Chapter Two
Theodora had chosen to remain with her father, rather than to join them in breaking their fast. Mr. Fields and two of the footmen from earlier saw to their needs as they evaluated how much had been accomplished since Duncan had been attacked.
Benjamin had missed out on some of the details while he was tending to Duncan at the Lyon’s Den.
“And Hartley has no new leads?” Orson asked. “How is that possible? There is always a steady stream of people coming and going at the Lyon’s Den’s entrance.”
“Obviously, Duncan has earned his fair share of enemies over the years, and, as to his lordship’s assailant, the person was not what any of us initially thought,” Beaufort argued.
“The man walked right between us, where each of us could have reached out and caught hold of him, but none of us actually saw him. What was the color of his hair? Did he appear to be a British citizen? Was there anything distinctive about him other than the fact he dared to kill Duncan?”
“We were taught better,” Marksman said into the silence which followed Beaufort’s questions.
“I permitted my guard to slip,” Benjamin admitted.
Orson sighed heavily. “Guilt is large enough for our private moments, for now, what do we know?”
“The gun used appears to be nothing like anything we might employ in everyday use,” Graham told the group. “Some think it was made special for the purpose of both distance and accuracy, with the only ones known to be similar are ones used on the American frontier to hunt and for protection.”
“A rifle, but not a rifle in size?” Marksman asked.
“Let us say, not a rifle as we might generally conceive one to be,” Aaran corrected.
“From what I have learned, the larger the target means this type of weapon is more effective. Supposedly, if a shooter whose purpose is to wreak havoc, rather than to know accuracy, this style of weapon is more than a bit useful. Several of those among the Luddites own such a weapon, and each purchased their preferred gun from an American.”
“Great,” Benjamin groaned. “Something else of which we must be cautious.”
“You are too exhausted to think straight,” Marksman said. “It was very good of you to spend all that time at the Lyon’s Den.” Then he quickly added with a smile, “Imagine what you must have seen!”
“You are an arse, Marksman,” Beaufort accused.
“Thompson was not enjoying the pleasures of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s temptations.
Benjamin was in a room not designed for sleeping or even conversation.
He was Duncan’s constant attendant.” Beaufort set his coffee cup down a bit harder than necessary.
“In my opinion, Thompson is a saint. If any of the rest of us had been charged with Duncan’s care, our father would likely not have survived.
” Beaufort saluted as if he were in the military.
“You are a queer combination between saint and mastermind, and I am proud to call you ‘brother.’”
“Here, here!” the others said and raised their cups in recognition.
Benjamin attempted to ignore Beaufort’s praise, mainly because it made him uncomfortable, but, secretly, he treasured his brother’s recognition.
Being the last of the young boys Duncan had taken in had him often feeling as if he did not belong.
Moreover, he had spent two years in Scotland and away from them as the others were stepping fully into their earldoms. Sometimes, he felt as if he was the odd duck out.
Instead of responding, he said, “Rheem has suggested we hire a nurse for Duncan.”
“Theodora plans on taking care of her father,” Marksman reminded them.
“I adore Theodora,” Benjamin responded and taking care not to contradict Marksman, “but, realistically, how will she feel when she must change his bandages or assist him with his bodily needs?”
“Dora can ask Duncan’s valet for assistance,” Marksman argued. “And we cannot ask her to reconsider, for this is important to her.”
Richard instructed, “We will permit Theodora to learn her lesson through trial and error, but I will speak to Rheem about who might be available to assist Duncan.”
Benjamin continued his explanation. “Rheem spoke of a woman who had approached him recently. Supposedly, she has a Scottish accent, and Rheem thought Duncan might approve. He also said she was familiar with the types of medications commonly used in British households.”
“I will need to know more about her than her accent,” Orson declared.
“How much experience does she have? How old is she? Widowed or married? Is she available to stay with Duncan until he is healed enough to return to society? I will speak to Rheem later today and arrange an appointment with the woman.”
The days ticked by, with Benjamin calling daily on Duncan, generally after Parliament had met in the evening, so he might take supper with Duncan.
