Page 6 of The Incident at Ingleton (Beau Monde Secrets #3)

W hen he arrived at Selwyn Castle, Walter’s plan was simple. He intended to interview Neville Butler, decide whether the curate warranted further investigation, and if not, go back home. He’d imagined that he’d be in and out of Ingleton in less than a week.

More than a fortnight later, if someone asked Walter why he lingered near Ingleton, he would be hard-pressed to explain himself. At best, he would have said that he enjoyed spending time with relatives whom he rarely saw in person. Once Lord Inglewhite wrote home to announce that he planned to play hooky from Parliament in order to visit his family, Walter had an excuse to further delay his return to Bristol. No one would think it at all odd if Walter stayed at the castle a little longer so he could see Ivy’s husband.

But of course, that was not the whole truth. Fond as Walter might be of his cousins, he would rather have been ensconced in his own bachelor quarters, handling his usual work. By now he must be far behind on all his correspondence. In truth, Walter’s relatives alone wouldn’t have normally kept him in Lancashire this long. He stayed primarily because of his concerns about Neville Butler.

A single throwaway comment from Frank had revealed that Butler was assisting a wealthy landowner who wanted to set up an infirmary specifically for young children. Sir Henry Skelton might be right that the English people needed a hospital for children. Young children and infants were particularly vulnerable, often being the first to fall when an epidemic hit, or when crop failures caused widespread hunger. Walter had no opposition to the proposed charitable institution.

However, Neville Butler’s involvement in the plan troubled Walter. On the face of it, the curate’s interest in the hospital made sense, too. As Walter knew very well, Butler had experience working with charitable organizations. After Butler’s time as chaplain of the Haworth Home, he might very well be looking for a similar position at another institution.

Or he might be looking for a new organization he could defraud.

Was Butler a saint in the making, or a particularly nasty sinner, willing to steal from some of the most vulnerable members of society? Until he could answer that question with a reasonable degree of certainty, Walter didn’t feel comfortable giving up his investigation.

In the meantime, Walter wrote to Ernest, letting him know Butler’s account of who at the home might have handled the ledgers. In Walter’s opinion, the next step involved taking a closer look at the handwriting in the ledger, to see how many people really had recorded expenditures. If all the falsified entries were written in the same hand, that might provide a clue to the thief’s identity. If, on the other hand, more than one person recorded falsified expenditures, that would complicate matters.

That wasn’t something Walter could do himself. The board members were unlikely to let Walter handle the ledgers, given that at least some of them had suspected him of being the thief. Ernest Robinson, on the other hand, had not come to the home until after the thefts ended. The board would probably trust him with the accounts, just as Walter trusted him with the details of his investigation. For now, Walter could only wait for Ernest to report on his findings.

If Walter had a third reason for extending his visit at Selwyn Castle, he did not like to admit it, even to himself. It might be the case that when he passed Lady Hester on a walk into town, his eyes lingered longer on her tall, elegant figure than on anyone else. He might, hypothetically, invent reasons to drop in at the vicarage in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her. He hadn’t had a great change of heart about her personality; she still seemed proudly aloof in all her interactions. But something about her face, her voice, and her graceful movements drew his attention time and time again.

He admired her as a man might admire any attractive woman, that was all. He didn’t fancy her, though. Nor did he expect anything to come of his admiration. Even so, he hid his fascination with Lady Hester from his Ingleton cousins. It was entirely too ridiculous to be admitted out loud, and it most certainly could not be written in a letter. He could only hope that such a foolish infatuation withered as quickly as it had blossomed, leaving him in peace.

When the Earl of Inglewhite returned home to see his family, the countess hosted a dinner party for some of the local gentry. Walter dined with them, of course, as did the entire party from the vicarage. As they gathered in the drawing room before dinner, Rose announced that she intended to spend most of the evening reclining on a sofa.

“My ankles are so swollen I can’t even fit into my half-boots!” Rose grumbled to Ivy.

Walter slipped out of the conversation and scurried to the other side of the room, certain that he didn’t want to listen while his female cousins discussed pregnancy symptoms. They probably would prefer privacy for this conversation.

The corner to which Walter fled was, unfortunately, occupied by Lady Hester Bracknell and Neville Butler. They sat deep in a conversation, heads inclined towards each other. They both flinched like startled deer when they saw Walter approaching.

“Very sorry to disturb you.” Walter glanced back over his shoulder, wondering if he ought to find a different corner of the room to hide in. “I ought not interrupt your tête-à-tête.”

