Celeste set a typical English table for breakfast—ham, eggs, toast—as well as her signature croissants with all the trimmings. I had awoken to the wonderful aroma of her baking and thanked heaven for such a lovely start to my morning.
Traffault joined me for the first meal of the day just as the sun topped the horizon.
“I heard the viscount all night,” he said. “The boy stirred about, doubtless trying to sketch away his troubles. Have you seen his recent paintings?”
“I have.” I buttered a croissant and dabbed some jam on it. “His technique is flawless, and he chose subjects that will appeal to a London audience.”
“He took no chances?”
I thought back over Reardon’s battle scenes. “He took chances. Nothing politically radical, but no clichés either.”
“A prudent course. If the viscount were some squire’s son, he’d have an easier time of it. Your Polite Society judges their own most harshly.”
Celeste had brought in a fresh pot, and as she poured Traffault a second cup, she caught his eye. They exchanged a look full of regrets, acceptance, and deep affection. She was many years his junior, but their mutual regard was substantial and sincere.
“The boy is awake,” she said. “Let him eat in peace, you two. He barely picked at his supper last night.”
“Of course, mon ange,” Traffault said. “One does not bring discord to the table.”
She scoffed as only a Frenchwoman could scoff. “Lord Julian, you will take good care of young Reardon?”
“I will do my best. Some matters he must put right himself.”
“Oui. You cannot fight his battles for him.” With another significant look at Traffault, she left the room. Entire lectures were wrapped up in her glances, and articulate replies were respectfully conveyed in his.
“Could Celeste return to France if she pleased to?” I asked.
“She could, but she says her home is here now.”
“If you could go back…?” I should not have asked, but some part of me wanted to return to France, to the scene of my ruin and Harry’s death. The scene of questions without answers.
“Celeste is my home. My family in France is for the most part dead, and those who are left recall me as an arrogant hothead with a big mouth. The winds of misfortune blew at gale force in France for years, and worse, they blew in all directions. Royalists, moderates, republicans, radicals… We slaughtered each other, year after year, until even a despot began to look preferable to the chaos. My best memories are here. My house is here, my Celeste is here. I have found peace in England. I hope the same can soon be said of you.” He took a sip of rich black coffee. “The prison you mentioned—a French prison, non?”
“A fortified chateau serving as a mountain garrison. I was held captive for a time.”
“Aren’t we all held captive at some point in this life?”
As Traffault offered that bit of philosophy, Reardon joined us. The viscount was freshly scrubbed and combed, if a bit pale. He took the plate from the setting at Traffault’s right hand.
“Good morning, all. Jean, if you’ll loan me a horse, I’ll pick up a hired hack in Arundel. His lordship and I have many miles to cover today.”
Thank the merciful powers.
“You are going home?” Traffault asked in the same tone he might have asked for the salt cellar or jampot.
Reardon busied himself at the sideboard. “I must at least speak with Eunice. I promised Huber I’d not explain my plans to her in any detail, but Huber and I might not have been in possession of all the relevant facts when we struck our bargain.”
I finished the last of my eggs. “Keep those plans to yourself—those former plans—when you speak to her. Do as Traffault suggests, claim you needed time to gather your wits. An artistic temperament benefits from quiet reflection, and you did leave her with some general reassurances.”
Reardon set down a heaping plate and grimaced. “Do you make a habit of prying confidences from the unsuspecting?”
“I make a habit of dealing in truth whenever possible.”
Traffault passed Reardon the coffeepot and the honey. “Squabbling will help pass the time on your journey. No need to exercise manners on my behalf. You will give my regards to Lady Clarissa?”
The amount of honey Reardon drizzled into his coffee was disgusting. “If she’s speaking to me. Clarissa won’t buy that business about me needing a few days to myself.”
“She will.” I’d parsed a few questions in the night, too, finally, so I gave Reardon the benefit of my thinking. “You hiked to the scenic overlook at The King’s Man, took in the view, then simply turned around and walked back the way you’d come. Touchstone was notably incompetent in the hunt field, according to what you’ve told the duke. The hound could trail your scent, but not your direction. The confusion thereafter was mine. On the strength of an old boot I noticed on the riverbank, I feared you might have come to a bad end.”
Traffault buttered himself a croissant. “You wanted your family to think you dead? For shame, young man.”
“I wanted to satisfy Huber’s requirement that I create ambiguous circumstances. Failure to do so would have broken our bargain. Any coaching inn has a store of forgotten or misdirected luggage. Heaving a boot over the precipice was the work of a moment.”
