Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"What are you doing here?" I asked when I found Atticus curled up in the corner of the sofa in my sitting room.

"Was trying to sleep." He rubbed his eyes and pushed his hair off his forehead. "Too cold in the stable and too hot in the footmen's dormitory." He stretched and busied himself putting on and lacing up his boots.

Atticus was shrewd, resourceful, and proud, but he was also just a boy in a big and confusing world. And he had needed a safe place to sleep.

"Shall I have a word with somebody, Atticus?"

He scowled at me. "I can take care of meself."

"A slight to your dignity is a slight to mine. That's how being in my employ works. If one of the louts in livery here made advances to you, then I am insulted on your behalf and will take appropriate measures to address the situation." Insulted and enraged.

And yet, my grand proclamation over Atticus's welfare reminded me of my failure to rebuke Godmama for casting aspersion on the duchess.

"You and your talk, guv. You make my ears tired. S'pose I fetch you some breakfast and shaving water. Mind you don't let Miss Hyperia know you've been roaming the house half dressed with your cravat in your pocket. The Quality is daft, but you was brought up better than that."

Nice try. "You will henceforth sleep on the cot in my dressing closet, Atticus. That is a direct order. You need not wait up for me, but you aren't to leave my quarters unattended when I'm off doing my roaming."

He rose from the sofa. "Don't get all pistols and swords on me, guv. Miss Hyperia won't stand for that. I just… Sometimes a lad don't know what's friendly and what's going in a bad direction is all. Best not to guess wrong."

"I cannot tell you how many generals have wished they'd made an orderly retreat and regrouped until reinforcements arrived. Sleep in the dressing closet, young man. I haven't a valet. Nobody will think anything of you waiting attendance on me."

They'd think it strange—more evidence of my eccentricity—then resume gossiping about Miss Frampton's prospects or lack thereof and the ridiculous notion of young men in skirts tossing tree trunks about in the name of sport.

"I'm for the kitchen," Atticus said, heading toward the door. "Miss Hyperia won't like that you was out wandering when good folk are abed, guv. Lady Ophelia is already riled at you, and you don't want 'em both mad at you at the same time. Best watch yourself."

"How is it you know that I'm in Lady Ophelia's bad books?"

"She told her lady's maid to tell the coachy to be ready to leave by ten of the clock this morning. Maid was up half the night packing what she just unpacked. I was in the hall when she came down to the kitchen around midnight for a cuppa tea and some sympathy."

"Then you will need a nap at some point today. See that you get one."

"I'm not a baby."

"You are insubordinate, and I am hungry. Be off with you."

He made me an elaborate bow then slipped out the door while I adjusted to the notion that Lady Ophelia was breaking ranks. She was well known for her independent nature and perfectly entitled to withdraw her support at any time, but did she expect Hyperia to decamp as well?

And where did her ladyship's maneuvering leave Leander, who had grown more than passingly fond of my godmother?

A half hour later, I was shaved and properly dressed and sitting on my balcony, enjoying the day's first cup of hot tea, when voices drifted up to me. A conversation between women, cozy and relaxed, was taking place on the floor below. Amid the clatter of cutlery and the tinkle of porcelain, I gathered that Miss Frampton and Lady Jessamine were breaking their fast together.

"Her Grace is not quite…" Lady Jess paused delicately. " Stable , and that's why his lordship is a bit wobbly in the brainbox too. Her Grace was a Fennington, and while they are wealthy and well respected—there's an earl in the bunch somewhere—they've never been quite quite , if you take my meaning."

I took the little minx's meaning. She'd retreated and regrouped in her own fashion after I'd scolded her politely at supper. I could not hear Miss Frampton's reply, and neither could I make myself quit the balcony.

More old habits that refused to die. If the enemy was foolish enough to discuss her battle plans where she could be overheard, listen.

"I agree, Lord Julian isn't precisely bad-looking," Lady Jessamine said, "but one cannot call him handsome either. The odd spectacles don't help, he's too tall, he's bony, and his conversation is less than witty. Did you hear Her Grace attacking Beethoven last night? Never have I encountered such violent playing."