Lady Hester wrinkled her nose, as if she smelled something nasty. “Nonsense,” she said coolly. “We were only discussing the poetry of Maria Grammar. I suppose you are not familiar with it?”

“Indeed not,” Walter confessed. “I don’t read much poetry.” Or any poetry. Of course he’d had to read classical poetry in his schooldays, but he remembered little of it. He’d been far more interested in learning about Galen and Hippocrates.

Mr. Butler and Lady Hester exchanged a speaking glance. Walter suspected they were appalled by his lack of culture. The tips of his ears burned with shame.

“I prefer books of information,” Walter said apologetically. “I’m afraid the most recent thing I read was an article about Dr. Lannec’s invention for more clearly hearing heartbeats.”

“Oh?” Lady Hester’s delicate eyebrows lifted with what looked like interest. That was encouragement enough to set Walter chattering.

“You’ve probably seen physicians listen to a patient’s heartbeat by resting their head on the patient’s chest, haven’t you?” he asked.

“I suppose so.” A doubtful line formed between her dark, graceful eyebrows.

“I certainly have,” Mr. Butler said. “It’s not useful only for hearing heartbeats, though. It’s also a good way to listen for pneumonia.”

“Yes, precisely! And Dr. Lannec’s invention allows physicians to hear a patient’s lungs or heart much more clearly, without having to directly touch the patient. It’s a hollow wooden tube that carries sound, much like an ear trumpet, I suppose. Though I have never studied acoustics in any depth.” He did not want to be mistaken for an expert on sound. He’d only explored acoustics in an attempt to understand Lannec’s invention.

“Goodness, Mr. Haworth, you ought to have to been a physician yourself.” The corners of Lady Hester’s mouth quirked up almost imperceptibly. Had he not seen the way the corners of her eyes crinkled, Walter would have thought her faint smile was false.

Walter drew in a deep breath. “I did have some aspirations after the field of medicine when I was younger, but those were only childhood castles-in-the-air.”

“What did you study, then?” Butler asked.

“Law.” The corners of his mouth tugged down in an automatic frown. “A worthy field of study in itself, of course.” His father had insisted that reading law would be far more useful to the family, and his grandfather had reinforced the suggestion with promises of an ample allowance while Walter studied under a solicitor.

“But not, perhaps, the field you were most interested in?” For once, Lady Hester’s dark eyes looked soft and sympathetic.

He shrugged and glanced away. “My legal training enables me to be of use managing the charities my grandfather established. I may not treat the ailments of the world with physic, but I help provide conditions in which abandoned children can grow healthier and stronger.”

At least in theory. In practice, even the best food and most comfortable housing could not protect a child from all the world’s ills. Especially not if the child came to the home malnourished to begin with. And that was nothing compared to the suffering of the many hundreds of children not lucky enough to be found and cared for. Not all of the world’s orphans could be saved.

Walter flicked his eyes over to Mr. Butler, once again wondering if the young curate could possibly be evil enough to steal money from an orphanage. Could he use this conversation to test his theory? He might not get a better chance.

“Of course,” Walter said cautiously, “it takes a good deal of money to do such work. Whole fortunes could be spent caring for the suffering in England, and that would be only a drop in the bucket. With so much need, even the loss of a single penny might have unfortunate consequences.” He held his breath as he waited to see how Butler would respond.

But Butler nodded, his face looking suitably grave. “It is truly the Lord’s work, and I feel privileged to have been involved in it, even in a small way.” He smiled at Lady Hester. “I don’t know if I told you, but I served as the chaplain at the orphanage founded by the late Frederic Haworth. He must have been a great man to have spent so much of his fortune on the poor, and it is fortunate that his family continues to carry out his mission.” The curate’s smile turned obsequious as he shifted his gaze from Lady Hester back to Walter.

Flattery will get you nowhere, Walter thought crossly. But he found nothing to fault in Butler’s response. Maybe Butler really was the virtuous young clergyman he seemed. Maybe Walter ought to go back to the home and take a second look at the papers left behind by the previous matron. She would have had more opportunities to falsify the records, anyway. Under normal circumstances, the home’s chaplain would have nothing to do with buying food or fuel.

Walter toyed with the idea of returning to Bristol, until a scrap of conversation overheard after dinner convinced him that he needed to stay in Ingleton. Once the women had withdrawn to the drawing room, the men poured second (or third) glasses of wine, leaned back in their chairs, and began to discuss politics, sport, and the sort of gossip considered too racy for genteel ladies.

