Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Have you taken to lurking, Julian?" Lady Ophelia's startled me out of my reverie. She had prowled up the shadowy corridor as silently as a cat on the hunt. Marchant had noted the side of her personality that inspired wariness, and I had scoffed at him for it.

"I have concluded an unsatisfactory interview with Her Grace," I said, "who was playing the piano until a few moments ago. She's quite good."

"When your father was ill, she'd play for him by the hour. The old dances and airs from our youth. You were off at school. They didn't want you boys to have to endure the business of your father's dying."

"As a result, his death took me nearly by surprise." At Yuletide, I'd noticed that Papa had been looking older, that his weight had been down, and he'd seemed tired. His subsequent letters had been as cheerful and chatty as ever, and mine had likely been as dull and dutiful as usual. I'd spent the spring holidays with a friend, and by the time I'd next returned to the Hall, His Grace had been failing rapidly.

"Death takes a lot of us by surprise," Lady Ophelia muttered. "I hope it takes me so much by surprise that I fail to notice the change of venue until I've been assigned my harp and halo. Let's chat, shall we?"

I did not want to chat. I wanted to fall asleep on the sofa in Hyperia's sitting room while she read me some Gothic tale and I mused on suspects and motives.

"Have you something to report?" I asked.

"Oh, perhaps, and so do you, young man." She took my arm, appropriated a lamp from a sconce, and led me across the corridor to a small parlor. Not a second parlor—the room was nicely appointed, the furniture newish—but suitable for entertaining only a few guests at a time.

"The winter parlor," Lady Ophelia said. "Always on the southern side of the house, sometimes in the southeast corner, and small enough to heat easily. They've gone out of fashion, but they make perfect sense to me. Arthur called on you today."

How in blazes could she know that? "He did."

"And?"

She was my godmother rather than my commanding officer. I owed her no explanations, but she'd also been the only person willing to intrude upon my languishing version of a postwar recovery. For that, I would always owe her. Had she not literally dragged me into the light of day, my fate might have become dire indeed.

Then too, dissembling before Godmama was pointless, so I gave her the truth. "Millicent has written that she intends to remain distant from the Hall and from Leander."

"That didn't take her long."

"Arthur thinks it might be for the best."

Her ladyship passed me the lamp and took a seat in a wing chair upholstered in brocade roses. "For Millicent, getting shed of the boy is undoubtedly for the best. Will you be complicit in her scheme?"

"When I threatened to retrieve her from her home shire and return her to the Hall by main force, Arthur counseled patience."

"At least you threatened. You can do more than threaten once Arthur has taken ship."

I remained on my feet. If I sat, I would have to rise, and such was my fatigue of body and spirit that the easier course was to prop a hip on a windowsill and let her ladyship rail at me.

"The only issue from my perspective," I said, "is what is best for the boy. On the one hand, he loves his mother and will feel her absence keenly."

"You have doubtless concocted some other hand that conveniently excuses you from acting. Don't you dare tell yourself this is for the best, Julian. That child has no one else in the whole world. He doesn't merely love his mother as if she were a favorite set of toy soldiers. She is his refuge and the lodestar of his happiness."

"She has been, of necessity. I'm sure Millicent gave the whole matter a great deal of thought, and as his guardian, she is choosing to turn the boy over to his paternal relations. Given Arthur's consequence, Society would not criticize her for that." I did, or I had.

And yet, seeing Godmama's righteous ire, I felt compelled to argue for the defense, as Arthur had argued it with me.

" I criticize her for it, by heaven. She could have waited until he's older, could have given him time to adjust. She bolted at the first opportunity, Julian, and your duty to the child is to retrieve his mother posthaste, before she can dodge off somewhere you won't find her."

The hour was too late for me to dredge up any charm, and neither had I much patience left, but I did make a try for sweet reason.

"Do you know what is harder on a boy than being told his mother has chosen to dwell elsewhere, though she has promised to visit and write and remain on the periphery of his life?"

"Losing his mother and his father."

"Leander never had a father worth the name." I stated a fact and offered a silent apology to Harry. "What is harder for a small boy is dwelling under the same roof as his mother and feeling certain she resents his proximity, certain she regrets his very birth. For Leander to face his mother's regret every day, at every meal, every time she avoids divine services or refuses to dine with the family would poison his life more effectively than if she simply withdraws to a more distant place in his sphere."

Millicent had not promised to write or visit, but I would do my utmost to wring those assurances from her.

"He's not a ducal son, Julian. Your mother visited the nursery on occasion, inquired politely about your studies or your pony rides, and then swanned off not to be seen again for days. Leander's mother was his all… He slept beside her for the first several years of his life. He took every meal with her. He wore only the clothes she made for him. If you allow this… this cataclysm in his life, you will regret it for the rest of your days."

