Chapter 4

Chapter Four

I was prone to infrequent spells of complete forgetfulness. For a time—usually hours, sometimes not even an hour—I would forget my name. I would look about at a location I'd known since infancy and have no idea what country I was in. I wouldn't know the date or who sat upon the throne or which throne had my loyalty.

Speech was not lost to me during these episodes. The only faculty impaired was memory, which was obliterated, foot, horse, and cannon. And then, after a time, the whole book of my life returned to my keeping in every detail. The lapses had no apparent pattern. They came and went, and I did my best to weather them with some dignity. I kept a card, written in my own hand, on my person at all times explaining the situation.

Encountering Mr. Gideon Marchant stirred a vague sense of the same disorientation that afflicted me when a spell of forgetting descended. He assumed a familiarity that made me question if we'd met. If so, had we become bosom bows, and I'd somehow completely lost track of the connection?

"My lord, my lord, such a pleasure to clap eyes on you." He shoved a hand at me when our paths crossed on the walkway that led to the stable. I tolerated the presumption by shaking his proffered appendage. His smile was jovial, and if he had smelled any more strongly of sandalwood, I would have sneezed.

Sir, we have not been introduced. "Mr. Marchant, good morning." Had Godmama not identified him to me, we would have been complete strangers.

"Dorothea speaks so highly of you, and now I see that she does not exaggerate. You are a handsome devil. Be mindful of the young ladies, my boy. This batch did not bag husbands during the Season, and they are a determined lot. Has its advantages for an old campaigner like myself, but one must be careful too, eh?"

I disliked his innuendo and the cloying—expensive—scent of his shaving soap. Advantages indeed. "I am here at Her Grace's invitation, Marchant, and looking forward to some congenial company as we enjoy the last of the decent weather."

"Michaelmas summers are always a bit sad, as are the daisies left to bloom in them. Shall we enjoy a hack? Let's do. You've been least in sight since mustering out, and one wants to know why. The gossips have speculated apace in your case, and yet, they cannot be outright insulting to a ducal heir. Then too, we don't see many of that ilk permitted to preserve their bachelorhood for long, do we?"

This bumptious, jocular patter assured me that I had not met Gideon Marchant previously. I would have made it a point to keep at least two counties between us had that been the case.

"I have been recovering from my years in uniform," I said. "My eyes will likely always take exception to too much strong sunshine."

"Hence those fetching blue spectacles. They give you a scholarly, eccentric air. Has your hair always been blond?"

I could easily learn to hate this man. "Time in French custody turned my hair white. I'm assured I will regain the original color eventually. Tell me of yourself, Marchant. How did you meet my mother?"

"She took pity on me years ago, allowed me to serve as one of her gallants. Society understood that I was too busy adoring my unattainable duchess to offer marriage to a young belle. Dorothea always had a devoted escort to the theater or Vauxhall as a result. You young people don't appreciate the benefits of friendships between the sexes, but our generation perfected the art."

I did not care for the familiarity with which he referred to Her Grace. I did not care for his condescending little lecture on polite society's rosy and roaringly licentious past.

Where one's mother was concerned, some delicacy should apply. "You are also well acquainted with Lady Barrington, I understand."

"I know everybody, my boy. Absolutely everybody. Hellie wouldn't think of hosting a gathering without inviting me. We've been through the wars together, we happy few, though you won't find us reminiscing when there's so much diversion to be had. Tell me of your years under Wellington. Was he as rigid and uppish as everybody says?"

One did not insult His Grace of Wellington, who had indeed been rigid and uppish at times. The duke was also possessed of a droll, occasionally acerbic wit and had a genius for battle strategy. He could be endlessly charming to the ladies, and he'd had a zealot's relentlessness when it came to provisioning and clothing his army, despite Parliament's indifference to same.

More significantly, Wellington had taken quiet though public steps to quash the rumors circulating about my trustworthiness as an officer. The gossip continued, but more discreetly.

"His Grace was ever appropriate," I said, "given the hardships he and his soldiers faced. I was not often at headquarters and then only long enough to give my reports and get back to work."

We approached the stable, a two-story fieldstone edifice graced with a few pots of red salvia and yellow chrysanthemums. The stable yard was full of the ordered bustle common to well-run equine enterprises. A groom wielded a broom in the steady rhythm of the seasoned stable boy. He sang Burns's lament for the loss of sweet Senegal, from whence the lad's ancestors might well have hailed. Another fellow groomed a dainty gray mare to a high shine, and a farrier trimmed the front hoof of a leggy chestnut.

