CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Find Vance. Where he is quartered, where he means to go next, and every man he has spoken to since the regiment came up. I want it by Friday.”
Pearce, who had been roused at five and not yet told why, set down his pocket-book unopened. “Your Grace has not been to bed.”
“No. Write also to Lord Carrow at his lodging. I want to know what the Earl of Greaves has been about this autumn, in town and country both, whom he dines with, whose paper he holds, and whether he has bought any land in this county these five years past. Tell Carrow I ask as a friend and that I will explain when I can, which will be never, and that he is to oblige me regardless.”
“This is the business at the folly last night.”
“You know about the folly.”
“The men you set there came to me before they sought their beds, as you instructed them. They were uneasy. They are not accustomed to being put in trees to watch their own mistress.” Pearce’s voice did not alter, which was its chief virtue. “May I ask how Your Grace knew to place them?”
“A footman. The one I pay to notice things.” Theodore moved a paper without reading it.
“He saw a man in a red coat near the kitchen-garden door two afternoons since, studying the house the way a man studies a thing he means to come back to. I did not have the shape of it then. I had enough to set men in the trees, a watcher on the south door, and a horse saddled after dark.”
“You might simply have locked the door, Your Grace. It would have spared everyone the night.”
“I will not lock my wife into her own house.” He said it flatly, and it shut the subject.
“Write the letters. And one thing more, for your own ear. The earl is no longer a man I merely keep an eye upon. He has put his hand on something of mine. I mean to take the hand off at the wrist, slowly, and you will help me do it, and we will neither of us ever speak the word revenge, because dukes do not have revenges. They have policy.”
“Policy.”
“There is a thread already begun, as it happens, and not by me. My wife has had Crewe these two weeks chasing who bought the river land off my tenants through London agents. She has got further in a fortnight than I have in nine years, because she went and stood in the cottages and asked. If Carrow’s answer is the one I expect, the river land, and the man holding horses in my trees last night, and the officer at the folly will all prove to be the one hand, and the hand will be the earl’s. ”
“Then Her Grace has done the half of your work for you, Your Grace.”
“She has done it without the smallest notion whose work it was, which is the only reason it has been safe to do. See that it stays safe. Crewe reports to me and to no other soul, and my wife’s name appears in no letter you write. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace.” Pearce wrote, and read it back, and was halfway to the door before he turned, in the manner of a man who has saved the heaviest item for the moment his master is least braced. “There is a further matter come up from town. It concerns Lord Middleton.”
“What has the boy done now?”
“He has been in St James’s, at a private house that plays deep, and he is worse than he was and going down faster.
” A pause. “He came to Pillard House ten days since and asked to see his sister, or failing that to be told how she did. The staff turned him from the door, as your standing order requires. My man notes two things he thought you would wish to have. The first is that Lord Middleton was sober when he called.”
“And the second.”
“That he went away without any trouble at all. No shouting, no scene, no second attempt. He stood on the step a moment, then took off his hat to the footman who had just refused him, and walked off down the square.” Pearce let it settle.
“My man remarked it because it was new. The Lord Middleton of the summer would have forced the door or wept on the step, or both, and most likely sent a bill for the weeping.”
Theodore sat with that longer than he sat with most things. “Note it. Do nothing. He is given nothing, and the order stands. But note it, and have your man keep him in view.”
“Does your man hazard any notion what has come over him, Your Grace?”
“None he would commit to writing. Men do not generally turn sober and quiet in the middle of a ruin. They turn sober and quiet after it, when the thing is complete and there is nothing left worth getting drunk over. My man wonders whether the boy has struck his bottom at last and found something solid down there.”
“Or whether he is merely between funds, and his sobriety will last exactly as long as his empty pockets.”
“That also, Your Grace. The two wear much the same face from the street.”
Theodore very nearly smiled. “They do. Watch him, and we shall learn which it proves to be. A man’s bottom and a man’s empty purse look alike for a month. By the second month they part company.”
“Noted, Your Grace.”
