Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"I am not familiar with this Wisherd person." Lady Ophelia offered that remark as we strolled formal parterres set off with squares of privet pruned to about two feet. The brick walkways had been swept, and a few other guests were enjoying the fresh autumn morning. The lack of color in the garden emphasized winter's approach, as did the lack of activity.

The hedges had been trimmed, the blooms were gone, the battle with weeds was over for a few months. The delicate plants had been marched into winter quarters in the conservatory, and the hardier specimens would face the elements as best they could.

I was in the garden by design, putting myself on display as a typical guest, paying my respects to my godmother by way of a postprandial constitutional. The duchess, a bruising rider, had joined a hacking party intent on visiting the shops in the nearest market town.

"Would you know the duchess's lady's maid in the normal course?" I asked.

"I well might. Lady Barrington's lady's maid, Fleagle, has been with her since her first marriage. If I wanted to communicate something to Lady Barrington by confidential note or word of mouth, I'd send my own lady's maid to find Fleagle to see it done. If I sought to surprise Dorothea with a holiday token, or needed to know her favorite flower, then my first recourse would be to her lady's maid."

Lady Ophelia was my mother's contemporary and, in her own way, formidable. Her ladyship appeared to be an aging original, full of naughty innuendo and harmless chatter, great fun as a dinner companion, if a bit tiring.

She was also shrewd, observant, and more discreet than most people knew. What scandals she hadn't caused she'd certainly taken the trouble to become informed about, and only she knew how many scandals she'd averted in the name of friendship, decency, or the dignity of the crown. Her ladyship was tallish and trim and much given to the sort of attire that drifted gracefully and draped elegantly.

When I'd been at my lowest, most despairing point, she had plucked me by the ear out into the fresh air and into my first civilian experience with intrigue, and that had been a mere handful of months ago.

"I should know who my mother's lady's maid is, shouldn't I?" I asked as we passed a tiered fountain that was empty save for brackish water half-covered with yellow leaves in the bottom basin.

Her ladyship steered me by the elbow down the steps that led into the park. She escorted me to a bench that offered a view of bare maples and soon-to-be bare oaks. The lawn was dotted with fat sheep, all under an azure sky that made me glad I'd worn my blue-tinted spectacles.

"Arthur might know who Dorothea has mending her gloves these days," her ladyship said, "but your mother tends to go through her personal servants like an infantryman consuming grog. They give notice, or she sacks them—always with a character and some severance. The cachet of working for a duchess soon pales in comparison to her endless haring about, her whirlwind hours, and her lively personality."

"Her Grace has a temper." She'd never raised a hand to me, but then, smacking small boys was beneath her station, and I'd given her no excuse to smack me. Ever.

"She has moods, Julian. Exhaustingly dramatic moods. Claudius was patient with her, said she was coping with a life she'd never wanted. Engaged at seventeen to a man she barely knew and wasn't sure she liked. She is not as histrionic as she used to be, but generous wages go only so far toward inspiring loyalty."

"Who is that?" I asked as a gentleman and a lady came down the steps. He was older, good-looking in a distinguished way, and she was pretty and… not older. The lady was attired in lilac, which often meant half mourning, or the sort of perpetual fading-in-place that some women preferred even years after a bereavement. Her shawl was a true violet, and the color suited her fair complexion.

"Carola Whittington and Gideon Marchant. Gideon is a permanent fixture at these gatherings, and he can be charming. Carola is the requisite pretty widow with a good portion and friendly nature. Lost her husband about five years ago. He was much older, a lieutenant general if I recall correctly. One of those fellows who could afford to buy an impressive commission earlier in life, and was then promoted by attrition and the sheer passage of time."

"Her husband would have missed most of the Iberian campaign, then. Perhaps that was a mercy. She hasn't been tempted to remarry?"

"Why would she when as a widow who has completed mourning, she's having a fine time—which we do not begrudge her? How long will it take you to find the letters?"

Lady Ophelia assumed I would find them, which was both encouraging and annoying. "Those letters could be a pile of ashes by now."

"Hard to blackmail a duchess with a pile of ashes, my boy."

The cordial couple traveled on, their conversation coming to us in snatches on the morning breeze. Mrs. Whittington had a pretty laugh, and Marchant had a tendency to pat her wrist as he spoke. For reasons that likely involved my own frustrations, I found their flirtation annoying.

