Chapter 6

Chapter Six

To appearances, I held a casual, impromptu conversation with my tiger, who had violated all decorum to catch me on the fringes of the gathering. Perhaps my horse had a loose shoe. Perhaps a final trunk had arrived from Caldicott Hall.

The truth was, Atticus could barely read and write. He was thus forced to convey pertinent information in person.

"Have you had supper, Atticus?" Hyperia asked. "One must not neglect meals at these house parties, and all and sundry likely feel entitled to order you about."

"I had me tucker, thanks, Miss Hyperia. The undercook has a baby brother what looks like me, and I know better than to hang about the kitchen when it's time to send up the meal. Staff will eat once guests are served. They take turns abovestairs, so everybody gets a chance at supper. Guv, you don't look so good."

The lad doubtless spoke out of concern—for me and for his own place in the world. If I were hit by a runaway team tomorrow, Atticus's prospects would dim considerably.

"I am tired, hungry, and out of sorts. You should know that MacFadden, the Scottish fellow who valets Marchant, has taken notice of you. MacFadden means to befriend you, but friendship can be a convenient pretext for surveillance."

"You gettin' a megrim? You're goin' all toplofty on me again."

"I have a headache, and a tiger who doesn't realize that this conversation will draw the sort of attention I'd rather avoid. Please make your report."

"Watch out for Lady Jessamine, guv. I was minding me own business along the riverbank, and I overheard her telling her friends she'll have a proposal from you before the house party ends. Says you're dicked in the nob, but your nob isn't required to ‘ do the necessary.' Said she always did fancy herself in a tiara."

Hyperia shot a furious glance in the direction of the terrace. "That presuming, nasty little creature."

"With whom was she speaking?" I asked.

"The mousy gal what wears specs and the chubby one with the frizzy blond hair."

"The mouse is the honorable Miss Welleeda Bivens," Hyperia said. "Frizzy is Morticia Frampton, though her friends call her Trish. Both face a third Season next year. Lady Jessamine is preying on the weak for her accomplices."

Would they steal from the older ladies? Augment their pin money with demands for ransom or threats of blackmail?

"To the extent you can, Atticus, keep an eye on Lady Jessamine. Lady Ophelia has also warned me against her, and the threat must be taken seriously. MacFadden has you pegged as canny, so don't play stupid with him."

"Not stupid, but busy. I'm allus havin' to run out to the stable to make sure Atlas's mash got made up right, or to tell the grooms you and Miss Hyperia will be hacking out tomorrow."

"I like that notion," Hyperia said. "Good thought, Atticus. Please do inform the grooms. Jules, don't fuss. You're happier when you can spend time in the saddle."

We took our leave of Atticus, and still the supper bell hadn't rung.

"I might not be on hand to ride with you tomorrow," I said as we wandered toward the house. "I'm tempted to dash back to the Hall, given developments with Leander."

"Arthur is still at the Hall, Jules. You are needed here."

"Arthur and I should explain the situation to the boy together." Though Arthur had clearly left the task to me.

"Wait until you have more particulars sorted out with Millicent. How is Leander to write to her? When can she expect letters from him? Leander will want those answers."

Hyperia was right, of course, but such was my sense of a day gone badly, a headache gathering momentum, and a plain old empty belly that I resented even Hyperia's common sense.

"I need a nap," I said, "and a tray of sandwiches in a quiet corner of a deserted library."

Hyperia wrapped her hand around my arm. "I seek refuge in week-old newspapers. The gossip has overtaken anything the penny press has to say by then, but I tell myself I'm keeping abreast of politics and fashion. I am in truth hiding."

What a lovely little confidence. "I cannot read by candlelight for too long. My eyes protest the exertion."

"Then I will read to you, Jules, and you will tend the fire and mind the tray, and we will hide together."

Yes. Yes, exactly . Even the thought of hiding with Hyperia cheered me. "But not until we find Her Grace's letters." Because until we accomplished that bit of sleuthing, Hyperia and I were stuck at this blasted house party.

"Are we looking at one thief, Jules, who steals items of sentimental value from older women, or are we looking at a thief, and a widow who misplaces her jewelry, and a hostess too busy to keep track of details?"