The scene helped me marshal my patience. I, too, had work to do. A hack with Marchant could yield useful information, and I hadn't been planning on a long or vigorous ride.

"You there," Marchant called to a lanky youth watering a pair of mares at a stone trough. "Fetch my horse, if you would. Gray gelding, about sixteen hands. Should be in stall number eight."

This told me Marchant had not sent word ahead to the stable that he'd be riding, and his offer to hack out with me had been spontaneous.

"I'll fetch my own mount." I proceeded into the dim, horsey-scented barn and found Atlas enjoying a mound of hay in a stall near the end of the row. He ceased his depredations when he caught sight of me and whuffled gently.

"Greetings, horse." I offered him a gloved hand to sniff over his half door and then a quarter of an orange I'd pilfered from the breakfast buffet.

I was inordinately glad to see him. I'd purchased him in Spain from an officer who'd been pockets to let. Atlas had the quiet fire of the Iberian breeds and the heft of his draft horse mother. We got along splendidly, both of us preferring the countryside to Town.

The grooms looked askance when I commenced currying my horse, but they left me to it. I wasn't the only former officer they'd encountered, and the typical veteran was nigh fanatical about the care of his cattle.

I saddled Atlas in the stable yard rather than in his stall. Since my time as a captive of the French, I'd harbored a profound distaste for small spaces enclosed by iron bars. Marchant watched me from the golden shade of a fading oak, his expression idle and pleasant.

As little as I knew Her Grace, I still could not see her lighting upon Marchant as her escort of choice. But then, if Miss Wisherd was correct, the duchess had been a lively, friendly young woman, and she was much changed from those earlier times.

I led Atlas to the mounting block and climbed into the saddle, then waited for Marchant to mount his gray.

"Handsome fellow you have there," I said, surveying Marchant's gelding as we left the stable yard. The beast had good bone and a refined head, though his coat was going a bit coarse with the approach of colder weather.

"Ruffian looks like a gentleman," Marchant replied, "but don't let looks deceive you. He has a wild streak. I permit nobody else to ride him, lest they come to harm. He minces along, full of airs and graces, and just when your mind wanders to the beauty of the sun upon the lake, he'll bolt."

A nasty, dangerous habit. "Why keep him?"

"He'll jump anything, he's gorgeous, and we understand each other. He no longer subjects me to his worst behaviors. Tell me about this fine specimen." Marchant gestured with his crop near Atlas's head. Atlas half shied and gave him a dirty look, but otherwise took the rudeness in stride.

"Iberian on the sire's side, draft on the distaff. Steady under fire, tireless on campaign, lovely gaits. He'll take me to Dover and back to see my brother off and be ready for the same with a day's rest. I won't tax him today because he made the journey from the Hall yesterday."

"As did you yourself, with the lovely Miss West and our dear Lady Ophelia doing likewise. One is always a bit more on the qui vive when Ophelia's on hand, if you know what I mean."

The qui vive —who lives?—was a reference to the question French sentries would put to strangers approaching the castle gates, shorthand for, Whom do you wish to live? The focus of the query was to discover loyalties. One should generally wish the king to enjoy a long and peaceful life, but the term now referred to any state of heightened alert.

"On the qui vive around her ladyship? I'm not sure I grasp what you imply. She is my godmother and a family friend of standing longer than your own. She is dear to me, and I have always found her to be good company."

Damn near insulting a lady was the quickest means for one fellow to make a bad first impression on another. Insulting Wellington was quicker.

"Oh yes, quite. Good company. Shall we let them stretch their legs?" Marchant settled his hat more firmly on his head.

"Atlas and I will keep to a sedate pace for a bit longer, thank you, but you and Ruffian should do as you please." To tax a horse before he'd had a chance to work out the kinks accumulated over a night confined in a stall was foolishness.

To imply that Lady Ophelia was less than good ton was rank discourtesy.

To insult Wellington to a former officer approached treason.

"Well, if you don't mind," Marchant said. "Ruffian tends to be on better behavior if I let him have his head early in a ride. I am loath to deal with his bad side, lest he have to deal with mine, so I'll leave you here. I don't suppose you're a tenor?"

"Baritone, tending to bass."

"Such a pity. I'm getting together an impromptu glee club, and we have enough of the lower register. Ah, well, perhaps we'll have to make do with sopranos for the higher register. That could be interesting." He wiggled his brows and saluted with his crop, then set his heels to Ruffian's sides.

