I rapped hard on the door of the central lodge. “MacNeil, rouse yourself. Sir Rupert needs to speak with you.”
More thumping and calling out were required before a weak light shone through the window, followed by MacNeil, in nightshirt, plaid dressing gown, and worn slippers appearing at the door. He would have made a comical picture, but for the huntsman’s whip coiled in his hand.
Did the old men in this shire all go about armed at night?
“Sir Rupert.” MacNeil nodded, and the gesture took in Merlin as well. “What the hell is this about?”
No acknowledgment for me, other than a passing scowl. I counted my disguise a success.
“We’ve found the remains of a hound who closely resembles Thales,” I said. “I suspect that Nax Silforth either believes the deceased canine to be Thales or wants the world to believe as much so he can bilk an insurance company out of thousands of pounds. We can parse the matter standing here beneath the stars or before your cozy hearth.”
“Lord Julian?”
“The same.”
“Silforth sent you packing.”
“Silforth hasn’t the authority to tell me what to do, so here I am.”
MacNeil gestured us into the shadowed reaches of his lodge. Sir Rupert and I filed through the door into warmer surrounds, Merlin trotting in with us. Lady Patience and her brood were still enjoying the hospitality of the whelping box, and the fire was a mere bed of coals. The air was redolent of peat and dog, probably the two most comforting scents in the world to MacNeil.
I could not say the same for myself.
“Where was the grave?” MacNeil asked, which struck me as an interesting question.
“So close to my property line as makes no difference,” Sir Rupert snapped. “Mere yards away. This is a bad business, MacNeil.”
I turned the chair at the desk to face the hearth and took a seat. MacNeil lowered his bulk into a reading chair, and Sir Rupert parked himself on the raised hearth, Merlin at his side.
“Explain yourself,” MacNeil said, the whip coiled in his lap. “But mind you keep your voices down. Her ladyship needs her rest.”
“The hound in that grave was not Thales,” I said.
MacNeil’s fingers stopped moving on the braided leather of the whip. “How can you tell?”
“The hound was female,” Sir Rupert said. “That’s obvious even after nearly a week in the ground.”
“Female?”
“Like Lady Patience,” I said, “and the pattern of the hair growth is wrong for Thales, though the markings match his almost exactly.”
“Female? You’re certain?” The consternation in MacNeil’s gaze as he stared at the whelping box was real. “I don’t believe it.”
“We brought the remains with us,” I said. “You are free to inspect them at length.”
MacNeil heaved to his feet, hung the whip from a nail on the mantel, and rebelted his dressing gown. “Inspect them, I shall.”
Sir Rupert sent me a pleading look. He and Merlin were all but snuggled up to the warmth of the hearth, and the hour was late.
I accompanied MacNeil into the yard, took the cart’s lantern from the hook, and directed MacNeil around to the back of the cart. When I flipped the tarp aside, MacNeil at first remained gazing straight ahead, to the dim outline of Bloomfield silhouetted against the night sky.
“I’ve exposed only the dog’s head,” I said gently. Not everybody had years of gruesome experience with the aftermath of battles. “You will notice that the hair coat forms no question mark pattern on the forehead.”
MacNeil put a hand forward and gingerly traced a thumb over the dog’s brow. He repeated the gesture and then cursed in Gaelic. Damn the man or to hell with that one.
“This is Thisbe,” MacNeil said. “Silforth sold her to Mrs. Ladron as a weanling for a proper fortune. Poor thing recently took sick… But how…?”
“In hindsight, the how is fairly simple,” I said, covering up the remains. “When Silforth was purportedly scouring the countryside for Thales, he came across Mrs. Ladron grieving the loss of Thisbe. Silforth reasoned that Thales was either dead or stolen, never to return, but he needed a body to prove his insurance claim.”
MacNeil shuffled back into the lodge, his gait uncertain. “Thisbe. Damn. I never… Sweet dog. Mrs. Ladron will be wroth to know her girl isn’t resting in peace.”
At that moment, I was not in the least concerned with Thisbe’s final obsequies. I was, though, relieved to realize that Silforth had not, apparently, shot Thales in cold blood. Had he, though, somehow poisoned poor Thisbe? Or had Thisbe’s demise by misadventure sparked an opportunist’s scheme?
