“I tell you, Julian, a houndsman on the subject of pedigrees, begats, and bloodline is the lexicographer’s definition of a person gripped by an obsession. The turf fanatics and the Mayfair matchmakers pale by comparison.” Osgood Banter raised the curtain on the coach window and surveyed the passing countryside. “Once talk of sires and dams starts up with dear cousin Nax, all hope of pleasant conversion is lost.”
We were enroute from London to the wilds of Sussex, where Banter’s cousin-by-marriage, Anaximander Silforth, had apparently got into a spot of bother over a missing canine. I did not ride to hounds, was no fancier of the racetrack, and was blessedly beyond the notice of Mayfair hostesses, despite my brother’s ducal title.
I’d simply wanted an excuse to quit London, and Banter’s cousin had provided it. “My job is to find the dog?”
“Anaximander might prefer the term hound. Thales was not yet standing at stud.”
“Does Silforth name his children after philosophers as well?”
The coach hit a deep rut and I again cursed myself for not making the journey on horseback. My mount, Atlas, was up to the distance, but my eyes were not up to the bright sunshine of an English summer day—just one of many disabilities bequeathed to me by my years in the military. At least I could to some extent protect my eyesight with blue-tinted spectacles.
“The girls are named after goddesses,” Banter said, “Kings for the lads. Those were Lizzie’s choices and in this, at least, Silforth has not seen fit to gainsay his wife. Makes me glad I’m a solid, unassuming Osgood.”
Osgood was not particularly solid. He tended more to lankiness, and his features bore a certain elfin fineness. Merry eyes, ready smile, slightly pointed chin, and brows that arched to give him a quizzical air. He was fashionable, witty, and nobody’s fool.
Also my brother’s lover.
Awareness of Arthur’s relationship with Banter had come upon me as one of those insights all but obvious in hindsight. Arthur, His Grace of Waltham, had friends, but no lady friends of the sort dukes are expected to maintain on quiet streets on the edges of elegant neighborhoods. Arthur socialized as befit his station, but he also ruralized far more than most peers.
Growing up, I’d believed Arthur isolated by the expectations weighing upon him, but more than a mere dukedom had set my brother apart. He and Banter were planning a version of a grand tour on the Continent, though I doubted little sightseeing would occur until a good month into the journey.
But first, this business with the missing Thales must be resolved.
“What’s so special about this beast?” I asked, when the coach was racketing along once again.
“Nax bred Thales himself, and knows the bloodlines back into doggy antiquity. Thales is a handsome specimen, big for a foxhound, and apparently has the stamina of a Spartan and an oracular nose. If Thales says Reynard headed for the river, that’s as good as holy writ for the rest of the pack.”
“Do you ride to hounds?” The Banter family estate was a pleasant hour’s ride from Caldicott Hall. By rural reckoning, that made us neighbors. Banter was five years my senior, however, and thus we’d not moved in the same circles. Then too, Banter had not served in uniform.
“I was made to join the hunt, of course. Papa expected his sons to trot dutifully in his footsteps. Don’t care for it myself. You?”
Clearly, the topic was sensitive. “I suppose it can be whacking good fun to get tipsy and gallop hellbent across the countryside. But was about twelve years old when I realized that the hunt often galloped over land that wasn’t yet frozen. Late in the season, they even took a few shortcuts over tilled fields, and even my late father found that arrogance to be the outside of too much.”
“But could a tenant say,” Banter murmured, “when it’s his own landlord riding roughshod over the turnips, and the landlord’s brother sits as magistrate?”
My sympathies were not with the turnips, though I well knew the value of a winter crop. My sympathy was honestly with the fox, who was generally engaged in nothing more criminal than trying to
feed her family. True, a poorly maintained henhouse was a temptation no self-respecting fox would resist, but foxes also kept rabbits, rats, voles, and other garden plagues in check. The fox, along with the struggling yeomanry, were in my opinion, cruelly tried by what the squires deemed good sport.
Let the jolly squires run for their lives, let them scrabble for survival on the freezing slopes of the Pyrenees, let them learn to fear their fellow man as most of nature must fear humankind, and see how sporting the whole riding to hounds business looked then.
Assuming the good squires survived the experiment.
“Might we conclude that your cousin’s prize hound has simply gone on his own grand tour?” I asked.
