A Gentleman Under the Mistletoe (The Lord Julian Mysteries #7)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Whitechapel lay about five miles east of Hyde Park, past St. Paul’s, past the City, east even of the Tower. I made the journey by phaeton, despite the cold, and used the time to consider what exactly I sought from Mr. Thomas Mears.

Answers, of course—who had ordered the bell for Waltham village—and context. When had the order been placed? Had a date certain for delivery been agreed upon, or had it been happenstance that the other bell had arrived before mine?

I was lucky, in that the journey lasted little more than an hour. I had no intention of tarrying on the premises. Darkness would soon be falling, and London’s East End after sunset was no place for a stray lord in his fancy equipage.

“I’m here to see Mr. Mears,” I said to a clerk who occupied an enormous desk just inside the door. The premises had been a coaching inn in an earlier century, and I suspected the desk was a legacy of those origins. The front door had been decorated with a handsome wreath and the exterior lintel swagged with pine boughs.

The interior, with its exposed-brick walls, bore a resemblance to an austere chapel long since abandoned by the angels.

“Who might I say is calling, sir?” The clerk was tidy, dark-haired, and wearing fingerless gloves. He did me the courtesy of rising as he questioned me.

“Lord Julian Caldicott.” I passed over a card.

The clerk studied the card, which was a bit rude of him, while I took in my surroundings. I’d been here previously, nearly a year ago, and honestly did not recall much about the place.

Not well done of me, to let the reconnoitering lapse, a sad testament to the state I’d been in.

The foyer rose to two chilly stories, while the building itself stood at three and meandered back from the street along a side alley. Most of the establishment was faced with staid brown brick, a sensible choice given London’s smoky air. Seven tall mullioned windows across the front were doubtless intended to let in what meager light the London winter skies afforded.

A pungent metallic scent cut through the pervasive sulfurous aroma of Town in winter, suggesting that casting went on apace, despite the approaching holidays.

“Is Mr. Mears expecting you, my lord?”

“Unlikely.” I hadn’t planned to make this call until I’d left the Hall and had the entire morning to consider the matter.

“Please come with me.” The clerk bustled off, and I followed him from the frigid foyer through one of several doors and into a labyrinth of corridors, across a metal walkway that ran above a stiflingly hot foundry area, and back into more orderly corridors.

We entered a room that might have been any gentleman’s estate office. I did not recognize the place, nor did I recognize the man who rose from behind his desk.

“Hampton? Who have we here?”

“Lord Julian Caldicott, sir. He does not have an appointment, but would like a moment of your time.”

“Of course.” The smile was commercially cordial. “I believe we cast a tolling bell for his lordship, and it was only recently delivered. Would my lord like a cup of tea?”

Whoever this fellow was, he knew his business, and he was polite. He was not Thomas Mears, though there was a resemblance about the eyes and mouth.

“No tea, thank you. The purpose of my call is brief, and I do appreciate your seeing me.”

The clerk withdrew on a half bow.

“My lord dealt directly with Thomas Mears, I gather,” my host said. “We always trot out the master founder himself for the nobs. I’m his son, Charles. I trust your bell is satisfactory?”

“I honestly don’t know. The bell hangers have yet to work their magic. Based on appearances, I anticipate complete satisfaction.” I hadn’t asked Sigafoose how the denizens of Hop Bottom had reacted to the arrival of their bell, but I could not see them objecting.

“We always aim to please. Papa won’t be in until the New Year, so do allow me to assist you.” He gestured to a pair of comfortable wing chairs positioned near the hearth.

I took one. Mears took the other. He was young, brawny beneath his fine tailoring, and had likely served out an extended apprenticeship to his father, before embarking on a tour of duty among the ledgers and solicitors. Did he spend hours a day on correspondence while longing to get back to the heat of the foundry?

“I come on a somewhat peculiar errand,” I said, wishing I’d rehearsed this part of the call. “Waltham village, as you apparently know, has been without a church bell for years. I sought to address that oversight and thus ordered a bell about a year ago. My request was not urgent, but when I learned the bell would be delivered before Christmas, I was pleased.”

“Bells make the holidays merrier, whether it’s sleigh bells, bell carols, charity bells, bells accompanying the glee on the corner… We do like our bells at Yuletide.”

A tolling bell fulfilled none of those cheery functions, and yet, Mears had a point. A bell was rung for a purpose—to summon worshipers, summon the watch, hail a houseful of guests in to dinner. Bells told us to act, to pause and reflect, to take notice.

To mourn or rejoice.

