A black armband on his sleeve, Fiske opened the door to Jason. “Lady Kinsey will see you in the library, my lord. Please follow me?”

Jason crossed the expanse of exotic Eastern carpet as Lady Kinsey rose from a maroon leather chesterfield to greet him.

Kinsey’s library was an assault on the senses, crammed with relics from his travels. Stone effigies perched on tables and in glass-fronted cabinets. On the walls shelf upon shelf was filled with aged leather-bound tomes and interesting Egyptian, Greek, and Roman artifacts Jason would like more time to examine. The dry, dusty smell of antiquity was foreign and inimitable. By the window, a broad walnut desk was neatly stacked with papers and books. Against one wall in a corner of the room an alarming, gigantic sarcophagus stood upright, belonging to some long dead Egyptian. Jason wondered briefly how Kinsey came by the coffin and if it should be in a museum. He turned to greet his hostess.

“Unnerving, isn’t it? Kinsey was intrigued to find one so roomy, with a cleverly hinged door. He wondered if it might have been meant for a couple. The mummy, or mummies, have been removed, thank goodness. He only has it on loan. Thank you for responding so promptly, Lord Peyton.”

“I am pleased to be of service, my lady.”

He’d thought Lady Kinsey a self-assured woman when he first met her, but it appeared her cool reserve had been shattered. Her gray eyes were dark and anxious, her hands constantly in motion as she urged him to be seated and settled her garnet-colored skirts around her.

“I thought it best to receive you here in the library where we are unlikely to be disturbed. I don’t want my children involved.” She placed her nervous hands together in her lap. “Now, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why our footman, now deceased, wished to apologize to you, almost with his dying breath.”

“Your footman, my lady? I have no idea.” Jason fought for time to order his thoughts. It was clear that their footman was his contact who had failed to meet him because of illness, and Lady Kinsey, no fool by the look of it, eyed him suspiciously.

“You said you worked for Mr. Nash. Is that true?”

“Why do you doubt it, my lady?”

“The doctor has informed me that my footman was poisoned, Lord Peyton. Systematically. So, as you see, I am determined to get to the bottom of something that obviously involved you in some fashion.”

Jason’s blood went cold. “I wish I could offer an explanation. Set you at your ease, at least. But at this moment, I can tell you nothing. As far as I know, I have never met your footman.”

“Then why did Bartholomew Smyth say to my daughter, Helen, ‘tell Captain Peyton I am sorry’?”

Jason sat forward. “Bartholomew Smyth was your footman? He fought alongside me in Belgium!” He sighed. “Bart’s dead?”

“Yes, poor man.”

An explanation was clearly called for. Jason picked his words carefully. “I do not work for Mr. Nash. But I was acting on his behalf, to perform a duty that he or one of his staff would have done by explaining those changes that we have discussed. I must confess to a more important reason. An acquaintance of mine, a government official, recently contacted me about an unsigned letter they’d received. Someone wished to speak to me personally on a matter of significant importance. As the letter writer did not furnish their name or address, beyond working in one of the houses along the Queen’s Walk, I had no idea who it was or where to find him. He was to approach me at a certain time in that area of the park that faces your property. I’m sorry I could not explain this before, Lady Kinsey, but I had no way of knowing if it was your house I sought. But rest assured I have every intention of looking into it.”

He raked his hair with his fingers. “I wish I’d known it was Bartholomew. He fought bravely and was invalided out of the army after he lost an arm.” Jason shook his head. “I fear this mystery might have died with him.

“Bow Street has been advised?”

“A constable from the Magistrate’s Court called yesterday. He said Bart’s death was likely due to accidental poisoning and saw no reason to draw the magistrate’s attention to it.”

“I’d like to speak to the doctor.”

“Yes, of course. Do whatever you feel is right.”

“May I see your footman’s room?”

“His effects have been removed.”

“Nevertheless, I feel it wise.”

“Very well.” She rose from the sofa. “Better perhaps if I accompany you.”

As they made their way along the corridor toward the rear of the building and the servants’ stairs, Lady Helen appeared from one of the reception rooms, wearing an apron over her gray dress.