“Everybody in the area knows Thales on sight,” Banter replied. “His portrait hangs in Nax’s formal parlor, and he is the envy of the nearby hunts. If Thales was out courting—or running riot—somebody would have recognized him.”
Oh, not necessarily. Dogs and children when at liberty were likely to cast off their drawing room deportment. After a day in the wild, Thales might well have acquired a thicket of burrs, mud on his coat up to his belly, and a few nips and cuts from his adventures.
My appearance had certainly changed as a result of my adventures in uniform. My once chestnut locks had turned white, and were only recently showing signs of regaining some color. My manly physique, which I’d been proud to call trim had, become gaunt. In terms of stamina, I had dwindled to a pathetic shadow of the tough, tireless soldier I’d been.
Though as to that, the war was over, and what manner of fool disdains a pleasant nap for the sake of vanity?
My instincts though, honed as a reconnaissance officer serving under Wellington, were as sharp as ever—mostly.
“What aren’t you telling me, Banter? You came up to Town personally to fetch me, or to inveigle me into coming back with you if I’d been reluctant. You might have sent me on ahead while you tarried with Arthur, but you’re galloping back to the scene of the hound’s last known whereabouts. What about the situation has you worried?”
The coach slowed and swung through a right turn, suggesting we’d passed the gateposts to the Banter family seat.
“Arthur has the same intuition about what’s not being said,” Banter replied. “He drove his tutors batty with it at university. Your late brother Harry was a canny sort too. His Grace keeps his own counsel more these days, but I’ve learned not to underestimate him.”
“As have I, and you are prevaricating.” The last thing I needed or wanted was to waste a fortnight untangling some Banter family drama that had only marginally to do with a missing canine. I disliked London, true, but I had much to learn before Arthur took ship if I was to hold the reins of the Waltham duchy in his absence.
I was happiest at Caldicott Hall, and at the Hall I would bide when this lost dog situation was resolved.
“I’m worried,” Banter said. “You’re right about that, but as to why… Lizzie and I were close growing up, though she’s a few years my elder. There was talk of us marrying at one point. Nax would never let on if he suspected foul play, but if he learns that Thales has been done a mischief, he might… react badly.”
“Violently?”
“He does have a temper, and Thales is very, very dear to him.”
My objective became somewhat clearer: Find the dog, or find a harmless explanation for his absence, before dear Cousin Nax turned the whole situation into a bloody, criminal mess.
As a youth, I had been dragooned to a few functions at Bloomfield, the Banter ancestral enclave. I had been the awkward sprig more interested in the punch bowl and the talk in the men’s retiring room than in standing up with any wallflowers.
They, bless them, had stood up with me anyway, and my dancing had gradually become acceptable. I’d learned to hold my liquor as well, though in recent years I’d become nearly abstemious where strong spirits were concerned. Another legacy of my army days.
“I’ve asked Nax and Lizzy to mind the place in my absence,” Banter said. “Keep Mama company when she’s of a mind to bide here, look in on the tenants, send me the occasional cheerful dispatch. I will miss the place.”
“I missed Caldicott Hall ferociously when I was in Spain.” When I’d been held as a captive in France, the thought of the Hall had been a beacon of beauty in the midst of a nightmare. “The lime alley haunted me. The vibrant green of spring, the luminous gold of autumn, the bare, bleak branches of winter.” I’d wept when I’d beheld my home’s sylvan sentries again, and I had vowed I would never take that prosaic aspect of my birthplace for granted.
“Arthur has always claimed there’s something of the Druid in you. Calls you a throwback. The Caldicott lime alley is very impressive.”
Banter could not possibly understand what parallel rows of 400-year-old hardwoods meant to me. The goodness of home, the bastion of English honor, the benevolence of earth, and eons of history were all embodied in those stately trees.
Bloomfield was set off by a few maples, but it occupied its slight rise in otherwise solitary splendor. A low fountain ringed in red, white, and blue salvia formed the center of the circular driveway, and more potted salvia graced the portico. The house itself was the predictable whitewashed Greek revival—Ionic columns, red shutters, a massive door painted bright blue, and a frieze of some half-naked charioteer ornamenting the entablature.
The house exuded settled, prosperous propriety. A few graces, but no unseemly airs. More of an edifice than a refuge.
“You have fond memories of this place?” I asked as the coach slowed on the approach to the fountain.