“But what to do with Touchstone?” I murmured. “You love that dog.”
“He was the companion of my youth. Told him all my troubles, which were legion, and shared with him all my adventures, which were largely imaginary. Somewhere along the way, he grew old, though. When I set out on my rambles last week, I had no idea Huber would… confront me.”
“Ambush you. And you might well have that scheming dragon for a father-in-law.”
Reardon stirred the sludge that filled his cup. “If my discussion with Eunice goes well, Huber and I must negotiate the terms of the wedding settlements. I don’t relish that thought.”
“Neither does Huber,” I pointed out. “You can put him in Eunice’s bad books.”
“He can put me in Eunice’s bad books.”
Traffault saluted with his mug. “A reason for everybody to behave civilly. The English pride themselves on civility, I’m told.”
“We do,” I said. “If we can’t pride ourselves on common sense, civility will have to do.” Traffault had come to a reasonable conclusion: Huber and Reardon, out of mutual unwillingness to court Eunice’s disfavor, ought to strike adequate terms in their settlement negotiations.
Something Mrs. Probinger had mentioned, though, sent unease prickling across my nape. That and the wonderful domesticity Traffault and Celeste enjoyed.
“Finish up, Reardon,” I said, downing the last of my tea. “You are right that we have hard riding ahead of us.”
He took another leisurely sip of coffee. “We’re in a hurry now? The exhibition is still days away. We could, in fact, go straight to London, and—”
“We cannot go straight to London. I’ve been wrong about this whole situation, and if you don’t get your lordly arse into the saddle within a quarter hour, Eunice’s bad books will be just the start of your troubles.”
Reardon set down his cup. “What on earth are you going on about?”
I smacked him on the back of the head. “Your sister. This whole scheme hasn’t been about you, but rather, about Lady Clarissa.”
I bolted from the breakfast parlor, sending up a prayer for her ladyship’s wellbeing and Lord Reardon’s ability to ride like hell.
“You treat this horse,” I panted, “as if he’s just brought news of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. You walk him out—in shade—until he’s cool. You rinse him off with tepid water until the water runs clear, rub him down until his coat shines. A mash with applesauce and half a handful of salt. Tepid water on his back, tepid water in his bucket. Don’t let him drink from the creek until he’s cool. Do you understand me?”
While I delivered this exhortation, Atlas stood at the Valmond House front steps, his coat a mural of dust and sweat, sides heaving. My boy had come through for me, pounding along for mile after mile. We’d lost Reardon at the last change, while Atlas had hit his stride two miles from Arundel and never relented.
“This horse,” I went on, “means the world to me, and he has saved the honor of the House of Valloise. If he colics…”
The groom, who might well have served his apprenticeship under Xenophon, took the reins over Atlas’s head. “He’ll not colic on my watch, my lord. I’ve worked with post ponies, and I’ll cool him out proper. Ye could stand to use some of that tepid water yourself.”
I needed a gallon of Mrs. Felders’s meadow tea, a bath, and two days of uninterrupted sleep, but first I needed to speak with Clarissa.
“Lord Reardon is perhaps two hours behind me, unless he decides to break his journey. He’s on a hired hack. You can spread the word of his homecoming to the staff.”
The wizened old face split into a grin. “Ye found our prodigal! Somebody should send word to Caldicott Hall, my lord. The hound will want to know.”
“Good thought, and let the duke know too.” The sun had set—finally—and I jogged through lengthening shadows to Valmond House’s front door. Rather than knock, I admitted myself.
“Greetings to the house!” I bellowed. “Lady Clarissa! Blaylock! Anybody!”
Blaylock hustled down the main staircase. “My lord, what’s amiss? Lady Clarissa is at supper, and she has guests.”
“I’ll just bet she does.” I trotted up the steps, every joint protesting the exertion. I was parched, my eyes had passed from stinging to throbbing miles ago, and I’d sustained myself on what fare Celeste had stashed in my saddlebags.
I was a mess, about which I did not care. I burst into the formal dining room and found not only Squire Huber, but also Lady Ophelia, Hyperia, and Arthur.
“Oh, lovely,” Lady Ophelia said. “Julian has arrived, a bit late and the worse for travel, but now the numbers match. Perhaps you ought to freshen up a bit before joining us, my lord?” Her tone was cheerful, while Hyperia looked relieved.
Before I could reply, Huber was on his feet. “Young man, how dare you present yourself in all your dirt? You disrespect our hostess with this display.” Even as Huber fired that broadside, his gaze held worry.
