Page 8 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
Chapter Four
“Jules, are you well?” Hyperia whispered those words near my ear, and I made the monumental effort to turn loose of her, but kept hold of her hand.
“I am infinitely improved for being able to behold you, Perry. I take it my note arrived?”
“Delivered this morning. The weather is fine, and I knew you’d make good time up from the Hall. God bless a trustworthy pigeon. Shall we sit?”
The sound of her voice, the quiet of her presence, that soft rosy scent…
They soothed me, and only then did I admit that my nerves were more ragged than I’d realized, which made little sense.
MacNamara’s investigation might turn out to be nothing more than a young lady seeking diversion.
Nobody at the Hall or in the greater Caldicott family was ill, and my intended was in charity with me.
“The weather is fine, but growing hot,” I said as I seated Hyperia on the sofa and took the place beside her, “as it does with the approach of June. Leander is a good traveler, and traffic wasn’t too awful.”
“Haying keeps people in the country at this time of year. Have you begun at the Hall?”
I linked my fingers with hers. We were engaged, hence the blessed absence of a chaperone.
“We aren’t quite ready for haying, but might we please not talk of things agrarian? The topic is as inexhaustible as it is dull. How are you? Is your brother behaving?”
Healy West was a young man who had yet to find his feet, as the saying went.
He nonetheless considered himself the head of his family and exerted authority over Hyperia’s funds.
This was unfortunate, because Healy was a stranger to financial discipline.
He’d been a poor steward of his family’s resources, and luck alone had kept some of his wilder schemes from landing him in debtors’ prison—thus far.
Well, luck and Hyperia’s unceasing vigilance, abetted on occasion by my own humble efforts.
“Healy has finished drafting his second play, and he’s begun a third. They are related, like an anthology of books, which he believes will make them more popular. The rake will be redeemed in the third play and so forth. I don’t want to talk about Healy.”
“Right. Inexhaustible and dull. How are you?”
She had taken off her bonnet. Bonnets in the usual course were designed to keep a man from seeing a lady’s face if she didn’t want him looking at her. I could watch Hyperia by the hour and still not guess all the thoughts whirling behind her calm green eyes.
“I am bored,” she said. “I accept the appropriate invitations and sit among the dowagers and gouty uncles. I like them, for the most part. They enjoy wickedly naughty humor and don’t put on airs, but I would rather be at home reading a good book or, better still, beating you at cribbage.”
She was up a mere two games in our ongoing tournament. “Perhaps I can alleviate your boredom to a minor degree. I’ve become involved in another investigation, Perry, and that is my nominal excuse for coming to Town.”
“You did not come just to show Leander the sights?”
“I came to see you, first, and to investigate a revelation that has me reeling.” Her Grace had seen the truth—I was morally and constitutionally incapable of ignoring a brother missing in action.
“Atticus let slip that he has, or had, a male sibling. They were put on the parish together, but the brother was farmed out to some establishment in Chelsea. They might well be twins. Atticus says the headmaster could not tell them apart.”
Hyperia paused while fixing my tea. “Baby farming does not often end well for the baby, Jules.”
Baby farming—sending infants from urban poorhouses to foster in the cleaner air of the countryside—was notoriously dangerous for the infants involved.
“Tom was three or four when he went to the country, which should have given him a better chance of survival than a smaller child would have had. Atticus describes him as mischievous, which I will interpret as resourceful. Atticus is certainly quick-witted.”
A footman rapped on the jamb of the open door.
“I ordered a tray,” Hyperia said. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“I ordered one too. I am hungry, now that you mention it.” Famished and thirsty. I’d partaken sparingly of the hamper in the coach, mindful that both Leander and Miss Hunter needed sustenance. I’d also been mentally preoccupied for the entire distance.
“Dodds, isn’t it?” I asked the fellow as he pushed a tea cart into the parlor. He was blond, ruddy, and six feet if he was an inch.
“Aye, milord. I answer to Yorkshire belowstairs, but Dodds is my surname.”
He was well spoken for a footman, though the Dales accent was undeniable. “Please thank Cook for this lavish spread and let her know that supper will be early. We’ll keep country hours while we bide here, and a simple menu will do.”
