“You are increasingly convinced,” he said, “but not certain. When you are certain, and you have an explanation to offer supported by evidence, please let me know. I have packing to do and farewells to make. Peter and Robin’s little darlings hardly know who I am.”

  That bothered him, and it bothered me as well. “I have theories, Carstairs, and they explain the rest of your situation. The debt is part of it, revenge is part of it, and pride is an enormous part of it. Please allow me to put this last day to as much use as I can. You can write letters of apology to every quarter if I’m wrong, but the biggest apology is owed to you. I’d like to see that you get it.”

  “I don’t want an apology. The truth would be appreciated. I am loath to offer offense on the strength of your theories, though. This is my family, Caldicott, my loved ones. People who knew me when I was a squalling infant and who I hope will still claim my acquaintance for decades to come.”

  His entire world centered on the Keep, and he’d been forced to keep his distance from it.

  “People worth fighting for, then.” I took a list from my pocket. “Have this group assembled for tea an hour before sunset. They’ll have had naps by then and be over the worst of their sore heads and aching feet. Invite them to the Keep. Send coaches around to collect them if you must.”

  “This is a dozen people, Caldicott, give or take. They haven’t all been sending me threatening letters.”

  “They have all played a role in what’s afoot here. Some of them deserve apologies too.”

  He put the list in his pocket. “Provided your theories are correct.”

  “If you truly want to come home, you will give me this one chance to test those theories. If you’d rather check empty snares in Surrey for the rest of your days, I’ll pack up and leave with you.”

  “Surrey isn’t awful.”

  “Surrey is not your home. A sharpshooter equivocating is a sad spectacle, Carstairs. In my brother’s absence, I have been managing Caldicott Hall, which is as formidable an estate as the Keep. I promise you on your sainted brother Michael’s memory that you will regret blowing retreat now more than you could possibly regret marching onward toward some answers. The Keep needs you, desperately.”

  I could have maundered on about antique bachelors and old maids, the succession collapsing, the crown selling the estate to a half-dozen ambitious cits wanting to build country retreats, but Carstairs was weary and sad enough.

  The decision was his. I tipped my hat and left him at the brook that separated the Keep from Lady Clotilda’s wilderness. I would do some napping myself in the coming hours—and a considerable amount of pondering as well.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “If you think to tell us you’re emigrating to godforsaken foreign climes,” the baron said, “I’ll not have it. No son of mine will scurry off to heathen lands when he has a perfectly handsome estate of his own here on English soil.”

  “Dunsford, do be quiet.” Lady Clotilda had taken the place beside his lordship on a love seat. The rest of the assemblage was ranged about the baroness’s parlor, where this chapter of the family drama had begun unfolding a mere five days previously.

  Mama and Hyperia occupied the wing chairs. The Misses Delaplane were on a bench opposite the hearth. Sandy and Amelia Quiggan had taken the chairs at the card table by the window, while Algernon and Bryson flanked the sideboard. The baron was harrumphing at one end of the mantel, and I—as was my custom—stayed on my feet and tried to look unobtrusive while in hostile territory.

  Peter and Robin, borrowing a leaf from my book, sat on another bench in the farthest corner of the room. Robin looked pale, and Peter was trying unsuccessfully to exude polite boredom rather than annoyance.

  “I did not actually call this meeting,” Bryson replied. “Lord Julian asked to speak with you all, and I invited you on his behalf.”

  “For what purpose?” Peter asked. “We’re busy these days at the vicarage and have wasted too much time indulging holiday frolics of late. Robin has a teething baby to contend with, and the sick calls are beginning to pile up. We’ve already spent much of the past two weeks running back and forth to the Keep.”

  “Vicar has a sore head,” I said when nobody appeared willing to put Peter in his place. “He preaches against rum, for good reasons, but doesn’t mind nibbling molasses biscuits or sugary sweets. He piously rails against the evils of tobacco and tobacco farming, but enjoys the occasional clandestine smoke of an evening in the stable.”

  Peter scowled at me thunderously. “How could you possibly…?”

