Chapter 8 #2
“But the baron is more discreet, and he is a lord, while you—as he, himself, reminded me—are a commoner, one whom Dantry has opposed politically. It is in your interests, sir, to find Dantry as soon as possible, lest suspicion fall upon you and your nephew and criminal charges follow. No privileges of the peerage would attach to your trial, and while you have many neighbors in this shire and dozens of tenants, I do wonder if you have any friends who will advocate for you when you stand in the dock.”
I left him spluttering profanity upon my head, my house, my hubris…
I hoped I also left him with something to ponder: If Dantry had been laid low—ambushed on his way to an assignation, press-ganged onto some South American merchantman for political expedience—Fletcher’s nephew would be questioned at length, as would Fletcher himself.
I was in a position to assure that outcome, as was Sheldon, the prospective new earl, for whom Fletcher professed such admiration and respect.
“This was among your brother’s effects.” I passed a small cloth bag to Sheldon as we donned scarves and gloves.
“If financial matters are truly approaching a precipice, you will need much more than the sum those baubles will fetch, but their proceeds might placate a few of the more irate tenants and village shops.”
He opened the bag and peered at the contents. “This is very decent of you, but I haven’t the authority to liquidate my brother’s possessions.”
“No pawnbroker who has been in business for five minutes will expect you to produce a provenance for the very sort of items they trade in daily. Take those trinkets to Portsmouth, where you’ll get better prices than they’ll give you in London.
If you are considering a jaunt to the Continent, avoid the Dover-to-Calais packets.
Half of polite society takes that route, and your departure would be noted. ”
The bag of jewelry disappeared into a pocket of his cape. “Points noted. One hopes I have no call to rely on your guidance.”
I did not particularly want Sheldon’s escort as far as the crossroads, but after a hearty luncheon, he’d professed a need for some fresh air, and I’d accepted his proffered company. We ambled along on a muddy path down to the stables.
I would rather have ridden alone. My altercation with Fletcher had left me disappointed in myself. To antagonize the arrogant old besom had been pointless and beneath me. Hyperia would scold me for it, and so badly did I miss her that I would have treasured her rebuke.
“Where will you turn your inquiries next?” Sheldon asked as we left the house for the stable.
The world sparkled and dripped, the melting snow forming icicles under the eaves and mud along the path. I’d donned my spectacles, but even with their protection, the afternoon was painfully bright.
“I will return to the Knot, confer with Sir Clive, and take my orders from him.” Also from Miss Weatherby and even Mrs. Stoneham. Would that Hyperia were on hand to add her wisdom to the situation.
“But what’s left to do, my lord? We know Claude isn’t in Town. He’s not here. He’s not with Sir Clive. I assume nobody has delivered any ransom notes, so where in all of creation should you look next?”
The stable yard was another scene of moderating temperatures, with a chorus of drip-drops from the overhang and precocious sparrows flitting over the troughs.
A slab of snow broke loose from the pitched roof of the stable and crashed to the ground in a heap, which provoked both Atlas and Sheldon’s mount to dancing about the grooms who held their reins.
“Winter,” Sheldon said. “Damnedest season. No use for it, myself.”
A soldier had a use for winter. Armies ceased campaigning, unable to cover ground without grass to feed their mounts and livestock. Winter was for repairing weapons, resting, and plotting the next series of battles.
“I will write to my godmother,” I said, tugging on Atlas’s girth and finding it snug enough. “I will write to my prospective bride, and I will ask them for any news from the distaff.” Were Her Grace at the Hall, I would have already consulted her. “I suggest you do the same.”
Sheldon swung up onto a majestic gray. “You expect me to send out dispatches informing the world that I’ve misplaced my brother?”
“Certainly not.” The saddle was a cold shock to the fundament, even through the thickness of my lined breeches. “I expect you to send out the sort of chatty, half-boring, epistolary lure that will have your auntie in Peterborough reporting that Dantry’s visit was lovely, but all too short.”
“I haven’t an auntie in Peterborough, but I get your drift. Ask who is going up to Town, who is biding in the shires for the nonce. Invent a rumor that Sir Clive is remarrying. Beat the bushes and see if any news takes wing.”
“Beat all the bushes. Your acquaintances, Lord Dantry’s, the club fixtures who hear all the gossip, the old tutor who retired to Oxfordshire. Send the letters a few at a time lest you alarm the staff.”
