“Hyperia was beside herself with worry for you,” Lady Ophelia said, rattling cups, saucers, and silverware fit to rouse the hundred. “Riding hellbent in the heat, haring all over the county, neglecting meals.”
Arthur sent me a commiserating glance across the breakfast table. We were once again dining al fresco. The storm I’d weathered at Traffault’s had passed through this corner of the shire as well, and the morning air was pleasant rather than oppressive.
I wore my glasses, though we sat in shade. I’d be keeping my specs handy for some time, given the state of my eyes. Damned dust took a toll in addition to the harm done by bright sunshine.
“I was merely on reconnaissance,” I said. “No bandits lurking in the hedgerows, no French patrols waiting to pounce when I stopped to water my horse. The English countryside is a lark compared to—”
“I despair of you.” Lady Ophelia tossed a balled-up table napkin at me. “You will be the ruin of my nerves, young man. The very ruin.” She flounced off into the house, leaving me alone with Arthur and the doves cooing at us from the eaves.
Hyperia and Clarissa—our guest for the nonce—had left the table earlier, claiming a need to pack for the trip to London.
I removed the napkin from my lap and laid it in an empty chair. “The feeling is mutual, Godmama. When did Lady Ophelia develop such a flare for drama?”
Arthur stirred his tea. “You excel at giving us bad turns, Julian. You went missing and were presumed dead. Then you were listed as a captive. Then dead again, then missing again. Then I got word you’d escaped but might have fallen prey to the elements. If you weathered all that merely to come home and break your head in some Sussex ditch, Lady Ophelia would take it very much amiss.” He lifted his cup and saucer. “As would I.”
He sipped placidly, while I pretended a fascination with my eggs. “Atlas would never toss me into a ditch.”
“He’d best not. More meadow tea? It’s Mrs. Felders’s recipe.” Arthur filled my glass before I could reply. He’d also let me have first crack at the jam.
“Why are we enjoying a mere omelet this morning?” I asked, grasping at any conversational straw. “No fanciful designs rendered in basil leaves, no spun sugar artwork. Have you sacked Cook?”
Arthur set down his tea cup and buttered a slice of lemon bread. “I had a word with her. Explained that your digestion has not yet returned to full duty. Still a trifle delicate.”
“You told a falsehood. Shame on you, though the eggs are luscious.”
“I did not tell a falsehood. When you first came home, you could barely manage beef tea and dry toast, Julian. You didn’t eat enough to keep a finch in good fettle. You still limit your spirits, and all you managed last night was cheese toast and water.”
Beef and cheese toast, and a lovely dose of affection and protectiveness from Hyperia, though I wasn’t in the mood to think too hard about that last bit.
“Harry told a falsehood,” I said, rather than argue the finer points of my own digestion with a duke new to the art of cosseting. “Led me to believe Clarissa was his mistress, when she was, in fact, nothing more than his hired matchmaker repellant.”
“I miss Harry,” Arthur said. “But I don’t miss everything about him. He had a gift for complicating what should have remained simple.”
I had never thought to hear His Grace disparage our departed sibling, but then, Arthur wasn’t disparaging Harry, exactly. What he offered was more in the nature of confession of his own frustrations.
“Well put,” I said, “but I’ve been thinking about Harry’s treatment of Clarissa. Because she was squiring him about, none of the other eligibles made a try for her. They all assumed Harry had won the field. We owe her, Your Grace.”
Arthur gave me an inscrutable look. “I’m not marrying her, and neither are you, Julian.”
“I’m not?”
“If you had seen the way Hyperia West looked at me when I suggested the time had come to waken you… You have a very fierce friend in Miss West.”
“As she has in me. But who was Clarissa’s friend? We are so accustomed to Valloise and his countess racketing about that we didn’t notice that they’d abandoned their own children. We consign the little ones to nurserymaids and governesses, but when offspring leave the schoolroom and take on the greater world, they truly need their parents and their friends.”
“Does this peroration have a point?”
“We need to be better neighbors, Your Grace. You are a fine duke, staying the hand of the law when an excess of hares is going to waste, keeping the local house of worship in good trim, paying the miller timely so he can be more patient with the rest of the shire. That’s all wonderful and commendable and worthy.”
“Good manners prevent me from either falling asleep or citing the press of business. Do try to be succinct, though. I have my own packing to tend to.”
His valet wouldn’t allow him within ten feet of a trunk or valise, poor sod. “Clarissa and Reardon have been in trouble for years. They lack funds, but more to the point, they lack friends. Huber could prey on them because we never took the time to see how hard Valmond House was listing to port.”
“Naval analogies. Charming.”
Enough of the duke. I needed to talk to my brother. “Arthur, have you never borne a weight on your soul, a worry, a despair, that grew heavier and heavier as all hope faded? A burden on the spirit that made you think awful, ugly thoughts until those thoughts began to develop a certain seductive appeal?”
