Chapter Eleven
“This way, my lord.” Quinton Wentworth, the bank owner himself, turned on his heel and expected me to follow like a well-trained footman. He was a big, dark-haired brute, and all the excellent tailoring in the world could not disguise the hint of Yorkshire lurking in his diction or the pugnacity lurking in his posture.
He showed me to an office that struck a balance between gracious dignity and countinghouse practicality. The desk by the windows was large and elegantly appointed with silver standish and pen set, though no documents had been left in plain sight on the blotter. Fresh roses adorned the sideboard—he had that in common with Mrs. Bellassai, did he but know it—and the carpet bore an exquisite pattern of intertwined flowers in subdued hues.
This office, on the bank’s upper floor, was noteworthy for two qualities—quiet and cleanliness. Everything gleamed, from the windowpanes to the silver appointments, to the brass-topped andirons, to the vase holding the roses. The quiet resulted from solid construction, abundant upholstery, and the man who owned the entire premises.
Wentworth didn’t chatter, and he likely did not suffer chattering from his employees. His gaze was watchful, and if I’d had to characterize him with a single word, I’d have been torn between vigilant and serious .
“What can I do for you, my lord?”
No small talk then, thank the celestial powers. “Answer some questions regarding my late brother’s circumstances.”
Wentworth took up an abacus from his desk, tipped it to the side, and set it on the mantel. “Shall we sit?” He gestured to a pair of chairs before a cold hearth. “I assume you refer to the late Lord Harry Caldicott?”
“The same.” Did Arthur do business with Wentworth? I did not dare inquire. “It has come to the family’s attention that Harry might have left offspring behind, but details are few and unreliable. The child is about five, suggesting conception occurred during the winter Parliament brangled over the Regency Bill. Harry would have been in Town for several months, but he left us no indication that he’d become a father. I am looking into his finances in hopes of finding evidence that he supported his progeny or the child’s mother.”
Wentworth regarded me with a gaze that had likely intimidated every clerk, teller, and charwoman on the premises. I regarded him back. One didn’t serve under Wellington without learning how to bear up under a parade inspection.
“A man’s financial matters are confidential,” Wentworth said. “I know nothing of a child and would not tell you if I did, absent permission from Lord Harry to do so.”
“A man’s financial matters are confidential,” I said, “but upon his death, his estate does not enjoy the same privilege. Cases in Chancery are regularly bruited about. Harry left a will, and it did not mention assets held at this bank.”
Wentworth’s scrutiny shifted to the windows, which had been cracked to let in a warm breeze. “Wills generally don’t list accounts and funds individually, particularly not the sort of wills the military demands of its officers. The language is general—‘to my oldest son living and legally competent at the time of my death, I bequeath all my right, title, and interest in any property, real or personal, tangible or otherwise, as well as any future interests in property or goods that might develop, to be used for the benefit of my surviving dependents as he sees fit…’”
“You’ve read a lot of those wills.”
“Thousands, thanks to the Corsican’s bloodlust and the patriotism of England’s young men. I’d rather never read another. I did not read Lord Harry’s will.”
“Your recall is that precise?”
Wentworth didn’t smile, but those cold eyes admitted of some warmth. “I have no doubt the good fellows at Coutts were privy to the will. His lordship wanted discretion from me, else he’d never have graced my humble establishment with his coin.”
Harry and his damned intermittent bouts of discretion were driving me barmy. “I don’t care if Harry supported eight opera dancers, four charities, a brothel, and a gaming hell. I simply need to know if he made any arrangements that suggest he was providing for any progeny.”
I was sufficiently frustrated that pummeling a few answers from Wentworth held some appeal, except that he could doubtless out-brawl me without breaking a sweat. He was not a man to trifle with, which was probably why Harry had reposed some trust in him.
Wentworth rose, slid open a panel in an Italianate credenza behind his desk, and extracted a folder bound in black ribbon. He perused the contents and resumed his seat.
“Other than this one account, I cannot discuss the specifics of your brother’s financial affairs with you, but his instructions were that upon his death or protracted disappearance, I was to turn over to you or His Grace of Waltham all funds held for him under this account, to do with as you saw fit, provided you came to me making inquiries regarding same.”