“As it happens,” I said, “I was not the only person determined to rectify Waltham’s lack of a bell. Another specimen arrived, very like the one I ordered, and that other bell is slated to be hung in our tower. The bell I ordered will be donated elsewhere. I am curious about the provenance of the bell that arrived first.”

Dark brows drew down. “I recall something about this. We reasoned that one of the smaller parishes in your vicinity was also enjoying the generosity of a benefactor. Perhaps you set an inspiring example, my lord.”

Not possible, given that I’d told no one I’d ordered a bell, not even Arthur. He would have suspected morbid motives of me, and he would have been correct.

“Perhaps I did, and I would like to thank whoever followed my example. I know what I paid for my bell—worth every penny, of course—and this second bell was indeed quite the holiday beneficence.”

Mears tapped a finger on the upholstered arm of the chair. He was doubtless weighing the consequence of refusing a courtesy lord’s request over the lapse in confidentiality involved in revealing the identity of one customer to another.

“Let me have a look.” A shrewd response. If the other customer was the archbishop’s auntie, as opposed to some grouchy old squire, that changed the complexion of the situation.

He opened a glass-fronted bookcase and finger-stepped through pasteboard files, removing one from the middle of the row. He leafed through the contents, his air of puzzlement increasing.

“We haven’t a name, my lord. This is most unusual.”

“How can you take a substantial order from a customer without a name?”

“The whole matter was dealt with by correspondence. The customer placed the order with a very precise written description of the desired product—I gather it was to resemble the previous bell in many particulars—and payment was sent in advance. We often take a deposit, particularly for larger jobs, but never demand payment in full before casting.”

“Might I have a look?”

He passed me the file, which held only a few pieces of paper. A brief letter requested a bell and described it in some detail, no sender’s direction stated. The bell was to be delivered to Waltham village at least a fortnight before Christmas and a bell-hanging company retained to position it.

A different hand had kept a schedule of progress, the last entry noting that the bell had been safely delivered a few days earlier.

“How did you contact your customer?” I asked, studying what few pages I held.

“We did not. They sent us the order and a bank draft made out to bearer for the full amount. We did the work. We delivered the bell. Unusual, my lord, as I said. England is not exactly awash in bell foundries, so we have customers from all over the realm and even across the seas. The distant customers usually fret that we’ve forgotten their orders, that we’ll send the bell to the wrong village of Knowles, that sort of thing. They ask for reports of progress, while this customer… A trusting soul, I’d say. Old-fashioned, but then, the squires and curates know we’re an old-fashioned company.”

“You suspect this order came from gentry?” I stared at the initial letter, trying to will it to tell me something. The order had apparently not come through the mail, but had instead been delivered by a hand I had no chance of identifying.

Mears shook his head. “I can’t say gentry ordered the bell, my lord. I know only that the bell went to an estate village here in the Home Counties. We have plenty of peers hereabouts, but for all I know, the mayor of Paris ordered that bell.”

I wanted to crumple the damned anonymous letter and toss it into the fire, which would be pure foolishness.

“Well, thank you for as much as you’ve been able to tell me. I don’t suppose any other bells have been ordered for delivery to Waltham village?”

“Not that I know of, my lord.”

I was disproportionately disappointed with the interview. The answer to my Christmas conundrum was supposed to stare up at me from the page—a name, an explanation, a simple why-didn’t-I-think-of-that solution.

Instead, I saw a bell described very much like my own save for the angels on the canon, an amount noted, and a date requested. With All Due Respect … No signature.

Bah and fiddlesticks. I proffered the file to Mears and then snatched it back. With All Due Respect indeed.

“My lord?”

I rose and surrendered the file. “Checking a detail. Happy Christmas to you and yours, Mears, and may all the bells ring for joy on Christmas morning.”

“We live in hope, my lord.”

A skinny boy led me back through the corridors and across the raised metal walkway, and then I was paying another skinny boy for having guarded my phaeton.

“You gave me a shillin’, guv. Charge is a penny. Tuppence if you’re gone ’alf the day.” Dark eyes, unruly dark hair, ankles showing above his tattered boots. Honor bright as a new penny.

“Your Christmas token, lad. Go someplace warm and eat something hot for a change.”

He grinned, revealing the beautiful teeth of a child whose diet included very little sugar. “Thankee. Hot cross buns and a toddy, and I’ll bring extra for Ma and the girls.”

He was off like a rabbit on the heath, and I climbed onto the chilly bench. “Away we go, horse. You haven’t been standing a quarter hour.”