“Silforth was so upset,” MacNeil said, settling into the reading chair heavily. “Never seen him like that before, and all along it was Thisbe.”
I perched on the hard chair and stated the obvious. “Silforth knows a dog from a bitch.”
Sir Rupert had found a pillow to place beneath his backside. “If Silforth was upset,” he began, “if the situation was dark, if he’d come upon—”
“Wasna dark when he found the dead dog,” MacNeil said, a thread of anger lacing his burr. “Silforth showed up here after sunset, but it wasn’t nearly dark. Told me he’d found his poor lad, showed me a dead hound curled up in the box of his dog cart, and the markings belonged to Thales, as best I could tell.”
But Mac hadn’t had the temerity to do a thorough examination, and Silforth had doubtless counted on that deference.
“You’ve signed an affidavit,” I suggested, “to the effect that you viewed the remains and can attest to Thales’s demise.”
“Aye, so did Henry Dalrymple, my assistant. We offered to bury the hound, but Silforth said that was for him to do. Seemed absolutely bereft, but asked us to support the fiction that the hound was still at large. Said he didn’t want to have to tell the children. Better for them to think Thales was off on a grand ramble, having the lark of a lifetime.”
“Bad form,” Sir Rupert muttered. “Using the children to hide a lie like that.”
“Bad form, but a convincing falsehood,” I observed. “MacNeil, you realize that you and Dalrymple are now implicated in insurance fraud?” MacNeil had also lied to me, and quite convincingly.
Lady Patience whined in her sleep. MacNeil stroked her shoulder, and she quieted. “Leave young Dally out of it. He only made his mark on the paper because I believed Thales had expired. Maisie won’t be best pleased.”
Sir Rupert looked puzzled by this response, and so was I. “You aren’t ready to plant Silforth a facer?” Sir Rupert asked. “I certainly am. The great foxhunter, trading in hound carcasses. Beyond the pale, MacNeil. By all accounts, Thales ran off when under Silforth’s supervision. Any insurance company will consider that negligence on the owner’s part. Now we have Thisbe’s remains put to an unfit purpose so Silforth can gain illegally. Not the done thing, MacNeil.”
Mac nodded. “Somebody should kick himself in the cods, but I’ve taken the man’s coin, and I know him for what he is. No fool like an old fool. Silforth will say the whole business was my doing. I doubtless poisoned poor Thisbe, I’ve sold Thales for a fortune, though he wasn’t worth a fortune unless his pedigree came with him. Then I suggested Silforth collect on Thales’s insurance policy, and now I’m scheming to blackmail Silforth myself. I’m a conniving, shiftless old Scot, you know. I can hear him now.”
I, too, could hear Silforth building exactly that case, and convincingly. “Except you haven’t made any attempt to blackmail Silforth, and he has collected on Thales’s life insurance policy.”
“Insuring the life of a dog,” MacNeil said, with some of his old bluster. “Damnedest thing.”
I tended to agree, while Sir Rupert, who’d apparently started the trend, maintained a diplomatic silence.
“I would appreciate it,” MacNeil went on, “if you’d let me explain the situation to Maisie. My sister has a temper, and she’s already none too keen on Silforth. I don’t care for the man myself, but he has a wife and children.”
And that excused extortion, intimidation, lying, fraud, and purloining Thisbe’s remains?
“Why the loyalty?” I asked. “Mrs. Silforth and her brood would be better off if Silforth took a notion to permanently visit Oslo, and yet, you defend him.”
MacNeil’s gaze went to the puppies, sleeping in a contended heap next to their mother’s warmth. “Silforth has faults, but he’s not all bad. He truly loves the hunt, and he adored that hound.”
“Did you kill Thales?” I asked, because something motivated Mac’s uncharacteristic understanding where Silforth was concerned.
“Of course not. If I were ten years younger, I’d make you regret that question, my lord.”
But Mac was not young, and perhaps… I thought back to his glowering down at me when he’d first come upon me petting old Zeus, the pensioner. His failure to penetrate my very simple disguise, his procrastination of the detailed paperwork.
The dim lighting in the lodge—Mac hadn’t lit any more candles, hadn’t so much as tossed another square of peat on the fire…
What made up my mind was the memory of Mac’s thumb tracing the hair on Thisbe’s brow, while I held the lantern up, and Mac stared off into the night.