“Oh, a few. I grew up here. My mother still spends a lot of time here when London is quiet. We host the extended family gatherings, and those are always pleasant occasions.”
Not a ringing endorsement. “Who will inherit if you leave no legitimate issue?” Legitimate issue for my ducal brother and me was a delicate subject for different reasons. No Damocletian title hung over Osgood’s head, but his family—and he—had substantial wealth.
Banter tapped his hat onto his head. “The questions you ask, my lord…”
“I have seen a boy half your age felled by an infected blister.” Simmons had been a printer’s apprentice who’d taken the king’s shilling simply for the prospect of regular meals and fewer beatings. The lad had sung like a nightingale and had known bawdy verses without limit.
The nightingale had been silenced by ill-fitting boots, and his own determination not to yield to ignoble suffering. He’d begged for a bullet in the end.
“Lizzy will inherit, as it happens,” Banter said as the coach rocked to a halt. “Papa broke the entail when I was one and twenty. He understood that old-fashioned strictures were losing their place in this modern world. If anything happens to me, the whole business will be held in trust for Lizzie, and Arthur is my trustee of choice, followed by your lovely self.”
In some regards, I had thrived in the military. I was an excellent scout and tracker, and had learned to live off the land and leave little evidence of my passing.
I had occasionally been tempted to desert, to get blind drunk, to do every stupid thing done by every imbecilic officer since some poor sod on guard duty had welcomed a wooden horse through the gates of Troy. The impetus of my temptation had invariably been a superior ordering me to undertake a mission I was not suited for and could not complete successfully.
“Banter, you should have asked before putting me within twenty yards of any trusteeship. Many sensible people think me less than honorable and barely competent.”
“So your eyesight is a bit dodgy, and you can be forgetful. We all have our little foibles.”
My eyes were improving, but my memory was prone to complete, albeit temporary, collapses. My reputation was in a worse state yet.
“I have no wish to take on the management of Bloomfield if you should be lost to some tragedy at sea.”
A footman opened the coach door and set down the steps. I retrieved my hat from the forward bench and donned my blue-tinted spectacles. By order of precedence, I had to leave the coach first, but I dreaded the late afternoon sunshine. The first few moments in brighter surrounds were… difficult.
I got down, and stared at the shadow cast by the coach. Not the white facade, not the blue and white celestial canvas arching above. Shadows and darkness, such as they were to be had, were my closest allies.
Banter emerged, and blast the man, he looked as if he’d just rolled through a few fashionable London streets and was ready for supper at the club. I, by contrast, felt as if I’d spent the day wrangling artillery mules across desert terrain under a broiling Spanish sun.
“If I meet my end in a shipwreck,” Banter said, “His Grace will likely make Neptune’s acquaintance at the same time. You will become the next Duke of Waltham, in which case, you will have minions, supernumeraries, and familiars without limit. Nax will manage Bloomfield, and as the property’s trustee, you will invite him to dine occasionally to pass along the financials. With you looking over his shoulder, he won’t dare bankrupt the place with his hunters and ha-has.”
“He’d do that?”
“You have no idea how costly one hunt ball can be, my dear. Not the faintest glimmer of an imagining. Ah, behold, my darling cousin.”
A statuesque blond with morning glory blue eyes swanned down the steps.
“Osgood, you came back.” The lady—Lizzie Silforth, I presumed—threw her arms around him as if he’d been exploring darkest Peru, not merely popping up to Town. “I wasn’t sure you would. Don’t think ill of me, but I am so very glad to see you.” She gave him a hearty squeeze, which he returned, and I abruptly missed my sisters.
Substantial women, all happily married and engaged in the business of raising nieces and nephews whom I hardly knew.
“You must be Lord Julian,” she said, turning loose of Osgood. “We do not stand on ceremony here at Bloomfield, though I’m sure I’ve appalled you with my lack of decorum. The children do love their Cousin Osgood and he did promise to return.” She caught the coachman’s eye, waved a hand, and the carriage rolled away. “Osgood, some belated introductions of you please.”
“Oh, right. Mrs. Elizabeth Silforth, might I make known to you Lord Julian Caldicott? Lord Julian spent some years preventing Wellington’s worst blunders, else I’m sure you two would have met at some Bloomfield Christmas do or other. My lord, may I present the most wonderful cousin a fellow ever had?”
