He didn’t understand himself how or why all this should have roused his latent resentment towards their cold and distant father, but one thing he did know—he would never burden Charles with the knowledge. His older brother had his own weighty issues to contend with in that direction.
‘Would you like me to make some inquiries?’ Charles asked.
‘Both Treyford and I already have. Batiste has disappeared. He could be anywhere. All the Foreign Office could give me was that name—Matthew Beecham. A young shipbuilder—an Englishman from Dorset who moved to America to pursue his craft. Somehow he became mixed up with Batiste, and found himself in trouble with the American government. He’s disappeared as well. The Americans have made a formal complaint against him. They want to question him and have asked that he be detained, should he show up back at home.’
‘So? Does the girl hail from Dorset? Did you ask her if she has a relative named Matthew?’
‘Not yet.’ Jack watched Charles from the corner of his eye. ‘I would dearly like to talk to the man. He’s the only link I’ve been able to find. I’m not going to be able to rest until Batiste is caught and made to pay for his crimes.’
Perched ramrod straight now, Charles looked earnest as he spoke. ‘You know, Jack, I’ve never known you to fall so quickly into something so … dangerous, as you did with Treyford.’
Jack bristled slightly.
‘Now, forget that it is your older brother speaking and calm yourself,’ Charles admonished. ‘There must have been a reason for it, something that drew you into the fray.’
There had been, of course, but he was not going to share it with his brother. Once Jack had heard Treyford’s story of a band of antiquity thieves menacing Chione Latimer and her family, he’d known he had to help. He and Charles were both all too aware of the difficulties of living with an unsettled sense of menace.
‘Whatever the reason, I, for one, am happy to see you out from behind your wall of books.’ Charles’s gaze slid over Jack’s sling. ‘I’m sorry that all you appeared to get from your adventure was a bullet hole, but I would neither see you slide back into your old hibernating ways nor allow yourself to become embroiled in something even more complicated and hazardous.’
‘What would you have me do, then?’ Jack asked with just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Embroidery? Tatting?’ He raked his brother with an exasperated glance. ‘I’ve already told you, I have neither the inclination nor the patience for politics.’
Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Why don’t you just relax, Jack? It’s been an age since either Mother or I have been able to drag you out of your rooms. Have a break from your work. Not everyone is fascinated with your mouldy classics.’
‘They should be,’ Jack said, just to tweak his brother.
Charles ignored him. ‘Look about you for once,’ he continued. ‘Enjoy the Season, squire Mother to a society event or two.’ He grimaced. ‘Or if the thought of society is too distasteful, you can help Mother and Sophie with their charitable efforts. If you had paid attention, you would see that Mother is slowly becoming more and more involved with the work that the Evangelical branch of the Church is doing. This charity bazaar she is helping with is just a small example of their work. Their presence is only growing stronger as the years pass. Who knows? They might actually succeed in changing the face of society. And you might even find whatever it is you were looking for.’
‘The only thing I’m looking for is Batiste.’
Charles sighed. ‘Well, look again, little brother.’ He leaned back again, his grip on the side tightening as the bay on the left shied from a calling-card vendor.
Jack was forced to watch the pair closely once more. His mind was awhirl. Perhaps he should consider something different from his usual classical studies—and if his new path also brought him closer to finding information on Batiste, then so much the better. If this Beecham girl and his mother were both involved with the Evangelicals, then perhaps he could look into them as well. Charles could believe what he liked about Jack’s need to find something he was missing. He knew the truth of the matter and it involved nothing so mawkish or sentimental.
And neither, he told himself firmly, did it have anything to do with the shine of red-gold hair or the taste of soft, plump lips.
Chapter Three
A stranger inhabited Lily’s skin. Or perhaps it had only been so long since determination had pumped so fiercely through her veins, it felt as if it were so. But this was the old Lily—her father’s daughter, sure and strong, confident that whatever she wished for lay within her reach. Almost as if it were happening to someone else, she watched herself talk, smile and climb into Mr Wilberforce’s barouche. He and Lady Dayle were soon engaged in a spirited debate over reform. Fortunate, since this left Lily free to turn her rediscovered resolve to answering Mr Alden’s troubling question: What sort of female are you?
She barely knew where to start, but she did discover that some aspects of the new Lily—her mother’s daughter—were not so easily discarded. And all of them were firmly fixated on the sudden burst of light that had shone down on Mr Alden for one dazzling moment. Surely it had been nothing more than a stray sunbeam?
Perhaps not. Her nurse’s superstitious Cornish wisdom had been a constant in her life and it had taken firm root in Lily’s mind while she was still young. In recent years it had flourished into a guilt-ridden tangle.
So often she’d worried that she’d missed some forewarning of her father’s tragic death. The storm that ultimately killed him had been immense. Nurse had moaned that his loss had been punishment for their failure to heed several unmistakable portents of doom.
Lily had vowed never to make another such mistake. But surely a bright beam of light was no portent of doom. Then what could it possibly mean?
With every fibre of her being, Lily wanted it to mean the change she longed for. It had touched on Mr Alden. Could it be that he would be an instrument of change? She flushed. Or was it possible that he might be something more?
‘Lady Dayle,’ she spoke up into a pause in the conversation, ‘I fear that your son has re-injured his arm because of my inattention. I wish you would convey my apologies.’
The viscountess patted her arm. ‘Do not fret yourself, my dear. Jack should not have been driving those cantankerous animals in the first place. I dare say his brother told him so. But Charles should have remembered that the instant he counselled against it, it would become the single thing in the world that must be done.’
Lily smiled. She’d grown up with her cousin Matthew and he had acted in just the same way. ‘How did Mr Alden first injure his arm?’
Lady Dayle frowned. ‘Oh, he got caught up in that trouble at the Egyptian Hall, at Mr Belzoni’s exhibition. I haven’t the faintest idea how or why—I had no inkling that Jack even knew Belzoni or Lord Treyford. It was just a few weeks ago—perhaps you heard of it?’
Lily shook her head.
‘Yes, I heard of it,’ Mr Wilberforce intervened. ‘A ring of international art thieves, or something similar, was it not?’
‘Something like,’ Lady Dayle agreed. ‘Jack will barely speak of it—even to me. And believe me, when her son is shot, a mother wants to know why.’
‘Good heavens,’ Lily said. She stirred in her seat. ‘Shot? Mr Alden must lead quite an exciting life.’
‘But that is just it! The entire thing was so patently unlike him. Jack is a scholar, Miss Beecham, and a brilliant one at that. At times he is all but a recluse. He spends more time closeted with his ancient civilisations than with anyone flesh and blood.’ She shot Mr Wilberforce a significant look. ‘He is my inscrutable son, sir, and too reserved and detached from society to cause me much concern—especially compared to the rigmarole his brothers subjected me to.’
Mr