Early memories stirred, some of my earliest. "Her Grace always began and ended her days in the nursery. Every day, without fail. She wrote to us—individual letters, mine were printed at first—when she and Papa went up to Town, and she demanded that we write back. She kidnapped Harry and me for picnics and filled her sketchbooks with our likenesses."

These recollections welled from some mental oubliette where I'd stashed them years ago, and yet, they were vivid, complete pictures in my head. Harry had always claimed more of our mother's attention, true, but she could not be accused of the sort of remote parenting all too common among the highest aristocracy.

Not at first.

"You can defend Dorothea all you please, Julian, but I blame this whole debacle on her. Had Her Grace come to the Hall when Leander arrived, she could have insisted that Millicent remain with the boy. Millicent's role might have been governess, nurserymaid, or that of some fictitious relative, but that woman would not have defied the duchess."

Millicent had more or less defied the duke , and likely the inclinations of her own heart. "Debating preventive measures at this point profits us nothing." And whatever else was true, Her Grace was not to blame for Millicent's defection. "Arthur has delegated resolution of Leander's situation to me, and my next step will be to secure guardianship of the boy."

I made a mental note to add sending instructions to the solicitors to the list of tasks I'd tackle in the morning.

"I am so angry." Her ladyship skewered me with a magnificent glower. "Angry with the boy's mother, angry with Arthur for choosing the worst time to take his holiday, and angry with you, Julian. You've disappointed me, and I must consider my own next steps. I will bid you good evening."

I allowed her to have the last word and bowed to her retreating figure as she stormed out the door. In the morning, when I could think again, I'd doubtless be devasted to have earned her ladyship's poor regard. Her disappointment stung, but coming on the heels of a frustrating day and an unproductive interview with the duchess, the sting lacked sharpness.

Lest I fall asleep in the little parlor, I waited a few moments, then followed her ladyship from the room. I'd promised Hyperia a conference, and a conference we would have.

The stairs were miles too long and too steep, and a voice in my head that sounded much like Harry warned me that I was overtaxing myself, a certain recipe for disaster. At war, overtaxing oneself was excusable and even necessary, but I was no longer at war.

I tapped on Hyperia's sitting room door, heard no reply, and let myself into her apartment. The parlor was unlit, though a dim glow emanated from the bedroom. I found Hyperia asleep in a reading chair, a book in her lap. A single candle burned down to the last two inches on the table beside her. The lone taper was one of four in a candelabrum, the other three standing tall and unlit.

My beloved had been saving candles. She was swaddled in a nightgown and robe, thick wool stockings on her feet.

I gently slid the book from her lap, which earned no reaction from the sleeping beauty.

The Mysteries of Udolpho. About as Gothic as Gothic could be, though the ending was happy.

I filled the warmer with coals and did a thorough job taking the chill off the sheets, then undid the belt of Hyperia's robe.

"To bed with you, miss." She stirred slightly when I lifted her into my arms, nuzzled my shoulder, and sighed.

I set her on the bed, managed to get the robe free, and tucked her beneath the covers. She rolled to her side with another deep sigh. Her hair was a thick russet braid against the snowy sheets, and she made a sweet picture nestled against the pillows.

Don't do it. The voice was again Harry's, or his ghost. He had a nerve admonishing me to a restraint he'd not practiced himself.

"Stay, Jules." That murmured command had come from Hyperia. Her eyes were open, and she regarded me sleepily from the shadows of the bed canopy. "Stay for a time. I've missed you."

"I shouldn't. I'll fall asleep."

"One does that in beds."

To be found alone with Hyperia in dishabille would force us into a marriage on terms neither of us wanted. If I sat on the bed, if I even leaned down to kiss her good night, I'd be lost.

"I would be poor company, my dear."

"You would be delightful company. I will wake you in the morning before the birds herald the dawn."

My darling was a reliably early riser, and her assurances were sufficient to topple my reluctance.

"Very well." Call me weak and foolish, but I stripped down and made use of the wash water, then climbed into the bed and wrapped my tired self around Hyperia's warmth.

"Better," she said, lacing her fingers with mine. "Much better. Sweet dreams, Jules."

I did not dream that I could recall, but I slept deeply and woke to the merest hint of gray light filtering through the curtains.

"Jules," Hyperia whispered, "somebody's in my parlor."

I was naked but for a pair of linen drawers, and I was in the utterly wrong bed at the utterly wrong hour. The situation was impossible.

And yet, I had been in similar impossible situations. Out of habit, I'd folded my clothing in the specific order best suited to dressing at speed. Too often when making my way across the wilds of Spain, I'd had only moments to prepare for the unexpected, and those reflexes served me well. I was dressed in breeches and shirt within a minute.