“How long has your eyesight been failing?” I asked.
He patted the pocket of his dressing down as if searching for a flask. “Never was very good, which is why I left the stable for the kennel. Stables are dark, and I stepped on one too many rakes. I manage well enough out with the hounds.”
He managed well enough in broad daylight, over familiar terrain, surrounded by a pack that would be as protective of Mac as he was of them.
“Silforth knew,” I said, “and threatened to pension you.”
MacNeil snorted. “Pension? With Banter off to Paris, there won’t be a shilling spent on pensions for any soul on Bloomfield property. If I am to eat, then I must work, and I do love my job. O’Keefe is being threatened with no pension unless he retires, but Maisie sees right through that. Once harvest is done, O’Keefe will hand the job over to some henchman of Silforth’s, and not a groat will be forthcoming after that.”
“And you didn’t think to take these concerns to Banter?”
Mac sat up a little straighter. “I work for Silforth. Banter owes me nothing, and he has his own reasons to give Silforth a wide berth.”
“Silforth is a scoundrel,” Sir Rupert said. “I rue the day he asked for Miss Lizzie’s hand.”
She probably did too. “We have credible evidence that Silforth has committed insurance fraud. He, too, has sworn that Thisbe was Thales, and he, of all people, should have been able to identify his beloved pet. He stuffed the carcass into the dog cart at an earlier hour than MacNeil saw it. Silforth well knew what he was doing, and he has profited enormously from his scheme.”
Sir Rupert rose and rubbed his backside with both hands. “So you will just present yourself at Bloomfield over breakfast, the justice of the peace at your side, and see Silforth sent off to the assizes?”
I rose as well. “I’d like to.”
“But ye willna,” Mac said, heaving himself to his feet, “because you can’t prove a damned thing. You didn’t see Silforth plant that hound. If I can mistake a dog born in this very lodge for his sister, Silforth can plead a grief-stricken mistake as well. He’ll say he found the dead dog by the side of the road, leaped to conclusions, and made an honest error.”
Sir Rupert wrinkled his nose. “And he’ll sound so very bewildered and sincere while he’s getting away with yet more chicanery. He truly is a blight upon the shire.”
He was, and Mac was right. In a court of law, few juries would convict Silforth on the basis of the evidence I could produce. Worse, taking the matter to the legal system would implicate Mac, whose very failing eyesight Silforth had exploited for his own ends.
“We won’t rely on a court of law,” I said, thinking rapidly. “We’ll rely on the same tools Silforth himself has used to such good advantage.”
“And those would be?” Sir Rupert murmured.
“Innuendo, falsehood, intimidation, and enough truth to make it all convincing.” The details in my mind were vague, but instinct told me that Silforth had been just a bit too clever this time and crossed one innocent party too many.
“The best evidence of fraud would be Thales, hale and whole and clearly in Silforth’s keeping,” Sir Rupert said. “Don’t suppose you can manage that?”
The same notion had occurred to me, but alas, I was no closer to locating the hound than I had been when I’d first rolled up Bloomfield’s drive in Banter’s elegant traveling coach.
“I have no idea where Thales is, but let’s put that question to Silforth and see what he has to say for himself.”
Sir Rupert and I headed for the door. Merlin bestirred himself to follow us from the lodge. The dead of night was upon us, the moon setting and the lantern on my cart now dark, a fitting metaphor for my inability to find Thales.
“Shall I give you a lift home, Sir Rupert?”
“No need. I’d know this terrain blindfolded, and this evening has given me much to think about.”
Mac remained in the doorway to his lodge. “I’ll have a word with Maisie over breakfast. O’Keefe will want to know of this night’s doings too.”
It occurred to me that Mrs. Joyce should also be apprised of recent developments and that Banter needed a fresh report as well.
“Might we convene at the Pump and Pickle at eleven of the clock?” I asked. “If I’m to confront Silforth, and I intend to, then a conference of the principals beforehand makes sense.”
“Aye,” Mac said, “and you’ll want to let the duke know what’s afoot.”
I did not, in fact, want to deal with Arthur just yet, but he’d allowed me to make my midnight foray. He, too, was owed a briefing.
