“You haven’t found him?” Arthur went on piling eggs and ham onto his plate and hadn’t so much as looked at me when he’d posed his question.
I’d returned to Caldicott Hall at first light, handed Atlas over to the grooms, and bathed in the laundry. I was famished, which pleased me inordinately. For months, I’d had no appetite, but a day spent rambling my home shire, and I was ready to fill my plate twice over.
“I don’t know where his lordship is, but the trail hasn’t gone cold yet. He hopped the northbound night stage in a clandestine manner and is now thirty-six hours away.”
Arthur took the place at the head of the table. No footman stood watch over the sideboard, by decree of the duchess. She preferred for the family to start the day in relative privacy, though the staff knew everything anyway.
“He went up to London early and forgot to leave word?” Arthur mused, appropriating the nearest rack of toast. “Perhaps he has a mistress in Town, and she summoned him for some romping.”
“He had a mistress in the village, of sorts. Save some of that toast for me.” I took the place to the left of Arthur—Harry’s place had been to the right—and spent the next quarter hour summarizing yesterday’s findings.
“Huber might have the right of it.” Arthur stared at his empty plate. “His lordship might be running away from home, either to avoid holy matrimony to Eunice, or because Mrs. Probinger has threatened to stir up trouble between Reardon and Eunice and demanded that his lordship absent himself. Why not call off the search and let him come home, wagging his tail behind him?”
“Because the Lord Lieutenant himself has tasked me with ensuring that Reardon hasn’t come to any harm.”
Arthur poured himself a third cup of tea. “Reardon is not Harry. I tasked you, now I’m un-tasking you.”
“Not so fast, Your Grace.” I debated whether to go back for seconds and decided to let my meal settle first. “Does Huber resent that you’ve passed over him for the magistrate’s job?”
Arthur topped up my tea cup and set the honey and cream beside my plate. “‘Resent’ is too tame a word for Huber’s sentiments. He feels personally insulted that the Americans gained their independence. They weren’t paying their taxes, and yet, they wanted their vast frontier secured from French incursion for free—the same frontier the Americans themselves sought to plunder at will, despite British treaties with the native inhabitants. Loyal subjects the Americans were not, and Huber will snub an American on sight to this day.”
I fixed my tea precisely as I liked it and took a delicious sip. “So Huber bears a grudge against life. What has that to do with Lord Reardon’s disappearance and you putting forward some other fellows for the magistrates’ posts.”
“Huber was supposed to marry one of our great-aunts or cousins-at-a-remove. I forget the details, and I wasn’t born yet. He’s a younger son of a younger son, and he wasn’t good enough for a Caldicott when it came time to work out settlements.”
“Hell hath no fury like an ambitious young man thwarted by a lack of coin.”
Arthur sipped his tea. “Easy for us to say.”
I was never sure of Arthur’s politics, but he was something of a reformer on a few carefully chosen topics. Rotten boroughs drove him nigh barmy, the Bloody Code drove him past barmy. Centuries of hanging children for stealing spoons hadn’t stopped children from stealing spoons, according to Arthur’s research on the topic, or from picking the pockets of those attending the hangings.
I had heard Arthur refer to the Corn Laws as the Starvation of the Poor Laws, but only the once, late at night, after a few brandies.
“I gather your political views don’t march with Huber’s?”
“I didn’t march at all—left that to you and Harry—and Huber regards my lack of military experience as a character flaw. One among many. I coddle the tenants, overpay the staff, ignore poachers, and am a disgrace to the masculine gender.”
“Everything that’s wrong with the peerage?” I mused. “Huber sounds perilously American.”
Arthur rose and took his tea to the French windows, which were open to the morning breeze. “Huber is right, in the eyes of many. Ignore poaching, and the woods will soon have no game. Pay generous wages, and those who cannot afford to do likewise soon have no employees. Coddle the tenants, and they become lazy.”
I had never heard Arthur confess to this degree of self-doubt. “Having spent hours in the local woods as recently as yesterday, I can assure they are still teeming with game, forest fruits, and deadfall. The wages you pay are still less than what’s expected in Town, and your coddled tenants out-produce Huber’s by a wide margin. I still ought to find Lord Reardon.”