Jason eyed her appreciatively as she put a hand to her abundant chestnut locks, becomingly tied up with a green ribbon. She looked upon him with some measure of distrust. He couldn’t blame her. He’d disliked the subterfuge and now had to find a way to repair it.

“Good afternoon, Lord Peyton. I wasn’t aware we had a visitor.” She whisked off the apron and smoothed down her skirts.

Jason bowed. “Lady Helen.”

“Helen, where are Diana and Toby?”

“In the garden playing shuttlecock, Mama.”

“Good. Lord Peyton and I are about to inspect Bartholomew’s room.”

Helen widened tip-tilted gray eyes very much like her mother’s. “Why, Mama? Have you learned something more?”

Lady Kinsey explained Jason’s connection to Bart while Lady Helen’s eyes continued to coolly assess him. Lady Kinsey placed a hand on her daughter’s arm. “You had best come too, Helen. You’ve had more to do with Bartholomew. Diana and Toby are not to learn of this.”

“You cannot speak of this to anyone, Lady Helen,” Jason warned. He considered her being drawn into this was ill judged, but her mother had obviously come to entrust her with matters that should be dealt with by someone far older. He found himself intrigued enough to want to discover more about Lady Helen. She was like a calm millpond, but he sensed a strong current flowing beneath the surface. And she was frowning at him.

She glanced at her mother and then gave a nod of consent. “I understand.” 

The kitchen noises and aromas reached them as they climbed the narrow wooden servants’ staircase to the attics. Lady Helen gathered up her skirts to follow in her mother’s wake.

Jason observed the young lady’s neat ankles, her narrow back, and the pleasing curve of her hip revealed by the taut fabric while he trailed behind her. Again, he wondered why she was not yet married. Might she be engaged? He had not heard of it. But then that wasn’t surprising since he didn’t read the society gossip columns in the newspapers and he seldom attended balls or soirées. He glanced at her hand on the banister. No ring. That was not conclusive, but somehow, he knew he was right. It would take a determined man to break through that wall of reserve and suspicion, and he was patently aware that, in this instance, he was the cause of it.

Jason looked away from a glossy chestnut curl resting on her delicate nape, which seemed somehow vulnerable and intimate and at odds with her stoic, standoffish manner. His interest surprised him. He wasn’t in the business of seeking a bride. There was no urgency to produce an heir. If he failed, Charlie would become earl after him. And even if Lizzie didn’t marry the baron, she would remarry and produce appealing offspring. Apart from that pleasant avuncular role, no one would make any claim on him.

Bart’s attic room was as he’d expected, simply furnished with an iron bed beneath the sloping roof. Evidence of his efforts to make it homelier were in the cheerful picture of a dog on the wall and a bright rug covering the boards. A comfortable chair sat in one corner. The mattress had been stripped and the bedding folded. On the table were a candlestick, matches, and, incongruously, several blank sheets of superior quality vellum, an inkpot, blotter, and a pen. The door to the small empty cupboard stood open.

“Bartholomew’s effects have been returned to his family,” Lady Kinsey said.

“A pity. Was it only his clothes?”

“I don’t know what was sent. My housekeeper, Mrs. Chance, saw to it.”

“I shall need to speak to her.”

Jason pulled open the curtains. A dismal ray of sunlight crept in beneath the eaves to fall upon the floor. He lifted the mattress and found nothing beneath it then knelt and peered under the bed. Straightening, he went to the small fireplace.

“The housemaids have yet to clean the room,” Lady Kinsey said.

Jason stirred the embers in the grate with the iron poker. He leaned in and picked up a wedge of paper, burned around the edges. The same quality bond as those on the table, written on in an untidy manner, badly smeared, and scorched by the fire. “I gather Bart could read and write.”

“Yes. His grandmother taught him when he was a boy. He wished to better himself and was hoping to find clerical work,” Lady Helen said with a catch in her voice. “He managed very well with one arm. I’ve been helping him to write to various businesses.”

He held the paper out to her. “Do you think this might have been such a letter?”

As she took it, her fingers brushed against his. A feather-light touch and yet, he was very much aware of it. She was, too, he guessed because her cheeks colored up and she stepped away.

She studied the fragment in her hands. “This isn’t anything we worked on together.” She looked skeptical. “Surely it isn’t of importance? The words are mostly indecipherable.”