I rose and stared hard at the home wood, the playground of my youth, sheltering and wondrous but also dark and mysterious.
“I was so lost in France. I can’t tell you how long I wandered in the mountains, freezing and starving, wondering what I’d imagined in that chamber of horrors and what I’d truly experienced. The Valmonds aren’t freezing and starving—yet—but I’m sure they’ve had nightmares similar to my own. Harry had a flare for unnecessary complications, and you and I must have a flare for honorable behavior.”
Arthur came to stand beside me. “I’m sure you will elucidate the particulars for me, new as I am to the concept of honor.”
“You will bid loudly and often on Reardon’s bucolic landscapes.”
He nodded. “I can do that.”
“You will direct Lady Ophelia to talk up this exhibition as if the Regent’s legendary banquet were a mere picnic by comparison.”
“She’s already sent a dozen dispatches to her familiars, Julian. I can still frank mail, whatever my other shortcomings.”
“Then she needs to send three dozen more. I want Wellington to comment favorably on Reardon’s work, Arthur, while London’s biggest gossips hang on his every word.”
His Grace was quiet for a moment. “As it happens, Wellington owes me a favor. I’ll call it in, and he’ll be relieved to even the score.”
Emboldened by my success, I tossed out the final challenge. “You will retrieve your portrait from the person you’ve lent it to and allow that likeness to play a prominent role in the exhibition.”
Arthur ambled down the steps at a deceptively relaxed pace, and I followed. When we’d reached the privacy of the gazebo, he treated me to one of his arctic stares.
“Have you been snooping, Julian? Spying on your own brother?”
“I have been thinking, sorting facts and observations. I’m good at it, according to some. Osgood Banter acknowledges that his friendship with you goes back years. When I was in trouble at the Makepeace house party, he alerted you to my problems—something only a true friend would dare to do. When I quit that gathering, he alone of all the guests apologized to me for the treatment I’d received. The Banter family seat is ten miles west of here.”
The arctic stare acquired a hint of sorrow. “Hence our acquaintance. He and I are of an age. We were in the same form, the same year at university. England is supposed to rule the world on the strength of such associations. What of it?”
Traffault’s words came back to me, about everybody having to do a stint in some sort of captivity.
“If I were to explore the route between here and Banter’s estate, I’d find, about midway between your household and his, a vacant tenant house, a fishing cottage, a secluded hunting lodge. Your extensive morning hacks mean you can trot thirty minutes west, while Banter trots thirty minutes east, and—”
Arthur held up a hand as if to ward off a blow. “Allow me a scintilla of dignity.”
Since when did a scintilla rival the dimensions of Gibraltar? “Dignity is all well and good, but I’d also allow you some damned joy.”
Arthur sank onto one of the benches. “I am content. I have so much more than most.”
And so much less than many. A few hours a week of the domestic joy that Traffault and Celeste could revel in for decades.
“You are wealthy, and you have influence.” I took the place beside him. “Tell Banter you need the loan of the portrait for a few weeks. If he’s truly an appreciator of fine art, get him to the exhibition and involve him in a few bidding wars.”
“He knows his art,” Arthur said, looking wistful. “Proses on about it at the oddest times. Said Reardon had true talent. Said only a real artist could put a twinkle in my eye and make it look… ducal. My eyes do not and never shall twinkle.”
That sad pronouncement broke my heart. I’d lost Harry in a matter of hours, Harry who’d delighted in giving Society grist for the gossip mill. And here was Arthur, who risked his life even speaking of his deepest longings.
If I didn’t give Arthur a push toward his heart’s desire, I’d lose him all the more painfully year by year. He’d be less and less my brother and more and more the duke, the automaton clicking and whirling whenever duty wound his key.
Forget twinkling. He’d never smile, never laugh, never indulge in a spontaneous hug.
He deserved better than that. I was a better brother than that. Not just the spare, but rather, the only brother Arthur had left and one determined to be worthy of my office.
“This autumn,” I said, “you will make your postwar tour through the Low Countries and spend some time in Paris. Everybody who is anybody has already been. Take Banter as your traveling companion. God knows, Devonshire takes a whole entourage when he’s on the Continent. Byron met up with traveling companions. Be fashionable for once.”
Arthur’s gaze went to the Hall, so majestic and staid. “What of harvest? I make it a point to be on hand for harvest.”
Oh, for God’s sake. “I will lounge about the Hall looking lordly until the crops are in. London is too damned noisy, and Atlas prefers country life anyway.”
Arthur resumed studying the home wood. “Atlas prefers country life?”
“He’s a horse of particulars, an epicurean among equines. He claims the autumn grass at Caldicott Hall is not to be missed. You, on the other hand, will get yourself to the Continent before the weather turns.”
