The Peer’s Roguish Word

by Archer, Kate

  “Say no more, Grayson!” Sir John shouted.

  The party turned to him in shock. Giles only smiled. “It is Lord Grayson, to you. And what would you propose to do to stop me? I advise avoiding any gauntlet throwing, I may appear a dandy, but this dandy is well-versed in pistols.”

  “Gentlemen!” Mrs. Herschel said. “I will not have such talk in my house.”

  “Quite right, Mrs. Herschel,” Giles said, “My apologies. However, I think you will discover that Sir John knows far more about Veritas and his connection to John Hill than you imagine. And now, I will take my leave before this argument goes further and I am forced to do something about it.”

  After taking his leave of Mrs. Herschel, Giles bowed to the baroness and Miss Dell, though Miss Dell only studied her hands.

  If Sir John had somehow turned her against him, he would pay for it. Not because he still chased Miss Dell, of course he had given that up, but because Miss Dell must not fall prey to Sir John.

  *

  Sir John watched Grayson depart Mrs. Hershel’s drawing room, all the while working to restrain himself. If he had his way, he’d find a weapon and shoot the gentleman’s head off or run him through. How dare that fop attempt to interfere with his plan. How dare he make accusations.

  As his temper began to settle, an uncomfortable feeling stole over him. Those who only moments ago had stayed close and sought his opinion had moved off. He stood alone.

  They could not believe the lord’s claims, could they? After all, what could Lord Grayson really prove? What could he really know?

  A sudden realization came over him. Lord Grayson had told Mrs. Herschel, in fact he’d told everybody, that they would discover that he knew more about Veritas and John Hill than he’d said.

  It was Grayson. He’d stolen the diary. It must be so.

  He cursed himself for his foolishness. Why in the world had he thought Mrs. Smat would have use for it? The charwoman might have read it all day long, assuming she could read, and not seen any kind of significance in it.

  Grayson though, he would know the importance of its author being the faithful servant of John Hill.

  But how would he have known the book existed at all?

  He hadn’t known. The lord had come sniffing around, determined to make him out a villain to Miss Dell. He’d interviewed the charwoman. Perhaps Mrs. Smat had even let Grayson into the house for a fee.

  That must have been it. Grayson had gone in to look around and there was the book. It would have stood out, as there was very little else in the place. He opened it up, and he’d seen that it was written by the hand of John Hill’s faithful servant. He’d slipped it into a pocket and made off with it.

  As he listened to the whispers swirling around him, he found some comfort in hearing that the majority of them had nothing to do with him. Grayson had insulted every one of them down to their bones.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Herschel. “This seems a bad business, Sir John. I suspect there is some rivalry or discontent between you and Lord Grayson that has led to this unfortunate display.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Mrs. Herschel,” he said. “Perhaps my own disdain for gentlemen such as Lord Grayson has led me to make surmises that may not prove true.”

  “And he, you, no doubt,” Mrs. Herschel said, seeming relieved that her opinion was correct. “I suppose I am most sorry for Lord Home, as news of Grayson’s opinion on his latest paper is bound to get back to him.”

  Sir John nodded, though he could not care less for Lord Home’s or his housefly’s bruised feelings. Lord Grayson would pay for stealing his book. He would pay for unsettling his plan. He would pay for it all. Though it would be best that Mrs. Herschel believe he held no grudge against the scoundrel.

  He would decide what to do when he had time to think. For now, he must pursue his original goal for this visit. He must find time alone with Miss Dell.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “That was quite the performance,” Crackwilder said, leaning back in the carriage.

  “Yes,” Giles said, “exactly as I predicted. He pretended the diary never existed, he did not say a word about it.”

  “I meant your own performance. This dandy is well-versed in pistols, indeed.”

  “I am well-versed!” Giles said. “I’m an excellent shot.”

  “Yes, I know it, but imagining you getting so wound up as to attend a duel is laughable. The time of day would put you off, for one. For another, you might wrinkle your coat at such a meeting, or worse, have a hole put through it.”

  “I will avow, duels are ludicrous,” Giles said. “Mackinjay and Plester shot at each other last year over Mackinjay suggesting Plester’s hair color resembled a carrot. They both missed and it was a waste of a morning for everybody involved. However, if there was ever a fellow I would meet on a green at dawn, it is Sir John.”

  “Do not allow your feelings to cloud your judgment,” Crackwilder said.