The horse cantered off, making an elegant picture against the autumn landscape.

"What the hell was he up to?" I murmured as Atlas and I watched the pair thunder down the lane. "He came that close to goading me into issuing a challenge."

As Atlas and I ambled through the sunny morning, I was increasingly convinced that Marchant had been on reconnaissance, probing my defenses, looking for weak spots, testing the walls of my composure.

Some members of polite society were like that, viewing every encounter as a skirmish and every ballroom as a battlefield. I found such games tiresome, unbecoming, and pointless, but I was a ducal heir. My future might not see my every dream coming true, but neither did I have to scrap for Society's notice.

Atlas gave a discreet tug at the reins. Time to cease dawdling.

"Very well, but we're not pelting headlong over rabbit holes."

He snorted, and I shortened my reins. The horse was ready for a thumping good trot, if not a hearty gallop, but my stamina wasn't as reliable. I nevertheless let him have his head, and after a brisk trot and a relaxed canter, Atlas, too, was ready for more sedate paces.

I was taking off my spurs in the stable yard and watching Atlas saunter away in the care of a groom when a contradiction popped into my head.

Marchant had not asked to have his horse saddled and bridled in advance, but he had been in riding clothes when we'd met on the path, right down to the spurs on his heels. Strolling with Mrs. Whittington earlier, he'd been in morning attire. Very likely, he'd seen me out with Lady Ophelia, seen that I was dressed for a hack, and changed his own wardrobe in short order.

The whole a-pleasure-to-clap-eyes-on-you performance and the systematic attempts to annoy me thereafter had been a carefully planned engagement, if not an ambush. If Marchant had tried to make me dislike him, he could not have succeeded more handily.

Why? Why court my disdain, when most of Society felt the disdain ought to flow in my direction? And did Marchant's behavior have anything to do with Her Grace's missing letters?

"Who the devil are you?" I put the question to a young man in a plain black wool suit who was peering up the chimney of my parlor flue. He wasn't in livery, he was utterly unknown to me, and he was in my private quarters .

The fellow withdrew his head from the hearth and dusted ungloved hands. "Morning, my lord. I'm MacFadden, Hugh Gunning MacFadden, at your service. Gentleman's gentleman to Mr. Marchant. I'm to inquire if you have need of valeting and to provide service accordingly."

He spoke with that blend of dignity and humor common to the Scot, and his accent placed him as a native to Perthshire. His twinkling blue eyes and mischievous smile further classified him as the typical canny laddie. MacFadden's features were just a touch craggy, even at his relatively youthful age—he couldn't have been much older than me—and his dark brows were a trifle fierce. Those brows emphasized his masculinity rather than detracted from it. My sisters, who had perfected a taxonomy of male descriptors, would have said he wasn't merely handsome, he was attractive .

And yet, he also spoke a trifle loudly and carried his head with the slight tilt of a man who heard better out of one ear than the other. That canted angle gave him an avian alertness that hinted of the raptor.

"MacFadden, good day. Lord Julian Caldicott, and you will doubtless be pleased to know that my tiger-cum-boot-boy acts as my liaison with the laundresses. I'm sure their efforts will be adequate for my needs."

Those dark brows drew down. "My lord, you cannot mean that you'll leave your best evening attire in the hands of those women ? They regard the iron as a weapon rather than an artist's tool, and they think nothing of skimping on starch for the sake of economies."

His dismay came across as both amused and genuine.

"I will nonetheless take my chances with the ladies. I won't be here long, and I'm sure Marchant keeps you busy. Is inspecting chimneys a normal part of your duties?"

"Aye, milord, it is. Nothing blights clean linen like coal smoke, and we're lighting fires nightly now. I make it a point to inspect the flues for any gentleman I serve, and for Mr. Marchant most especially. A chimney that doesn't draw can give a man the most awful head upon rising, and he won't even realize the flue is to blame. If you don't believe me, run your handkerchief over the inside of the windowpanes in the music room, for example. Far from pristine."

"I have endured worse privations than a bit of coal smoke, MacFadden. Be off with you. My thanks for the offer, but your services won't be necessary."

He ran a fingertip over the mantel, tut-tutted, and bowed. "As my lord wishes, but you've only to call, and I will do my utmost to give good service."

I was a courtesy lord. Marchant was a mere mister. MacFadden would not purposely offend me, for his own sake, much less for that of his employer, and thus I forgave the man his obstinate generosity.