The beast moved forward, and we waded into battle with London traffic as darkness began to fall. I nevertheless made a stop on Ludgate Hill and produced for examination a simple pearl ring I’d borrowed from Hyperia’s jewelry box. The adornment was an unprepossessing gold circle, but the pearl had a lovely pinkish hue, and I knew the ring fit its owner well.

That errand also took less than a quarter hour, and when I urged the horse homeward, I had the satisfaction of one mission accomplished. Ordering a ring for Hyperia was a hopeful gesture, and in this at least, the present holidays were an improvement over last year’s version.

I wasn’t in full possession of all my faculties, I wasn’t married to the woman I adored, and I hadn’t yet won the battle to become the Waltham duchy’s trusted steward-at-large. But my circumstances were improving, and I was even making progress in the puzzle of the secret Father Christmas.

With All Due Respect . The D in Due had been the same D as in Do enjoy Philadelphia . The same D as in Christmas Day as penned in the note to Mr. Blentlinger. The exact same.

Either the gifts were all from the same giver, or the curious coincidences had extended to include idiosyncrasies of penmanship, and that I did not believe for an instant.

“What was the best gift you ever received?” I asked Healy West as the ducal traveling coach rocked along the frozen roads.

“The best gift? You mean, like a Book of Common Prayer with my name on it or a pony?”

“Better than a pony.” Now that I knew my competitor for top-anonymous-elf honors was one person, I was determined to take the competition into more innings.

“Nothing is better than a pony,” West said. “I still recall my first, and he was, of course, the best equine ever to trot through creation. Wasn’t keen on cantering, and I think that’s why Papa bought him. I named him Forsooth.”

“Shakespearean of you.”

“My pony is Ladon,” Atticus said, “except he’s not really mine, but he can gallop.”

Atticus sat once again with his back to the horses, having lasted not one tollgate beyond London up on the box. Outside the confines of Town, the day was bright and bitter.

Good skating weather and terrible for my eyes. “Think, West. Some gift or benevolence other than a pony struck you dumb as a boy, some magnificent surprise.”

West considered Atticus, who was once again thumping the bench with a heel. “Papa took me up to Town when I was seven. We did the usual things—the menagerie, a hack in the park with me up before him, Gunter’s. I recall that excursion very fondly. To have the old man to myself for a time, no mama or Hyperia intruding, was wonderful.”

“His Grace did something similar with me,” I replied, having forgotten the trip until West had spoken. “I gather each child was taken to Town individually with either Her Grace or the duke, according to gender, for fittings and boots and ices and, weather permitting, a sail on the river. What I recall about the river is the stink. We came in summer, and the tides were sluggish, and Papa thought my reaction hilarious.”

“The river still reeks in summer,” West said. “London is growing like topsy, but nobody has thought how we’ll deal with all the resulting sewage and trash. Subterranean rivers and Roman brick works can only handle so much.”

Atticus looked fascinated by that remark.

“Leander won’t have a country lad’s sense of wonder about London,” I said. “He has dwelled here and has unhappy memories of the place. I’m looking for a special gift that will truly impress the lad and welcome him to the family.”

Atticus looked away, and I realized too late how my words might cut a boy who had no family, a boy who had been welcome only where he could work for his keep.

I dropped the subject and regretted bringing it up in present company.

The horses eventually slowed as we approached another village. We were one change away from home, though I felt as if I’d spent eternities in the coach, jostled and chilled, despite heated bricks fitted into the floor periodically and a hamper still mostly full.

“Toy soldiers?” West suggested, as if he’d been musing on the question for miles. “Leander’s papa was a soldier, if what Hyperia has told me is true.”

“Harry was a soldier.” Also a rascal, ducal heir, and a damned fine brother most of the time. “Alas for me, the Caldicott Hall nursery already boasts an embarrassment of riches in the miniature military ranks. Every army you can think of and a few you’ve never seen mentioned outside the history books. I will give the matter more thought.”

“You don’t have the Scots Greys,” Atticus said. “Not really. You have cavalry on gray horses, but the uniforms are wrong. Uncle Kerrick said.”

Kerrick was not the boy’s uncle, though in the same manner that Aunt Bertha was universally Aunt Bertha, and Aunt Crosby was universally Aunt Crosby, I allowed the appellation to pass. To correct Atticus would be unkind, and for all I knew, his pride was already smarting.

He lacked a proper last name , for pity’s sake. Would that Father Christmas could give him one and a happier past to go with it. I shoved that gloomy thought aside and returned my mind to the instant question.