“We shouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.” He resisted taking it from her, watching as she lowered her head over it again.

“This word could be ‘threat’ or ‘thread.’” She gazed up at him, her eyebrows drawing closer, clearly wondering why he bothered to examine it. “The rest of that line is too badly smudged to make out.” She held it out to him.

He shook his head. “You’re doing well. Please continue.”

She looked again at the fragment. “Could this be ‘truth’? But two words on the lower line are most odd, ‘electric fish’? Her gaze darted to his. “Might Bart refer to an electric eel? I’ve heard of those in South America. Although why…?” She shook her head. “It cannot be of interest surely.” She handed the fragment back to him.

“One does not delve into a servant’s personal life,” Lady Kinsey said, obviously losing patience. “They are entitled to their privacy as much as we are.”

“Jeremy, our other footman, might be able to help,” Lady Helen said, paying her mother no heed. “Or Eloise, Mama’s French maid. Bart enjoyed their conversations in her language. He had picked up a smattering of French during his time on the Continent.”

He almost smiled at her sudden reluctance to drop the matter.

“I’ll speak to them after I’ve seen the doctor.” Jason crouched down to rake the ashes. “There’s nothing more here.” He straightened. “This letter was destroyed for a reason. I find that surprising. Why would Bart waste good vellum by writing something he did not intend to post? That’s expensive paper for a footman to have. I assume you supplied it, Lady Helen?”

She flushed and darted a look at her mother. “Yes.”

At Lady Kinsey’s expression, Jason suspected more would be said on the matter, once he’d left them.

“I’ll examine this more closely.” He took out his wallet and placed the paper carefully inside before tucking it back into his pocket.

They returned downstairs. “Thank you for coming, my lord,” Lady Kinsey said after furnishing him with the surgeon’s address. “Please keep me advised about anything you might discover.”

“Rest assured I shall make every effort to learn what happened to your footman, my lady. And try to find out what prompted Bart to seek my help.”

“It’s distressing to think of how much he suffered,” Lady Helen said sadly as they made their way along the corridor.

Fiske had just admitted a gentleman through the front door.

Lady Kinsey greeted him. “Lord Peyton, may I introduce Mr. Thorburn to you. Mr. Thorburn is Kinsey’s secretary. I would be grateful if you would address any concerns you have concerning Bartholomew to this gentleman.”

Fair-haired, Thorburn was somewhere in his mid to late thirties with the pasty complexion of those who spent most of their lives indoors at a desk. Behind his wire-framed spectacles, his hazel eyes were keen and alert. He bowed with a polite smile. “Certainly, my lord. A dreadful business to be sure. If I may make a comment?”

Jason nodded. “Please do.”

“It is my belief that the medicine Bart took daily could have been poisonous. He did tell me he was interested in improving his diet with the use of an herbal libation. Suffered some digestion troubles, if you’ll pardon me mentioning the indelicate subject, Lady Kinsey. Told me he purchased the tonic at a shop in Whitechapel.”

Jason frowned. “Where is the bottle?”

“I gave it to the doctor, my lord,” Fiske said.

Lady Kinsey turned to him. “Fiske? You knew about this?”

“Yes, my lady. Bartholomew showed me the tonic. I advised him not to take the evil-smelling liquid.”

Thorburn excused himself, citing much to be done before Lord Kinsey returned.

Jason pondered this information as he took his hat, gloves, and brass-topped cane from the butler. “Please send word if you have need of me before Lord Kinsey returns. Good day, Lady Kinsey, Lady Helen.”

When Jason paused in the street to pull on his gloves, the front door opened and Lady Helen hurried after him down the path. Her worried eyes searched his. “Mother forgot to mention Jinx. He’s our kitchen boy. Jinx fell sick at the same time as Bart, but has since recovered.”

He wished he could reassure her. But he feared matters were likely to get worse. “It is something to investigate. Thank you for telling me. “

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you have any idea why Bart would have asked for you most particularly?”

He huffed out a sigh at her obvious distrust of him. “Apart from my being his captain during the war? I’m afraid I don’t.”

She tilted her head. “Strange, though, don’t you think, after all this time?”

Was she interrogating him? “It would seem so. At least until we find the answer. If you can’t think of anything else?” He half turned toward the road.