"They haven't noticed us," I said. "If I were a French sniper…"

Lady Ophelia rose and moved off toward the steps. "If you're in one of those moods, then saddle your horse and go for a gallop. The start of an investigation always sours your disposition, which is short of good humor on most days. Then you go all observant, suspicious, and twitchy. I'll have Wisherd sent to the medicinal garden. You can pick some mint for a tisane to improve your spirits."

She ignored my proffered arm and set a good pace for the steps.

"Godmama, have I given offense?"

She watched the chatting couple strolling toward an octagonal gazebo along the river.

"What of Leander, Julian? The boy's mother has decamped for her home shires, and we have only her word that she'll return. Arthur is in alt, counting the hours until he takes ship for France. You've dragged me and Miss West off to this annual inanity. We're to have Highland Games at the end of next week, you know. Tossing tree trunks about, grown men hauling on ropes over mud pits. Meanwhile, Leander is left all alone at the Hall…"

Leander, age five or six, was a recent arrival at the Caldicott family seat, my brother Harry's by-blow and the subject of a previous investigation. The lad was very much at sixes and sevens, as was his mother, Millicent. Harry, in typical fashion, had procured a special license but neglected to put it to use, alas for all concerned, especially the boy's mama.

"I could not bring Leander with us," I said. "Arthur might have pulled off such a feat, but my standing doesn't admit of by-blows among my retinue."

She stopped and glowered at me. "Your standing admits of whatever feats you choose to attempt, Julian. You could adopt the marquess's title by courtesy, but you remain a plain lord instead. Leander is your responsibility, and he's a small boy all but alone in this world. Dorothea doubtless stuffed her billets-doux into her spare riding boots and forgot where she put them."

No, she hadn't. Whatever shortcomings my mother had, forgetfulness was my specialty, not hers.

"I will be as expeditious in my investigation as I can be," I said, "but as you've pointed out, these letters are great fodder for blackmail. The gentleman who wrote them was far beneath Her Grace in station and not exactly well situated." A music master did no manual labor, but he took coin for services and thus failed Society's test of gentility.

Godmama resumed walking. "Unless Dorothea has taken up with royal princes, a sport I do not advise anybody to pursue, nearly every trysting partner in England will be far beneath her in station. She usually shows some discernment, though."

"This was a music master, and he was quite a bit younger."

Godmama shook her head. "That one. I remember him. He was oleaginous, and Dorothea couldn't seem to help herself. First mourning drags on eternally, but in some ways, second mourning is worse. You realize you will never have back the social éclat you once had, but you haven't the stomach for remarriage, and you cannot even comfort yourself by hosting entertainments. It's as if Society draws out your misery for as long as possible."

Lady Ophelia had been widowed twice, and she'd buried two young children. Her godchildren were legion, and her surviving offspring had presented her with grandchildren. She also had nieces and nephews, cousins by the score, and friends without number.

But right now, she was concerned for one small, lonely, and likely bewildered boy, and for that, I loved her.

"I can tell Her Grace the task is impossible." I didn't want to. The missing correspondence was potentially ruinous to the duchess, and so far, no guests had disappeared in the night, no staff had taken French leave. I'd gleaned that information when Atticus had brought me hot water for shaving.

As best I knew, the thief yet abided at Tweed House, unless some particularly stealthy crook had passed by dozens of staff and guests in broad daylight and departed unseen.

Lady Ophelia slipped her hand around my elbow as we approached the steps. "If you blow retreat this soon, Dorothea will hold it against me. Just know that I would rather be at the Hall. In the alternative, you could entrust Leander to me until his mother returns from visiting her home shire."

"The boy is a Caldicott." He would also be the only family I had on hand when Arthur went traveling, and Leander was my nephew.

Her ladyship favored me with a crooked smile. "Fat lot of good being a Caldicott seems to do anybody."

I loved Lady Ophelia in part because she saw past titles and wealth and standing, though her perspicacity could also make me uncomfortable. "I'll make you a wager, Godmama."

"You are embarking on a clumsy attempt to wheedle. How droll."

We mounted the steps, to appearance in great good charity with each other. Ophelia had timed her display of temper for when we'd had no audience, though to call concern for Leander temper was not entirely accurate.

"You do your best to find the letters, my lady, and I shall do mine. Whoever locates them gets to go back to the Hall first."