And Wentworth, years later, recalled those directions word for word. “You were not to notify us of the funds?”
Wentworth consulted his files again. “I was not. You’ve presented yourself, I personally know you to be Lord Julian Caldicott, and I hope you will accept a bank draft before you leave so I can consider this obligation to your brother fulfilled.”
“We haven’t been introduced, Wentworth. How can you vouch for my identity?”
He set the file aside. “One does not wish to give offense, but you enjoy a certain notoriety, my lord. The blue spectacles, the pale locks, the rumors of captivity and worse. London loves to talk, and bankers often profit by listening carefully.”
He was both delicate and direct. I liked Quinton Wentworth, which sentiment would doubtless appall him, and I grasped why Harry had chosen to rely on Wentworth’s discretion.
“In the course of your listening, did you ever hear mention that Harry had a child?”
“I did not, but then, I would not. I am not received, except by peers in need of credit. They tend to prefer a chance encounter on a quiet bridle path, followed by a meeting in the library of some accommodating friend of common birth. In desperate cases, I am invited to call upon solicitors who act for a party who must not be seen talking terms with me.”
He was telling me, with no shame whatsoever, that he was something of a pariah. “I am received reluctantly,” I said, “but only because nobody dares to offend my brother. You’re better off being valued for the service you can render and turning a coin or two off it. The great privilege of twirling down the room at Almack’s turns out to be more tedium than thrill.”
“I would not know.” A greater load of indifference was never carried by four words, and yet, I sensed he was curious about the goings-on at those subscription balls. Curious in the manner of a banker rather than a bachelor, but curious nonetheless.
“How much did Harry leave behind?”
Wentworth named a sum that frankly astonished me. “I invested the principal in the five-per-cent market, and thus we’ve seen some appreciation, though the interest and the disbursements kept pace for the first few years.”
“Disbursements?” Now we were getting somewhere, now that I’d admitted my own cool reception in Mayfair.
“His lordship instructed me more or less quarterly to disburse the interest in specie to a certain posting inn, to be held for receipt. His lordship apparently made other and further arrangements at the posting inn. I received no final instructions upon his lordship’s death, and thus I’ve held the money in trust, as per the terms of the account.”
“Which posting inn?” He did not have to tell me, and given that Harry had been gone for some time, the information wasn’t likely to gain me much.
“The Swan.”
“Which Swan?” Half the pubs that weren’t named The George were named The Swan.
“North of Hyde Park, along the Oxford road.”
A decent neighborhood, one any footman or undercook could frequent safely. “You’re certain of the amount?”
He smiled, a fleeting, piratical glint of amusement. “I lack confidence in God, king, fate, and human kindness, but of my numbers, I am certain. Will you accept a bank draft, my lord?”
“May I see Harry’s instructions?”
Wentworth leafed through the file and passed me a single page. Beneath paragraphs of tidy copperplate, I noted Harry’s slashing scrawl.
In the event of my death or protracted absence, such as that term may be interpreted by the bank officer signing below, I direct that any sums held in my name in this account be disbursed to either His Grace of Waltham or Lord Julian Caldicott, should they ask in person for same, to be put to whatever use the recipient deems best in the circumstances. To these directions, I do affix my hand and seal…
No mention of the child or of a woman. Thank you, Harry, for creating more questions than answers—again.
“Might we simply move the funds?” I asked. “From Harry’s name to mine? Leave them in the cent-per-cents for now. I have no idea what use is best in the circumstances, in part because the circumstances remain befuddling.”
Whatever direction Wentworth had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “You’re sure you don’t want to take the money with you?”
I rose, which had Wentworth on his feet as well. In a fair fight, I might make him work for victory, but I wasn’t at my best. He’d pummel me flat and show no mercy.
“It’s not my money. It’s Harry’s money, earned I know not how, though I suspect the purpose was to see to the child’s welfare.”
“But you don’t know that, my lord. You’re off to the Swan?”
I should be, but Atticus had been racketing about with me for hours, and the day was once again growing miserably hot.
“When the heat has eased, I will pay a call on the Swan.”
“Talk to the women,” Wentworth said. “Tell them a boy has been left orphaned. The proprietor will keep well away from the affairs of a lord, but the women might tell you something if you can look harmless enough.”
