It was one of the less enjoyable meals of Nicholas’ experience. The food was good—almost as good as White’s—and the wine excellent, but Colonel Durham wasn’t the most pleasant of dining companions. His conversation consisted almost entirely of reminiscences about campaigns he had fought. In his minute and pedantic dissections of the errors of each battle, Colonel Durham never acknowledged any mistakes of his own—the blunders were always someone else’s.
Everyone makes mistakes, Nicholas thought as he chewed on buttered lobster. It’s part of what makes us human. He reached for his glass, swallowed a mouthful of wine, and looked sourly at the colonel. He’d had a commanding officer like Colonel Durham once. It had been an unpleasant experience. A good officer should acknowledge his errors, not push them off on someone else.
Interspersed with the reminiscences were heated animadversions about the slyness and dishonesty of his granddaughter. “I have nursed a viper in my bosom!” Colonel Durham declaimed, his face red with rage and alcohol, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
No blame, of course, attached to the colonel in his dealings with his granddaughter. He was guilty neither of bullying her into marriage, nor of refusing to listen to her pleas. The blame was all Harriet’s. By the end of the evening Nicholas had conceived a deep and profound pity for her. He wished the girl well, wherever she was. He couldn’t even whip up any animosity towards her benefactress; Harriet had needed rescuing, and whoever the woman was and whatever she had said regarding ogres, he no longer cared. Sometime in the past week his rancor had faded.
It was because of Lady Isabella, he thought, a smile playing on his mouth as he stepped from under the portico of the colonel’s club. How could he be angry when he was so foolishly and fatuously in love?
A misting drizzle was falling, smearing the light of the gas lamps. Nicholas scarcely noticed. He strolled back to Albemarle Street, whistling softly under his breath. Mr. Shepherd had requested an interview tomorrow to report his findings. He would call the man off.
Let it rest, he thought as he turned the corner.
Mr. Shepherd arrived punctually at one o’clock. He entered the study, bowed, and bade Nicholas good day. “I’ve had some success in the matter of locating Miss Durham,” he said.
“You have?” Nicholas said, not much interested. “Good.” He opened one of the drawers in his desk and drew out a roll of guineas. “However, I’ve decided that the matter is less important than I’d thought. If you tell me what your expenses are, I can settle your account now.” He gestured the man to a chair.
Mr. Shepherd drew a slim sheath of folded papers from his breast pocket and handed it to Nicholas. “A list of my expenses, sir. And a report detailing my findings.”
“Thank you.” Nicholas picked up the papers, unfolded them, and glanced quickly through the sheets. The list of expenses was short, neatly written in copperplate, and came to a rather high total. He read through it. Ah, the man had taken the stage to Stony Stratford and stayed two nights.
The report was surprisingly long. Nicholas flicked to the last page. His eyebrows rose. An address in London.
He glanced at Mr. Shepherd, sitting quiet and nondescript on the chair in front of him. “She’s here? At this address?”
Mr. Shepherd nodded.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair. Some success? Modesty was clearly one of Mr. Shepherd’s virtues, along with efficiency and punctuality. “Tell me,” he said, laying the report on the desk. “The brief version.” As opposed to the pages of closely written notes.
Mr. Shepherd did so, succinctly. “I determined that Miss Durham took the stagecoach north and alighted at Stony Stratford, where she attempted to stay at the Rose and Crown, but having insufficient funds was turned away. However, a lady who was already residing at that establishment came to her aid, offering her a bed, and taking Miss Durham with her to London the next day.”
Nicholas nodded. “Go on.”
“I spoke to one of her Ladyship’s servants yesterday. Miss Durham is still in residence with her in London.”
Nicholas picked up the report again and turned to the last page. Clarges Street. That was where Lady Isabella lived.
His eyes narrowed suddenly. The street number . . .
Hastily he turned to the previous page. Lady Isabella Knox, he read. Traveling with her servants and two outriders provided by her brother, the Duke of Middlebury. “No,” he said aloud. “You’ve made a mistake. This is wrong.”
Mr. Shepherd was unruffled. “I assure you that my information is correct. Lady Isabella Knox is the person you seek.”
Nicholas shook his head. “No.”
“Lady Isabella was staying at the Rose and Crown on the night in question. She provided accommodation for Miss Durham and took the girl to London with her.” Mr. Shepherd’s voice was light and dry and precise. “Miss Durham is presently residing with her in Clarges Street.”
“No,” Nicholas said again, putting down the report and leaning forward across the desk. “I’ve been to her house. I tell you, Harriet isn’t there!”
“The cook assures me she is. Staying in the blue chamber on the third floor.”
They matched stares, Nicholas’s fierce, furious, and Mr. Shepherd’s impassive.