“Because Huber won’t let me forget it if Lord Reardon disappears onto the Continent, leaving Miss Eunice to pine away, another Huber who wasn’t good enough for the local nobs.”
“She might well be pining away for her reputation, Your Grace. Lord Reardon took liberties.”
Arthur finished his tea and returned to the table. “He took liberties with Mrs. Probinger,” His Grace observed, “and not in the carnal sense, but rather, the artistic sense. He took unpardonable risks with Eunice, and he’s leaving his sister to manage the upcoming exhibition or explain why it’s being called off. I’d say Reardon bears women the same sort of enmity Huber bears me and the Americans.”
“Irrational loathing? For a man who loathes women…” But then, I’d met many an officer who lived to go romping at the local brothel on Saturday night, and yet, he regularly vilified women as a gender. Women, these fellows loudly proclaimed, were weak-willed, selfish, hard-hearted creatures who thought only of their own pleasures and ambitions.
“It might be the sort of loathing he doesn’t recognize in himself,” Arthur said, biting off the corner of a piece of cold, buttered toast. “The best hypocrites are sincere in their contradictions.”
Of whom was he speaking? “Waltham, where did you go on the morning Lord Reardon disappeared? You were seen out walking up the hill behind the Hall early in the day.”
He set down his piece of toast. “I went for a walk before the heat started to build. Sometimes I hack out, sometimes I walk. The first hours of the day are for me to spend how I please, and the rest is for… business.”
My brother was lying to me. About where he’d gone and why, and also about Huber’s grudges. Those grudges were real, at least to Huber, and I was convinced something personal lay between Arthur and Huber.
“Huber loved being a justice of the peace,” Arthur said, peering into his empty tea cup. “I don’t love the Lord Lieutenant’s job, and yet, I’m much better at it than the other candidates would be. Huber had been justice of the peace for years, despite many complaints, and then he took a fall in the hunt field. I was prevailed upon to step in, because even Huber could not protest giving the magistrate’s duties to another at that point.”
“Has Valloise ever been the magistrate?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The countess could manage the job, but the earl would forget to dress for his own parlor sessions. Besides, gentry keep a jealous hold on the magistrate’s bench in the usual course, and well they should.”
True enough. I hadn’t realized Arthur had become Lord Lieutenant only on sufferance. He’d never complained about being the duke—the lord lieutenancy was generally held by a peer—but I had the increasing sense that his station in life brought him no joy.
I wanted to ask him what made him happy. Was it those first hours of the day? Or had he been off trysting during that hour with an unsuitable parti? I believed Mrs. Probinger when she said Arthur kept a distance from her, and I also believed that Arthur was entitled to some privacy.
“I intend to pursue Lord Reardon,” I said. “He has either caused trouble, or he’s in trouble, and Clarissa has asked us to intervene.”
“And what Clarissa wants, she usually gets,” Arthur said, rising. “Be careful, Julian. You’ve been away for years, and then you were recuperating. The old neighborhood isn’t quite what it once was, and I’d hate to see Huber taking out his grudges on you.”
“I have no intention of provoking Huber, but I do want to call on Clarissa. Who was it that insisted loudest of all that Reardon had weak lungs?”
“The same sister who forbade him to buy his colors?”
“Precisely.” I rose as well. “And his lungs are no more weak than Lady Ophelia’s nature is shy and retiring. Clarissa also tried to hide evidence that might have aided me to locate Reardon, and she hasn’t been entirely forthcoming about this exhibition.”
“Neither have I.” Arthur plucked a strip of bacon from the offerings on the sideboard. “Reardon did a portrait of me a year or so ago.”
Somebody—Hyperia?—had mentioned this portrait. “I have yet to see it.” I wanted to know how Reardon had portrayed a peer who was much that Reardon was not.
“I didn’t care for it, truth be told. Reardon wanted to include it in his exhibition, and I…”
“You were noncommittal, which anybody with a modicum of sense knows is a polite refusal.”