I wanted to yell over the balustrade, Not violent, your catty-ship, passionate.

I finished my tea and waited for the next salvo.

"I don't think I will allow his lordship to court me after all," Lady Jess said. "Blood will tell, else Her Grace's unsteady nature would not be so readily apparent in her son, would it? You should make a try for him, Trish. He's probably desperate to win free of Miss West, but nobody else will have him, and men do have their pride. Lord Julian is polite enough, and his son might well be the next duke."

I had the sense I was overhearing boys playing soldier. Little fellows knew all the commands, all the military vocabulary, but from childish mouths, the words were an eerie mockery of the adult reality. Lady Jessamine was parroting slander somebody had poured into her delicate ears, or gossip she'd made it a point to overhear.

"Well, yes, I do admit that Her Grace has aged splendidly," she allowed, "despite the red hair. But she was an inconstant wife after doing her duty to the title, and she's been a merry widow. If I am aware of her flirtations, despite being the next thing to a schoolgirl, then you know Her Grace was a bit too merry. Did you notice that she's gone all melancholy since arriving at Tweed House? Step-mama is concerned for her, which is vexatious in the extreme. Step-mama ought to be worried about me—about all the young ladies who haven't secured matches. If one person in the whole wide world does not need worrying about, it's a duchess."

Laughter wafted upon the morning air, laughter and guilt.

I never worried about my mother, and yet, she had detractors, if not enemies, and likely always had. With a lofty station went a near obligation to serve as an object of envy. As I went in search of Lady Ophelia, I wondered who bore Her Grace such spite that even the young ladies at the gathering felt free to slander the only duchess in their midst?

And was that unkind gossip related to the missing letters, and if so, how?

I tapped on Lady Ophelia's sitting room door.

" Entrez! "

The French took me aback, but I well knew what her ladyship's imperious tone presaged. Once more unto the breach… I felt as if I were about to make a dawn report bearing bad news to a general infamous for his temper and morning dyspepsia. I arranged my features into bland agreeableness and bowed.

"My lady, good day."

Godmama wore a morning gown of blue silk that brought out the blue of her eyes. A silver tea service sat before her on a low table in front of the sofa.

"You are not Marie." She set down her tea cup and visually inspected me. "I believe we've said all we have to say to each other, my lord. I will be quitting the gathering in a few hours. I wish you the best of luck retrieving the missing letters."

Her tone said she wished my lord would fall on his arse at one of the Regent's formal receptions.

"Who hates my mother?" I asked, taking one end of the sofa and helping myself to an apple tart.

"I nearly did," her ladyship replied, picking up her tea cup. "She had so much—a duke, lovely looks, good family—and yet, she wasn't happy. Claudius tried to be a good husband after his fashion, but his fashion was mostly gallant gestures between self-indulgent frolics. I eventually came to realize that Dorothea had made the ghastly mistake of falling in love with her own husband. I would have pitied her, except that she'd loathe the very notion."

The duchess's husband might have frolicked with Ophelia herself. Ye gods and little fishes. "Who would delight in implying that both my mother and I are mentally unsound?"

"Dorothea is no more mentally unsound… Don't look at me like that. You have that problem with your memory. Dorothea's memory is, if anything, too good. Some things are truly best forgotten." Godmama sipped her tea primly while I helped myself to another tart.

Did her ladyship allude to forgetting our spat of the previous evening or to some scandal known only to her?

"I just overheard Lady Jessamine heaping contumely on Her Grace's head. The duchess was unfaithful to her duke, she is enjoying widowhood far too much, and she's emotionally unsteady. My own mental instability is bad blood passed down on the dam side."

Her ladyship swirled her tea. "The Caldicotts have been colorful from time to time, but a more boringly sound family than the Fenningtons does not grace Albion's shores. Dorothea was in some ways the worst possible duchess for Claudius, but she did settle him down somewhat."

"Who resents her for it? Who is angry enough with her to steal her love letters and spread evil talk about her?"

"Are you accusing me, Julian?"