He extended a hand with perfectly manicured nails, and yet, his palms were calloused. I shook—the least courtesy I owed a fellow pariah—and he saw me to the mezzanine above his bank lobby. The place was busy in a pleasant sense, thriving ferns and ample skylights giving it an oddly genteel air.
I descended the steps, aware of Wentworth’s gaze upon me until I quit the establishment.
Atticus was loitering with the curricle in the shade, and I could see he was flagging. His temples were damp with sweat, and he was probably thirsty. I climbed aboard, unwrapped the reins, and passed him my flask.
“We’re for home,” I said as Atticus gulped away. “Get you out of the heat and put a few questions to my dear brother.”
“You still don’t know if the lad is your nephew?” Atticus asked, capping the flask and passing it back. “Does it really matter?”
“You, of all people, my boy, know that it does.”
He remained uncharacteristically quiet for the duration of the journey home, while I pondered the most important piece of information Wentworth had conveyed, despite all his posturing about confidentiality and discretion.
Throughout our discussion, I had not referred to Leander by name or gender. I’d used generic terms—the child, progeny, offspring—but Wentworth had referred to a boy left orphaned. I held the pieces of a larger puzzle than I’d known even a day ago. I was nonetheless certain that use of the more specific term from the likes of Quinton Wentworth had been intentional.
I was equally certain that Wentworth knew firsthand about the lot of orphaned boys, and his knowledge was bleak indeed.
I found Hyperia and Arthur in the back garden, a half-empty pitcher of lemonade between them. A plate adorned with a few breadcrumbs suggested they’d also enjoyed some sandwiches. Hyperia’s call was doubtless intended to distract Arthur from Banter’s absence, though I was pleased to see her on any occasion.
“I’ve had an interesting day thus far,” I said, sitting in a wrought-iron chair to remove my spurs. “We found a ledger of Harry’s, and that took us to a discreet establishment owned by Mrs. Bellassai.”
“Interesting woman,” was Arthur’s sole comment. He lifted his chin in the direction of the footman who’d appeared in the shade near the door. The fellow came forward to collect my spurs and hat.
“Lord Julian will want some sustenance,” Hyperia said, “and he’ll want to do justice to this lemonade, if you would please fetch another glass.”
“I’d also do justice to some meadow tea,” I said, glad to be rid of my hat, but keeping my spectacles on my nose. “Mrs. Gwinnett’s special recipe, if she has any made up.”
“Very good, my lord.” The footman bowed and withdrew.
“Was Mrs. Bellassai helpful?” Hyperia inquired, now that we were less likely to be overheard.
“She was.” I explained the role she’d played as Harry’s currency broker and all the questions raised by the coin Harry had traded in. “Some of the payments, according to Mrs. Bellassai, were made or collected at the behest of Harry’s superiors.”
Arthur’s jacket was unbuttoned, a concession to the afternoon heat and to his regard for Hyperia. “What sort of behest ? Official? Unofficial? Personal? I have never cared for behests in the general case.”
“Probably some blend of all three that those superiors would disavow to even their confessors.” Now that I was sitting in the shade, fatigue crashed over me like a phalanx of galloping French cavalry. “We need to do something with Dingle Court, Your Grace. Whoever tidied it up after Harry’s departure did so in haphazard fashion.”
“I never had need of it. When I decamp for the Continent, you can have the house done over, rented out, or sold. You will have my power of attorney to act for me in all regards.”
“Put Cheadle to the challenge,” Hyperia said. “He’ll relish a proper project. I’m surprised he hasn’t seen to it previously.”
Arthur glanced at the door. “Harry left in something of a hurry that year. Recalled to Spain on urgent business, or fleeing London for reasons he would not confide in me.”
“Or could not confide in you,” I murmured. “Or pretended he could not confide. Perhaps he was simply trying to put distance between himself and Lady Clarissa before her situation became the latest scandal.”
“Plausible.”
We suspended conversation upon the arrival of the footman with a tray. Mrs. Gwinnett had sent up a whole pitcher of her signature meadow tea (mostly mint, spent black tea leaves, a dash of honey, and I know not what else). She had also—bless her for all eternity—provided a tray of sandwiches, along with a dish of sliced pickles and a plate of cherry tarts.