  “The night we met. In the stable. You lingered in the frigid air to smoke in the vicinity of the stable, which is the last place anybody should be smoking, but also the only privacy you were likely to enjoy between the vicarage and the Keep.”

  “You spied on me?” Gone was the pleasant, patient man of the cloth. In his place was a peevish exponent of a titled family.

  “I used my nose, sir. Tobacco smoke lingers in still air.”

  Robin patted her husband’s forearm. “Nobody should expect perfection just because a man has taken holy orders. My husband is human, and I’ll thank you not to insult him over trivialities.”

  Philomel looked worried at this outspokenness. Lady Clotilda was clearly amused.

  “The Carstairs menfolk are prone to trivial failings,” I said. “As are we all. We’ll get back to that. For present purposes, I’d like to explain why Bryson has not come home to stay.”

  “Please do,” the baron brayed. “Cannot understand it myself, and then perhaps we can abandon this gathering for some much-needed peace and quiet.”

  Bless the old boy, he did not lack for courage or devotion to his family.

  “Bryson has been threatened with dire consequences should he remove here permanently. Somebody accuses him of having mis-stepped terribly at some point in the past. This person sends nasty notes to him in Surrey, claiming to ‘know what he did.’”

  Algernon stood up straight. “A sharpshooter kills people, preferably enemy people who are jolly well trying to kill him too. That’s the opposite of mis-stepping. That’s deuced heroism, if you ask me.”

  “Which,” Sandy Quiggan said, “we did not. Lord Julian, please get on with it. I’m still a bit fagged from holidaying. Should not have made the trip to the orchard. Lamb’s wool was worse than the punch, which is saying a very great deal, some of it not fit for airing in front of the ladies. Who has been harassing Bry?”

  “That is the central question,” I said. “The first thing I noticed about the situation at the Keep is that nobody is getting married who should be getting married. Perhaps my own circumstances, as a man happily engaged, predisposed me to awareness of such matters.”

  “Rushing to the altar is generally a mistake.” Philomel managed this prim observation without glancing at Robin.

  “One doesn’t rush an unwilling bachelor anywhere,” Wren said with an equal helping of righteous dignity.

  “What is his lordship going on about now?” the baron asked.

  “The barony needs not only an heir and spare,” I said, “but a secure line of succession. The barony is also in want of coin, as most large estates tend to be in the best of times. The solution to those double challenges is simple, time-honored, and readily to hand. Both Delaplane sisters who are as yet unmarried are comely, well dowered, and on good terms with the gentlemen of the Keep.”

  Stating that perennial verity had most of the room looking at the carpet, the sconces, or out the windows.

  “But there’s a problem,” I added.

  Algernon ran a finger around his double cravats.

  “What sort of problem?” Philomel asked, glaring at Algernon.

  “The logical pairing,” I said, “would be for the eldest Delaplane sister to marry the baronial heir. The parties are kindly disposed toward each other, of age, and sensible about monetary matters.”

  Miss Quiggan appeared to shrink into herself. Algernon remained silent.

  “But the gentleman in question,” I went on, “is well aware that the lady has a better prospect and thus he continues to stand aside in hopes the other prospect will get off his gentlemanly backside and enter the lists.”

  Algernon and Miss Quiggan were both looking at me as if I’d lapsed into the bass solos from Handel’s Messiah. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light…

  A babble commenced with Lady Clotilda admonishing me to mind my own business, Robin demanding that I be allowed to speak, and the baron harrumphing nineteen to the dozen.

  “I’ll speak,” Sandy Quiggan shouted. “I’ll speak, by heaven. Lord Julian is right. I come here to Hampshire regularly, loitering about like the poor relation I assuredly am not, pretending to dance attendance on my sister, who needs no attending. An earl’s heir and a pretty agreeable fellow all told, but I cannot get the time of day, much less a good-night waltz, from a lady who won’t look past the musty old barony next door. She doesn’t even compliment my singing voice, and I am a mighty respectable baritone even when sober.”

  Philomel’s eyebrows went up, then down, then up again like a hunter negotiating fences. “But, Sandy, I’m taller than you are by a full inch.”