When Pearce had gone he sat a while in the grey light without writing or ringing for anything, and then he got up and changed his linen and made himself fit to be seen, because a man who let one bad night show in his face had handed the world a weapon to use, and he had handed the world enough this season.
He had the head keeper in before he went down. Marsh stood turning his hat, a spare grey man who had spent a lifetime being still in cold places.
“You did well last night, Marsh. All three of you. I shall not forget it.”
“Weren’t much to it, Your Grace. We stood where you put us and broke the guns open so the moon caught the metal, and they ran. Didn’t fire a shot, didn’t say a word.”
“How many were there.”
“Three that I marked. Two in the near trees, one back by the wall holding the horses.”
“Did you know any of them?”
A hesitation. “I’d not swear to a face in that light, Your Grace, and I’ll not say a thing I’d not swear to.
But the one by the wall, with the horses.
I’ve seen that coat. Drab, with a deal of cape to the shoulders, the sort a great man puts on a servant he likes to have noticed.
” Marsh turned the hat once more. “Greaves Court livery has a deal of cape to it. That’s all I’ll say, for I’ll not swear it, but you asked me, and I’ll not be untruthful to you either. ”
“No. You won’t.” Theodore was quiet a moment. “You saw nothing, Marsh. None of you saw anything. There were no men in the trees, there was no folly, and Her Grace took a turn in the park after dark and came in cold. Is that understood, and understood by the other two?”
“Understood, Your Grace. We saw the moon and a deal of nothing, same as any other night of the year.”
“Excellent. There is a guinea apiece for the nothing you saw, and my word besides, which is worth rather more, that I remember the men who stand where I put them.”
When Marsh had left, Theodore went down to luncheon, which he had not done in months.
Ellen was not there, and he had not looked for her to be. Augusta was, at the foot of the table with her soup, and she waited until the footman had withdrawn.
“What have you done, Theodore?”
“Nothing I am ashamed of.”
“That is not an answer, and you know it is not, which is precisely why you offered it.” She set down her spoon.
“The child came in at near midnight in a man’s greatcoat, on Selby’s arm, white as the cloth and not able to say a word.
Selby will tell me nothing, because Selby would walk into the sea before she carried your business to me.
You came in by the back stair and shut yourself in your study.
And this morning your wife will not speak, will not eat, will not weep, and has sat at her window since it was light. What have you done?”
“I have done nothing to her. A thing was done to her, and I prevented the worst of it, and that is the whole of what I will tell you, because the rest is hers and not mine to give away, even to you.”
Augusta searched his face a long moment, and found, evidently, that she believed him, and that the believing did not comfort her at all.
“Then it was the officer. The name you would not give me weeks ago.”
“It does not matter whose name. He will not trouble her again, in this world or very likely the next.”
“Names always matter, that is the whole of my point, and you have gone through your life behaving as though they did not.” But the heat had gone out of it.
“She thinks she has ruined herself. She thinks you despise her. She will not be told otherwise by me, because I do not know the half of it and she will not let me near the rest.”
Theodore set down his own spoon. His soup went cold in front of him, and he was quiet for the space of three of his aunt’s breaths.
“Do not leave her alone today, Augusta. Whatever else. Sit in the room with her if she will have you, and outside the door if she will not. I shall not be at dinner.”
“You will not go to her yourself.”
“No.”
“Theodore, the child needs to hear it from you, and soon.”
“She went to that folly to be chosen by another man, because she has spent two months in this house believing no one ever chose her.” He heard his own voice and did not soften it.
“If I go to her now, today, while it is raw, she will hear whatever I say as a sentence read over her head. I have been a sentence read over that girl since the day her brother sold her to me. I will not be one more man standing above her telling her what she is. When she is ready she will know where I am.”
“And how clever of you,” Augusta said, “to have arranged it so that being ready is left entirely to her, when the rest of it was arranged entirely by you.”
He looked up.
“You were at the folly, Theodore. At midnight, half a mile from the house, in time to the minute. That is not a husband caught taking the air. You knew.”
“I knew something was coming. Not the whole of it.”