“She spoils you rotten,” Arthur muttered when he’d dismissed the footman. “I get tepid lemonade sporting a bouquet of lavender and flowers. You get a feast. The tea is chilled, isn’t it?”
I took a sip. “Slightly, not enough to curdle the digestion. Please do help yourself.”
He tossed the garnish gracing his lemonade into the lavender border, swilled the dregs of his glass, and poured himself a full serving of meadow tea. “Miss West, some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Hyperia took a pickle instead. “Jules, what else did Mrs. Bellassai have to say?”
“She has no specific knowledge of Leander’s antecedents, but said Harry would not have taken up with an opera dancer. I agree with her. He was too wary of disease.”
“He certainly spent enough evenings at the opera,” Arthur observed. “One assumed…”
Hyperia helped herself to another pickle. “Harry probably wanted you and everybody else in polite society to assume , but Mrs. Bellassai’s perspective adds another sliver of doubt to Miss Hammerschmidt’s claim.”
“Doubt won’t matter to the penny press,” Arthur retorted. “I begin to fear that my travel plans will have to be moved back. How will it look if accusations against Harry come to the fore just as I’m leaving for extended travel? Those accusations redound to the discredit of the family, and that reflects upon me.”
Hyperia set the plate of tarts before Arthur. “Before we get to redounding and discrediting, you should both know that I made a pass through some of the better employment agencies. I was looking specifically for Mrs. Bleeker, Harry’s old housekeeper, or L. Fielding, the footman dispatched to Dingle Court that winter. I had no luck in either case, but I also asked after Miss Dujardin.”
I paused between my first and second half sandwiches. “In what regard?”
“She told you she’d been to the agencies when we went to pick up Leander for his outing with us. I was curious as to whether she sought employment as a governess, nurserymaid, companion… She’s quite well spoken, and she might long to be done with the whole drama surrounding her charge.”
“What sort of post is she seeking?” I asked.
“She isn’t seeking any post, at least not from the agencies where I inquired, but then, domestic work in Town this time of year isn’t plentiful. She might have been trying for the lesser strata—the cits and merchants who don’t leave London for the shires in summer. Different agencies serve different clientele. I can start on the more plebian establishments next, if you like.”
“We aren’t prying into the nursemaid’s affairs,” Arthur said. “If this Mrs. Bleeker kept house for Lord Harry Caldicott, she could look higher than cits and shopkeepers. I’m surprised the footman isn’t racketing about somewhere, too, though. He was in ducal service, and he’d be sought after for that reason alone.”
“Unless Harry turned him off without a character for snooping?” I was tired, and tired of Harry and his games. “Mrs. Bellassai sent me on to Harry’s banker.”
“What could the old fellows at Coutts have to add?” Arthur asked.
“Not a thing. Harry had entrusted some personal funds to Wentworth’s. I spoke with Mr. Wentworth himself, who is not an old fellow. Harry’s accounts included a small fortune from which he regularly directed Wentworth to make disbursements.”
“To Miss Hammerschmidt?” Hyperia posed the question with a shudder. “Please tell me that woman did not have her hooks into one of Wellington’s best spies.”
“Wentworth erred on the side of discretion, though by indirection, he offered confirmation of our suspicions. He believed Harry had a child—a son—and that the funds were to be used to look after the boy and his mother.” I further conveyed the banker’s suggestion that I speak to the women at the Swan.
“I keep some funds with Wentworth,” Arthur said when I’d finished my report. “He handles certain charitable matters for me.”
“Mrs. Bellassai entrusts her coin to him as well,” Hyperia said.
Both Arthur and I regarded her with masculine astonishment. In proper conversation—which this admittedly was not—Hyperia shouldn’t acknowledge that Mrs. Bellassai drew breath. That Hyperia knew where Mrs. Bellassai kept her money was beyond inexplicable.
“Don’t look at me like that. Mrs. Bellassai contributes generously to the foundling homes. I’ve had occasion to cross paths with her because I support the same ends. The charities won’t accept her money, so she relies on intermediaries to see to her donations. I am sufficiently dull and unremarkable that my donations are welcome anywhere.”