We jaunted through the protocol, and then Lizzie took us each by an arm and escorted us up the steps. My first impression of her—a woman very much at home in her surroundings, and competent to run a regiment—was borne up by the substantial tray awaiting us in the family parlor.
The offerings included lemonade, as well as meadow tea, hot China black, and chilled sangria. She’d either bothered to send to the Hall to learn my preferences, or her hospitality was routinely generous. The comestibles included a cold ham and cheese quiche, butter biscuits, and sliced peaches, as well as peach jam tarts.
My imagination mused upon what Lizzie might serve at a grand ball. Peaches were dear, to say the least.
The family parlor was decorated as family parlors often are, with portraits. A painting of a younger version of Lizzie, same blue eyes, face a bit thinner, hair in a youthful coronet, hung over the mantel. A platoon of offspring, some in dresses, some old enough to sit for a sketch, decorated the walls. Puppies and foals were represented in equal numbers, giving the place the feel of a nursery rather than a parlor.
The carpet and curtains were a slightly faded blue, the arms of the sofa a bit worn, but open French doors brought in a fresh breeze, and the sideboard boasted a bouquet of blue hydrangeas. The room was bright enough that I kept my specs upon my nose.
I appeased the worst of my hunger and thirst, and we parsed through which acquaintances we might have in common. For better or for worse, everybody knew my godmother, Lady Ophelia Oliphant, and that had proven true in Lizze’s case as well.
When that quadrille had been endured, I moved onto the matter at hand. “Tell me about Thales. I don’t suppose there have been any sightings?”
Lizzie’s gaze went to the vista framed by the French doors. Beyond the terrace and formal garden, Sussex in all its late summer glory rolled to the horizon. Halfway across the park sat a small lake—an ice pond, perhaps—where two loud boys were trying their luck with fishing poles. What I took to be a tutor and a governess supervised, and I was surprised that the sketches on the walls didn’t include more scenes such as this.
Children being children, and having a jolly good time doing it.
“Thales is Nax’s pride and joy,” Lizze said. “Canine perfection, the apotheosis of the foxhound, the result of years of careful breeding and expert training. He’s been gone for several days, and Nax is nearly mad with worry.”
If there was a domestic creature adapted to surviving on his own in the English summer countryside, that would be the average dog. Thales was not average, but I doubted the dog-sense and had been entirely bred out of him.
“How much rain have you had in the past four days?” I asked.
Lizzie’s golden brows drew down. “Rain?”
“Lord Julian is a tracker,” Osgood said around a mouthful of biscuit. “Rain obliterates tracks.”
Not always, nor did it necessarily wash away scent.
“No rain recently,” Lizzie said. “We need the dry weather for harvest, and heaven is apparently obliging.”
A bit of damned good luck. “Excellent.” I stood, my previous fatigue disappearing like a dawn mist. “If somebody will direct me to the kennels, I’ll start there.”
“Can’t miss ’em,” Osgood replied, reaching for another biscuit. “Out the northern side door—just up the corridor—and go straight until you come to the T. Turn west and you’ll soon hear the barking. Supper’s at seven, but I know how you get when you’re sleuthing.”
I was happy to leave Banter demolishing the peach tarts and happier still to be moving. Coach travel, while tiring, left me restless and anxious. I had come home from Waterloo about twelve months ago, depleted in body and spirit. I lived with the sense that too much inactivity, too much brooding, and I could find myself back in a place of lethargy and despair.
Much of polite society likely wished me there, but their opinions mattered to me less and less.
I gained the fresh air, took the indicated path, and came to the T. Rather than make for the kennels, I paused to take in Bloomfield’s western facade. Stately, severe, leavened with yet more of the ubiquitous potted salvia, and somewhat in want of personality.
Caldicott Hall was much prettier.
I turned for the kennel just as two people emerged onto the back terrace—Osgood and Lizzie. They walked to the balustrade, and appeared to be in close conversation, until Lizzie once again seized Osgood in a hug.
This embrace was different, having something of desperation about it. Osgood’s reciprocal embrace was also different, and not in a good way. If I had to characterize his attitude, based on his cheek resting against her hair, his hand moving gently on her back, I’d have said that Osgood was a man in despair.
Either Lizzie still had feelings for Osgood that fell shockingly beyond the cousinly range, or she was very, very deeply concerned over her husband’s lost dog.
Perhaps both.
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