Had I found Reardon in time? How much did I know?
“I apologize for a lack of formal attire,” I said, closing the door behind me, “but I assume Lady Clarissa would rather have news of her brother as soon as may be. Lord Reardon is well, and he’s on his way home. He should be here before moonrise. He and Miss Eunice Huber have unfinished business.”
Huber sank back into his seat. “You found him?” Was that hope or dread in his voice?
“I found him, and I came to an understanding with his lordship about various financial matters. If the ladies will excuse us, I’d like to speak to the squire and His Grace on the terrace.”
Hyperia rose, a glass of water in her hand. “You will drink this first, my lord, and when the kitchen sends a tray to the terrace, you will do it justice.” She pressed the glass into my hand and leaned close enough to murmur in my ear. “You cut it close, Jules, but not too close.”
Good God, how I adored Hyperia West. I longed to wrap my arms around her and simply hold her. She’d been fighting the rearguard action and without anybody having to give an order.
“A tray will be appreciated.” I knew better than to gulp the water, but I’d never tasted anything so ambrosial. “To the terrace, gentlemen, and yes, Huber, that is an order, so march. Ladies, the gents will join you shortly in the parlor for tea.”
Arthur looked amused and came along like the good, quiet duke he was, and also like a brother prepared to defend my flank if need be.
“What the hell are you about?” Huber began before we were even out of the house. “Charging in with no manners whatsoever? You stink, my lord. You are nobody to be giving orders, and you had better have a good explanation for your very eccentric behavior.”
I was no longer the small boy who feared Squire Huber would send me to the assizes for scrumping a few apples from my neighbor’s orchard.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, sailing out onto the shadowed terrace. “The only explanation I can find for the past week’s nonsense is a lonely old man’s bitter determination to make the world repay him for a life that’s held remarkably few disappointments.”
“I will not be insulted by the likes of you,” Huber retorted. “A traitor to the crown, if the talk is to be believed. A poor soldier who got himself captured by the enemy and betrayed his rank and possibly his own brother.”
Old business. Old, boring business. I crossed my arms and leaned against a cool marble pillar. “Do go on.”
“I won’t call you out,” Huber said, “lest your dear mother suffer another bereavement. So you found Lord Reardon. Good and well. He apparently chose to be found. A number of impatient creditors will want to know his specific whereabouts.”
“My lord,” Arthur drawled, “don’t neglect your water.”
I took another few sips of heaven, though I ought to have dashed my drink in Huber’s face. “You all but blackmailed Reardon into leaving. Told him you would not approve a match with Eunice, that Eunice was simply toying with him. You further got him in debt to you and threatened to set the blacklegs on him if he remained in England.”
I pushed away from the pillar and strode a slow circle around Huber. “You wielded the stick of financial disgrace and romantic failure with one hand. With the other, you dangled a few carrots—a fresh start in Rome, homecoming in a mere two years, an implication that Eunice wouldn’t be permitted to marry anybody else in those two years. Relief from personal debts if the two years were served without mentioning anything of your schemes to Eunice.”
Arthur propped a hip on the balustrade, arms crossed.
“The viscount is a spendthrift,” Huber snapped. “Not fit for marriage. He thought to paint his family into solvency, and his sister had to goad him into it. I should not be blamed for trying to protect my daughter from developing expectations that could only end in heartache.”
“But then your daughter informed you that she’d developed more than expectations.” I faced him, and though I was exhausted and famished, if Arthur hadn’t been present, I might well have found the energy to pummel the old windbag. “And you had to modify your schemes.”
“Eunice is blameless, and you had best not imply otherwise.”
“Eunice, like her father, is determined. She knows who and what she wants, and she will have him. You, on the other hand, will not have Lady Clarissa for your wife.”
“Ah.” Arthur put a world of comprehension into a single syllable.
Huber tried for more bluster. “What has Lady Clarissa to do with her rackety brother disappearing just when she most needs him?”
“She was relying on him to disappear—temporarily—and you turned her scheme on its head. His temporary absence became a desertion, leaving the lady in a panic, without means, and without allies. Then Mrs. Aimes quit the regiment, meaning not even a chaperone stood between Lady Clarissa and scandal. Would you whisper a promise in Lady Clarissa’s ear to pay off Reardon’s creditors? Offer to give him some funds for a fresh start in Rome? Make one loan do the work of several?”