“And you will want a change of clothing perhaps,” Sir Rupert said, gazing up at the stars. “Look the part, Lady Giddings says.” He patted Gowain’s shoulder one last time and sauntered off into the darkness, Merlin trotting at his heels.
“You will join us at the Pump and Pickle?” I asked Mac.
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the whisky in Scotland.”
I put Gowain up in the Caldicott stable nearly two hours later, left strict orders in the kitchen that I was to be wakened at eight o’clock sharp, and lay down for a much-needed nap. I was at risk of getting my days and nights reversed, a pattern I could no longer afford to indulge.
When I went down to breakfast, I was freshly scrubbed and shaved, my riding boots polished to a high shine. If Lady Ophelia was visiting, we took the first meal of the day on the back terrace, weather permitting. I strode across the flagstones, feeling a bit smug for having surprised my brother.
“The prodigal returns once more,” Arthur said, swirling his tea in its cup. “Good morning, Julian.”
“Good morning, all.” I kissed Lady Ophelia’s cheek and bowed to Hyperia. “A lovely day, and such lovely company.”
“Doing it a bit brown, my boy,” Lady Ophelia said, pouring me a cup of tea. “How goes the war at Bloomfield?”
Arthur winced. Hyperia smirked at her eggs. Bless Godmama for cutting through the small talk.
“Matters have taken an odd turn,” I said, stirring a dash of honey into my tea. “But we march toward victory nonetheless.”
Arthur waved a hand, the lace at his cuffs drifting elegantly over his knuckles. Do go on. Thus did my brother convey burning anxiety over the fate of his nearest and dearest.
I gave my report as delicately as possible, considering we were at table.
“Does this business with Thisbe really advance your cause?” Hyperia asked, putting a plum tart on my plate. “You haven’t proven that Thales is alive.”
“I have proven that the hound Silforth used to make his insurance claim was not the insured party. Insured… pup. Not Thales.”
“Progress,” Arthur said, “but it won’t get you a conviction for fraud. Silforth will plead a mistake, and half the shire will admit that the two canines bore a strong resemblance. Then Silforth will be angrier than ever at his neighbors—Sir Rupert will come in for retribution, MacNeil will lose his job, Mrs. Joyce can expect repercussions, and O’Keefe is looking at a parlous old age.”
Arthur had not mentioned Banter, whom he would doubtless dragoon onto the packet for Calais by force, if necessary.
“Not necessarily.” Lady Ophelia sipped her tea and studied the middle distance. “Silforth is a bully and an encroaching mushroom. If Julian can out-bully him, Silforth might run. He’s pockets to let, you know. Was supposed to marry some childhood sweetheart, but then realized when his papa died that he had to find some money. He wasn’t subtle about it. The girl he’d declared himself madly in love with married some earl or viscount when Silforth left her all but standing at the altar.”
“Nothing like a title to cure a broken heart,” Hyperia muttered.
“I don’t believe she was brokenhearted,” Lady Ophelia mused, swinging her gaze to me. “Silforth looked rather a fool, though. When his erstwhile sweetheart crooked her little finger, half of Mayfair came panting and slobbering at her heels like hounds heeding the mating call. Silforth hasn’t been seen much in Town socially since, and he was made a fool of more than a decade ago.”
“Do you ever forget anything?” I asked, munching my plum tart. Silforth would not forget a debacle like that.
“Her name was… Ernestine Slocum. She’s Lady Senteith now. A Scottish title. Quite venerable. Thousands of beautiful acres, unparalleled salmon fishing, and a profitable distillery, if I’m not mistaken. More tea, Your Grace?”
Arthur passed over his cup, exchanging with me a look found mostly on the faces of bachelors at large in Society. Never underestimate Lady Ophelia Oliphant.
“So you’re massing your troops at the posting inn,” Arthur said, “and then what? Rehearsing lines?” His tone conveyed firm, polite skepticism.
“Putting our heads together. I have some idea of the ammunition Silforth can aim at Banter, and MacNeil was forthcoming last night. Mrs. Joyce’s situation is also easy enough to understand, though I’m not as clear on how Sir Rupert has been manipulated. A promise of continued agricultural cooperation, perhaps. Sir Rupert is getting by on credit. Banter’s generous goodwill—at planting and harvest in particular—has been essential to maintaining appearances.”