"Or no thief at all?" I replied. "A lady's maid who moved items and forgot about them? A footman trying to tidy up? A locket caught in a shawl and then fallen into a hedgerow? Innocent explanations would make more sense for the gloves and the locket, but very few people would know of the letters, and even fewer would know where to find them."

"You have more questions for the duchess?"

More by the hour, it seemed. "I'll catch her when the other guests gather for the whist tournament. I'd rather be eating sandwiches and hiding with you."

We had the garden to ourselves, and evening was turning into night. The gloom was deep enough that footmen were lighting torches along the balustrade, and another cheering thought struck me.

"Let's steal a moment," I said, tarrying with my beloved on the far side of the tiered fountain. I took Hyperia in my arms, and she came willingly, resting her head against my chest.

"I miss this," she said. "Miss the feel of you. If only—"

The dinner bell sounded loudly over the murmur of conversation closer to the house.

"If only?"

She stepped back and gathered her shawl. "If only we didn't have to go in to dinner and make small talk for the next hour. I believe you are to escort Lady Jessamine. You have my permission to spill your soup on her bodice."

Hyperia did not take my arm, and when we reached the top of the steps, I spotted Lady Jessamine in conversation with Miss Bivens and Miss Frampton.

"Don't underestimate her, Jules. Her mama died when she was quite small, and her father has spoiled her. She's ruthless and determined."

Perhaps what I needed was not so much rest and refreshment as a hug from Hyperia and a challenge. I smiled and waved at Lady Jessamine.

"I'm ruthless and determined too. You're promised to Drayson for supper?"

"I am. We'll talk about art. Classical nudes have always fascinated me. What of you and Lady Jessamine?"

"Have they, now? Her ladyship and I will talk about how much I value learning, integrity, and compassion in women. We will also discuss, at tiresome length, the pathetic young ladies who attempt to compromise themselves with a fellow simply because his family has a title."

"You wouldn't dare."

Lady Jessamine was making a slow, smiling progress in our direction, pausing to flutter her lashes at every gentleman who stood between us.

"I absolutely will, Perry. I don't have time for schoolgirl schemes. Lady Jessamine has apparently failed to note that once she's forced a man to meet her at the altar, that man can lock her in a tower for years, get endless children on her, and all but hold her prisoner. She thinks herself worldly and formidable—we all do at her age—but the world holds ruthlessness and determination such as she cannot imagine. She will land herself in its path if she's not careful."

"I hadn't considered that her plans could go awry like that. A dose of truth might serve better than spilled soup. Will I see you later?"

"Dodge the whist tournament. We can confer after I meet with the duchess."

Confer. I would make my report regarding further conversation with the duchess. Hyperia would share developments from her side of the table at supper. We would learn nothing helpful, and my frustration would keep me from a good night's sleep.

I would rather cuddle than confer. Perhaps we might do both.

"I favor innocent explanations for the gloves and the locket," Hyperia said as Lady Jessamine wafted closer. "A duchess, an earl's second wife, and military widow don't exactly have much in common. They are different sorts of women, dwelling in different parts of the country for much of the year. I cannot see connections, can you?"

"Not at the moment, but I'm bracing myself for the longest hour of the day. Enjoy your discussion of nudes."

Hyperia parted from me three seconds before doing so would have been a rudeness to Lady Jessamine. Her ladyship's perfume—a cloying excess of hyacinth—hit me before she held out a gloved hand.

"Lord Julian, I believe you have the honor of escorting me into supper." She fluttered her fingers as if hastening a lackey to his duty.

I bowed over her hand as briefly as possible. "Let us hope the honor, privilege, and pleasure are mutual. Tell me of your London Season, my lady. Were you amused at all the foolish young things trying to secure a match at any cost? Some of the poor dears will hide in broom closets or lure unsuspecting gentlemen into follies with forged notes. Highly entertaining, but a bit sad, don't you think? One doesn't want to label any innocent young lady as laughable, but such pathetic little schemes are certainly diverting."

I was the next thing to a bully for firing that opening salvo, but her observation to her chums—that I was not right in the upper story—had hit a bit too close to home. I winged my arm at her ladyship, and she wrapped tentative fingers around my elbow.