Arthur had risen to stand beside me. He said nothing, but he was the duke and the Lord Lieutenant. He needn’t utter a word.
“You saw to it that Clarissa was cut adrift on a sea of looming scandal,” I went on, “without even an escort for Sunday services. By the end of tonight’s meal, you would have informed her—reluctantly, of course—that Reardon had skipped off to the Continent to avoid debtors’ prison. In a touching display of gallantry, you would atone for your failure to talk Reardon out of bolting by offering Lady Clarissa the refuge of a mutually respectful marriage.”
Huber limped off to prop his bulk against the balustrade. “Are you quite finished?”
“No. How many of your old military friends would you recruit to attend Reardon’s showing, provided Lady Clarissa agreed to make you the happiest of schemers?”
He scooched around like a broody hen on her nesting box. “I might have sent a few letters. Unlike some, I support my neighbors in their difficulties.”
Arthur took up lounging on the balustrade too, close enough that he could apprehend Huber if the squire took a notion to sprint for the stable.
“You support your neighbors,” I replied, “by forcing them to choose between disaster and domestic misery. Before you leave tonight, you will accept my note of hand for the sum of one hundred pounds, and you will return to me first thing tomorrow Lord Reardon’s vowels, legibly signed by you and marked ‘paid in full.’”
Huber looked me up and down. “A young man toward whom I was generously supportive, one who presumed on my daughter’s trust and who will one day become a member of the peerage, now has all your sympathy and support?”
“My sympathy is for Lady Clarissa and for Eunice. Reardon might well become your son-in-law, so I’d advise a negotiated cease-fire. Then too, just as Clarissa has been managing the family’s situation as best she can, Reardon has come of age without a commanding officer to show him how to go on. You might have fulfilled that role.”
Huber’s sigh should have rattled the shutters. “I tried to, you prosy, meddling, pimple on the arse of polite society. What do you think all that bad chess was about? Reardon is too much like the earl. He’s either making sheep’s eyes at Eunice, or he’s maundering on about light and perspective and symbolism, for God’s sake. What sort of guidance can be offered to a fellow whose highest aspiration is to find the perfect metaphor for justice?”
True bewilderment colored Huber’s question.
“And you used to be just like him,” I said, joining the other two lounging against the balustrade. “How the mighty are fallen.”
The silence that formed was almost companionable. Huber tippled from his flask. Arthur watched as the stars emerged against the deepening darkness.
“I suppose you’ll want to see me charged with blackmail?” Huber groused.
Arthur rose and brushed at his trousers. “I want to, of course. You all but entrapped Lord Reardon, then failed to assist in efforts to find him. You lied, schemed, and connived against an innocent young woman. Had Eunice not intervened, Reardon might even now be sailing off to distant ports, and your grandson—a potential earl—would be born into scandal instead. You should be bound over for the assizes and tried for multiple felonies.”
His Grace shot his cuffs and scanned the night sky. “Lucky for you, I am notoriously lenient regarding judicial matters. I see no reason to turn up vindictive just because you are the offending party.”
Arthur sauntered into the house, then turned in the doorway. “Don’t leave me alone with the ladies for too long, Huber, or I might revisit my decision. Julian, good work. My thanks. See you at the Hall.”
“Good God, he puts me in mind of your father,” Huber said, taking another pull on the flask. “Such condescension, and we’re supposed to admire him for it.”
Huber would soon be attending a very public London wedding, else I would have fed him to the roses, face first.
“Do not insult my brother. He could have made you a laughingstock, or seen you prosecuted for your stupid schemes. Instead, you get the benefit of the very restraint and moderation you’ve so bitterly criticized him for.”
Huber jammed the cork into the top of his flask. “I don’t like him. Don’t care for the company he keeps, though I’ll not say more on that matter. I respect the consideration Waltham has just shown an elder, though, and that will have to suffice.”
I was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and I reeked of hours on the road. On some other day, I could follow my brother’s example of noble forgiveness. Tonight, I had had enough.
“Say one more word against His Grace—ever—to the neighbors, to your old military chums, to the fencepost at the foot of the drive, and I will explain to Eunice your role in Reardon’s disappearance. The viscount won’t tell her. Waltham will never say a word. I, on the other hand, am a traitor and a bad soldier and a pimple on the arse of polite society. If you want to see the love die in your daughter’s eyes, merely give me reason to suspect that you’ve disparaged Waltham in any regard. I am not threatening you, Huber. I am reciting a solemn vow.”
Huber let me have the last word.
Prudent of him.