“Keep Banter out of it,” Arthur said, taking two plum tarts for himself. “That is not a request.”
The ladies remained silent, though I could see both of them preparing return fire that would leave the ducal dictator a quivering heap of chastised male.
“I will leave Banter’s course of action up to Banter,” I said. “Lady Ophelia, should you and Miss West plan to call on Mrs. Silforth for luncheon, I would be much obliged. If you will excuse me…” I rose, bowed to the ladies, and gave Arthur an opportunity for further remonstrations and roundaboutations.
He stuffed a plum tart in his mouth—prudent of him—and I decamped for the stable.
A fine exit, if I did say so myself, and yet, Hyperia had put her finger on the crux of the whole matter: If I knew where Thales was, in whose keeping, alive or otherwise, then my whole plan of attack would be that much stronger.
Twenty minutes later, I climbed into Atlas’s saddle, turned him toward Bloomfield, and gave the matter of locating Thales my most focused attention, again.
The gathering at the Pump and Pickle felt like a wake.
Mrs. Joyce, looking tired and pensive, bid us to find seats on the back terrace. The morning was pretty, promising a day when full sun was surprisingly hot, while the shady places were considerably cooler. Before the noon hour, the temperature was comfortable, and Mrs. Joyce’s lemonade was a welcome libation.
“Though, if I recall, your lordship prefers meadow tea,” she said, taking a seat in the grouping we’d formed on the terrace.
“Variety has appeal as well,” I said, despite the accuracy of her observation. The Caldicott Hall cook had a recipe that I could write a sonnet to. A bit of spice, spent black tea leaves, a dash of honey, and plenty of bracing mint.
Old Merlin lay at Sir Rupert’s feet, chin on paws. Maisie MacNeil sat between her brother and O’Keefe. I had sent word to Banter to expect company for lunch, but otherwise had heeded Arthur’s request to leave Banter in peace.
For now.
“My lord, you called us together,” Sir Rupert said. “You have the floor.”
“Here is where we stand.” I summarized the previous night’s findings. “Thisbe lies in state in the Caldicott icehouse, should we need to produce physical evidence, and we probably will.”
Mrs. Joyce sipped her lemonade. “Mrs. Ladron will be offended, but Silforth can plead that he mistook Thisbe for Thales.”
“Not if Mrs. Ladron had Thisbe buried with full honors,” I retorted. “Silforth would have had to rob a canine grave, with malice aforethought.”
“I can ask her kennel master,” Mac said. “Thisbe was the princess in that pack, though they’ve plenty of good hounds. Old Haynes and I share the occasional pint. Knows his bloodlines.”
“Why not send one of my lads with a note?” Mrs. Joyce replied. “His lordship will want an answer before confronting Silforth.”
The note was dispatched with a stable boy incapable of reading the message, along with a request for an immediate reply. That detail—how Silforth had acquired Thisbe’s remains—was important, but not why I’d called the group together.
A silence descended, broken by Merlin’s snoring. Soldiers around a campfire were accustomed to such silences. On the march, we’d sing, in battle our guns spoke for us, but when the marching and fighting were done, we sat in small, weary groups and let sentiment have its moment.
“I was a fool,” Mrs. Joyce said quietly. “I want you all to know that. I knew better, knew that Silforth was untrustworthy, and yet, I indulged an impulse with him.”
Maisie shook her head. “That man singled you out, Rowena Joyce. Ask any of your serving maids. He probably flirted some particulars from them—are you walking to church with anybody? Keeping up any correspondence that might suggest influential connections? When he established that you were a woman alone, and likely lonely, he began dangling his bait before you. A sympathetic ear, a flirtatious word, an admiring eye. He knows how to pursue his quarry.”
“Fancies himself quite the hunter,” Sir Rupert muttered. “His aim is no better than mine and not nearly as keen as O’Keefe’s, but you were just another kind of prey to him. What I cannot figure out, for the life of me, is how he came to realize that Lady Giddings and I… do not enjoy a regular union.”
Oh ho.