"Hide in broom closets, my lord?"

"I speak figuratively. One feels sorry for any party in the grip of desperation. Far better to do as you did and take one's time to look over possibilities and consider options. Tell me of these Scottish games we're to enjoy later in the gathering. Are the gentlemen expected to dance over crossed swords and throw tree trunks about?"

Her grip on my arm became more secure. "Highland Games are wonderful, my lord, and Papa is determined that we shall have caber tossing, though Lady Barrington isn't fond of the notion."

Jessamine chattered on at some length regarding cabers, hammer throws, and hill races, as the supper courses came and went, I consoled myself that her young ladyship had been disabused of any marital schemes where I was concerned.

I caught Lady Ophelia watching us from across the table and smiling faintly. Another party with whom I had to confer, though my spirits were somewhat lighter for having foiled Lady Jessamine's ambitions without a figurative shot having been fired.

"Tell me about Lady Barrington," I said as my mother wandered with me beneath the torches. The air was chilly, also a welcome change from the stuffy drawing room where the guests had gathered after the meal.

"Helga, Countess of Barrington, born the honorable Helga Adams, oldest daughter of Viscount Dallingham, a fine old Suffolk family. First marriage to Viscount Cobbold of the same general vicinity and a happy union. Fell from his horse just a month or two before Claudius went to his reward, though Hellie had done her duty by the succession by then. The idiot guardians consigned her to the dower house and sent the oldest boy off to public school when he was seven. They let her keep the spare until he was also seven.

"Barrington came along a few years later," the duchess went on, "looking for a mother to his children more than anything else, and Hellie had had enough of widowhood by then. She's a good soul and genuinely fond of Barrington. The boys love to visit her here now that they're grown. The elder looks exactly like her."

A report worthy of a reconnaissance officer. "You consider her a friend."

"Yes, and an ally. One must distinguish between the two. The viscount and His Grace were deeply absorbed with the work of some committee having to do with provisioning the army, or rooting out charlatans profiting from wartime contracts. Freddie Whittington consulted with them often in his experienced officer capacity, as did others. Many meetings far into the night, much brandy consumed in the name of service to the king. Claudius took it all very seriously. We ladies left them to it, and then we wished we hadn't been so understanding."

"Because?"

"We were each in turn bereaved, and then we regretted allowing our husbands so many hours of port and parliamentary prosing on. We'll never have those evenings back, will we?"

Such regret was still apparently part of Her Grace's attachment to my father's memory. "Lady Barrington is missing a pair of gloves that she claims belonged to her first husband. As apparel, they have little value, but she sets sentimental store by them."

"Odd, the things we treasure. His Grace kept a lock of baby hair from each of his offspring. Yours was flaming red by the time you were a year old. I was sorry to see you grow into more muted plumage."

"Flaming red?" This was news to me. That the duchess would refer to me as the late duke's offspring was simply familial habit, I supposed. A courtesy. That His Grace would keep a lock of my hair was a puzzle, but then, Papa had his heir and spare by then, and he'd been magnanimous by nature.

Her Grace brandished a curl at me, the end of a long lock that showed no sign of fading. "Flaming red. Both of your grandmothers were horrified."

The duchess had obviously been delighted. What must she think of the pale locks I sported now? "The sole medical man I've consulted said I should regain my previous color, but the process is taking its blessed time."

An awkward comment, but also—perhaps?—the sort of admission a grown man might make to his mother.

"If you want to hasten the progression of color, use a bit of henna. Your valet should know how to apply it skillfully."

"To have him fussing about my person would be intolerable." When I'd been taken captive by the French, my bodily dignity had been the first casualty of the ordeal. That wound, like my weak eyes, might never entirely heal.

"Your father was the same way. Forbidding others to do for him what he could do for himself. I was lucky he allowed me to tie the occasional cravat. He made a very competent lady's maid, though. Wretched man."

How had we gone from Lady Barrington's pedigree to henna to… that ? "What do you know of Mrs. Whittington?"

"Carola Whittington would be my choice if I needed a pretty, good-humored, sensible youngish widow to round out the numbers, serve as a chaperone-at-large, and generally keep the gents from making fools of themselves. Has she lost something as well?"

