has merit. Perhaps John-Hans-Ian got to confiding in a friend, and the friend was well placed enough to put blackmail in train."

"But you don't think so."

I did not know what to think, but I knew where my instincts were leading me. "If all three women were wooed by the same man, then he was adept at disguises, as a fraud and a spy is adept. Ian used lifts to change his height, and he was also a fashionable dandy, right down to ridiculously high shirt points, a fussy coiffure, and elaborate knots for his cravat."

"What about the different hair colors?"

"Henna," I said, the answer arriving to my mind only as I mentally reached for it. "I was encouraged to use it to restore my auburn locks."

"Henna," Hyperia said, wrapping an arm around my waist and leaning against my back, "and black walnut stain."

"Brilliant, my dear. I'd forgotten about Marchant's hair tonic."

We remained in that posture, her hugging me from behind, me staring at the fire, as the repercussions of her insight reverberated in the peaty silence. Gideon Marchant possessed both tinctures, and he was of unknown patrimony. He would have heard every whisper making the rounds of polite society, and he had parliamentary aspirations that required substantial sums to achieve.

"Marchant is too old to have been the suitor, Jules, and too well known to the ladies."

"Perhaps so, but I have reason to question his financial stability, Perry, and that is an aspect of his situation I can easily investigate."

She gave me a squeeze and let me go. "Do you need a lookout?"

I rose and offered her my hand. "Bless you. If you could find Marchant and keep him occupied, that would serve even better. I need but a few minutes to confirm my hunch." I drew her into my arms and enjoyed a properly close embrace.

"What tipped you off?"

"Marchant's personal mount is not only dangerous, but literally long in the tooth. Why would any man, especially a vain man whose reputation mattered to him a great deal, keep such a beast?"

"Because he cannot afford a replacement. Not a lot to go on, Jules. Men get attached to their mounts."

As did women. "Marchant periodically fires his valet and only rehires him when another house party or social Season is in the offing. If the valet gives bad service, why not go to the agencies and find somebody competent?"

"Why does the valet accept the same post if he knows another firing awaits him?" On that worthy query, Hyperia stepped back. "Give me twenty minutes. If Marchant isn't napping in his own bed, I'll keep him occupied for at least another thirty minutes."

The gleam in her eye made me vaguely uneasy. "How?"

"I will speculate at length regarding Lord Drayson's nude sketches and where they might have got off to. In the course of my maunderings, I will let slip that his young lordship is very concerned the sketches have fallen into the wrong hands."

"And Marchant, smelling another scandal, will question you closely and hang on your every word. I really do not care for that man, Hyperia. Go cautiously."

She kissed me and patted my cravat pin. "And you, very cautiously."

"I always do." Though admittedly, sometimes going even very cautiously I'd found myself in fraught circumstances indeed.

Hyperia found Marchant in the library reading the previous day's Society pages. By the time I abandoned my listening post, she'd been leading Marchant by slow degrees to a discussion of classical art. A few minutes later, I tapped on his apartment door, announced myself, and waited on the off chance MacFadden might be within.

When that proved to not be the case, some quiet finagling with a hairpin and a pointed implement that had originally been part of a pipe-cleaning kit gained me admittance.

I wasn't looking for stolen items. I was looking for proof that Marchant had a motive for blackmailing three women who considered him a friend. I thus took myself directly to his dressing closet.

Within two minutes, I'd established that his boots had been reheeled, and while his jackets were well made and en vogue , his shirts were threadbare. Of spare cravats, he had only three—one still slightly damp from the laundry and hanging over the wardrobe door, one apparently awaiting starch and the iron, and one discarded after being worn. The newly laundered specimen yet had a faint pink stain that would doubtless be hidden by careful folding.

Brummel was said to have gone through six pristine starched and ironed cravats per morning dressing session because he'd been that particular about his fancy knots.

Marchant's jewelry was paste, what there was of it, though the settings were good quality and well maintained. As to that, most sensible people traveled with paste copies of any truly valuable accessories.

I needed proof Marchant was deep in dun territory rather than simply prone to excessive economies. Not until it occurred to me to look through his traveling desk did I find what I sought.

Creditors were hounding Marchant, from the bank threatening to foreclose on a property in the Midlands, to a chandler hailing from Town, to a landlord seeking to remind Marchant of arrearages on a Chiltenstone Street rental.

Marchant hadn't taken a wife, because like many a bachelor before him, he was unable to afford one. He flitted from house party to house party not simply to collect gossip, but to save on his own upkeep. The temperamental old horse, the hot-and-cold employment of a Scottish valet, the much-mended shirts… Marchant had come down in the world and doubtless hoped a stint in the Commons would improve his circumstances.