"I will thank Marchant for the proffered loan of your services."

MacFadden nodded and made for the door. Had he been newer to service or had our interview gone differently, he might have hesitated to give me his back. As it was, he faced me again before making his exit.

"I'll keep a lookout for the wee lad, my lord. He's a sharp one. Already has Cook wrapped around his finger, and he's getting on well with the first footman. I've seen him out in the stable, too, and he's making himself useful wherever he is."

As my eyes and ears among the lower ranks, the less noticeable Atticus was, the better. And yet, a lad could use an ally outside the safety of camp.

"Atticus has been managing on his own since he was in dresses. Your kindness toward him will be appreciated, but try to go gently. The boy has his pride."

"Wasn't much older than him when I went into service. It's not a bad life, compared to some. I'll wish you good day, my lord."

He finally took himself off, and I once again had cause to appreciate my own valet. That fellow knew how to keep himself to himself, a fine quality in a gentleman's gentleman.

I changed riding attire into formal morning wear—without the aid of a lackey, let it be noted—and was making a mental list of questions to put to my mother privately. Old enemies, suspiciously new friends… Where might I look for Pickering, and had he been close to anybody on the staff at the Hall? Did any of the guests strike Her Grace as being short of funds, and was she truly above the matchmaking affray, or had she advertently run afoul of—

The door to my sitting room opened, and a lady came to a halt halfway across the carpet. "Dear me. You are not Gideon. I thought this was his room."

"Mrs. Whittington." I bowed. "Lord Julian Caldicott, at your service. Marchant has the quarters across the corridor, if I recall correctly."

"I do beg your pardon, my lord. Gideon told me you'd arrived. You and I were introduced, you know, at some regimental ball during winter quarters. Three, possibly four years ago. I was out of mourning and had gone to Portugal to meet up with some of the other wives, then I was to escort a pair of young girls home to bide with relatives. The whole business was dragging on, and… I am babbling."

I had no recollection of our encounter, but winter quarters had been anathema to me. Some officers had summoned their wives to share the seasonal tedium, but I'd preferred to be out in the countryside, keeping my Spanish in good trim and learning what I could of the terrain and of our enemies.

"You have a better memory than I do," I said, "though I am pleased to renew our acquaintance. I left Marchant intent on a lengthy hack. I'm sure you could entrust a message to MacFadden, his valet, who should be across the corridor."

Mrs. Whittington was a widow and comely. If I were found alone with her, nobody would give the situation more than a passing thought. House parties were all but intended to foster such opportunities. The lady's reputation would suffer only a light streak of tarnish, not for disporting with me, but for having been caught doing it.

My reputation, however, was sufficiently battered that I did not want to add house-party Lothario to my list of alleged shortcomings.

"Can I interest you in a sortie to the library, Mrs. Whittington? I have ever been fond of books and find that a collection can say a lot about its owner."

"You were polite then too," Mrs. Whittington said. "Lord Harry was a charmer, but you had the better manners."

Lord Harry had been a philanderer, sometimes in the line of duty, which had never sat well with me. Harry had seemed to discount the notion that his objective—gaining intelligence from the enemy—might be the lady's objective as well.

"Lord Harry was sometimes too charming," I said. "If he gave offense, I apologize on his behalf." She'd been a widow when our paths had crossed on the Peninsula, and the words fair game followed that status in all too many exclusively male preserves.

"A widow learns the rules of engagement, my lord, especially a military widow who was married to a man more than twice her age. Lord Harry was gentleman enough to abide by the rules. I should not have said that. Don't speak ill of the dead, and so forth."

"I have regular reason to wish my brother were alive so that I could remonstrate with him to his face. Shall we to the library?" She was a perfectly pleasant woman and apparently not Marchant's lover, or not yet his lover, for she hadn't known where his quarters lay.

I nonetheless wanted her out of my sitting room, quick time, for myriad reasons.

"I will decline your escort, my lord. I've lost my locket, and it has great sentimental value. I'm determined to find it. I am almost certain I had it on when I went walking with Gideon this morning. I mean, I am nearly certain I put it on this morning—I always wear it—and I suppose the catch gave, or I caught the chain somehow, but if I knew when it had come loose, I'd have a better idea of where to search."

The missing locket was none of my affair—I hoped—and yet, I allowed myself a few questions. "Can you describe this item?"