“Bart had become quite nervous recently,” she said, delaying him once again. “He’d grown careless in his appearance, which upset Fiske, and he had cross words with Mrs. Chance. It was unlike him. He didn’t confide in me. But I will see if I can find out something more.”

He cursed under his breath. “That’s not wise, Lady Helen. Leave this to me. Please exercise care until this matter is resolved.”

She put a hand to the curls at her temple. “How does one exercise care in one’s own home?”

He paused. “This matter may have little to do with the inhabitants of Kinsey House.” He wished the reason for Bart’s horrible death could be easily explained. “You might consider retiring to the country with your siblings for a time if you are concerned.”

“I have no intention of leaving London, my lord.”

“Until your father returns?”

“No. Diana’s ball is soon to be held. She certainly won’t go to the country, and neither will I.” Her dark lashes swept down, a habit he’d noticed she adopted when she wished to hide her feelings. “I’ll ask Mama if she’ll send the boys to our grandfather. Toby loves to visit Walcott. There’s so much more for him to do there. He can ride with the hounds and fish in the river. But Alexander, he’s only a baby and will kick up a fuss if I don’t go.” She surprised him with the first unequivocal look she’d afforded him. “I was wool gathering. I do apologize, my lord. This can be of no interest to you. We are all so distressed about Bart.”

He smiled, taking in her delicate features as wisps of chestnut hair stirred in the breeze exposing a crescent-shaped scar near her ear. “Perfectly understandable. And remember, not a word to anyone. Good day, Lady Helen.”

She hesitated. “I should like you to keep me informed. With my father away, and Mama busy with her latest charity, it behooves me to deal with these matters.”

“Of course.” He was pleased he hadn’t revealed his shock at that statement. How did she think of herself, twenty-four going on forty? He watched her walk briskly away down the path. And she was wrong. Everything about the Kinsey family was now of intense interest to him. Jason walked along the street. He’d always managed a pleasant rapport with his servants, but the Kinseys seemed to care a great deal for their staff. He suspected that Lady Helen was, by nature, a mother hen. Had she decided to trust him? Or was she still reserving her opinion? She would not trust easily, he suspected.

It could be that Bart ingested arsenic or even mercury in some tonic he bought. Systematic poisoning pointed to regular doses, either by him or administered by someone else. It wasn’t an accident. The footman had something important to tell him. It was too convenient for him to be silenced so neatly. If only Bart had added his name and address to the letter, Jason might have been able to save him. The possibility brought him to a stop, and he curled his fingers around the green-painted wrought iron fence enclosing the entry and stairs leading to the basement of a townhouse and stared blankly, forcing his thoughts back to the war.

Some of his army friends liked to relive the glory of battle when they gathered together in some tavern. Jason did not. He left it to his dreams. But Bart’s death brought it back in all its gory horror.

It had rained during that night of the last campaign. While he stood here in Mayfair, he could almost detect the metallic smell of blood, mingling with the malodourous odors of farm animals and mud, the heavy moisture-laden air thick enough to choke a man. The screams and groans of the injured men and horses that rent the air came back with startling clarity.

After the British, under Colonel MacDonnell, had taken over the range of chateau buildings at Hougoumont, Jason spent the night working with the men, building fire steps and loopholing, which made narrow slits in the walls. All the gates were blocked, other than the main gate on the northern side to provide access.

On the morning of the eighteenth of June, the French attacked the chateau. They surged around the buildings and charged the main gate. Under the barrage, the gate was damaged. It became a deathly struggle to keep the French from swarming inside. Finally, Jason and a party of British and German soldiers were able to force the gate shut, and Sergeant Graham of the Coldstream Guards put the bar in place. After it was fortified, Jason led a group of men to hunt down the few French soldiers who had slipped through and roamed the outbuildings.

The attack on the château continued hour after hour, and during the afternoon, the supply of ammunition began to dwindle. Corporal Bartholomew Smyth volunteered to drive the ammunition wagon through the French lines. The young man argued forcefully that his childhood spent in Cumbria, the wettest county in England, lent him the advantage of being able to drive fast over the muddy ground. Jason had watched him go off toward the main line with little hope the lad would return. Two hours later, a cheer went up, when Bart, bleeding heavily from a nasty wound to his arm, arrived with a wagon of cartridges.