Arthur peered into his drink. “She relies on multiple intermediaries, apparently.”
Hyperia grinned and saluted with her glass. “Your secret is safe with me, Your Grace.”
“I am surrounded by intrigue.” I appropriated the plate of cherry tarts from their perilous location at Arthur’s elbow. “I don’t care for it. Your Grace is not to change any travel plans just yet. I will get to the bottom of Leander’s situation before heroic measures are called for. When we are finished here, I am off to the Swan to make further inquiries, unless you lot have other plans for me?”
“I’ve asked Miss West to look in on the nursery,” Arthur said, swiping two cherry tarts and rising. “A woman’s touch is in order, and I’m beginning to think the sooner we get that boy under this roof, the better all around.”
Hyperia took a tart as well. “And if Leander is not a Caldicott?”
The same question I would have posed.
“Mrs. Bellassai, Wentworth, the ledger book, Clarissa… Nobody has refuted the possibility that the boy is ours,” Arthur said. “I ask myself, what is the worst that can happen if we take him in, and he’s not Harry’s son? Miss Hammerschmidt can plague us for money like a drunken uncle on remittance. She can go to the press and malign us as a family. What else can she do?”
Hyperia stated the obvious, and did so gently. “She can take the boy, produce falsified baptismal records establishing her as his legal guardian—records she well knows how to procure—and hold him hostage or consign him to a very bad end.”
Arthur considered that possibility for the duration of one cherry tart. “Then Jules must collect the lad sooner rather than later. Drop in at the Swan, then relieve Mrs. Danforth of her unwanted guests. I am getting an itchy feeling about this whole business.”
He was eyeing the plate of tarts with larceny in his heart when a rock landed two yards down the walkway. I moved without thinking to put myself between Hyperia and the garden gate.
“Fetch the rock,” I said to Arthur, who merely raised a dark brow and, for once, did as he’d been instructed. “There’s a bloody note wrapped around the thing.” Rapidly retreating footsteps sounded in the alley, but I wasn’t about to quit my post.
“Language, Julian,” Hyperia murmured.
Arthur unwrapped a torn piece of foolscap from about a chipped chunk of brick. “Could have broken a window with this thing.”
“These matters abide by a certain protocol,” I said. “Breaking a window becomes destruction of property and is more likely to involve the authorities. The pickpocket or flower girl tasked with delivering the note waited until the grooms in the mews had their backs turned and voices were coming from the garden. The messenger would have accepted the task from some other ignorant third party, and pursuit would be pointless.”
Arthur frowned at the paper. “One shudders at the things you know. ‘Do right by the boy, and soon. Or else.’”
“I would not have thought Miss Hammerschmidt literate,” Hyperia said. “That has to be her way of forcing the matter.”
“She could have found a scribe in any tavern,” I replied, “if the note came from her. She also claimed to know her letters. Mrs. Danforth might have penned this as an indirect eviction notice.”
Hyperia took the paper from Arthur. “You’ll get jam on it, and now I have an itchy feeling too. Best fetch the boy, Jules.”
I wanted a wash first, and a nap. The nap was wishful thinking. “Let’s have a peek at the nursery. And we’ll need accommodations for Miss Dujardin too. Leander is attached to her, and as far as I know, she hasn’t taken another post yet.”
“I’ll see you at supper, then,” Arthur said, fishing a folded piece of vellum from his pocket. “Though this came for you by messenger. No reply needed, apparently. Miss West, good day.” He bowed, she curtseyed, and I read the note that hadn’t been hurled over the garden wall.
“Healy says I’m to look in on a certain Lieutenant Palmer at Horse Guards.” I passed Hyperia the note, which said only that.
“You put Healy up to chatting with his military chums?”
“The prospect of calling at Horse Guards holds little appeal.” I dreaded dealing with Horse Guards as deeply as I’d dreaded facing Arthur after Harry’s death, which was precisely why I’d delegated the visit to Horse Guards to Hyperia’s brother. “Waites served in India. I thought a few casual questions were worth asking. Somebody might recall a detail about Martha—her papa’s congregation, where she and Waites married, which cousin or sister she was returning to here in London. Even a maiden name might tell us a lot.”
