Page 18 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
He shoved himself upright. “Yes, miss.” He winked at me and departed, probably grateful to have something to do.
Hyperia had her arms around me the instant the door was closed. “I worried about you.”
“I worried about Miss Stadler. She’s well-liked, though, Perry. If anybody had seen anything—a lady wearing a bonnet similar to the ones Miss Stadler favors, a parasol in her favorite colors—they would have mentioned it. Her absence at services was doubtless noticed as well.”
To hold Hyperia was the true moment of homecoming for me.
I loved the Hall. Some part of my heart was claimed by my home and always would be, but Hyperia had become a part of my soul.
I thought better when I was with her, I felt stronger, and I could look more easily forward and less compulsively dwell on the past.
“Mrs. Ellington is worried about Hannah too.” Hyperia straightened in my arms and looked up at me.
“Out with it.” Clearly, she had sensitive information to pass along.
“As the captain was fetching his hat and coat, Mrs. Ellington told me that it was unlike Hannah to keep a book past its due date, but she failed to turn in The Wanderer , Mrs. Burney’s latest. Mrs. Ellington didn’t plan to chide Hannah because Hannah technically owns the whole collection, but for Hannah to keep the book and miss services was worrying. ”
“And Mrs. Ellington informed you of this out of the captain’s hearing. Have you told him?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll mention it,” I said, breathing in roses and fortitude. “Does this development scotch any notion that Hannah had herself kidnapped?”
“It… does.” Hyperia slipped free of my embrace. “Hannah Stadler would never have borrowed a book she hadn’t any intention of returning. She simply would not.”
“Not even to make her abduction more credible?”
“Ask the captain. He knows her best, but we can both guess what he might say.”
We could.
A tap on the door heralded my mother’s arrival.
“Your Grace.” I bowed, though we’d greeted each other upon my return to the Hall a few hours earlier.
“An express for you, Julian. From Lady Ophelia.” Her Grace handed me a single sheet of paper, folded and sealed. “I recognize her handwriting. Is the captain’s limp worse, or am I imagining things?”
“He’s worse,” Hyperia said. “I recommended comfrey compresses, but he needs that French physician Julian consults.”
“Monsieur St. Sevier.” The duchess closed the door. “He is cordially received and always a credit to the guest list. Julian, have you received bad news?”
I scanned the letter, which was written in tidy, flowing script. “Not good news. I do believe it’s time for another interview with the Honorable Strother Stadler.”
By return express, I asked Lady Ophelia to acquaint herself with Sylvester Downing’s whereabouts and recent movements. The London Season would soon be ending, but for now, her networks of informants should still be in operation.
I also sent a note to Pleasant View begging the favor of an appointment with Strother Stadler on Tuesday afternoon at two of the clock.
If he penned me a demurral, I could credibly claim to have missed it, given that I would spend tomorrow—Monday—locating Dabney Witherspoon.
I wanted to rule out a repeat of Hannah’s previous disappearing act, and if Mrs. Witherspoon could offer more information besides, so much the better.
An investigation often turned on details easily overlooked but significant in hindsight. Mrs. Witherspoon might be in possession of such details.
Monday morning, I set out on Beowulf, my brother Arthur’s majestic gelding. Bey was an altogether grander creature than Atlas. His coat gleamed in the morning sun, his reflexes were lightning-fast, and he stood an inch or so taller than Atlas.
The grooms considered keeping Beowulf in good condition a sacred trust. Before I left the stable yard, I was admonished to have a care with the footing, to mind the beast didn’t toss me off, and to recall that horses needed plenty of water in warm weather.
Leander on his pony was never given so much well-intended, annoying advice.
The trip to Mrs. Witherspoon’s took a couple of hours and found Beowulf barely settled for having exerted himself to that degree. He missed Arthur, clearly, and tolerated my company as a duty rather than a pleasure.
One sympathized with the horse. I missed His Grace as well.
I reached Mrs. Witherspoon’s cottage, a lovely stone edifice of two and a half stories, eight windows across, and a wide front porch freshly coated with white paint. A wizened stable lad took Beowulf’s reins from me and ran an appreciative eye over the horse.
“That be the Dook of Waltham’s personal mount.” His tone said I would be strung up for horse thievery unless I produced an immediate explanation.
“I am the duke’s personal brother. Lord Julian Caldicott, at your service. Beowulf will appreciate having his gear off for the next hour or so, assuming that Mrs. Witherspoon is in. Grass and water wouldn’t go amiss either. His ground manners are impeccable.”