"You awful boy. I have better things to do than snoop about in search of Dorothea's mail. In fairness to the duchess, that musical fellow was both attractive and talented. I'll send Wisherd to meet you in the medicinal garden."

She kissed my cheek and swanned off, and I was left to wonder exactly which of Mr. Pickering's talents her ladyship had most admired. I took myself to the medicinal garden and like her ladyship, wished I was instead bound for Caldicott Hall.

The medicinal garden, given its pragmatic focus, was located along Tweed House's northern foundation, thus guaranteeing a southern exposure and close proximity to the housekeeper's demesne and the herbal. A larger version might well be found in the acreage of the walled kitchen garden, but remedies most in demand would be grown near the house.

The sheltered location meant many of the plants yet thrived, though before the first hard frosts, some would be potted for wintering over in the conservatory, herbal, or kitchen windows.

I twisted off a sprig of peppermint and brushed it under my nose, the scent making me homesick for Caldicott Hall. Our gardens were vast and varied, and Harry and I had played in them by the hour as boys.

"My lord, good day." A woman of middling height and regular features let herself through the garden gate. "Lady Ophelia said you wanted a word?"

"Miss Wisherd, good morning." I bowed, despite the difference in our station. This woman put up with my mother, and surely she was owed a bit of deference on that ground alone? "Thank you for making the time to chat. I promise to be brief."

"Her Grace is out riding, my lord, and I'm caught up on the mending. I'm free for the moment."

I took a leaf from Harry's book and started with small talk. "A pretty day for some fresh air, though we'll soon see frost, don't you think?"

She was blond and blue-eyed, and I'd put her age past thirty. She wore not a uniform and mobcap, but rather, a plain light blue dress and a dark blue shawl. The shawl was merino wool, perhaps one of the duchess's castoffs. Excellent quality, not a snag or dropped stitch to be seen. Her attire suggested I was looking at a lady's maid who enjoyed a few of a companion's privileges.

"Frost within the fortnight, surely," she replied. "You need not be delicate with me, my lord. If you mean to ask after your mother, from everything I can tell, she's in good health and good enough spirits."

Arthur would know to pose such a question. Harry would have offered an oblique compliment about the hue of the shawl and the lady's eyes. I decided on a more direct approach.

"Her Grace has lost some letters," I said. "She's concerned they could fall into the wrong hands. Shall we walk?" I gestured along the border devoted to mints—spearmint, catmint, peppermint, and so forth. I tossed my little specimen back among its brethren, knowing the scent would linger on my fingers.

I did not offer my arm, lest I scandalize present company.

"Is my lord asking if I stole my employer's correspondence?"

Direct speech was to be appreciated, but that was a little too direct even for my purposes. "I am not. In my experience, those in domestic service seldom overstep. They are the first to be accused in the event of mischief, and well they know it. If you and Her Grace part ways, she will write you a glowing character and pay some severance. Until that day, you will be loyal to your wages, if not to Her Grace, and being transported for theft does not fit with your plans."

Miss Wisherd kept pace with my leisurely stroll. "You have it precisely, my lord. Those of us in service restrain our myriad criminal impulses out of fear of reprisal, not because we're basically decent people who know what it is to endure life's unfair turns."

Ouch. "My apologies. I deserved that rebuke. I meant to assure you that I seek information. I am not making accusations."

"I did not take the letters. To be honest, I feel sorry for your mother, though such sentiments would mortify her. If those missives remind her of happier times, if they bring her any comfort, she is deserving of that pleasure. Where's the harm in a widow finding some distraction from her griefs?"

"Griefs, plural?"

Miss Wisherd slanted a considering look at me. "Your father had died. His brother went shortly thereafter. Lord Harry was determined to buy his colors, from what the staff tells me, and your mother was certain that would not end well. She was right. Then you began nattering on about buying your colors when you'd finished your studies. Your sister Margaret had just wed that Yorkshire earl, and she and your mother were quite close."

We didn't see much of Meggie—mother of two boys and a girl—though she was a loyal correspondent, and the family opinion of her earl was affectionate.

"I take your point." Griefs, plural. "Had you seen the letters before they went missing? My mother's description was somewhat general."

"She tended to read them on the seventeenth of each month, my lord. I would see them on her vanity when I brushed out her hair at the end of the day. As far as I know, she kept them in her traveling desk, even when at home."