I remained alone on the darkened terrace, with Arthur’s parting resounding in my heart and Harry’s ghost, for once, silent.
Julian, good work. My thanks.
“Wake up.” A gentle hand shook my shoulder. “Jules, I’ve brought food. Wake up.”
A whiff of honeysuckle came to me. “Hyperia.” I swam up from dreamless depths and opened my aching eyes, grateful for the darkness of Valmond House’s back terrace.
“Of course it’s me.” She pulled two chairs up and used the balustrade as a table. “Can you rise?”
Upon Huber’s departure, I’d slid to the flagstones, my back to the porch railing, and promptly surrendered to the arms of Morpheus.
“You want me to stand?” For her, I would make the effort, but my dignity would suffer.
“On second thought, no. I’ll join you.” Before I could protest, Hyperia was sitting cross-legged beside me, the skirts of her evening dress pooled around her, her shawl a pale patch against the night. “Lovely how the stones hold the sun’s heat. Did you finish the water?”
I spied an empty glass on an unused chair. “Yes.”
“Good, then you can have more. I left Lady Ophelia to manage Huber.” She passed me another cool, sweating glass of water, and I spied yet a third on the tray.
“I wanted to hurt him, Perry. Badly wanted to hurt him.”
She handed me a sandwich. “Beef and cheddar, slightly melted. Mrs. Felders says you used to favor them as a boy.”
“God bless Mrs. Felders.”
“So why is Huber still walking more or less upright? He threatened your only surviving brother, dealt unfairly with Reardon, and had dishonorable designs on Lady Clarissa.”
“Care for a bite?” I held out the sandwich to her, and she took a nibble.
“Scrumptious. Answer the question.”
“Huber was spared a trouncing because he failed,” I said slowly. “Then too, had he not behaved so badly, Arthur would never have confided in me regarding certain burdens he’s been carrying. I would not have apprised Arthur of some details bearing on my own situation. I would never have pushed myself to feats of stamina for which I will pay, but that also fortified me. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but my wind is coming back.” Was that a metaphor? “I don’t understand the whole of what’s happened in the past week, Perry, but Huber’s failure was my success.”
Julian, good work. The most wonderful benediction I’d ever heard.
We were sitting side by side, backs to the railing, the tray on one of the chairs. I sipped my water and demolished Mrs. Felders’s fare, while off to the east, the horizon acquired a glow.
“Huber has been circling Valmond House for some time.” Hyperia scooted closer and took a sip of my water. “I had a word with Mrs. Aimes before she blew retreat to London. Huber called here regularly. His visits consisted of protracted laments about the increasing cost of everything. Then he’d aim disparaging remarks at the duke and drop roguish hints about the mystifying stupidity of London bachelors for allowing Lady Clarissa to elude matrimony for so long.”
“While he patted her knee and gazed upon her with adoring speculation. Clarissa doubtless saw no harm in humoring him—she’s good at humoring clueless men—particularly when nobody else was on hand to flatter her. He was acting neighborly, he’s some sort of distant family, and he and Reardon might have even talked art from time to time.”
Had I not located Reardon, Huber’s scheme would have succeeded—he would have backed Clarissa into that tight of a corner—particularly if he’d taken measures to ensure the London exhibition was poorly received.
Hyperia yawned. “Mrs. Aimes kept her suspicions to herself because Huber might have become Clarissa’s last resort.”
“Clarissa has weathered many battles. Surrender can loom like a solution after a few too many forced marches.”
Harry had surrendered willingly, at least to appearances. Maybe he’d been tired of the fight. I was certainly tired of fighting his memory. My sainted brother had been something of a cad toward Clarissa, not because he’d paid her to be his escort, but because he’d lied to me about the nature of the relationship.
“Stop thinking matters to death, Jules. Drink some more water and promise me you’ll keep a carafe by your bed tonight.”
I could not envision rising, much less remaining awake long enough to make the journey to Caldicott Hall. “I am about to fall asleep again, Perry. Beg pardon in advance.”
She passed me the third glass. “Get comfortable, then.” She patted her thigh, an invitation. “Lady Ophelia will keep everybody chatting amiably over the teapot for another hour or so. You might as well nap.”
I downed about half the contents, shifted to my side, and pillowed my head against Hyperia’s muscular thigh. She draped her shawl over me, and I fell asleep to the exquisite pleasure of her fingers winnowing through my hair.
My last coherent thought before surrendering to bliss was a question: Harry had lied about his dealings with Clarissa. What else had he lied about?