I passed Hyperia her robe and slipped out onto her balcony. The cold air was a bracing slap to the lungs and the balcony chilly beneath my feet. Ghostly tendrils of mist rose from the stream in the distance, and not a single bird broke the predawn stillness. Deer grazed near the woods, doubtless ready to bolt at the first sign of activity in the house.

I stole along the building's exterior until I could peer into the parlor through a crack in the curtains.

Young Lord Drayson was making a stealthy search of Hyperia's effects, going through the drawers of her escritoire one by one. Was he looking for an item of sentimental value to steal? Would he next intrude himself on the lady's very boudoir?

I nipped back into Hyperia's bedroom. "Drayson," I whispered. "Grab a poker and ask him what the devil he's about. He won't expect you to confront him. He appears to be conducting a search."

Hyperia had already left the bed and was in her robe and stockings. She hefted the wrought-iron fireplace poker and made for the door. The look in her eye did not bode well for Drayson's prospects.

"Lord Drayson, what in blazes are you doing?" She spoke quietly but with the firm asperity of a woman prepared to dispatch a fool.

"Miss… Miss West. Good morning. Is this your apartment? I am so sorry. I thought… That is to say—"

"Do me the courtesy of being honest, and do it at once."

"I am looking for something." He'd aimed for injured dignity and ended up in the vicinity of petulance.

"Oh, clearly. You will have to do better than that."

"Something that belongs to me," his lordship went on. "Something personal and private."

"So the first place you thought to search was my personal and private apartment. How logical." Hyperia had asked a single question thus far and had otherwise adopted the interrogator's trick of allowing her prisoner to babble himself into disclosures.

"I intend to search everywhere," Drayson said. "Yours was the first apartment I came to on the ladies' floor of the guest wing."

I wanted to kick myself, hard. Hyperia had left her door unlocked the previous evening for me , and I'd been in such a state that I had not locked the door behind me. Excessive fatigue bred costly errors. I knew that. I knew that only too well.

"You passed Lady Ophelia's apartment to get here," Hyperia said. "If you came down from the floor above, the duchess's quarters were closer to yours, as were any number of gentlemen's accommodations. Your objective was to search my quarters, and unless you tell me why this instant, then you will be making your explanations to Lord and Lady Barrington."

Excellent next step, to rattle the sword of higher authority and worse consequences.

"You won't do that." Drayson sounded more terrified than confident. "Everybody will know I was in your rooms, and it's barely light out, and you are… not properly dressed."

"Firstly, our host and hostess will be as discreet as the crypt when it comes to the possibility of scandal arising under their own roof. Secondly, unless you want the chambermaid with her coal bucket or tea tray to find you stammering falsehoods in my parlor, you'd best explain yourself and get out."

Hyperia was really quite talented with a prisoner. I had no doubt she'd use the poker if Drayson took so much as a step in her direction.

"You were seen in the vicinity of my apartment, Miss West, yesterday afternoon."

"Who claims to have seen me committing the great crime of wandering the corridors in broad daylight?"

"One of the servants. He implied you might have been looking for me, but I was sketching by the lake, which is what I do every afternoon at this infernal… It's what I do every afternoon."

"I have been here little more than a day, my lord. I would have no idea of your regular habits." Her tone said those habits remained a matter of complete indifference to her. "Did it occur to you that the servant you spoke with might have named me to throw you off his own scent?"

A beat of silence went by. "No. No, it did not."

"You sketch nudes," Hyperia said patiently. "Based on our supper conversation, I conclude that your appreciation for the unclad form is more than passive. Perhaps you have been foolish enough to sketch nudes of people who have not consented to be so depicted, and now your self-indulgence has been found out. Very likely you are searching for some item of your own handiwork that has gone inconveniently missing. Correct me if I'm wrong."

I could nearly hear Drayson blushing.

"I am devoted to my art, Miss West. I know that's not fashionable, but Papa won't hear of sending me abroad to study. He says I'll outgrow my hobby as he did, but he's wrong."

"Keep your voice down," Hyperia said. "I don't have your sketches, you clodpated looby, but you are sharing a household with any number of young ladies who might delight in taking your drawings as a prank. You violated their privacy with your risqué sketches. By Mayfair's rules of engagement, the young ladies are thus entitled to violate yours. If you are imbecile enough to search the quarters of Miss Bivens or Miss Frampton, you run every risk of putting period to your bachelorhood. Depend upon it."

"You mean they might have stolen my art as a lure? As bait for an ambush?"

Such incredulity ought not to be let out without a nursemaid, and he was a peer's adult heir.