Arthur sniffed. He scanned the landscape, then his gaze settled on me. “Do I hear somebody presuming to give His Grace of Waltham orders?”
“You assuredly do, though first you have to pack for London and pass along a few orders to Banter.”
“What of the dog, Touchstone? He seems quite comfortable here at the Hall.”
Said the man who’d never been permitted to have a pet. “I will coddle him until he bays with contentment. Go see to the press of business, Your Grace. I’m for a nap here in the shade.”
“You’re sure?”
“I have given you a direct order. Don’t be insubordinate. Away with you.”
Arthur touched my shoulder. “I’m gone. Sweet dreams, Julian, and my compliments to your horse on his excellent good taste.”
He bounded down the steps and trotted quick time for the house. I settled on the bench, prepared to catch another much-needed forty winks.
Julian, good work. This time, the voice in my head sounded very much like Harry.
“Bleedin’ lot o’ people hereabouts,” Atticus said, peering out the parlor window at the relatively uncrowded streets of Mayfair. He cut a dash in his new jacket and boots, and I vow the child had gained two inches of height in a fortnight.
“Language,” Hyperia chided. “And the more people who attend Lord Reardon’s exhibition, the better.”
“Blee—bloomin’ Wellington were there,” Atticus said, letting the curtain drop. “He truly do have a splendid beak.”
Atticus, decked out in a sober Sunday jacket, had lurked among the throng at the opening earlier in the day. He’d goggled, he’d muttered, and he’d even taken an interest in the art, but he was for the most part keeping his impressions to himself.
“Wellington was there,” Hyperia said. “Moreland, Quimbey, our own Waltham. An embarrassment of dukes. A heavenly visitation couldn’t do more to earn Lord Reardon favorable notice.”
“Good food too,” Atticus said, wandering away from the window. “Pretty food.”
Arthur had turned Cook loose on the challenge of a summer buffet to offer the exhibition’s guests, and the kitchen had exceeded all bounds. Ice sculptures, canapes, flowers, sweets…
“Get out of your Sunday best,” I said. “You were enjoying a half day at the exhibition, but if we’re to see Miss West home, you’ll need to be in uniform.”
Atticus, who’d loudly disdained livery, wore his striped yellow jacket with more pride than the Royal Household Guards wore their scarlet tunics. He studied maps of Town by the hour, and I’d heard him in close conversation with Arthur’s valet on the subject of boot polish.
He scampered for the door but paused on the threshold. “Old Hookey had a proper chat with you. He didn’t just give you the nod.”
Wellington had turned the casual nod into a high art. His nod could say, “Lovely to see you,” while also conveying, “That will be close enough.” I didn’t precisely like him—as a commanding officer, he’d insisted on managing every aspect of an engagement on the day of battle, with occasionally disastrous results—but I respected him, and as Atticus noted, Wellington had acknowledged me.
At length.
“Go,” I said, pointing to the door. “Half day is over. Back on the job, my lad. Have the stable bring the curricle around in thirty minutes.”
He sketched a jaunty bow and pelted off.
“How does Waltham abide having such a lively young fellow underfoot?” Hyperia asked.
“Arthur is a bad influence on Atticus, or the other way about. They take turns trying to stare each other into submission. Atticus always bursts out laughing first, and then Arthur permits himself to relent.” Not quite smile, but relent.
Hyperia closed the remaining curtains. “You’re waiting for the sun to wane before you take me to Lady Ophelia’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Also giving Atticus a chance to crow belowstairs and change into his preferred plumage.”
“And to eat. That child’s appetite would shame the devil.” She closed the last pair of curtains, casting the duke’s family parlor into cozy gloom. I had elected to bide with Arthur rather than at my own London residence. Most of my staff were off seeing family in the shires, and all too soon, Arthur would be larking about on the Continent.
And whose fault was that?
“I don’t know who was more pleased with today’s crowd,” Hyperia said. “Lady Clarissa, Lady Ophelia, or Lord Reardon.”
“Eunice Huber was the most pleased. Reardon and Clarissa were relieved.” As I had been. Reardon and I had had a quiet discussion regarding his finances and the possibility of various commissions coming his way. Osgood Banter had allowed as he’d have time to sit to Reardon before autumn, and Lady Ophelia had also claimed a pressing need to be immortalized on canvas. Quimbey, who qualified as a dear old soul at large, had made similar noises, while Huber had stood around looking as if Reardon were his personal artistic discovery.
“Have you considered having your portrait done?” Hyperia asked, taking the end of the sofa, toeing off her slippers, and tucking her feet up.
I took the place beside her. “Not yet. Why does it feel so good to simply sit?”
“Because you overtaxed yourself last week, and we aren’t children who can be restored to full vigor in a single nap. Will you let Reardon paint you when you’ve regained your glorious manly tresses?”
“I’m likely to end up blond, but it’s not my hair that makes me hesitate to join Reardon’s throng of sitters.”