"It's nothing extraordinary, a trinket I've had since first mourning. Gold, heart-shaped, a simple hinge mechanism, and a short chain. The inside is inscribed but the words are so small, they are barely legible in strong sunlight with a quizzing glass. A tiny lock of dark brown hair inside."

Her late husband's presumably. Mourning lockets could be of gold, though onyx was also favored.

"You put it on when you dressed this morning?"

"I don't wear it at night, but once I have my hair up, I routinely don the locket, along with my wedding ring. I'm wearing my ring, so I must have followed my usual course, mustn't I?" Her certainty was laced with doubt.

"Check your jewelry box anyway. If you were in a hurry, if you were a bit late for your stroll with Marchant, if you were hungry and your mind was on breakfast… You might have forgotten or been distracted. Look carefully at your purple shawl too. Jewelry snags in wool so easily."

She eyed the open door. "How did you know the color of my shawl?"

"I, too, enjoyed a perambulation in the fresh morning air. I was escorting Lady Ophelia Oliphant, who happens to be my godmother. We were sitting on the bench near the foot of the steps that lead into the park, and you and Mr. Marchant passed by. I noted the color because it suited you."

Then too, a splash of violet on an autumn morning made an impression. Noting odd, out-of-place details had saved my life more than once.

"You find things," she said slowly. "You found that dog and some viscount or other, and I forget what else."

"Right now, I would like to find a good book, and then I'm off to locate my mother, if the hacking party has returned from plundering the shops."

Would you please leave? One could not say that to a lady upset over the loss of a precious keepsake, but I needed to chat directly with Lady Barrington somewhere private—a thorough, discreet search of all the guest rooms was in order, the sooner the better—and I wanted to apprise Hyperia of my morning's activities. Then too, I had a niggling desire to find Atticus and make him aware that MacFadden had taken notice of him.

"I'll have a look at my jewelry box and shawl," Mrs. Whittington said. "Those are good suggestions, my lord."

She withdrew into the corridor, and I followed her, closing and locking my sitting room door first.

"If it helps," I said as we approached the main staircase, "you and Marchant did a circuit of the privet terraces in the formal garden, then you descended into the park and made straight for the gazebo by the river. I don't recall if you went into the gazebo, and I cannot say what route you took back to the house. Marchant might have been in something of a hurry because he was intent on changing into riding attire."

"He claimed a sudden need to consult with MacFadden about next week's games, MacFadden being a genuine Scot and all."

More evidence supporting the theory that Marchant had seen me dressed for riding and changed his plans accordingly. Why? To spend a quarter hour annoying me with conversation so distasteful another man might have called him out for it?

"That tells us you made your way back to the house alone," I observed. "Perhaps you simply retraced your steps?" We'd reached the landing, and the lady paused.

"I sat for a time by the river. Seeing old friends brings back memories, and sometimes the thing to do is to be sad, let the memories have their moment, then tuck them away until they need another airing. Your mother and Lady Barrington were very kind when my Freddie went to his reward, and they'd been good friends when he was alive too. Our husbands were thrown together by parliamentary committee work, and both women allowed as how shared abandonment put us on equal footing, despite the differences in our stations. Still, grief is a burden ultimately carried alone."

Widows and soldiers marched over common ground, especially military widows and soldiers. "I find activity helps as well. Be sad, then fix an objective and get moving."

"Well said. One can see why your mother speaks so highly of you. Thank you, my lord. You've been kind as well as sensible." Mrs. Whittington patted my arm then took to the steps, presumably to rifle her bedchamber and examine her shawl.

I had a lock of Harry's hair. I kept it in my own jewelry box. He'd given it to me before setting out on some particularly delicate mission. Such sentimentality had had little place with Harry, but I was glad to have the memento, though I seldom even looked at it. I could give it to Leander someday, and that meant worlds.

My next objective was to locate Lady Barrington, my mother, Hyperia, or Atticus. I thought to stop a footman and issue queries, but instead a footman stopped me.

"Your lordship has a visitor," he said. "In the earl's study."

"A visitor?"

"Looks a bit like you, but more serious, not so lean. Didn't want no tea, said to fetch you without making a fuss. Study is—"

"I know. Across from the library. My thanks. If you see Lady Barrington, Miss West, or Her Grace, please let them know I'd like a word."

"Aye, milord. Will do." He jaunted off, and I was left to wonder why my brother Arthur, His Grace of Waltham, was making a sneak attack on Lady Barrington's house party. Bad news, no doubt, and about that, I was utterly correct.