  What had that to do with anything? Though none of the ladies seemed to think the observation inapposite.

  Sandy beamed at Philomel. “My dear, you are a bit taller than I am when we’re standing. Lying down, I assure you I grow taller.”

  The baron snorted. Lady Clotilda sniffed. Philomel looked puzzled until Wren whispered in her ear, then a slow blush crept up the elder sister’s neck.

  “Mind your manners, Quiggan,” I snapped. “Ladies present.”

  “I second the motion,” Peter called, “and I’d still like to get back to the vicarage as soon as may be.”

  Oh, of course he would. “The first puzzle—why Algernon and Miss Philomel were not courting—solved itself when I noticed Mr. Quiggan’s sighs and longing glances. He is highly eligible as bachelors go, and yet, he saved his good-night waltz for Miss Philomel, who saved her waltzes for other parties.” She’d also forgotten that Sandy was to escort her to the orchard, apparently.

  Philomel began a visual inspection of Sandy, her gaze becoming focused, then considering, then intent. Before she could ask Sandy exactly how not-impoverished he was and how many teeth his uncle had left, I took the floor again.

  “The next puzzle was the mysterious lack of an engagement between Mr. Bryson Carstairs and Miss Wren Delaplane. From what I understand, they were sweet on each other before Bryson bought his colors. At the time, he was warned off from seeking permission to court the young lady. She would have been very young, and he was bound for the uncertainties of a soldier’s future. And yet, his future is comfortably settled now, he is still sweet on the lady, and she appears sweet on him.”

  “You are in error, my lord.” Wren spoke firmly. “Bryson Carstairs is a neighbor of long standing. We are cordial on the rare occasions when we meet. Nothing more.”

  “Not exactly.” We were making good progress, but the next part was delicate. “When you laid eyes on Bryson after nearly a year’s absence, you did not greet him. You hung back, almost ignoring him, and he allowed it. One might almost say he ignored you.”

  “He’s right, sister dear,” Philomel said. “You were less than convivial. I thought maybe a megrim was stalking you.”

  “Bryson and Wren did not dance a single dance together,” I went on. “Bryson has not called at the Delaplane household, though he has looked in on many other neighbors in the short time he’s been here.”

  Hyperia and the duchess had confirmed those sightings and the lack of a shared dance.

  “I would not marry Bryson Carstairs if he were the last bachelor in Hampshire.” Wren rose as if to flounce out the door, and Bryson was on his feet as well.

  “Why not marry me, Wren?” he asked. “If you believe I’ve wronged you, please say so, and I will make whatever restitution I can. We were never engaged. I was not allowed to court you. Your own mama forbade me from asking permission of you, and Lord Julian is right: I was bound by honor to join the fighting sooner rather than later. Michael was too young for soldiering. Algernon was the heir.”

  “That didn’t stop you from trysting with Robin, did it?” Wren fired the question off like a sharpshooter who fully intended on dropping her human target rather than his horse.

  “What?!” Robin was on her feet, her husband clutching her wrist ineffectually, though he remained seated.

  “Wren, have you taken leave of your senses?” Robin wasn’t looking at all pale or tired now. “Bryson is a decent enough fellow, but he’s not… He never… What are you talking about?”

  “She is talking,” I said, “about an endless round of pranking and thievery that seems to characterize the Carstairs menfolk, who can be difficult to tell apart. They steal one another’s horses. I have no doubt, in younger years, they stole cravat pins, boots, top hats, and anything else of sentimental value to another.

  “They also bear a close resemblance to one another. When I first beheld Peter, I thought he was Bryson. I’ve confused Bryson and Algernon as well when Algernon stood in shadows. Mistaken identity on the part of Bryson’s tormentor became a theory worth considering. Perhaps Peter can enlighten us further.”

  Perhaps Peter might confess, as it were.

  The vicar was half obscured by his wife’s skirts. She did not sit. Ergo, he had to stand on his own two feet.

  “I have borrowed Bry’s horse from time to time. The cousins always had better cattle than I did, better wardrobes, better jewelry boxes. Better everything. A costly cavalry commission wasn’t too good for Bryson, though both Michael and I were better riders.”