Her Grace pulled the shimmery peacock wrap closer, and I recalled that my mother had always been one to take a chill. She avoided the sun with the fervor of a religious zealot, and she was ever within reach of a shawl, wrap, or robe.

"We can finish this discussion inside," I said. "Mrs. Whittington has misplaced a locket of sentimental value. A lock of hair to one side, a tiny inscription on the other. She had it this morning but cannot recall if she put it on."

"Gideon is pestering her," the duchess said. "It's only flirtation, but his persistence would be enough to make any woman misplace her wits. Let's do go inside. Tweed House is drafty, and once I grow cold, nothing short of a roaring fire will warm me up."

And Papa had indulged that habit, despite the expense. The ducal apartment at Caldicott Hall had always been cozy, as had the nursery.

I accompanied Her Grace into the house, and we availed ourselves of the music room, which was deserted, though a fire had been lit.

"The great whist tournament is doubtless under way," Her Grace said. "I have played so much whist in my life… An excuse to sit and gossip while swilling punch. Did Carola search her entire dressing closet for this missing locket? Jewelry sometimes seems to fly about on its own, which I take for the maid misplacing it, the footman finding it and putting it back with the best of intentions in the wrong location, and the owner forgetting where she originally kept it."

"Mrs. Whittington hasn't found her keepsake. What do you know of her past?"

Her Grace took a seat on the piano bench, facing away from the closed keyboard. "Carola doesn't put on airs. When some colonel-lord-somebody needed his daughters escorted home from Portugal, she made the journey and brought the girls home. She did it because the young ladies wanted for a chaperone, not because traveling to Lisbon and back in winter is particularly agreeable."

"Where does Mrs. Whittington hail from?"

Only a few sconces were lit, making a ghost of the great harp in the corner and turning the stringed instruments on the wall into shadowed forms. The meager lighting showed me both the beauty my mother had claimed in her youth and the toll of advancing years.

Papa was gone, Harry was gone, and for all I knew, Arthur was soon to make a permanent remove to the Continent. Seeing my mother perched on that piano bench, resplendent in her finery but also somehow fading, made my heart unaccountably heavy.

"Why all the questions, my lord?" she asked, turning on the bench and uncovering the keys. "I've known Carola and Helga for ages, though Carola and I aren't what I'd call close. They are good, sensible women and pleasant companions. I trust them both."

She commenced a slow movement in a minor key, one of Herr Beethoven's that I'd heard before and did not care for.

"I am looking for connections between you, Lady Barrington, and Mrs. Whittington that might tell me if a thief has struck once or more than once. Your letters, the gloves, and the locket are all sentimental items, with no particular value as objects. The missing items are not new, but you ladies apparently knew one another when they came into your lives. I seek to trace any other connections, and I need your assistance to do that."

The music emphasized the dull throbbing at the base of my skull, a relentless, slow triple meter dirging along in the lower register.

"We ladies aren't quite of an age," Her Grace said, playing on. "I'm the eldest, then Hellie, then Carola. We don't look alike—antique redhead, brunette, blond. I was married to a rascally duke. Hellie's first husband was a dashing viscount, her second an aging peer. Carola's husband was a venerable lieutenant general, if I'm not mistaken. Mutton-chop whiskers, balding, paunchy, you know the sort. Fierce in uniform, but given to sentiment and naughty jokes at home. He and Carola were genuinely fond of each other, though they weren't married long."

"How did he die?"

"Drink, as I recall. Bilious liver, or whatever the physicians call it. Too many years soldiering often ends that way."

While His Grace had died of a wasting disease and Lady Barrington's first husband in an equestrian mishap. "Might you play something different?"

She brought the music to a cadence, sat for a moment with her fingers resting on the keys, then launched into the second movement. The key was major, the tune sprightly to a fault in comparison to its predecessor.

"Since I first heard this piece," Her Grace said, "it put me in mind of Arthur, Harry, and you. This is Harry, all grace and good cheer, though not without his complications. The opening movement is Arthur, solemn, sweet, plodding if one doesn't make an effort to appreciate him. What else do you want to know, my lord? The hour grows late, and these questions aren't returning my letters to me."