“He took it poorly, begged leave to discuss the matter. I put him off again. The last thing I want is a lot of London snobs using my likeness for target practice.”
Arthur was a good-looking devil, everything a duke should be, save for having dark hair when the preferred shade was blond.
I helped myself to the bacon as well. “Your secret is safe with me, Your Grace.”
That jest only made Arthur withdraw into frosty dignity. “What secret?”
“That you truly are shy and retiring. I won’t tell a soul, but I suspect the neighbors are on to you.”
He shoved me on the shoulder. “I’ll show you shy and retiring. If you weren’t my heir…”
I wasn’t supposed to be his heir. Harry was, at least until some little dukeling showed up in Arthur’s nursery.
“Who is Valloise’s spare?” I asked, demolishing more bacon. “If Reardon should meet with misfortune, who is the next Earl of Valloise?”
Arthur wiped his fingers on a table napkin. “I don’t know. Lady Ophelia might, and Clarissa certainly would.”
“I will ask Clarissa.” She’d dither and protest and sigh, but I’d get it out of her.
“Take Miss West with you to Valmond House, Julian. That is not a request.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s a humble plea, if you know what’s good for you. Go tend to your business while I continue my search for the runaway.”
“If that’s what he is.” Arthur padded toward the door, but paused before leaving the room. “I’m glad you’re home, Julian. I realize the shires hold little appeal compared to the hum and bustle of London, but it’s good to have you here.”
I wanted to dash him with a cup of tea, but the only weapon to hand was the greasy table napkin, so I balled it up and flung it at his chest. He caught it and set it on the table, his expression guarded.
“I slept wonderfully last night, Arthur, outside, on the hard ground by the millpond where we used to camp as boys. Rest like that is impossible for me in London. Old Man Sawyer spoke to me like I was eight years old. Biddy Wingate filled my flask without my having to ask her. London isn’t home, and it never will be.”
Arthur was silent for a moment, then his lips quirked. “Then welcome home.” He marched off, and I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Whatever had just passed between us, it mattered, and I apparently mattered to Arthur.
As he did to me. Very much.
Clarissa wore a morning gown several years out of fashion when she received Hyperia and me. Her hair was in a simple chignon, and her slippers were worn. This was, I supposed, the costume of the wretchedly anxious sister, forced to remain at home with no comforts save prayer and worry beads while her brother lay beaten and bleeding in a ditch.
“Shall I ring for a tray?” she asked, leading us to the family parlor. “I haven’t much appetite myself, and it’s so perishing hot….” She cast her gaze to the open window, as if she’d lean out and cry to the heavens to send her brother home to her.
“You need not bother with a tray on my account,” Hyperia said. “My lord?”
“No, thank you, though I would like to have another look around Lord Reardon’s studio.”
Clarissa’s weary languor faltered. “Why? You’ve already poked about there at length.”
“Indulge me,” I said, heading for the door. “Miss West will keep you company, and when I’ve finished with my inspection, I will deliver a full and reassuring report regarding my efforts to find your brother.”
“You’ve found him?” Clarissa clasped her hands together. “Please tell me you’ve found him.”
“He was last seen heading for London, very much alive and well. Details to follow.” I slipped out the door and left Hyperia to deal with Clarissa’s consternation, because that had been consternation I’d seen in her ladyship’s eyes, not relief.
My errand abovestairs took me first to Lord Reardon’s studio. I conferred briefly with a footman thereafter and then had a look around Clarissa’s bedroom, two doors down from his lordship’s. A brief inspection of her ladyship’s dressing closet revealed a surprising paucity of gowns—the better selections were doubtless kept in Town—and the item I’d sought.
Naughty Clarissa.
I rejoined the ladies in the parlor and brandished the cylinder that held the legs to Lord Reardon’s field easel. “Guess where I found this?”
“What is it?” Hyperia asked.
I’d briefed her generally on my findings yesterday, but had kept my suspicions regarding the portable easel to myself.