Members of Parliament were not paid for their efforts, and yet, many of them managed to turn the odd coin even so.

Well, well, well.

"Beg pardon, milord, but you oughtn't to be reading another fellow's mail." MacFadden stood in the doorway to Marchant's sitting room. With the birdlike tilt of his head, he looked more like a curious hen than an avenging angel of gentlemanly privacy, and his tone had been only mildly reproving.

"You are right, but then, somebody not only read my mother's personal correspondence, they stole it. Has Marchant paid you lately?" I closed the traveling desk as I spoke and returned the key in the lock to the precise angle where I'd found it.

"End of the month, he says." MacFadden closed the door to the sitting room and also closed the door to the bedroom. "If you hold his vowels, you have my pity."

Vowels—I, O, and U being vowels—were used for debts of honor, which the law refused to acknowledge, many of them resulting from that nominally illegal activity known as gambling.

"I avoid even polite wagers. Would you know if Marchant stole my mother's letters?"

MacFadden busied himself tidying up the hearth, which was spotless. "I might know, I might not. Himself keeps his own counsel, and my employment with him isn't what you'd call regular. The real question is, would I tell you if Marchant had turned thief, and the answer to that… I don't know, my lord. As far as I can discern, Marchant isn't a thief in the sense of taking what doesn't belong to him, but when a man doesn't pay for a top hat, when he won't give the cobbler his due, isn't that a form of thievery?"

"Yes, and that's why we have debtors' prisons."

MacFadden replaced the hearth broom and dustpan in their cast-iron stand. "I wouldn't like to see that happen to him—you catch your death at the Marshalsea, everybody says so—but I don't like lying to the tailor's boy and the coalman and the charwoman either."

"And that's why you leave Marchant from time to time?" MacFadden wasn't merely vexed on behalf of an impecunious employer, he was weary of the part he played in the whole farce. Disillusioned, even.

"He sacks me sometimes. I leave other times. Marchant pays when he can, and that used to be regularly and well, but in recent years… I don't know what will become of him, milord. He talks about Parliament, and maybe that will turn his situation around. Knows how to rob Peter and blame Paul, and that's half of what passes for government, to hear some tell it."

The late duke would have agreed. "What will become of you?" MacFadden seemed conscientious about his duties and a decent sort.

"I'll land on my feet, sir. I've had to learn the knack. Like your lad, Atticus."

"He's not my lad. He's my tiger."

A wistful expression crossed MacFadden's features. "You take up for him, he respects you, and if anything happened to the wee lad, you'd turn heaven itself inside out until you found him and brought him home safe. Doesn't matter there's no blood tie. He's your henchman."

Which had nothing to do with anything. "If Marchant asks what I was doing in his rooms, you can tell him—"

MacFadden shook his head. "He won't ask. Says nobody will trifle with him in this crowd. They are all half afeared of him, and he likes it that way."

"Are you afraid of him?"

A ghost of a smile lit MacFadden's features. "Not anymore. Best be on your way, my lord, and you needn't worry Marchant has those letters. I keep these rooms neat as a pin, and I'd know if he had them."

Fine assurances, but all MacFadden could really tell me was that Marchant hadn't stashed the letters where MacFadden was likely to stumble across them.

"I'm also looking for Mrs. Whittington's locket, Drayson's sketches, and Lady Barrington's old gloves."

"I'll keep a lookout, my lord, and have a nose around the servants' hall. Pointing a finger at the help would be just like Marchant, though I blush to admit it."

"My thanks. Don't take any risks, MacFadden, and your discretion is appreciated."

"I'll be so discreet, the pantry mice won't hear me."

I took my leave, though his words reminded me that I had seen Marchant descend into the bowels of the house on at least one occasion. I'd seen him only from the back, but his air of haste had been evident nonetheless.

By the time I rejoined Hyperia in the library, I had a working theory of the situation: Marchant had hired some actor or fortune hunter to inveigle all three women into questionable liaisons and, in each case, had left incriminating evidence of the affair in the woman's hands. He was retrieving that evidence now because his parliamentary plans were moving forward.

My theory was less than brilliant, but it fit with blackmail as Marchant's motive—one he'd attributed to himself, oddly enough—and explained both Marchant's timing and for the John-Hans-Ian similarities.

The first question became what Marchant would do with the stolen items now that he'd retrieved them. The second question was why he'd embarked on such a long, complicated game, and as to that, I had some ideas. When I returned to the library, I sent off another epistle to Lady Ophelia at Caldicott Hall and paid the groom Jean to deliver my letter posthaste and wait for a reply.

When I told him he might have to kick his heels for a day or two at the Hall, the rejoicing in his eyes was plain to see.