She glossed her fingers over my locks, which I wore tied back in an old-fashioned queue. “You are the ducal heir now. Your portrait would reflect that, unless you were very firm with Reardon. You aren’t Harry, Julian, and I’m glad of it.”
“You didn’t care for Harry?”
“Harry cared too much for Harry. He would never have told Waltham to go admire great art on the Continent, would never have ridden over hill and dale in search of a prodigal painter, unless he could make hay with the tale at his clubs. Harry was shrewd.”
“He was a good reconnaissance officer and a good brother.”
“You were too, Jules. You are too. What did Wellington have to say?”
Trust Hyperia to see to the heart of the matter. “He was quiet for a time, studying Reardon’s painting of victory, then he said something about nothing being half so melancholy as a battle won, save for a battle lost. I didn’t catch his precise words, but he went on to note how glad he was that the battles were behind us. I am certain I was supposed to agree and feel a sense of absolution. The great man himself was treating me as a fellow soldier, and in public. If you’d told me three months ago…”
Hyperia shifted to sit hip to hip with me. “Maybe Wellington sought absolution from you?”
I examined that extraordinary notion and found it… not outlandish. “I never did learn why Harry sneaked out of camp. He might well have been under orders of some sort, but I can’t imagine his orders included surrendering to the nearest French commandant.”
That French commandant, now an English baron, was available for questioning, though such a challenge daunted me. Harry’s halo had taken on a hint of tarnish in recent weeks, and I wasn’t ready to learn anything that might further jeopardize his sainthood.
“Whatever Wellington was about,” Hyperia said, “half the gossips in London saw him reminiscing with you. When the Little Season starts, you’ll receive invitations, Jules. Lots of them.”
“When the Little Season starts, I’ll be down at Caldicott Hall, supervising the last of the harvest and explaining to Cook that my ducal brother has the alimentary preferences of a yeoman, while I like the occasional fancy pastry or artful sweet.”
“Wherever you bide, expect Lady Ophelia to keep an eye on you.”
“Will you keep an eye on me too?”
Hyperia rose just when I might have reached for her hand. Something lovely had passed between us beneath the stars on the Valmond House back terrace. Not romantic, but intimate.
Reassuring and sweet.
“You don’t need a minder, Julian. You mutter about not having the fitness you enjoyed in Spain, and your eyes pain you, but you are not the walking shade who came home from Waterloo.”
“I have made progress,” I said slowly. “I hope to make more.”
She studied me, and I was on the point of admitting that I had not made enough progress—no manly stirrings to start my day, no ribald thoughts erupting at inopportune moments—when Arthur joined us.
“I thought you were taking Miss West back to Lady Ophelia’s?”
“Soon,” Hyperia said. “When Atticus has donned his professional attire. Today went well, don’t you think?”
“Today,” Arthur replied, “went splendidly. Lady Ophelia takes all the credit, of course, when Huber isn’t trying to snatch it from her. Those two share a certain turn of mind. Gives one the shudders. Take a look at this.”
He passed over a single folded sheet of foolscap, the broken wax seal—purple—bore the scent of rosemary. The hand was tidy and feminine.
My Lord Duke,
A child, whom I believe to be the offspring of the late Lord Harold Caldicott, has come to bide temporarily under my roof. The boy’s mother succumbed to illness a fortnight past, and I am not in a position to see to the boy’s upbringing.
Please excuse my presumption, and do advise…
Mrs. Charles Danforth
I passed the note to Hyperia. If Arthur had wanted me to hold the matter in confidence, he should have kept it to himself for a few more hours.
“Do you know what that is?” Arthur said, gesturing to the letter. “That is a complication and possibly a blackmail scheme in the offing when I have travel plans to make. Harry has been gone for some time, and this… this… situation is brought to my notice only now?”
“The mother has only recently passed on,” I pointed out. “Perhaps she wanted nothing to do with Caldicotts of any stripe, and Mrs. Danforth refuses to take on the rearing of a complication. Besides, if the boy is legitimate, he’s not only a complication. He’s also a potential solution.”
That was the sort of thing Harry would have said—true and relevant, but needlessly blunt.
“A solution indeed,” Arthur replied. “If he’s legitimate.”
Hyperia shoved the letter back at me. “He’s a bereaved child, an orphan, and apparently a Caldicott. Waltham, what will you do about him?”
Arthur got a look in his eye which made me uneasy. “I will send my best, most discreet, most noticing brother to look the situation over and gather other and further particulars. Legitimate or not, the boy could well be a Caldicott. We look after our own. I’m off to dine at the club. Miss West, good day.”
In grand good spirits, His Grace of Waltham jaunted off, leaving me with a puzzle to solve. Another puzzle, and one that led me from bedrooms to brothels to barracks, at no little risk to my humble person, though that, as they say, is a tale for another time!