I unbuckled the leather cap on the cylinder. “This is proof that Lord Reardon has left the shire of his own volition.” I upended six lengths of wood into my hand. “These screw together to form the legs of an easel, which his lordship was known to use when sketching en plein air. He never left on a sketching sortie without it, according to one source.”
“What source?” Clarissa asked, staring at the pieces in my hand.
I returned them to their case and put the cap back on. “You, for one, mentioned this device to me, as did others. Reardon didn’t take it with him when he left on his dawn march. You realized this and realized the implications.”
Clarissa put a hand to her throat. “What implications? Reardon has his debut London exhibition in less than two weeks, I’ve invited everybody we know, and now you’re… What are you saying?”
Had I been a betting man, I might have wagered that a swoon would follow. Thinking up clever excuses was not the work of a moment for most of us, but Clarissa remained very much on her feet.
“I’m saying you know that Reardon has not been kidnapped and has not come to harm. You know he left the house without any intent to sketch, much less return by nightfall.”
She looked me up and down and apparently decided on a tactical retreat. “I know nothing of the sort. That case was in my wardrobe, but I found it only this morning, and I have no idea why Reardon left it there. For safekeeping, I suppose? Perhaps as a memento? That little easel was such a clever device, and he spent many happy hours… Oh, Lord help me, what has that foolish boy done?”
Hyperia wasn’t buying this performance, and neither was I. “I’ll tell you what he’s done,” I said. “He’s sneaked onto the northbound night coach with a knapsack full of necessities. More than enough to get him as far as Town, or to a friend’s summer residence in the Borders. My guess is he’ll choose the friend. Easier to lie low in one rural household than to avoid running into a familiar face in London.”
“You are saying he’s deserted me?” Clarissa’s fading-blossom act evaporated in an instant. “He’s taken ship? Vanished of his own accord?”
“Not vanished. Hopped the stage under cover of darkness, after planning to decamp by those very means. He took leave of Miss Eunice Huber, told her not to fret over his actions in the near term, prepared for his travels, waited patiently for the stage, and arranged fare as an outside passenger, where, again, he was far less likely to risk recognition.”
Clarissa’s cheeks acquired two becoming spots of pink. “You are saying that Viscount Reardon, heir to the Valloise earldom, rode away from the village on the roof of the public coach like a… common laborer?”
“Precisely.” I did not mention the dog, but that beast worried me. A man intent on leaving for good was more likely to take his loyal hound with him than was a fellow just nipping over to Kent for a few days.
The path I’d traveled in Lord Reardon’s wake the previous day had kept near sources of water, suggesting he was a conscientious enough owner to ensure his pet was regularly offered something to drink on a hot day.
His lordship might carry a grudge against females, but he doted on that dog.
“I cannot explain this,” Clarissa said, sinking onto a sofa. “I cannot… Surely you are mistaken, my lord? In the darkness, your eyes might have deceived you.”
The darkness had not deceived Old Man Sawyer’s ears or nose. “I am not mistaken, but like you, I cannot explain Reardon’s actions. I do have another question for you.”
“I am all befuddlement,” Clarissa said, “but you will ask anyway.”
She appeared angry rather than befuddled. Had Reardon bungled his assigned role? Thwarted his sister’s plans for him? What did Clarissa know that she wasn’t admitting?
“Are you your brother’s heir?” I asked.
Clarissa’s brows twitched down. She glanced at Hyperia then at me. “How would I know? The estate is entailed, but if Reardon even has a will regarding his personal assets… I have no idea.”
A dodge. Clarissa was the brains in the Valmond family, a role passed down from the countess before that lady had become a professional invalid. The Valmond womenfolk would know to the letter and the penny what provisions had been made for them by the earl or the viscount.
“I can ask your solicitor, then,” I said. “An express to Town over the ducal signature should result in a swift reply. His lordship’s finances are increasingly of interest to the whole inquiry.”
Clarissa’s scowl was thunderous. “If you must involve the duke, then get him out looking for Reardon instead of sending pointless letters. He should be interrogating the tenants and offering a reward or something, not poking into Reardon’s private affairs.”