They held on when Napoleon ordered the château be razed to the ground. Howitzer shells demolished the château and set it ablaze. In the final closing hours of the battle, despite heavy casualties, and only the chapel left standing, they prevailed. The French failed to capture Hougoumont, and the woods and fields around it were strewn with their dead and dying.

Later, Jason visited Bart, whose wound was being tended to. He poured a considerable amount of his whiskey down the young corporal’s throat from his flask before the sawbones sawed off Bart’s arm at the elbow. Jason had seen many acts of valor during the war, but Bart’s cheeky young face, good humor, and stunning bravery remained in his memory.

Jason was only too aware that thousands of ex-soldiers like Bart flooded into London after the war. Jason had employed a few himself, sending some to his country estate. The small government pension did little to help them overcome their injuries, find work, or deal with the changed circumstances they’d returned to. It had disgusted Jason and caused him to lose heart. That Bart had been taken back into the Kinsey household as footman, even though he’d lost an arm, said a good deal about them.

With a soft curse, Jason pushed away from the railings and continued along the street, vowing to find Bart’s murderer.

He raised his cane to a passing hackney.

“Whitehall, if you please, jarvey,” he ordered, climbing inside.

“Right you are, guv.”

As the carriage turned into Pall Mall, Jason thought again of the compassionate Lady Helen. Most young women were more concerned with finding a suitable man to marry than taking care of staff. Bart must have appreciated her kindness.

He removed the fragment from his wallet but, even in broad daylight, still could not make out the blurred words. He put it away again as the jarvey pulled the carriage to a stop.

 

***

Helen entered the morning room, feeling uneasy about Lord Peyton. Why was she drawn to confide in him? To trust him when she knew so little about him? It was unlike her to allow his good looks and manliness to affect her judgment. And it would be foolish to put her trust in him before she found out what lay behind his involvement. Bart deserved her objectivity. She had promised him she would find out the truth.

“Where have you been?” Diana asked. “I wanted to show you the riding hat featured in this month’s La Belle Assemblée.” She held the page up, showing a hat of a rather flamboyant design.

“I was just seeing Lord Peyton out. I don’t care for it. You’d have enough feathers to fly with.”

“Peyton was here?” Diana frowned. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Helen did not like keeping secrets from her sister but knew she must shield her from this worry. “I wasn’t aware of it myself until I came across him in the passage with Mama. He didn’t stay long. He wasn’t here on a social visit.”

Diana turned the page of her magazine. “Was it concerning Bart?”

“Yes. Peyton was his captain during the war.”

“Oh, really? How remarkable. What did Peyton have to say?”

“He is trying to find out why Bart wished to see him.”

The confusing mystery nagged at her. Had someone threatened Bart or even deliberately harmed him? What did those strange words written on the burned fragment mean? Would Peyton be able to make out more of it and discover their significance? If he did, would he tell her? Infuriating how women were shielded as if they were fragile ornaments to be tucked away somewhere safe. Even he had suggested she leave London. It was all she could do not to snap at him, when he really didn’t deserve it. He was obviously trying to protect them. She bit her lip. There she was making excuses for him. He was a man after all. And some men could be underhanded and ruthless. Well, she would continue to investigate on her own. She might find something of interest to aid him. Warming to the plan, she hoped another chance would come to talk with him and learn his thoughts. Something incomprehensible had occurred when their hands had touched. She still wondered at it. She must be on her guard and not be taken in by his clear green eyes, which appeared so compelling and trustworthy. Or his deep voice, which carried such authority. Bart had put his trust in him. But Bart was dead.

“Helen?”

Helen looked up from toying with the scalloped edge of her sleeve. “Mm?”

“I just asked if Peyton plans to call again.”

“Yes. When Papa arrives home.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’ll be sure to see him.”

“You can hardly lurk in the corridor or force your way into the library. Papa would be cross.”

“Papa is never cross for long.” Diana giggled. “Mama and I are to visit the dressmaker tomorrow for the final fitting of my ball gown. I can’t wait for you to see it. Mama insisted I wear white because all debutantes do, but I did want something that would make me stand out. It is lovely though. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“You will stand out, dearest,” Helen said confidently. “You’d look lovely if you were dressed in a jute sack.”