With Frank on one side and Lord Inglewhite on the other, Walter felt more relaxed than at most dinner parties. Despite whatever dandyish tendencies he might have had when he was young, Frank was sincerely committed to the good of his parish. Lord Inglewhite had also been a clergyman before inheriting his title. Neither of the two men at all fit the stereotype of the dissipated aristocrat.

Instead of pretending to be interested in the latest boxing match or amused by risqué humor, Walter could instead engage in a perfectly rational conversation about the ancient practice of rush-bearing, which had died out in most parts of the country but was still practiced in Lancashire. From there it was an easy step to discussing other curious traditions found in rural villages.

During a lull in the conversation, scraps of other people’s talk filtered into Walter’s awareness. Mr. Anderson asked Lord Inglewhite a question about the number of lambs born on the home farm this spring. Frank, who pastured sheep on the parish’s glebe land, jumped into the conversation.

Walter, being supremely uninterested in animal husbandry, turned to listen to the conversation across the table. Mr. Butler and an unfamiliar young man had their heads together, laughing at something.

“—of course, it would be rather awkward if the girl were an absolute antidote,” the young stranger said. “A man wants to find a little pleasure in the marriage bed, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Butler replied. “A hefty dowry and good family connections go a long way towards making a man comfortable.” Both men chuckled. “Take that Bracknell girl, now. Her portion may only be modest, but the Marquis of Reading controls three different livings. A clergyman who married into that family would be assured of a good benefice.”

“Oh, is that the way the wind blows?” the stranger asked. “I wondered what appeal that whey-faced chit held for you.”

“The appeal of a steady income,” Butler agreed. “Not that her dowry would hurt, mind you.” He glanced across the table, caught Walter’s eye, and raised his eyebrows. “Are you on the hunt for a wife too, Haworth?”

“Not particularly. I’ve no desire to set up a nursery yet.” Walter turned away, pretending he found their conversation boring rather than in poor taste. He took a sip of port and schooled his face to hide his disgust.

He wondered whether he ought to warn Lady Hester about Butler’s intentions. The daughter of a marquis probably wouldn’t encourage the suit of a curate who lacked valuable social connections, but Walter didn’t like to think about Butler preying on innocent young women.

Or did Butler’s remark bother Walter only because his prey was this particular young woman—the girl Walter admired? Walter drained the last of his wine and told himself not to be such a fool. He could think of half-a-dozen young ladies in Bristol more beautiful, more suitable, and more amiable than Lady Hester.

When the men finally joined the women in the drawing room, Walter kept an eye on Lady Hester. She sat next to Rose, not even bothering to look up at the men who’d just entered the room. Walter relaxed and went to speak to Ivy.

But the next time he looked back at Lady Hester, Butler had taken a seat near her. He must have said something witty, because both women started laughing. A spurt of anger made Walter grit his teeth and clench his hands, but even he didn’t know whether he was angry on Lady Hester’s behalf, or on his own.

Heaven knew Walter had no cause for jealousy, but still... it didn’t seem fair that Butler was so much more successful at flirtation than Walter had ever been. Such socializing did not come easily to him. When Walter spoke with men from his grandfather’s sphere of life, he knew what to say and what not to say. He could discuss the latest parliamentary reports or the price of corn, the rates of illegitimate children or the work of the West African Squadron.

But he could not talk to women about politics or business, since those subjects were considered inappropriate for mixed company. Talking to a lady from the aristocracy raised an entire host of new issues on top of that. Her life must be very different from his.

A voice interrupted his unhappy cogitations. “Walter, what are you thinking about? You look miserable!”

Walter looked his cousin Ivy in the eyes, twisting his mouth into a wry grin. “I was just wondering what on earth a man like me would have to say to the daughter of a marquis.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve never had any trouble talking to me ,” she pointed out.

He gaped at her for a second. “I didn’t think of you, because you’re my cousin.” But Ivy was the natural daughter of a marquis, and she’d been raised alongside Rose in Lord Rufford’s household. She was part of the aristocracy by birth, rearing, and marriage.—And she was right that Walter never had trouble conversing with her.

Walter simultaneously adjusted his glasses and some of his notions. Then a smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Ivy. You’ve been immensely helpful.” At the very least, she’d given him a little more confidence.