How to top a pony—an elegant dapple gray pony—in the great anonymous Christmas gift sweepstakes?

“Leander likes stories,” Atticus said. “Not Aesop’s Fables . He knows those off by heart because his mother read them to him. Big stories like Much Ado About Nothing and Hamlet . Hamlet has a duel in it, and a talking ghost. Miss Hyperia says Hamlet wanted to lose the duel, which is stupid.”

“Hyperia reads Lamb’s versions to the boys?” West asked.

“Probably the copy Her Grace bought for me, though I was old enough to read them for myself.” Charles and Mary Lamb had tried to keep the flavor of Shakespeare’s Elizabethan prose, while sanitizing the worst of the earthiness. Compared to the originals, the resulting stories had sometimes been brilliant adaptations and other times made for very odd literature.

“The fate of the realm does not rest on coming up with a perfect gift,” I said, “nor is Christmas yet upon us. The subject can be put to rest for now.”

“The fate of my tummy rests in that hamper,” Atticus said, though with West along, the boy would not eat without first being given permission.

“I’m a bit peckish,” West said, “and good food… should not go to waste.”

Atticus had joined in on that chorus, and they shared a conspiratorial smirk that excluded me. West opened the hamper, and Atticus sidled along the bench to peer into it with him.

“As buried treasure goes,” West said, “these shortbread biscuits certainly qualify. I see we also have some ginger biscuits. Delightful.”

“You’ll ruin your nooning,” Atticus retorted, swiping the packet. “I’ll look after the biscuits.”

“You’ll eat every one,” West said, making a fake grab for the goods. “Rogue, thief, brigand.”

“You look after the cheese toast sandwiches. The guv’nor can’t be trusted around them.”

“I will make you a bargain,” West said, locating the sandwiches. “I’ll trade you one-half a cheese toast sandwich for ginger biscuits.”

“One biscuit for a whole sandwich.”

They haggled with all the mock intensity of good actors having a good time. I smiled indulgently and pretended to boredom, relieved that the awkward topic of how to spoil my nephew was behind us. I made the mistake of lifting the window curtain and got a stab of brilliant sunshine in the eyeballs for my trouble.

Ruddy, rubbishing holidays . I was loath to return to the sniping and bickering at the Hall’s meals and daunted by Arthur’s mountains of mail. That trivial annoyances such as these weighed on my spirits made me even more disgusted with myself.

That honest, ragged boy guarding my phaeton in Whitechapel reproached me for my moodiness, as did my own common sense.

And yet, the question still circled in my mind: What gift was more impressive than a pony? What would create lasting memories for all of Leander’s remaining days? Something precious, enduring, and dear?

“I have to use the jakes,” Atticus said as the coach turned into the yard of the local inn. “Haven’t gone in forever.”

“You go at every change,” West said. “You slow us down with your sightseeing.”

“You ain’t never been told when to piss and when to hold it all day. I gotta piss.”

Another peek into life in a poorhouse. “I’ll get out,” I said, tugging down my hat brim and donning my blue specs. “But be quick, or yonder hooligan will eat all your shortbread.”

“I’ll guard the hamper,” West said, taking a bite of a biscuit. “Away with you, brigand.”

“He won’t eat them all,” I said, unlatching the door. “Out you go.”

Atticus scrambled down, and I followed, bracing myself for the inevitable throbbing that even my spectacles could not protect me from when the day offered bright sunshine on snow.

“Around there,” I said, gesturing to the right. “And do not think to sully a snowbank like a common ne’er-do-well. Use the facilities.”

Atticus executed an elaborate, wrist-twirling bow and jogged off around the corner of the inn.

The boy increasingly troubled me. I’d taken him on as my tiger because he’d been completely wasted as a general dogsbody in the Makepeace household. When everybody else save Hyperia had been against me, Atticus—small, fierce, and ostensibly powerless—had guarded my flank. He was bright, eager to learn, and trustworthy.

He deserved more from life than hard work and harder luck. He for damned sure deserved a last name. I had had Leander’s surname changed to Caldicott by the simple use of a deed poll and some coin. Atticus’s situation was more delicate, in that he was no family connection whatsoever.

As these thoughts racketed through my mind, I watched the bustle in the coach’s innyard. Our tired team was led away, harness jingling in the frigid breeze. A fresh team, all bay, no white markings, were led prancing and curvetting up to the coach. The hostlers worked with the precision of an artillery squad and with a good deal less profanity as the horses were backed step by step into position.