Interesting question for what it said about a past that didn't concern me. "Circumstances exonerate you. You were at the Hall when Her Grace's letters went missing. You've had years to purloin her correspondence, or hire somebody to do it, and yet, the letters are a recent loss. You also would not have been on hand to take Lady Barrington's gloves or Mrs. Whittington's locket, though you might well have stolen Lord Drayson's naughty sketches, mostly to scare some sense into him."

Her ladyship poured herself more tea—none offered to me, I noted—and watched the steam rising from her cup.

"The sketches don't fit," she said. "Drayson is a wet-behind-the-ears popinjay who can claim the sketches are mere artistic exercises."

I suspected they were in truth articles of rebellion in the ongoing war between papa and heir, but her ladyship had a point.

"He's not a widow," I said by way of agreement, "and he's not older, but the sketches are dear to him and arguably compromising. You never did answer my question regarding the duchess's enemies."

"Because I cannot. You are better off asking Gideon, who knows all the latest on-dits. How he knows defies even my vast resources, but he does know. This is probably why he's been tapped to stand for some pocket borough."

I chose a pear tart. "I don't care for him."

"Whyever not? His drawing-room deportment is burnished to a golden glow. He never gives offense. He has the perfect quip or tale for any moment. I find him, if anything, too perfect."

That was not the man I'd ridden out with, but then, I wasn't of an age with him, and I wasn't female. "Very well, I'll speak with him, but what you call his drawing-room deportment, I call a nigh-calculated ability to either flatter or offend."

"Because you are too sensitive."

My godmother had been brusque with me, honest to a fault, and inconveniently frank, but never, ever mean.

I considered her as she sipped the tea she'd forgotten to sweeten and saw by the morning light that she'd not slept well. Last night, she'd flung irrational accusations at Her Grace's figurative feet, and this morning she was hurling barbs at me as she—whom I'd come to regard as valiant—was leaving the investigative field mid-battle.

I rose and went to the French doors, not ready to storm off in high dudgeon. The mist had drifted off the river. The deer were gone. Slanting sunbeams tried to penetrate a high overcast. The morning had a stillness unique to the start of an autumn day, a muted, sentimental quality suited to watercolors and solitude.

Her ladyship blamed the duchess for Millicent's defection, a leap of logic that approached the ridiculous. I'd been bothered by Godmama's rash words the previous night, and I was more bothered by them now.

Insight befell me as a lone raven took off from a lofty perch and circled the park before disappearing into the gray sky.

"When did Patrick die?" I asked, gaze on the cloudy heavens. "He'd be nearly thirty now." Just about my age. We'd been playmates, Harry for once the odd, older fellow out.

"You hopeless, incorrigible boy. Leave at once."

I turned to find her ladyship on her feet, indignation radiating from her.

"Hurl all the thunderbolts you please, Godmama. I will never forget that I followed Harry from camp under a waning quarter moon. I try to ignore the phases of the moon, but every month, without fail, the moon reminds me of my sorrows. Next month will mark another anniversary of that night, and I feel as if I'm holding my breath until then, waiting for some dark angel to pass my house. I have no doubt that twenty years hence, this time of year will bring me to the same sorry pass."

She blinked, then seemed to wilt back onto the sofa. "Some years aren't so bad, and then you feel guilty because you aren't sufficiently miserable." She glowered at the tea tray. "I wasn't there, Julian. My little boy lay dying, and I wasn't there. I was in Town, collecting gossip from the royal dukes and being frivolous. Nobody thought to summon me home. A head cold, a touch of influenza… Patrick was sassing his tutors one day, and a little over a week later, he was gone. The housekeeper eventually sent word that my Patrick was poorly, but…"

"The roads were awful," I said. They were still awful for much of the realm. "He'd been poorly before, probably came down with a bad sniffle every autumn, and he was such a robust boy that you had no reason to suspect the worst. I'm sorry."

Inadequate words, but the explanation sufficed. There was Leander, alone in the world, his mother turning her back on him, Arthur larking off to France, me preoccupied with Her Grace's business, and the boy's world in pieces.