Mrs. Joyce patted Sir Rupert’s hand. “I suspected. You love to regale us with your stories from India. Lady Giddings, by contrast, always changes the subject when India comes up. At last season’s hunt ball, she let slip something to the effect that if the military is no better at managing prisoners than it is at documenting marriages, then it’s no wonder the Corsican escaped from Elba. She’d been at the punch, and I gather the time of year…”
“The ceremony was in autumn,” Sir Rupert said, “but unbeknownst to us, the celebrant was not qualified for the office. Maybe that was supposed to be a joke—I was not uniformly popular with my fellow officers—or one of the military’s famous oversights, but by the time my commanding officer explained the situation to me, our firstborn was on the way. Lady Giddings took the advice of the older wives and let appearances stand.”
“And you haven’t wanted to remarry properly,” O’Keefe said, “because appearances sufficed for a quiet life in the shires.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” Mac said, saluting with his drink. “I’m going blind. I’ll not be fit for my post much longer. Silforth can sack me at any point, and I’ll have nothing to say to it. Without my pack… I don’t care to be sacked, but now there’s this business with Thisbe, and… The hounds don’t like Silforth. Don’t trust him. I should have known. Thales was the exception. I suspect he knew Silforth for the moral runt that is he and felt sorry for him. Thales was a good dog, but should never have been made a pet.”
Maisie looked like she wanted to cosh her brother.
“How many years of loyal service are you expected to give, MacNeil?” O’Keefe asked softly. “Even an old hound can expect a warm hearth in winter and a bone to gnaw on. Silforth told me this will be my last harvest. I’m not young, but I’m not ready to be tossed aside when I’ve good years left…”
The silence that met O’Keefe’s lament was sad, but also… commiserating.
“You don’t care that he’ll toss you aside,” Maisie said. “You’ve put a bit by, but I can’t say the same, and you won’t see me put on the parish.”
O’Keefe met her gaze, and volumes were spoken in the space of a moment. “I’ve no children,” he said, “not even a cousin on this side of the Atlantic, and if Silforth puts me out… just so he can ride more horses into the ground, have the largest pack, be the biggest hound… My lord, I am not a criminal, but Silforth has me thinking criminal thoughts.”
“Felonious thoughts,” Sir Rupert murmured. “Violent, felonious thoughts, and they are nothing compared to what Lady Giddings contemplates.”
Maisie drew herself up. “Why Mr. Banter ever let that contemptible excuse for a—”
“Maisie.” O’Keefe and MacNeil had interrupted as one, neither man loudly.
“Let her speak,” Mrs. Joyce said, sparing me the effort. “She’s right. Osgood Banter—who all but invited Silforth into our midst—can lark off to the Continent, gorging himself on art and fine food, but we haven’t the same luxury. If Banter had sent Silforth packing, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“Banter cannot,” I said. “Think about the children.”
Sir Rupert nodded slowly. “Young George. Pick of the litter. Twice as sharp as the rest of ’em. Has Banter’s eyebrows. That look of always being pleasantly surprised. One cannot blame Miss Lizzie, she was always sweet on her cousin, and heaven knows she’s done her duty by Silforth’s nursery. She was doubtless hoping the dam line would prevail. Chancy things, outcrosses.”
Maisie looked puzzled, O’Keefe amused, and MacNeil resigned.
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Joyce was smiling. “It’s the quiet ones that bear the most careful watching.”
“But I thought—” Maisie looked from O’Keefe to MacNeil to me and found a united front of polite male curiosity.
“Perhaps Banter allowed us to think that,” Mrs. Joyce observed. “He’s not the simple bon vivant he wants us to believe he is.”
“I’ve always liked George,” Maisie said after a pause. “A charming lad. That oldest boy, William, is falling far too close to the tree.” Then, after another thoughtful hesitation: “Poor Miss Lizzie.”
We all contemplated Miss Lizzie’s sad fate, for she was in some ways Silforth’s first true victim. Through her, he’d made his claim on Bloomfield, and from there…
Nobody was safe, not even my brother. “If any of you had a hand in Thales’s disappearance, now would be a good time to share what you know.”
“I haven’t the time to engage in dognapping,” Mrs. Joyce said. “And with so many people on my premises, I’ve nowhere to hide a stolen hound anyway.”
“I’m a beagle man,” Sir Rupert said, as if that settled the matter for all eternity. “I admit Thales was a fine specimen, but he was a foxhound.”
Was he a dead foxhound?
“I suppose I’m the logical suspect,” MacNeil volunteered, “but I would not have courted Silforth’s wrath with such boldness. I fear for the hound, my lord. I truly do.”