"Did anything about these letters strike you as distinctive?" We'd reached the far side of the garden, and I'd learned little about the object of my investigation.

"I didn't read them, my lord, and I am not in the habit of receiving personal correspondence from anyone save my sister."

Perhaps a prickly duchess needed a prickly lady's maid. "I have not seen the letters either," I said, "and my mother views them regularly. Something as unusual as being written on blue stationery might escape the duchess's recollection out of long familiarity. I have put to Her Grace a line of questions much like the ones I'm asking you, and she could tell me nothing unique about this correspondence."

"The paper was bluish, now that you mention it. Faded, but the hue was discernible. How did you know that?"

"I didn't. Some officers on the Peninsula had personal stationery in various colors. Blue for this one, cream for that one, an embossed family crest for the other. We communicate more than words when we put pen to paper, particularly when it comes to correspondence. How were the letters folded?"

Miss Wisherd stopped and stared at the peppermint. "I would say they were not creased, my lord. I saw them several times and in close proximity. Somewhat faded black ink, grayish-blue paper, and… no creases. Does that mean they weren't sent through the mail?"

"Not necessarily. If I mail you a sketch of this garden, I might send my art between two sheets of pasteboard, and the sketch would thus not be wrinkled. You have nonetheless given me the sort of detail that makes finding the letters possible, if not exactly easy." She had also raised more questions that I must put to the duchess, unfortunately.

"My guess is they were mailed," Miss Wisherd murmured. "I cannot see anybody having the temerity to deliver such correspondence in person to a woman of your mother's standing. To do so would be to risk her good name—and her wrath. A man who cared anything for a lady ought never to do that."

"Excellent point." Though the mail itself could be unreliable over longer distances, suggesting the letters had been mailed from some nearby point, if they had been mailed. "Just a few more questions, Miss Wisherd. Did you ever see my mother open her traveling desk?"

"Open the lid? Of course. The catch releases at some spot on a back corner. She treasures that item, my lord. Your father gave it to her."

"The desk has a number of ingenious compartments, places where paper can be hidden from any but a very determined observer. Are you familiar with the desk to that extent?"

She gave me another look, this one more considering than impatient. "I value your mother's privacy, my lord. I suppose that's why I've lasted longer than most of my predecessors. A lady of significant standing cannot easily dress or undress herself. She could, if she was determined on the matter, modify her wardrobe to accommodate such a necessity, but in the usual course, she won't. She requires assistance at her bath, unless she's keeping her hair very short, but even then, assistance is helpful. For your mother…"

I had no idea where this awkward gambit was heading. "For my mother…?"

"She is a private, modest person. She can be convincingly convivial, but she has learned to keep most of her thoughts and opinions to herself out of duty to her station. I suspect as a girl she was vivacious, and a duchess may not be vivacious. She cannot be overly trusting of her acquaintances, and she will have very few peers. I make it a point not to intrude on your mother's privacy. If she offers me a passing confidence, I guard it carefully. If she betrays by deed or silence some personal sentiment, I ignore it. I owe her that much."

Miss Wisherd resumed walking, and I fell in step beside her. This little homily about the privacy of the duchesses was in aid of some point, some rhetorical finale, but the gravamen eluded me.

"Miss Wisherd, might you be blunt? I am keen to find the letters, and yet, I have little insight into where they might be. I asked if you'd seen my mother access the various compartments in her traveling desk, and you replied in terms relating to privacy and duty and station."

She half smiled, revealing a quiet sort of allure. "And you want a yes-or-no answer, don't you? Your mother considers you the most sensible of the Caldicott males. The present duke is dutiful and dignified, but your mother gives you highest honors for common sense."

Interesting, and irrelevant. Why was Miss Wisherd dodging my simple inquiry? "Very well, yes or no, have you seen my mother opening hidden compartments in her traveling desk, and before you answer, my next question will be, do you know of anybody else who might have seen her doing that?"

"Any chambermaid, my lord. Any footman bearing a bucket of coal. The ducal staff is trained to be silent and invisible, if they must intrude on their betters at all. Her Grace does them the courtesy of ignoring them. They do her the courtesy of being ignorable. She could well have opened every compartment in that desk before staff and been unaware they were present, though why would family retainers bruit such a thing about?"