"I learned my lesson," her ladyship said. "When Catherine took ill, I was there. I did not leave her side, but she'd come too early, and her lungs had always been weak. I knew to keep my expectations humble in her case. Patrick's death was the worst blow. Still is. With a spouse, you know one of you will go first, and both of my husbands were older than me. I realize children often have only a short span, but my Patrick was such an ebullient soul. When I go to my reward, the Creator and I will have words, Julian. Harsh, loud words, just as soon as I stop hugging the angel my boy has become."

I took the place beside Godmama on the sofa and passed her my plain handkerchief. "We are supposed to leave our memories on the battlefield, but I've yet to meet a soldier who does. Try as we might, they follow us around like a stink that won't leave the nostrils."

"The memories aren't all bad," her ladyship said, dabbing at her eyes with my linen. "The good memories are supposed to help."

"Do they?" I had endless good memories of Harry, mostly from boyhood, but some from our time in uniform as well.

"I'll let you know when I make up my mind. I thought I was up to another house party, Julian, but I have overtaxed my reserves. I do plan to leave this morning."

"I would rather you fly off in a rage than take leave to grapple with sadness."

"So would I, but you foiled that plan. Was Jessamine truly slandering the duchess?"

"With malice aforethought. A dangerous thing to do when she's the unmarried daughter of a mere earl."

"Dangerous and stupid. I hope her settlements are generous, for the young lady's sake."

While I hoped the opposite, that her settlements were modest, all but compelling a love match. "Will you take Hyperia with you?" She wasn't packed, but that oversight could be remedied in an hour.

"Chaperones abound here, Julian. Lady Barrington is keeping an eye on Miss Frampton and Miss Bivens, or claiming to, and your own mother is also on hand to serve."

"So why don't you ask her?" I certainly did not want to. "I am off to chat up Gideon Marchant, for my sins."

She tucked my handkerchief into a skirt pocket. "You and Dorothea are so much alike, it's uncanny. She will be delighted you asked for her assistance, but she won't let you see that lest you be embarrassed by it. You will be inordinately relieved to have her aid, but you won't let her see that, lest she be embarrassed by your effusions. Like a spinster being courted by a schoolteacher."

Not a flattering comparison, though I suspected Godmama wasn't entirely in error either. My mother and I shared with Arthur a certain dignity that Harry and the late duke had been able to set aside on occasion.

In deference to the dignity of all concerned, I chose my next words carefully. "Very well, I will approach my mother after I've tracked down Marchant. I will miss you, but I appreciate your willingness to look in on matters at the Hall."

By the merest blink, her ladyship betrayed a satisfying hint of surprise. "The Hall? I hadn't thought… Well, yes, I suppose I could bide there until you've concluded your business here. Arthur will be gone in a few days, and one wants a responsible hand on the tiller at such times."

"One absolutely does, and I have another request to put to you." Godmama was not exactly delighted with the task I assigned her, but she agreed to take it on. We both knew the point of her excursion would be to keep Leander company, and neither of us so much as mentioned the boy.

I thanked her briefly, wished her a smooth journey, and went in search of Marchant.

Marchant proved elusive, or perhaps I wasn't that keen on locating him. What should have been a simple search for letters inadvertently stashed behind the vanity mirror was becoming a tangle of thievery, slander, sorrow, and frustration.

My night with Hyperia had fortified me with sound sleep, though, and like any soldier in the midst of a forced march, genuine repose had provided balm to the body and the spirit. When an hour of asking footmen, grooms, and other guests for Marchant's whereabouts proved fruitless, I decided to take Atticus out for a driving lesson.

He managed somewhat better, driving Jupiter around the village green, completing a looping change of direction, and getting us back to Tweed House without mishap.

"You weren't barkin' at me the whole time," he said when I climbed down to serve as his header. "I can pay better attention without you yappin' at me the livelong day, guv."

I'd been preoccupied with the question of motive. Who had motive to steal those letters? Everybody and nobody.

"Jupiter shares your opinion," I said. "He does much better when you aren't fussing with the reins, squirming on the bench, or issuing one verbal command after another. Your trusty Ladon is of the same mind. A quiet rider is much easier to please than one who can't leave a horse in peace to do the job he's been asked to do."