“I’m going to be a coachman when I grow up,” a young girl said, tilting her head to peer up at the box. “Like him!” She pointed to John Coachman, who saluted with his whip as if the child were some passing dignitary.

She whirled and clapped her hands, which caused the off-leader to take a few nervous steps and an old hound dozing on the inn’s long wooden porch to look up from his nap. The dog took in the scene at a glance, considered the girl for a moment, then put his chin back on his paws.

Dear old thing. He’d probably been watching coaches come and go for years. Dogs had been my friends in Spain, alerting me to noises I could not hear, scents I could not smell. Nobody kept watch like a dog, or was quite such a comfortable…

I wanted to whirl and clap my hands. “I’ll get him a dog. A noble hound. Man’s best friend and child’s best playmate. Doesn’t have to live in the stable, can even keep a lad company in the playroom.”

Atticus came around the corner of the innyard at a trot. “C’mon, guv. Mr. West will eat all the biscuits if we don’t keep an eye on him.”

I mentally saluted the old hound and hoisted Atticus into the coach.

“Count them,” I said to Atticus. “Count the biscuits, and West will owe us a forfeit for every one he pilfered while on guard duty.”

“For that insult,” West said, dramatically clutching the parcel of cheese toast, “you shall starve. I ate a mere half dozen.”

“Six!” Atticus dove for him as the coach lurched forward, and the result was a lot of crumbled biscuits, though Atticus assured us they tasted just as good smashed to bits, perhaps even better. By the time we reached Caldicott Hall, the lad was complaining of a bellyache, and I had made a mental list of places where I might procure a friendly, mild-tempered, trustworthy hound.

Happy Christmas to all.

“Not to be critical,” Aunt Bertha said, setting down her spoon. “But this soup could be hotter. Potato soup should be hot or cold, not warm, and this offering definitely qualifies as warm.”

“Not to be critical,” Uncle Terrence muttered, “but why must every meal be ruined by your liberal servings of discontent, Bertha Higgins? It’s winter, in case you haven’t noticed, and food gets cold on its way up from the kitchen.”

Theodoric Pettigrew slurped his serving noisily, which I supposed was meant as a reproach to both combatants. At the foot of the table, the duchess tucked in silently, while Kerrick busied himself buttering a roll.

Ginny had once again pleaded fatigue—my sister was no fool—and Hyperia looked resigned to more four-course skirmishing.

I had been home from London for a matter of hours, and I was ready to travel the whole distance back to the metropolis on foot, if only to escape the inevitable dyspepsia such bickering engendered.

“Winter is no excuse,” Aunt Bertha replied, brandishing her spoon. “God made warming pantries for the very reason you state. The kitchen goes to all the trouble to prepare passably acceptable fare, and that fare is more palatable if served as hot as intended.”

“The warming pantry,” Aunt Crosby noted, “is located off the formal dining room, on the other side of the foyer and half the length of the house away. That venue serves much larger gatherings and needs a warming pantry.”

For her, that was a nearly pleasant observation.

“If you would use your mouth to eat, Bertha Higgins,” Terrence said, “instead of to complain, your food would not get as cold.”

“Enough,” I said, though Uncle Terrence had a point. “The soup is delectable. My compliments to Mrs. Gwinnett. I understand preparations for the Boxing Day fete are coming along nicely.”

That was a pitch straight at Her Grace, and she caught the conversational ball neatly. “Most satisfactorily. The young people are tasked with decorating the assembly rooms, the cake raffle has six donations confirmed, and the baskets are airing in the gallery.”

“What goes into the baskets?” I asked when nobody else seemed inclined to support the cause of polite discourse.

“Yarn for knitting,” Her Grace said. “Some lace, especially if the family includes a new baby or a young lady, tins of tobacco and tea, a bottle of brandy—medicinal, of course—jars of honey and jam, some of Mrs. Gwinnett’s holiday sweets, a few coins for the children, scented candles, scented French soap, a bit of this and that.”

A bit of practical luxury. “Do we ever include storybooks?”

Hyperia smiled at me. “Excellent suggestion. Families without small children can pass them on to relatives or friends. We can have some sent down from Town.”

“A Book of Common Prayer would be my choice,” Aunt Bertha said, pushing her empty soup bowl away. “Etiquette manuals are also becoming quite popular. One ought to know how to behave in the presence of one’s betters.”

“ One certainly ought,” Uncle Terrence muttered.

And so it went, until Hyperia excused herself prior to the dessert course, pleading an obligation in the nursery, Kerrick was eyeing the clock, and Squire Pettigrew had—I was certain—kicked Terrence under the table twice.