We'd reached the gate, which I held open for Miss Wisherd. "I am not suggesting that Her Grace was purposely betrayed in this instance. A footman, three pints down on darts night, might have made a passing reference to Her Grace's fancy desk and all the little puzzles it contains. Another footman might have tried to open the desk on a dare and met with some success. The second footman brags to a hostler, the hostler makes a passing comment to the innkeeper's wife, who remarks on the curious habits of the local duchess to the village cabinetmaker, and so forth."

Had Mr. Pickering seen Her Grace working the desk's secrets? From what Miss Wisherd had told me, the chances were that he had. Her Grace might have permitted him to doze on her sofa while she'd worked the latches and catches. She might have had the compartments open while Pickering pretended to compose his next string quartet at the reading table.

Pickering had much to answer for, wherever he was.

"I'm sorry I could not be more help, my lord. I know your mother is exceedingly vexed that the letters have gone missing."

"You've considered who among the other staff here might have taken them?"

"Your mother and I discussed it, and I couldn't be much help there either. Staff would not have many excuses to invade Her Grace's apartment in the midafternoon. Her bouquets had already been changed on the day in question. Nothing from the laundry was ready to be sent up at the hour when she watched the young people play bowls."

Excellent details and convincing. "Were you with the duchess when she discovered the letters had been taken?"

"I was. She'd summoned me to assist her out of her afternoon dress. She planned to work on her correspondence and have a nap. She had opened the desk and was rummaging about when she realized the letters were gone. I was turning down the bed, but Her Grace never did take that nap."

A note of disapproval colored the last observation. Miss Wisherd's devotion was apparently genuine. She guarded my mother's privacy, and she monitored how much the duchess rested.

"I apologize again for intruding on your free time," I said, mindful that Miss Wisherd likely had little enough of that commodity, "but I will ask you to turn your mind from who had an opportunity to take the letters—a broad field in one sense—and think instead about who might have had a motive. Has Her Grace annoyed anybody lately? Has she flirted with the wrong husband or foiled a matchmaker's schemes for a favorite niece?"

Miss Wisherd shook her head in the manner of a disappointed governess. "Your mother isn't like that. She doesn't poach on another lady's preserves. She has no time for the matchmakers' games. She reads a great deal. She plays the pianoforte exceedingly well. She loves to ride over hill and dale but abhors the hunt. Your father permitted her three charities, and she remains conscientiously devoted to all three and to his memory."

I was bungling this whole interview. Retreating and regrouping struck me as the wisest course. "Miss Wisherd, I mean Her Grace no insult. I am trying to solve a vexing puzzle at Her Grace's request, and somebody stole those letters. To risk hanging or transportation over a trio of old billets-doux suggests a very strong motive."

"The duchess would never prosecute the thief, my lord, no matter who that may be. She would not involve herself in anything so scandalous as a criminal trial, particularly when the nature of the stolen goods would become grist for the satirists. Her Grace might be best served by letting the whole business blow over."

Miss Wisherd had a point. When I referred to hanging or transportation as the price the thief would pay for his crime, I envisioned a worst case for the perpetrator. Unless I caught the blighter red-handed, he—or she—would pay no price at all.

"Consider who had motive nonetheless, Miss Wisherd. I haven't much else to go on, and delicate discussions with Her Grace are exceedingly awkward for us both."

Her smile reappeared, at about three-quarter intensity. If she ever truly beamed at a fellow, she'd be quite pretty, which she likely knew and avoided accordingly.

"This conversation has been quite awkward enough for me, your lordship, but as to that, your mother fears to further alienate you. When you abandoned the Hall for London after mustering out, she was downcast for a fortnight. I was new to her service and thought my employer subdued by nature. She wasn't subdued. She was pining."

Bollocks to that . "Her Grace has painted a somewhat inaccurate picture of that situation for you, Miss Wisherd, but let's leave the past in the past and focus on solving the present conundrum, shall we?"

She looked like she wanted to say more, to speak sternly with me, but ended up dipping a curtsey, muttering a polite parting, and consigning me to the company of the fading medicinals.

I knew not what to make of the discussion. Miss Wisherd's view of Her Grace was very different from mine, which didn't make either one of us wrong. I decided to ponder the conversation where I did my best thinking—in the saddle—and turned my steps for the stable and the company of my horse.

If ever a creature was capable of offering wise counsel, it was my trusty Atlas, though the company I found proved to be loquacious rather than sagacious.

Also something of a tribulation to my nerves.