Atticus wrapped the reins about the brake and hopped down, violating the no sudden moves around horses rule for the thousandth time.

"Ladon has the right of it. I hate when everybody is telling me what to do all the time, and everybody does. That MacFadden fellow said I should offer to polish boots for other gents, and I might earn more vails that way."

This was a question, and deftly put. "You are certainly free to use your spare time however you choose, and extra coins are always good to have on hand."

Atticus petted Jupiter's hairy shoulder. "I'm allowed to hire out?"

A household of any size had a whole economy humming in the lower reaches. Barter in beer and candles, loans, favors, and dicing debts flew madly from pantries to kitchens to dormitories, stables, and gardens.

"You are allowed to hire out, but I'd suggest taking on one additional task at a time. When you've been paid for a job well done, take on the next, and so forth. If you're approached about work you aren't keen to do, explain that I'm jealous of your time, and you must watch your step, because that is the honest truth, my lad."

"One at a time." Atticus clearly approved of that notion. "What if they don't pay me?"

"Excellent question. First, be sure to always negotiate fees in advance so you invite no misunderstandings. If your customer refuses to pay, you tell me, and you never work for them again. You complain about their parsimony loudly in the servants' hall, where an employer's behavior reflects on his staff and conversely."

"Simmony-what?"

"Parsimony. From the Latin parsimonia, for thrift or miserliness, and the verb parcere , to save, to spare."

"You mean tightfisted, and I should bellyache in public about it. I can do that. Everybody moans about this and that in the hall. Sore feet, sore heads, the damned bells always ringin', and the housekeeper ragin'. The footmen are starting to wish the whole house party to perdition, but MacFadden says that's normal."

"You are careful around MacFadden?"

"Aye. He's friendly, but not too friendly. I'm the cheerful lad, but not too cheerful."

"Then tell him you are available to polish Marchant's boots, Atticus, and keep a very, very sharp eye when you retrieve that footwear from Marchant's apartment."

Jupiter stomped a hoof and swished his tail. "You don't like Marchant? Because he's French?"

"He's not French, that I know of. His name is French, but my grandmother was French, which makes me partly French. I don't know him, Atticus, though he seems to be a fixture in Society familiar to everybody but me."

Atticus commenced scratching under Jupiter's chin. "He's not adding up?"

"Nothing is adding up, yet." I signaled to a groom who'd been idling in the shade of the barn aisle. "Atticus, you are to become familiar with harnessing and unharnessing, and this good fellow can start you off by explaining the parts and pieces to you as Jupiter is unhitched. Spend some time organizing my dressing closet after your nooning, and take a stab at laying out my supper kit. The meal is informal, thank heavens. Supper al fresco, weather permitting."

"Organizing your dressing closet?"

The groom took the reins from me. He was youngish, the same fellow who'd been singing Burns's lament about long-lost Senegal.

I looked directly at Atticus. "Carefully and thoroughly. Take your time, keep the doors locked behind you. One cannot be too careful."

"Oh." He grinned and whacked Jupiter's shoulder. "Right. C'mon, Jean, let's get this gear off old Jupe."

"Harness," Jean replied, smiling. "You refer to the gear as harness, young Atticus."

I left them to the fascinating business of hames, traces, girths, and crupper and decided that a quiet chat with mine host was in order. Lord Barrington was recently raised to his honors, his father having lived past the allotted three score and ten.

Securing the earldom's succession had apparently resulted in three girls born one after the other, followed finally by a pair of boys.

Barrington's first wife, having done her duty, was rewarded with eternal peace before the age of five-and-thirty. The earl had muddled along for a few years, then apparently grasped that launching three daughters required commissioning a field marshal suited to the task. Lady Barrington had risen to the challenge, though no new denizens of the nursery had appeared on her watch.

I'd been told the earl was enjoying the spectacle of the young people playing pall-mall, so I made my way around the side of the house. The distant notes of a flute gave me pause well short of the grassy court. I recognized the musician and thus followed the tune across the park and down to the edge of the river.