The old man grinned. “Unless he don’t like ’ee. Then he’ll pinch yer sleeve and mash yer toes, all accidental-like. Come along, Yer Grace. Old Deevers knows a patch of clover fit for a king.”
They walked off quite in charity with each other, leaving me weary and a little envious.
I rapped the lion’s head knocker on Mrs. Witherspoon’s bright red front door. Potted geraniums of the same hue adorned the edge of her porch, and window boxes on the first floor continued the theme.
All very tidy and attractive. I was preparing to rap yet again—the hour was not quite late enough that anybody should be sitting down to lunch—when a lady came around the side of the house.
She wore a wide-brimmed floppy straw hat, a walking dress that had seen better days, and a positively disreputable pair of large York tan gloves.
“Sir, might I help you?” She had a pleasant alto voice, and if she was intimidated by six-feet-plus of a strange fellow wearing blue specs, her voice did not betray her worry. Her features were obscured by a light gray veil dropped from the hat brim.
I came down the steps, tipped my hat, and bowed. “Lord Julian Caldicott, paying a call on Mrs. Dabney Witherspoon.”
“I am Mrs. Witherspoon. What possible interest could a duke’s brother have in me?” The question held only mild curiosity.
“Might we converse somewhere not so bright? The sun is hard on my eyes, and my tale might take some telling. I realize I’m presuming when we haven’t been properly introduced, but I can explain the lapse in manners.
” Moreover, a certain part of my anatomy would not object to making the close acquaintance of a deeply cushioned chair.
“Of course. I daresay you could do with a spot of sustenance as well, and Cook always prepares enough for the whole choir. The staff lets nothing go to waste, and thus they have the same fare as is served abovestairs. A fine system.”
To which she objected not at all, though some ladies would consider that system wasteful and indulgent.
We reached the blessedly shadowed foyer of her little castle, and she removed her gloves, then held out a hand for my hat and spurs.
To remove my spurs, I sat on a rush-bottomed chair in the foyer, one likely put there for the purpose.
The space was perhaps eight feet square, with a sideboard, a row of pegs for hats, parasols, and the like, and the chair I occupied.
The floor was gleaming polished oak, and light came in through two windows flanking the door.
I was in a farmhouse. A grand, lovely farmhouse, but not the sort of surrounds one would expect a viscount’s daughter to consider a commodious retreat.
When I passed my spurs to the lady, I got a shock.
Mrs. Witherspoon had removed her veiled hat and revealed herself to be beautiful.
Dark hair was knotted in a heavy chignon at her nape.
Her features were classically lovely. Pale complexion, perfectly arched brows, high forehead, delicate jaw, and high cheekbones.
The only discordant note in the whole portrait was a wide mouth and full lips that might have once been prone to smiles.
She was beautiful and lovely. That she racketed about in old clothes and a worn pair of men’s gloves suggested she’d escaped the curse of vanity.
“Come this way,” Mrs. Witherspoon said, starting down the corridor. “We’ll dine in the breakfast parlor, though I’m afraid it’s designed to be bright. If you’d like to freshen up, the guest room at the top of the steps is kept in readiness for company.”
I took her up on that gracious offer. I washed my face and hands, held a cold cloth to the back of my neck, and longed to get out of my boots. I settled for giving them a light dusting with the damp cloth, dragged a pocket comb through my hair, and hoped I qualified as presentable.
When I returned to my hostess, she was closing the drapes along the row of east-facing windows typical of most breakfast parlors.
“My eyes thank you.” I’d removed my spectacles and wasn’t in a hurry to put them back on. “I would not want to put your kitchen to any trouble. If a guest is an imposition, I can simply keep you company at the table.”
“You are famished, or you should be. If you’ve ridden the distance from Caldicott Hall, a fellow your size could put period to the whole buffet and consider it a snack.
” She finished with the drapes. “My husband was nearly as tall as you and carried more muscle. He ate prodigious amounts before he fell ill.”
“You have me at a loss, ma’am. Are condolences in order?” Why hadn’t anybody told me she was a widow? But then, if Hannah Stadler had sought refuge with a school friend, a widow’s home would be the ideal retreat.
“Condolences are in order. We were a love match, which is the polite term for a mésalliance. You probably know the particulars but are too well-mannered to allude to them.”