“Don’t look at me.” O’Keefe spoke next. “Maisie wouldn’t allow the beast on the premises until it had learned to wipe all four paws and stop shedding.”
Which left… “Mrs. MacNeil,” I said, “have you taken to larceny in recent days?”
She muttered something in Gaelic. “I haven’t, except in my dreams. I just wish…”
Every person on that terrace had regrets, myself included. “I wish I could call him out,” I said, “but I’m also relieved that I cannot.”
Merlin woke and stretched, then resumed dozing, his head resting on the toe of Sir Rupert’s boot.
“Why can’t you challenge him?” O’Keefe asked. “Nax Silforth is a commoner, and so are you, begging His Grace’s pardon. You’re both gentlemen, and Sir Rupert’s right. Silforth isn’t the dead shot he thinks he is.”
“I’d be your second,” Mrs. Joyce said. “Maisie would too.”
They were all looking at me with genuine expectation in their eyes, and for a single, tantalizing moment, I considered the notion seriously. I was an excellent shot, Silforth needed to be taught a lesson, and he was a sizable target. Grazing his handsome arse with a lead ball… He’d never be quite as comfortable in the saddle again.
“Lady Giddings would have some pointed advice on what part of Silforth you should aim for, my lord.”
No doubt she would, but I had Lizzie and her brood to consider. Silforth might not be a perfect father, but his children held him in some esteem, and in his way, he cared for his family.
“Your trust honors me,” I said, “but I’ve had my fill of gratuitous violence. My godmother tells me Silforth was disappointed in love as a younger man, made a fool of, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s not the motivation behind all of his scheming.”
“A swain scorned?” MacNeil produced a flask and tipped the contents into his lemonade. “He’s not bad looking, but handsome paupers abound. Witness my humble self. Still, if Silforth has an Achilles’ heel, it’s his pride.”
“He courted Miss Lizzie properly,” Maisie observed. “All the polite rituals. Walked her home from services, then Sunday dinner. Stood up with her at the assemblies, came calling on Tuesdays. She put him through his paces, but I always had the sense she was more interested in him than he was in her. Then he proposed.”
“No passion,” Mrs. Joyce muttered. “All the manly strutting, but no real… He’s in love with himself.”
MacNeil, O’Keefe, Sir Rupert, and I all found someplace else to direct our gazes.
“So what now?” Sir Rupert scratched Merlin’s floppy ear. “While I am glad to know that I am not the only victim of Silforth’s machinations, my union is still irregular, and I still rely heavily on Bloomfield for assistance with my acres.”
Mrs. Joyce began gathering up empty glasses, though Mac held on to this. “I am glad to have the understanding of this group,” she said, “but Vicar and Mrs. Ladron won’t be so tolerant.”
“Betty Ladron cut quite a dash in her day.” Maisie spoke with the ominously accurate recall of the village conscience. “She’d be one to talk. Vicar tipples. If we’d done a better job in this village of hanging together, Silforth would not have so easily been able to hang us separately.”
O’Keefe smiled in the manner of a man who was beyond fond of his housekeeper, and doubtless had been for years. The genuine affection in his smile, and Mrs. Joyce’s disdain for Silforth’s charms—in love with himself—recalled a comment Godmama had made over breakfast, about Silforth’s first love beckoning all the slobbering swains of Mayfair with a single crook of her pretty finger.
The solution to the neighborhood’s every problem trotted forth from the undergrowth of my thoughts, tongue lolling, ears flapping.
“I know how to find Thales,” I said, rising, “and that hound, alive and well, is the evidence we need to send Silforth pelting for the nearest handy covert.”
“You think you can find Thales now?” MacNeil considered the dregs of his drink. “I’ve been looking, my lord, to the extent I can, and I’ve Dally and the lads keeping an eye out for tracks, scat, anything. We’re stumped. Silforth has hidden him well.”
Why, why, why hadn’t I seen the answer before? “You must look with the eyes of love, and soon enough, Thales will make himself known.” An exquisite irony, given that Silforth looked always, at everything and everybody, with the eyes of self-interest.
Mrs. Joyce caught on first, and by the time we broke up ten minutes later, we had a plan that would very possibly put an end to Anaximander Silforth’s vexatious mischief.