Not hard enough, apparently.

“In my day, the holidays were merry,” Uncle remarked, apropos of nothing. “We didn’t spend the month of December lamenting the temperature of the soup.”

“In your day, you were hardly ever sober,” Aunt Bertha rejoined. “And your day has yet to entirely pass. And as regards the food, this syllabub could do with a dash more nutmeg.”

“Nutmeg is dear,” Pettigrew said. “More dear than cinnamon. A dash will do.”

“But one also needs to dust each serving as a garnish,” Aunt rejoined. “One wants to display the nutmeg, a slight extravagance as un hommage to one’s important guests. I would not expect a man to understand.”

“Mrs. Gwinnett’s menus are devised to nourish and please,” I said, “not for ostentation. My syllabub was delicious.” Not delicious enough that I was tempted to have a second serving and thereby delay the exodus of the ladies.

They decamped, eschewing gentlemanly escort because only Her Grace and Aunt Bertha were to gather around the teapot. That left me with Pettigrew, Kerrick, and Uncle Terrence.

How had Arthur hosted supper after supper, Sunday after Sunday in the country, and even more frequently in Town, in company such as this? Granted, Bertha, Terrence, and Crosby were particularly accomplished at sniping and skirmishing, but their skills were hardly legendary.

“I’m off t’see tae m’wife.” Kerrick bowed to the remaining gentlemen and left me quite on my own. He’d done host duty for the two days I’d been gone to London, so he’d earned compassionate leave, if nothing else.

“My regards to Ginny,” I said. “Sledding tomorrow, I’m told.”

Kerrick groaned, struck a hand to his brow, and left.

“A good lad,” Pettigrew said. “Honestly frets about his missus. I could use a digestif, my lord.”

I brought the decanter to the end of the table closest to the hearth and set down three glasses.

“We need Bertha to tell us the nose fails to impress,” Terrence said, “connoisseur of fine spirits that she is.”

I poured out three drinks. “The nose will impress. His Grace keeps a very fine cellar. To happy holidays, gentlemen.”

We were supposed to drink a health to the king and queen, then the Regent, my old regiment, Pettigrew’s old regiment, various racehorses Terrence recalled fondly, and so forth. Both older fellows repeated my toast and sank into chairs. I took the duchess’s seat, though I felt once again surplus to requirements.

“Bertha’s getting worse,” Terrence said. “I know I say that every year, but she passes all bounds now.”

“You goad her,” Pettigrew said. “If you agreed with her, she’d fall back and regroup. Though I suppose then Crosby might ride in with reinforcements. This is excellent brandy. His Grace doubtless paid dearly for it.”

Money again. “I believe this was a gift from some French comte . His Grace sent the man some merino sheep, which are still something of a rarity in France. The comte knows his roses and apparently his brandy.”

Pettigrew studied his drink. “If the comte survived what that lot did to their aristos, he’s either very lucky or very shrewd.”

“He bided his time in England,” I said, “and waited for the Bourbons to restore titles in a futile effort to pretend the past fifty years of French history can be ignored.”

Talk turned to politics, which was a blessed relief, and an area where Terrence and Pettigrew were in surprising accord. The crown had best watch its step, according to them, because John Bull had not sent his sons for the past twenty years to subdue the Corsican only to watch those same sons starve for the sake of Prinny’s art collection.

In its own way, the conversation was just as wearying as the aunties’ carping. True, peace was proving a challenge to a nation that had built its empire by bloodshed, but it was still peace. I need not fear to lose Kerrick or Ginny to roving French patrols. My nightmares didn’t include thoughts of Leander or Atticus being conscripted at the age of twelve.

“We’re wearing the lad out,” Squire Pettigrew said. “Best seek your bed, young man. Leave the serious discussions to your elders.”

The serious drinking. “I will do just that.” I rose and bowed. “Gentlemen, good night. Sleep well.”

I certainly hoped to, but first I had to tend to a chore I’d been dreading since the coach had pulled up to the Hall’s front door hours ago. Another chore I’d been dreading. I took a carrying candle from the sideboard and let myself into the positively frigid corridor.

The temperature was so disobliging that Her Grace had given orders no footmen were to be on duty in the corridors overnight, and the porter in his nook by the front door was to be kept supplied with braziers and blankets.

I entered Arthur’s study, prepared to spend some time building up the fire. Instead, I found a cozy haven, candles already blazing, and Hyperia busy at the desk.