They discussed what had transpired each day, as well as what should be their response as lords of the land and as agents for the Home Office.
They spoke often of who might have staged the attack on Duncan, but neither of them could name anyone who would dare to take such a bold step.
Privately, each day, Benjamin spent a few hours chasing first one possible clue and then another.
He often returned to the area about the Lyon’s Den, searching for something to solve the mystery.
He walked the grounds again and again and up and down.
He called upon all the nearby shops and offices surrounding the gaming hell, asking if anyone had found a button or pin or other garments or seen anything unusual in their daily comings and goings.
One night watchman showed Benjamin a gold threaded tassel he had found, but Thompson could not recall if the stranger’s coat sported a tassel or two, but he presented the man a pound for the tassel, nevertheless.
After the first week of attending to her father, Theodora had finally admitted she could use professional help, and, with Mr. Rheem’s recommendation, Orson brought in Mrs. Braylon, who proved to be quite efficient, but who did not win over any of their sympathies.
The woman was curt and too assured of herself to suit any within the household, except perhaps Mr. Fields, Duncan’s butler, who seemed, at times, to cater to the woman.
Benjamin had rarely gone awry of the nurse, but his brothers had not taken to the idea of Mrs. Braylon issuing her own set of orders. He kept repeating, “As long as the woman assists Duncan to a return to health, I can tolerate her overconfidence.”
Miss Victoria Whitchurch tucked the scarf tighter about her head to keep the cold from cutting through her.
Her coat and gloves felt thinner than they should.
She had been in London for nearly three months, and she found the temperature in the capital much colder than that of Bath, where she had been employed until recently.
Originally, she had left her position and joined her sister in the city, but now she was alone.
She supposed she could return to Hampshire, but since her father had been driven from his position as a vicar, it was all her father could do to provide for his wife, Victoria’s mother.
All their lives had been turned on their heads when it became common knowledge that Miss Cassandra Whitchurch had permitted the only son of Mr. Whitchurch’s benefactor, Lord Harold Betts, liberties without the benefit of marriage.
Lord Betts had laughed in Mr. Whitchurch’s face when the vicar had called upon the family at the great house and demanded restitution.
“Your daughter was more than willing,” young Mr. Betts had declared boldly.
It was then that Lord Betts stepped into the fray.
“You must understand, Whitchurch, I can no longer consider you worthy of the living I have previously bestowed upon you. I think it best if you and Mrs. Whitchurch departed from the vicarage within a fortnight. I cannot have a man leading those in the parish who cannot control those within his own home.” With that, Mr. Rutland Whitchurch had been dismissed from the position he had held for some twenty years—ejected from a home and a community, with no prospects.
Two spirited youths had sinned, but only one had been properly punished.
Every time Victoria considered the outcome, tears rushed to her eyes.
She had been away in Bath at the time, serving as an instructor in music and languages at an all-girls’ school, not the usual occupation for a woman of the gentry, but Victoria had loved her own years at the school and had gladly returned to offer other young ladies the type of personal success she had found there.
Victoria paused to watch the street traffic.
When she had left her position in Bath, she had asked for a month to assist her sister, but now she had been made to give it up to another.
Though she had come to London to assist Cassandra, as usual, Cassie had had a mind of her own, and while Victoria had been seeking employment, instead of seeking her own employment, Cassandra had gone out for the day and had never returned.
It was only later that Victoria had found the note hidden under the stack of towels that she and Cassandra used to wash themselves.
Since then, Victoria had spent part of each day working in a drapery shop and the rest of it searching out any possible leads on Cassandra’s whereabouts.
Victoria was confident that Cassandra had remained in London, for, at least once per week, there were a few coins or a flower upon the mat outside Victoria’s room in the boarding house.
Though she was quite alone and discouraged by the circumstances in which she found herself, as well as her family’s downfall, Victoria did not abandon her goal to reunite her family.
Such was the subject of her prayers each evening and her thoughts this morning as she rushed along the street, attempting not to know the steady drizzle.