  “Idiot,” the baron barked. “I vow my brother would disown you if he were alive.”

  “I saw Bryson’s horse,” Wren said, though her righteous certainty rang hollow. “I know I saw Bryson’s horse tied behind our stable, and Bryson’s crop and his spurs on the bench nearby. He was vain about them, thinking a cavalry commission was in his future. I knew Robin was entertaining a gentleman, in her bedroom, after dark. They laughed together. I heard them laughing, and the laugh sounded like Bryson too.”

  The laugh had probably sounded like a young man thoroughly in charity with life and his prospective bride. One who hadn’t yet taken holy orders, nor learned the extent to which his bride’s wealth would be kept beyond his reach.

  “I will never borrow another horse again, as long as I live,” Bryson said. “You thought I… because of a rubbishing horse?”

  “Not only because of the horse, crop, and spurs,” I said. “You, Bryson, then stopped paying Miss Wren any attention at all. You quit the field, as instructed by the elders, but I could not explain why you never reentered the lists. You are prosperous. You have formed no other attachments. The lady hasn’t either. Why not, immediately upon returning from the war, fly to the side of the one you left behind?”

  “Oh, but I did. When I mustered out, I called on the Delaplanes the day after I laid eyes on the Keep. Wren treated me like a stranger.”

  “Bryson is right,” Philomel said, “Wren was very cool. I found that odd and became certain that Wren was angling for Algernon. I could not let her have Algernon. Bad enough that Robin humiliated me by marrying first. I wasn’t going to suffer the same treatment from Wren too. Sorry, Wrennie.”

  Robin resumed her seat and aimed a peevish look at Philomel. “I liked you better when you had set your cap for Algernon. Mind becoming a countess doesn’t relieve you of all decorum, sister.”

  The duchess rose. “Have we sorted the mystery of the pining bachelors, my lord? I could do with some lemonade.”

  “Lemonade would suit,” Lady Clotilda added. “Dunsford, tug that bell-pull. Her Grace and I will remove with the young ladies to the library. You and Sandy will escort us, and I’m sure Peter and Robin would not mind a spot of libation before they decamp. Lord Julian, this has been interesting.”

  How much of the mystery her ladyship had guessed, I did not know. She certainly hadn’t lifted a finger to offer a solution, but then, we had a few more secrets yet to unravel.

  Sooner begun was sooner done. “Miss West, if you would bide here in the baroness’s parlor with Algernon, Bryson, and me, I’d appreciate it. Miss Quiggan, might you keep us company as well?”

  Lady Clotilda pretended not to notice that request, instead taking the baron by the arm and leading the procession from the room. Vicar Peter sent me one last brooding look, then departed hand in hand with his wife.

  He smoked, he drank, he violated his own abolitionist boycotts, and his wife loved him anyway. Perhaps confession would be good for his soul. I dearly hoped it benefited his marriage and his choice of sermon topics.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Tell us, Bry, will you be offering for Wren?” Algernon asked when only Bryson, Hyperia, Miss Quiggan, and myself remained.

  “Will you offer for Amelia?” Bryson countered.

  “He will not,” I said. “He cannot. Algernon is like Prometheus bound to a rock of duty, scandal, and family loyalty. He has suffered a combination of bad fortune and unforeseen circumstances, and it has become imperative that neither Philomel nor Wren take a husband. As long as Philomel pursued Algernon, nobody would dare court Wren, and Algernon preserved his family from scandal for another day.”

  Hyperia launched a slow smile in my direction. “The Delaplane settlements were pilfered to maintain the Keep?”

  “They were not,” Miss Quiggan snapped. “It’s worse than that.”

  “The settlements are either gone,” I said, “or substantially reduced. The baron was the trustee of record—he might still be—and thus the lack of funds redounds to his discredit. Algernon has taken over management of his father’s financial obligations, which has meant ensuring the missing settlement money never came to light.”

  Hyperia resumed her wing chair and gestured for Miss Quiggan to take the other. “And thus, nobody marries anybody lest the scandal become public, and the baron cannot replace the funds he’s taken. What a coil.”

 

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