Hyperia stated the obvious. “If we know why Reardon has gone missing, then we’ll have an easier time finding him. A look at Reardon’s finances can help us rule out blackmail, for example.”
“Blackmail?” Clarissa nearly wailed the word. “Why would anybody blackmail my brother? He’s as dull as day-old bread. All he does is paint, and escort me about, and talk about painting.”
Hyperia once again stepped into the breach. “He walked Eunice Huber home from services a time or two, didn’t he?”
“Her. That one is no better than she should be, and she would love to get her hooks into a future earl. Eunice is as bitter and self-centered as her father, and I’ve told Reardon as much to his face.”
“If Reardon has caught Miss Huber’s fancy,” Hyperia began gently, “then he might be removing himself from temptation by quitting the surrounds. Taking a repairing lease in Rome.”
Clarissa rose and began to pace, and my imagination started the introduction to Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” aria. Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart. Death and despair blaze about me…
Clarissa stalked from the cold hearth to the window and back again. “Reardon might well have left the shire to get away from Eunice. She could not compromise herself with him, so she might instead threaten to spread lies about him. She’s like that, and I would put nothing past her.”
Eunice was not like that. She was kind to her curmudgeon father, worried for Reardon, and entirely too trusting.
And I was growing alarmed. “Clarissa, who is the Valloise spare? If Lord Reardon dies, who inherits after your father?”
“Squire Huber, I suppose, and he has three sons and a troop of grandsons. Papa reminds Mama that the succession is secure every time she tries to find a bride for Reardon.”
How had I not seen this? “Huber inherits the earldom, Valmond House, and the lesser estates?”
She nodded. “How does that bear on Reardon’s situation?”
Huber’s motives for removing Reardon from home and hearth—and the reach of a protective older sister—just became sinister. That’s how.
“If Huber becomes the heir presumptive,” I said, “he benefits enormously, even if Reardon emerges from exile ten years hence. Huber’s access to credit, his social standing, his ability to make a match for Eunice and his granddaughters… On every hand, he has reasons to wish Reardon to perdition.” Huber couldn’t bring any legal petition to be declared the heir for years, but he’d benefit from improved expectations the moment Reardon was feared dead.
“But Huber wouldn’t…” Clarissa resumed her seat. “Eunice’s papa would move heaven and earth to protect her good name and to keep her with him. He was a soldier. He can be ruthless and rigid. He’s a very unhappy and lonely man.”
“Would he threaten Reardon?”
Clarissa put a hand to her belly, and the gesture seemed genuine. “You’re saying Huber might have chased Reardon from the shire? Are footpads awaiting my brother in London even now?”
Would I go that far? Could I afford for Reardon’s sake not to go that far? “I don’t know what Huber is capable of, but His Grace gives the man a wide berth. Then too, Huber is not the only party who might wish the viscount ill. Mrs. Probinger is none too fond of him, he might well have artistic enemies, or he might be leaving England for reasons of his own.”
Though if I were intent on quitting England, I’d head for the coast rather than the capital.
“Then you simply have to find my brother before any harm can befall him.” Clarissa was back on her feet and striding toward the door. “I’ll show you out, and you can be on your way to London in the next hour.”
We made our farewells, mounted up, and turned the horses for Caldicott Hall.
“You’re off to London,” Hyperia asked.
“I’m off to pick up whatever trail I can find.”
Hyperia was quiet until we’d gained the hill above the Hall. “Jules, Clarissa was clearly distressed, and some mischief is afoot, but she pronounced herself all befuddlement.”
“And?”
“And I’ve never met a less befuddled woman in my life. She either knows or can make a good guess at where Lord Reardon is.”
Hyperia’s judgment was reassuring and traveled in tandem with my own. “If she leaves Valmond House, she’ll be followed—I had a word with the staff—and if she sends any suspicious correspondence, the direction will be noted. Without Reardon to escort her, her ambit is limited. I’m counting on finding Reardon before Clarissa warns him that I’m closing in.”
“Good,” Hyperia said, giving the mare a loose rein. “And then maybe we can get some answers.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Alas for me, the riddle would prove more complicated than simply locating his lordship’s last known whereabouts.