Chapter 18 Information #2
And yet… did he want to marry at all? His experience with Patience had bruised him, unquestionably.
Perhaps it would be best to set aside any marital ambitions for the moment, and simply wait and see what the future held.
There would be other commissions in other noble houses with pretty daughters, or he might meet someone in town. Who knew what the future would bring?
In the meantime, he quietly seethed at Patience’s faithlessness. He burnt her letters and his sketches of her likeness, and hurled his anger into his fencing rapier, sparring with Denny with relentless ferocity.
He found that the Merrington ladies were his saviours during this difficult time.
They offered him unstinting, kindly friendship, without conditions.
Gone were the days when they looked at him with acquisitive eyes as a potential suitor.
Now they saw him as a broken romantic hero, deprived by cruel fate of his true love and doomed to an eternity of regret, and tended him as gently as if he were grieving Patience’s death.
The day they brought him the notice in the Gazette, he would not have been surprised had they worn full black for the occasion.
He had finished his work at the easel for the day, but was standing contemplating the next section to be tackled, lost in thought, when they all came in, a little train of concerned faces.
“Lance, dear,” Mrs Merrington said, her voice soft as honey, “you should read this, but do sit down first. Charlotte, prepare the brandy. Augusta, a chair… yes, that one. There now, sit, dear boy. There is very bad news, I regret to say.”
Her daughters settled on the floor at his feet like so many colourful ducklings, as she handed over the newspaper, folded to show some of the recent marriage announcements. The name ‘Patience’ jumped out at him.
‘Recently, at Pentavon Castle, Gloucestershire, Mr Edward Pardow, third son of Viscount Pardow of Hampshire, to Lady Patience Torbuck, youngest daughter of the Marquess of Pentavon. The happy couple will make their home in Gloucestershire.’
Lance laughed, causing the ladies to shift in surprise.
He could not explain the joke to them, but it was funny.
Her father had browbeaten the poor viscount into handing over one of his sons.
Not the heir, who had been hanging about her at Christmas and had almost certainly sired her child, but the third son, who would no doubt have been thoroughly beguiled by Patience’s charming ways and bribed by thirty thousand pounds…
or had he been bought for the original twenty?
He seemed to have got the house three miles from Pentavon, anyway.
Lucky fellow, to live cheek by jowl with his mama and papa-in-law!
But he had to say something to the Merrington ladies, so he assumed a more serious expression. “I am glad she has found happiness elsewhere.”
The ladies murmured anxiously. “It must be very trying for you,” Charlotte said. “I shall see if we can manage a raised veal pie for you for dinner. I know how fond you are of veal.”
He thanked her suitably, but seeing the ladies settling in for a lengthy session of sympathy, he made good his escape and retreated to his bedroom, the one part of the house where he could guarantee not to be pursued.
A tap on the door brought Froggett into the room. “Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Hammond asked me to give you this.”
He handed over a sealed note, which read, ‘Chamberlain, I have some information which may, or possibly may not, be of interest to you. If you would like to hear it, meet me in the knot garden at two o’clock. James Hammond.’
That made Lance laugh again. Information which may or may not be of interest? What nonsense had Hammond in his head this time? The man was a liability, but still, it would do no harm to hear what he had to say.
Hammond was already in the knot garden at the appointed hour, sitting on a carved wooden bench quietly reading a book, as if he had expected Lance not to turn up. He jumped up at the sound of footsteps on the gravel.
“Chamberlain. Good of you to come.”
“I am intrigued, Hammond. I trust this will be good.”
“That is for you to say,” Hammond said. “I merely convey information which has been imparted to me.”
“And which may or may not be interesting. Very well, then. Convey your information.”
Lance sat on the bench and prepared to be bored.
“A few weeks ago, my father’s cottage was… hmm, not broken into, precisely, since the kitchen door was unlocked, but entered at night by an unknown person.”
That was unexpected! “And this concerns me how precisely?”
“That is a question I cannot answer,” Hammond said. “This person lit a candle and wandered about for a while, lingering long enough to drip candle wax when he encountered one of the family trees my father uses in his work on the duke’s memoirs. The particular tree is of the Wyatts of Kent.”
“Again I must ask how this is relevant to me.”
“And again my answer is that I do not know. I am merely the vehicle for conveying this information. Its meaning is for you to determine — or not, possibly — but my reasons for offering it to you will become clear, I hope. If I may continue?”
Lance gestured to him to do so. Despite himself, he was intrigued and curious to know where the story was leading — if anywhere, of course. With Hammond, one never knew.
“My father, thinking it an odd occurrence, mentioned the matter in his next letter to the man who compiled the chart, and he, having some acquaintance with the Wyatts, wrote to tell them of it. That brought one of them, an Augustus Wyatt, galloping up to Brinshire. It seems that the Wyatts carelessly misplaced one of the sons of the family ten years ago, and jumped to the conclusion that he was here, and busily occupied in breaking into cottages to examine his family tree.”
“One can see how they might make that assumption,” Lance said cautiously. “Shaky, though. Decidedly shaky.”
“Indeed. He talked to my father, and told him about the missing man — Julius Wyatt, aged thirty-two, described by his brother as having brown hair and eyes and a decided chin. And a gentleman, of course. The Wyatts are an important family, not merely in Kent but in government circles, so Julius is an educated man. Now we come to the part that concerns you. Mr Wyatt said that Julius is a fencer of some renown.”
“Ah.”
“My father thought, and I agree with him, that your name is likely to rise to people’s minds as the only gentleman with fencing skills in these parts.
Obviously you have not been missing for ten years, but even if you are not Wyatt, you might know of a fellow fencer who would fit the description.
In any event, we thought you should be informed. ”
“That is most considerate, but I do not know anyone by the name of Wyatt.”
“Then if Mr Wyatt approaches you, he will be disappointed,” Hammond said, with an easy smile.
“After talking to my father, Wyatt seems to have concentrated his enquiries in Brinchester, but he will undoubtedly move on to the surrounding villages, and sooner or later he will encounter someone who thinks of you.”
“Your father did not mention me to Wyatt?” Lance said cautiously.
“He did not. Mr Wyatt seemed like a pleasant man, and spoke of wishing to reunite the family. He mentioned that Julius would be welcome to return to the family fold at any time. Still, my father held back. He feels, and I agree with him, that a man who has been lost for ten years might be unhappy to be found again, and should have that choice. Forewarned is forearmed, is it not? Unnecessary, as it happens, since you do not know this Wyatt fellow, but it was meant for the best. And now that I have conveyed my information, my duty is done. Good day to you, Chamberlain.”