“And Healy more or less flung the job back in your lap. Shall I have a word with him?”
I was hot, tired, and frustrated, but Horse Guards wasn’t the underworld. My fellow officers had had a year to call me out, insult me to my face, and otherwise make their opinions of me known. Some had been rude, others distant, and still others had doubtless slandered me in absentia.
None of which mattered when Leander’s situation was becoming urgent.
“I’ll call on this Palmer fellow,” I said. “Healy isn’t as well acquainted with the situation as I am, and asking a few questions won’t take me long.”
Hyperia looked like she wanted to argue, but she chose instead to trudge with me up through the stuffy house to the even stuffier third floor.
“For pity’s sake, let’s open some windows,” she said. “The whole building will thank us, and for that matter, the attic windows should be opened to create a draft from below.” She set about raising sashes and tying back curtains while I did likewise.
This nursery had not figured prominently in my childhood. My father and, more especially, my grandmother had believed that country air was healthier for growing children. London had been a mysterious, busy place where Papa and Her Grace disappeared to be even more important and grown up than they were at Caldicott Hall.
“Whose bear is that?” I asked, taking from the mantel a toy somebody had stitched together out of brown velvet.
“I made it for Leander,” Hyperia said. “The body is easy, but getting the head bear-shaped took some refining. The nose makes all the difference. I chose a bear because he already has a horse, and one needn’t bother with a mane and tail for a bear.”
The air stirred, bringing a hint of relief from the heat. Hyperia surveyed the appointments like a general looking over her gun placements the day before battle. We were in the playroom, which was abutted on one side by the nurserymaid’s chamber and on the other by a dormitory outfitted at present for a single child.
“He’ll be lonely here,” Hyperia said. “I don’t like to think of him being lonely.”
Neither did I. “Mrs. Bellassai struck me as lonely.” I hadn’t planned to say that, but to Hyperia, I could say almost anything. “She makes friends of her footmen, or something like it. She approves of Arthur, though I don’t think she held Harry in such high esteem.”
“My sentiments toward Lord Harry veer from ‘one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead’ to ‘the dead ought to have behaved better if they sought to merit unrelenting postmortem praise.’”
“I don’t know what Harry sought, other than to avoid becoming the duke.” I wanted to take Hyperia in my arms. The impulse was unexpected but, upon reflection, understandable. My efforts to solve the mystery of Leander’s origins were bearing all the wrong fruit—more questions, more riddles, more indications that Harry might have been up to no good.
In Hyperia’s embrace, I invariably found solace and joy, however fleetingly.
I had no sooner formed that thought than she delivered the sort of swift hug that could serve the same purpose as a whack to the back of the head.
“I want you to get to the bottom of Leander’s situation so you and the boy can both have some peace.” She stepped back when I wished she hadn’t. “Carry on, Jules. I’ll have the housekeeper make up the governess’s quarters for Miss Dujardin. Please do let me know when you have the child settled. You might also consider grabbing a nap. You’re looking a bit peaky. No need to see me out.”
She patted my chest, passed me the bear, and swanned off, though I ought to have escorted her to the front door. I sat on the toy chest that doubtless held some relics of my past—and Harry’s. The family crest had been carved into the lid, which was ridiculous.
I would not nap, but I would take a few minutes to sort through the day’s events. Not the Harry- has-created-a mess part, but the how-is-Julian-holding-up part. I was learning to avoid the forced marches and feats of stamina I’d taken for granted in Spain.
I was still far too easily overtaxed, and I did not recover from excessive exertion anywhere near as quickly as I once had. So I perched on the toy box and mentally prepared to pay a call at Horse Guards—heaven defend me—then drop in at the Swan, and finish my sortie with a surprise raid on Mrs. Danforth’s citadel of violent, grudging charity.
I wasn’t looking forward to any of those tasks, and yet, the day had held a gift for me too.
“There’s hope,” I said to the room at large and to the stuffed bear in my hands. “Mrs. Bellassai says with time and love, there’s hope, and she likely knows of what she speaks.”
I put the bear on the mantel, offered him a slight bow, and went off to find soap, water, and fresh linen.