Diana laughed. “Well, it’s certainly not a sack. Do you think if I asked Papa to invite Lord Peyton to my ball, he would come, and dance with me?”

“He might. You can only ask.” Helen bit her lip at the flood of intense jealousy that snaked through her. She was still trying to reason with herself when their mother entered the room.

“Here you are. I have decided your idea is an excellent one, Helen. Toby and Alexander are to stay with your grandfather for a few weeks. And Miss Prince is to accompany them.”

“Toby will like that. He is dreadfully fatiguing when he has nothing to occupy his time, but why are you sending Alexander?” Diana glanced at Helen. “He won’t want to go without Helen.”

“Nonsense,” Mama said. “There is still much to be done to prepare for the ball. Alexander loves Miss Prince, and your grandfather spoils him most dreadfully. They will leave for Walcott tomorrow.”

“I might go with them and help Miss Prince settle Alexander in,” Helen suggested.

“But you might miss my ball!” Diana cried.

“Diana is quite correct. If we have a spate of bad weather, the roads could become impassable.” A small smile tugged Mama’s lips as she walked to the door. “You must wear your new gown. It cost your father a small fortune.” She paused a hand on the doorknob. “I need to discuss a matter with Mrs. Chance. Come and see me in my sitting room in fifteen minutes, please, Helen.”

Was she in trouble? As the door closed behind their mother, Helen traced the scar at her temple, unnerved. Nothing would sway Mama when she was determined. Didn’t Papa always say so?

She had not wished for a new dress. She loathed balls, and anyway, it was Diana’s night to shine.

Helen had not enjoyed a social occasion for years. Not since she danced twice with a handsome gentleman and strolled in the perfumed garden by moonlight. He had proved himself not to be a gentleman at all, as it turned out. Instead, he was a cold, unfeeling rake.

“My goodness, your face! What ghastly thing are you thinking about?” Diana asked.

Diana had never been told the extent of Helen’s fall from grace, and Helen wasn’t about to tell her now. “That I shall have men crushing my toes again,” she said, “and either treating me with indifference or sympathy.”

Diana shook her head. “You never know, you might meet the man of your dreams.”

Peyton’s lean face appeared in her mind’s eye, and annoyed with herself, she feared she already had.

In answer to her mother’s summons, Helen found her at the small desk in her sitting room, the household accounts open before her. One finger absently toyed with a curl at her neck.

“May I help you with the accounts, Mama?” Helen asked, pleased to find something to distract her mother from her purpose.

“No thank you.” Mama pushed back her chair, rose, then sat on the small tapestry sofa, gesturing for Helen to join her.

Helen sat, bracing herself for one of Mama’s talks.

“You must not give up on life, dear child.”

Helen sighed. “I haven’t Mama.”

“If not marriage, what do you plan for your future?”

“Harry insists he will never marry. I thought I might live with him at Cherrywood, when the time comes, and assist him in managing the estate. I am rather good at that sort of thing.”

Mama put an arm around her. “My dear child. Your brother might state at the ripe old age of twenty-two that he has no wish to marry, but I assure you he will change his mind.”

“Not everyone marries, Mama.”

“No. Not everyone is suited to it. But you are. You’re practical and capable. You are also very loving. Surely you want to be a mother one day?”

“I don’t expect to.” That was unfair. A pain struck deep in Helen’s ribs, and she drew in a slow breath. “I don’t know how you can say…”

Mama patted her hand. “Because I know that life moves on and brings with it change. Be brave, my dear. Now go along. I have much to do.”

Helen made her way downstairs. Was she cowardly? She’d considered her decision to be an honorable one. She ran her hand down the smooth wooden banister, her plan still solidly in place. Once Diana married, Helen would refuse to come to London for another Season. She would remain at Cherrywood. She continued down with a sigh. To be there again in June when the wild roses and blackberry were in bloom and the pretty house martins with their short, feathered legs collected mud for their nests. To sit by the pond and watch the demoiselle dragonflies skim across the water. It was a balm to her wounded soul. She could be content there. The ancient house set in its lovely park required a keen hand to run it, even before it became Harry’s, and Mama with her charities and Papa with his explorations showed little interest.