More to the point, Her Grace's answers weren't shedding any light on the problem. "Tell me about Gideon Marchant. How did you meet him?"

She played to the end of the phrase then mercifully brought the annoyingly sprightly second movement to a close as well.

"Gideon was a friend of His Grace's, or an acquaintance, more accurately. A duke has an endless list of friends, a ducal heir nearly as many."

While a duchess had very few? "You met Marchant through His Grace?"

She studied the keys. "A house party, of all things. Up north, mostly for the shooting. Gideon had already embarked on his role as bachelor-at-large. Claudius had known him at school or university. I'm not clear on the connection, but when Claudius died, Gideon was one of few who didn't… who continued to call upon me. He has many shortcomings, but I think Carola and Hellie would agree that the man is loyal."

Was he more than loyal? The notion that he and my mother had ever been close repelled me. "Who are his people?"

She brushed her hand silently over the black keys. "You know, I'm not clear on that either. One doesn't inquire into a gentleman's means, of course, but word circulates nonetheless. In Gideon's case, I suspect he has independent wealth, about which he is tastefully discreet."

I applied my mind to the facts. "He is not considered a catch, by design. If the extent of his personal worth became known, he'd be besieged, and he prefers to do the besieging."

"Or he prefers to play that role. As charming as he can be, Gideon has also struck me as having depths. I've not pried, and neither has he, and such consideration is the stuff of a long and cordial friendship."

One attribute I would not assign to Gideon Marchant was charm. "What of Lord Drayson?"

"A sweet young man. I know his mother, knew his father. Why?"

"Sweet young men sometimes get up to foolish dares and wagers."

Her Grace peered at me over her shoulder. "So do sweet young women. Your sister Meggie was nigh infamous at her select academy for the pranks she staged. Got that from her father, of course. I was a paragon."

Said so dryly, one could not help but hear the regret in the words. "Lady Canderport?"

"In mother jail. Until she gets those twins locked up for inciting riots or properly launched—even money in my book—she is too consumed with managing them to get up to any sort of mischief."

"Would the twins get up to larceny as a diversion?" Though stealing personal items of great sentimental value was a nasty, criminal sort of diversion.

"Possibly, and as a competition. Lottie feels keenly that her brother has unfair advantages in life. She will soon see that those advantages come at a price."

"Charles is the heir, the indulged scion, the darling bachelor. I doubt he regards those privileges as costly."

My mother turned back to the piano. "Sometimes, my boy, I vow you are a changeling. Have you any more questions?"

"Not at the moment." I was being dismissed—also possibly criticized—and besides that, I was tired. I hadn't learned much, but then, I hadn't expected to.

"Lady Canderport will never send her daughter off to war," the duchess said, "or wonder what benighted corner of France has the honor of housing her daughter's remains."

Ah. That price. Her Grace had a point. "I miss him too, madam." An impulse flitted through me—to touch my mother's arm, to press a hand to her shoulder. The toll exacted for Harry's masculine advantages had been steep indeed, and he wasn't the only one paying it. I tended to forget that. Arthur had also lost a brother, and Her Grace had lost a son.

A favorite son.

"Seek your bed," the duchess said. "You get cranky when you're tired, but you stay up past your bedtime out of sheer stubbornness."

"I'll bid you good night and continue my search in the morning."

There seemed nothing more to say. We were two people who shared blood, some memories, and some familial connections by the accident of my birth. I could not imagine the circumstance wherein I'd seek or know what to do with maternal closeness. The duchess had been capable of that with Harry, and she was clearly fond of Arthur, but for us…

Apparently not, which made me all the more determined to find her blasted letters.

I had just closed the music room door when a thundering cascade of music poured forth, a crescendo of arpeggiated ferocity that ended in a pair of slammed chords before renewing itself and then resolving into a fury of fast, driving notes.

"The third movement." I stood for a time, listening to an expert rendition of demanding, intense, unstoppable music.

I had no earthly idea what to make of my mother's performance—the third movement was the one she associated with me—but I listened until the last note had faded into the night, and still I stood in the darkness, awash in complete and utter bafflement.