“I’ll tell her, milord, but she was off to market the instant the pigeon landed. She went muttering about fricassee of this and à la francaise that. Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you. Well, yes. If you could pay a call on the nursery. Miss Hunter and her charge might need a snack. Let her know that your escort is available if she and Master Leander would like to visit the park.”
He brightened considerably. “I’ll do that, milord. I will be happy to do just that, and on such a fine day too.” He departed with a bow and a jaunty step.
“Somebody wants a bit of fresh air,” Hyperia said, passing over my tea. “From Yorkshire to London must be quite an adjustment. You pour out for me. I’ll make up the plates.”
I adored this sort of informality as much as I adored Hyperia’s bottomless store of common sense. She steadied me and occasionally brought me up short. I hoped I provided her the same sort of ballast against life’s challenges.
She passed me a heaping plate while I drizzled honey into her cup.
“I know what you’re about, Julian. You are trying to tell yourself that hope where Tom is concerned is justified, but hope doesn’t really come into it, does it? This goes back to Harry.”
Her tone said that the whole subject of Harry was a bit tiresome, and that was all too true.
“I have to try, Hyperia. If I can’t find the boy, I can at least find the truth.” The tea was strong, hot, and sweet, but the best tonic was Hyperia’s company.
“Because you never saw Harry’s body, never saw his grave. Has it occurred to you to look for his final resting place?”
“Not if I have to return to France to do it.” I did not like to hear French spoken, though French was as much my native tongue as English.
I did not like to read in French, or to recollect my travels in France.
That Arthur might one day bide there made me uneasy, but his liaison with Banter was not a crime in France, while it was a hanging felony in England.
One deceased brother was one too many.
“If you did decide to return to France,” Hyperia said, “I’d go with you, assuming Lady Ophelia was willing to join the expedition.”
Why not assume we’d be married before embarking on such a journey? “Let’s consign France to the conversational midden, along with haying and Healy. Let me tell you about this investigation, though it might turn out to be so much foolishness.”
We demolished sandwiches, tarts, cherries, and slices of buttered gingerbread—truly, I had been famished—and I gave Hyperia my report on the situation with Miss Hannah Stadler.
“I’m casting around for a motive,” I said, finishing my second slice of gingerbread.
“The Stadlers are not magnificently wealthy, Miss Hannah never interfered with another young lady’s marital aspirations, and MacNamara describes her as a paragon of good sense.
Why would somebody snatch her away? Mightn’t she simply be enjoying the sea air? ”
“You have eliminated ransom, revenge, and romance as motives, but where are your facts, Julian? How many times have you told me that a reconnaissance officer first assembled observations without spinning any theories, and when he had a heap of evidence, only then did he begin to conjecture about its significance.”
I stopped in mid-reach for a third slice of gingerbread. “You are absolutely, humblingly correct. I know little of Miss Stadler’s true situation.”
“And you’ve forgotten about the Stadler hoard.”
“Good heavens. Do tell.”
“A trove of ancient Irish gold came into the family at some point, shrouded in antiquity. The pieces might have been originally acquired by some old Roman, or they might have dated much earlier. Little is known of their provenance. Less is known about how the Stadlers acquired them. ‘By marriage’ is the tale of record. The few pieces I’ve seen are gorgeous, Jules.
The gold glows. It’s said other pieces were melted down to reset precious gems, and still others are beautiful but barbaric.
They would be worth a fortune, if you knew a discreet goldsmith. ”
“Are we certain this treasure still exists? The Stadlers have fired off three daughters already.”
Hyperia poured me more tea. “And none of them married all that well, did she? A baron or a knight, possibly a baronet or a pair of Honorables, or…” She set down the pot. “A mercer’s son? The details are vague, but those are not the sort of matches that require ancient torques and golden bracelets.”
“Perhaps they were love matches. I am a great fan of the love match, myself.”
She peered into her empty tea cup. “Now you flirt. Now that you’ve put this puzzle before me. I know the heir, Strother, in passing. He is singularly forgettable. Perhaps the jewels are being held in reserve to attract him a suitable wife.”
“These jewels shed a very different light on the entire business. I suspect MacNamara has no knowledge of them. Tell me more about Strother.”
We ended up strolling in the garden, where the duchess’s roses were in glorious bloom. Hyperia’s report filled in some blanks, raised new questions, and gave me an excuse to walk arm in arm with her in the afternoon sunshine.