We left the stable yard and gained a rutted lane that led to the estate village. The ruts were half melted, while the carriageway that led to the front of the house showed no evidence of traffic.
“Other than the Fletchers and Lord Huffnagel, is Dantry generally liked by the neighbors?”
Sheldon appeared to give the question some thought. His horse was an exquisite creature, up to his weight, and well behaved despite the dodgy footing. More elegant than my Atlas, but I would not trade my boy for all the merino wool capes in Kent.
“The ladies like Dantry,” Sheldon said, “but he once told me their liking could not be trusted. Did they like him or his title? Perhaps they liked the Dovecote, or the jewels which neither he nor I could pawn or sell? He wasted time pondering such arcana.”
We passed through a tidy village comprising a high street, a snow-clad green, a venerable church, and a few shops.
The walkways were shoveled, the commercial establishments open for business.
The foot traffic, to a person, stopped and waved a greeting to Sheldon.
That worthy nodded to the men and touched his hat brim to the ladies.
“They would miss Dantry,” I said. “These people expect him back at the end of his Season in Town, and they expect him to eventually find them a countess and employ half their offspring.”
“That is rather a lot of offspring, my lord.”
“They expect the Dovecote to employ at least a good portion of the Tamworths, then.”
Sheldon grinned. “A hundred and fifty years ago, the Tamworths ushered into the world a pair of strapping twin boys. The countess at the time had to have them in her employ—matching footmen, of course—and we’ve been surrounded by Tamworths in livery ever since, or so the legend goes.”
He went on to recount more local lore as we left the village behind. The going became easier thanks to tall stands of conifers along the road, which had likely prevented drifting.
The trees opened up to reveal a snug Tudor manor sitting in a slight depression several hundred yards from the lane. More pines formed a dark backdrop to the manor house, while tall white walls set it off in the middle of a pristine park.
“Bascomb’s Retreat,” Sheldon said, his tone for once serious. “The Arbuthnots supported the place in years past, or we might still. I’m vague on the details.”
What struck me about the property was the lack of tracks. Not a deer, rabbit, human, or fox had crossed that brilliant expanse of white between the trees and the wall running just down the slope from the lane.
“Pleasant setting,” I said, though, in truth, I found the lack of tracks, the lack of any movement at all, disquieting.
Rather than gawk, I kept my focus on the matter at hand.
“Fletcher would have me believe you are functioning as some sort of unpaid steward to the estate while your brother indulges his political leanings.”
“Fletcher would have his daughter wearing my ring,” Sheldon said. “She’s a lovely young lady, but she doesn’t fancy me. A fellow would like some basis for a marriage other than a papa-in-law’s social ambition.”
“And if Fletcher could bring the Dovecote’s finances right provided you met his daughter at the altar?”
Sheldon shuddered. “I pray our finances aren’t that muddled, but if they are, Dantry is the greater prize. Fletcher believes himself entitled to all the great prizes. That would be some irony, though, Fletcher having to endure a son-in-law who thinks shopkeepers and Papists should vote.”
“Could Fletcher bribe Dantry into moderating his views?”
I was turning over ideas at random, looking for useful new directions. To return to the Knot with nothing to show for hours spent in a cold saddle—nothing save a brief and terrifying parable about memory lapses—was exasperating.
“Fletcher doubtless has tried to bribe Dantry,” Sheldon said, “but my brother would not recognize the sort of subtle hint with which a course of bribery ought to begin. Dantry isn’t concerned with money, unless he’s composing a speech about taxes.
When the steward insists, Dantry will have a look at the ledgers.
Mrs. Betancourt can force him to review household expenses every quarter or so, but the rest of it… I do what I can, which isn’t enough.”
“You are in a difficult position,” I said. “Younger sons often are.”
We parted on that eternal verity, and I turned Atlas west. I’d bided at the Dovecote less than twenty-four hours, but that had been long enough to collect a sense of vague unease about the place.
I’d lost my temper with Fletcher. That still bothered me.
I’d lost my memory for no apparent reason.
That the incident had occurred when I was in relatively unknown surrounds threw into question my fitness for any sort of investigating.
Arthur would take it very much amiss if, like Dantry, I disappeared into the night, permanently submerged in the River Lethe.