He’s wrong.
Wrong or not, Mr. Shepherd had spent twelve days—and not a little money—coming to his conclusions. Nicholas reached for the guineas, counted out what he owed the man, and handed them over. “Here,” he said curtly. “Thank you for your work.”
Mr. Shepherd accepted the money. He stood. “Read my report, Major Reynolds. It will all be quite clear.”
Nicholas thinned his lips.
Mr. Shepherd bowed and exited the room.
Nicholas sat for a long moment after the door had closed, staring at the report. Lies. It’s all lies.
But the problem was that it was entirely like Lady Isabella to rescue a penniless runaway. He could imagine her doing it.
No, he told himself firmly. It wasn’t Isabella. She’d said she didn’t know where Harriet was and he believed her. He trusted her.
Nicholas reached for the report, determined to read through it and find Mr. Shepherd wrong.
The first few pages detailed Mr. Shepherd’s efforts to determine what mode of transport Harriet had taken in her flight from London, and where she had alighted: in Stony Stratford.
Mr. Shepherd’s interview with the landlady of the Rose and Crown was brief and uninformative. In his opinion the woman had been bribed not to reveal any information concerning Harriet Durham—her manner had been adamant and defensive.
His subsequent interview with one of the porters, lubricated by several tankards of ale and a guinea, was much more interesting.
He showed Miss Durham into the taproom and fetched his mistress, Mr. Shepherd wrote. Upon ascertaining that Miss Durham had insufficient funds for a room for the night, Mrs. Botham refused her accommodation, unswayed by the girl’s tears and entreaties.
At this point, another lady had entered the taproom. The porter had only heard the conversation through a partly closed door, but in his words the newcomer was “awful polite” and in less than a minute had “routed the old besom.” Mrs. Botham had been, in the porter’s opinion, spitting mad, but far too afraid of offending the lady to cross her.
The porter’s description of Harriet’s benefactress was detailed. Mr. Shepherd produced it verbatim. Nicholas could almost hear the porter’s voice in his head: A prime ’un. A real beauty. Tall, with yeller hair, and so elegant you wouldn’t believe.
The porter knew her name, too: Lady Isabella Knox, a frequent guest on her way to and from Derbyshire. A duke’s daughter, but she looks like a princess, the man had said.
No, Nicholas thought. Not a princess; a goddess.
The porter had also described the lady’s dog: black and tan, with one blue eye and one brown, and a curling tail. A mongrel if ever I saw one, but real well-behaved. Never bites anyone.
Nicholas closed his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face. Clearly Lady Isabella had been in Stony Stratford. And why shouldn’t she? It was on her route south to London.
But she wasn’t the lady who had rescued Harriet. He knew she wasn’t. The porter had made a mistake.
Nicholas opened his eyes and turned the page, reading further.
Mr. Shepherd, not content with the porter’s word, had interviewed an ostler. This man, similarly plied with ale and a guinea, had confirmed the identity of Harriet’s benefactress, on account of her “bang-up horses” and liveried outriders. Both men had agreed that Lady Isabella Knox took up the girl into her carriage the next morning.
Nicholas put down the report. He pushed his chair back and strode across to the cluster of decanters on the sideboard. He poured himself a glass of brandy and stood for a moment, breathing deeply. Calm, he told himself. But anger was rising inside him and the brandy, burning down his throat when he gulped it, didn’t help.
He strode back to the desk and read the rest of the report. Mr. Shepherd had spoken to a number of Lady Isabella’s servants, both casually at the local tavern and more formally with the offer of money. All had refused to speak about any guests their mistress may or may not have had staying with her.
But yesterday Mr. Shepherd’s luck had changed; he had managed a few words with the cook, a Mrs. Tracey, who had been quite happy to accept a few guineas in exchange for information concerning Lady Isabella’s houseguest. Miss Durham, she confirmed, had inhabited the Blue Room for the past two weeks. Yes, she had arrived with Lady Isabella when she returned from Derbyshire. No, she hadn’t left the house.
Nicholas closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. Isabella’s image wavered behind his closed eyelids.
She had lied to him. For two whole weeks she had lied to him.
Nicholas opened his eyes. Mr. Shepherd concluded the report with a note concerning a Mr. Fernyhough, who, he said, had been in Stony Stratford several days before himself enquiring as to Harriet’s whereabouts.
Who the devil is Mr. Fernyhough?
Nicholas put the report down. He rubbed his face. The ridges of the scar were hard beneath his fingers, smooth and rough.
Ogre.
He made a sound of disgust, lowered his hands, and turned to the final page of the report. For a full minute he stared at the address, at each flourishing s and neatly looped e. Clarges Street.