"I have no idea," Hyperia replied darkly, "what thoughts pass for ratiocination in the minds of the young ladies, but I know I do not have your sketches, I do not want your sketches, and you have been an idiot to risk my wrath and Society's censure. Slip out the door and pray nobody sees you doing it."

I heard a soft click a moment later, and then Hyperia returned to the bedroom and replaced the poker on the hearth stand.

"I saw no servant when I was in the vicinity of Drayson's quarters," she said, anticipating my first question. "I would not be that careless. Was he lying about somebody seeing me, Jules? Protecting whoever did see me?"

"Or making up the whole business, because his sketches have not gone missing, but he needed a handy excuse for plundering your belongings?"

She sat on the bed and removed her heavy stockings. "I could have another look. I leafed through his sketchbooks. I'd know if one has gone missing."

I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Hyperia's bare feet. Feet were personal, rarely on display in the normal course, and hers were long, slender, and pale.

"I cannot allow you to venture into his quarters again, Perry."

She crossed her arms. " Allow , Jules?"

"Do you want to end up married to him?"

"Oh." She scowled at her toes. "Suppose not, but the word you sought was ‘advise' rather than ‘allow.'"

Hyperia rose early, and she rose with formidable energy. "Just so, I meant to say I could not advise a second search of his rooms by you. I won't undertake one either."

"Because?"

"He's not our thief." The thought shifted from a hunch to a conclusion as I spoke. "He was too clumsy in his searching, too clumsy under interrogation. Whoever has pilfered the letters—and the locket and gloves, if they were stolen—did so skillfully. No vague mentions of fictitious servants, no stumbling around at dawn when darkness would have added some safety to the job."

"You doubt a servant spotted me?"

I had been known to claim that I investigated by reasoning from facts and observations to logical conclusions, but at certain moments, I also indulged my instincts.

"I believe somebody saw you in the corridor, and that person was not a servant. That person was a party Drayson could put an awkward question to, somebody who'd feel sympathy for him over missing sketches."

She uncrossed her arms and scooted back onto the mattress to sit cross-legged amid the quilts. "I don't know, Jules. At a gathering like this, one gets to know the other guests as a matter of courtesy. The servants, by contrast, are a faceless horde, some belonging to the house, some to other guests, some brought in from the agencies for the duration. To one of Drayson's artistic pretensions, ‘servant' would be an accurate description of any person in service on the premises."

"Any male person. Drayson referred to the informant as a he, and I doubt his lordship had the wits to dissemble on the spot regarding gender."

"The house party enjoys an abundance of male persons among both guests and staff."

A silence developed, and while I was acutely aware that dawn approached, I was equally aware that Hyperia made a fetching picture in her nightclothes, lost in thought, braid gone a bit frazzled. I had not arisen in a state of procreative readiness, but I was far from indifferent to her charms.

I could not recall a better night's sleep, or a more interesting start to a day.

"I like this," she said. "I like discussing the possibilities and considering the evidence with you. I don't like when we end up with more questions than answers."

"A very wise lady told me that investigations confound and confuse at first, sometimes that seems to be all they do, but then patterns and possibilities begin to form, and the way becomes clear."

Hyperia smiled. "And you listened to her blathering."

"I listen to her sound advice. I'd best be off."

"Yes, you had. Don't forget your coat." She bounced off the bed, passed me my jacket, and kissed me on the lips. "I'll see you at breakfast."

"You might not. Atticus is overdue for a driving lesson. Then too, I want to avoid Lady Ophelia for the nonce. She's angry that Millicent is turning Leander over to the Caldicotts, and she expects me to dragoon Leander's mama back to the Hall and inspire her to remain with her son."

"Millicent trusted Harry, and her trust was misplaced. I would rather Leander have his mother in his life, but blaming you for her choices isn't fair."

Lady Ophelia had blamed the duchess, among others. As I stole another parting kiss and then made a silent progress back to my own rooms, I wondered how often I had indulged in the same response—blaming my mother—when she had, in fact, done nothing to deserve my opprobrium?

I had deflected Lady Ophelia's criticism of the duchess, but I had not defended my only extant parent when given the chance to do so. Some of my enthusiasm for the day waned on that thought. Her Grace was a lady. I was a gentleman, and her son. I should have responded more firmly to Godmama's silly accusations, though further antagonizing her ladyship would have been both ill-advised and ungentlemanly.

By the time I reached my apartment, I was deep in rumination about where next to direct my inquiries. I wanted to find Her Grace's letters and return to my nephew and Caldicott Hall, the sooner the better. If Godmama and I were on the outs, though, the loss of her good offices as Hyperia's chaperone would mean I would return to the Hall alone.

That prospect had absolutely no appeal whatsoever.