  “I do not,” Giles said. “Are you not convinced I am right, though? In all that talk there was no mention of the diary. Rather, he attempted to throw the suspicion on me. On me, of all people.”

  “Yes, I heard, I was there. You may be right, but there is nothing conclusive to point to just yet. Not mentioning the diary does not equal guilt—he may have his reasons or some plan to get it back.”

  “Ha!” Giles said. “If he does think he’ll get it back he’s very much mistaken. I wonder who he imagines has it?”

  “Probably the charwoman who stole it in the first place.”

  “The delightful Mrs. Smat. He’ll never find her, she has tiptoed out of town.”

  “Further,” Crackwilder went on, “it was hardly necessary to mock the publications of the society in such a manner.”

  “I read those papers,” Giles said. “Not a one of them was less than ridiculous.”

  “As you see it. By the by,” Crackwilder said, “what did the V on your mask really stand for?”

  Giles cleared his throat. “A rather unsavory character named Valmont.”

  Crackwilder roared with laughter. “The seducer Vicomte! Of course. How stupid I did not guess it.”

  *

  Kitty sat alone in the drawing room. She had her sewing things spread out everywhere, as she often did when she wanted time to think. It was unlikely that anybody in the house was fooled by it, as she only very rarely produced a finished piece of work.

  The gathering at Mrs. Herschel’s house had been entirely unsettling. She had hoped to go there to hear of new information regarding Veritas. She supposed she had, but what information it had been!

  First, Lord Grayson had come, which had been a shock. He’d looked especially handsome, surrounded as he was by rather rumpled individuals. She knew she could not fault the rumpled, those gentlemen had their minds on other matters. Her own father often appeared so after a long morning in his study. Still, their frumpiness came into sharp relief when compared to the immaculately starched Lord Grayson.

  And then, what came next! Lord Grayson accused Sir John of being Veritas, and Sir John accused Lord Grayson of the same.

  Her mind had circled round and round on the subject. She found she was torn in two different directions—the facts as they were known, and her less logical but just as compelling instincts.

  The facts, stripped of any feeling, must point to Lord Grayson. Lord Burke had not outright said the V on his mask stood for Veritas, but he’d come close enough in his words to confirm the idea. Lord Grayson’s own words, too, had felt a confirmation.

  Against Sir John was only Lord Grayson’s questioning of why it had been he who had received the letter from Veritas. There might be all sorts of explanations for that.

  Her instincts, though, ran in the opposite direction. As the two men argued and Kitty sat apart, watching it like a play, it seemed Sir John must be Veritas.

  Of the two men, it was he who seemed a villain. Lord Grayson’s countenance appeared open and confident. Sir John’s
more wary and hiding.

  She was not a fool, though. She perfectly realized that her opinions of Sir John had undergone an unfortunate transformation since he had approached her father. Must that not cloud her judgment?

  And then, she well knew that Lord Grayson always displayed a rather open countenance, and he was likely skilled at acting that part.

  For all that, Veritas might be neither of the gentlemen. There was enmity between them, they were far too different sorts of men to have a congenial acquaintance. Perhaps they accused each other out of hostility alone.

  She blushed as she remembered Lord Grayson’s accusation that they were all absurd. They were not, were they? Surely, the society’s efforts were valuable to mankind’s advancement. In any case, why should scientific men take on questions that could not be answered? Only God knew why the baby was taken and the wily old man left behind, or where the heavens ended. As for the nature of love, well, that could not be studied at all. It made perfect sense that science trained its eye on matters that could be explained. Like how a housefly stays on a wall…

  Kitty nearly shrank in her chair as she recalled what had occurred after Lord Grayson had left Mrs. Herschel’s drawing room. There were whispers everywhere, and Sir John had been left to stand alone.

  Kitty had watched with trepidation as he made his way toward her. She hoped he would pass by and take his leave, just as eager to be gone as Lord Grayson had been.

  He had not passed by. He had stopped in front of her and made commonplace conversation about the weather.

  Comments about the likelihood of rain should not have affected her. But after he’d gone to see her father and been thrown from the house and just been accused of being Veritas, there was something deeply unsettling about it.

  It seemed to her that any rational person must have either avoided her or raised one of those subjects. He acted as if nothing at all unusual had occurred. She was beginning to think that things that did not sit well with him were simply dismissed, as if they never existed at all.

  And then, he seemed to take no notice of her mother’s icy stare! Could he not feel her irritation?

  When he’d run out of comments about the weather, he’d said, “Miss Dell, there is an interesting volume on one of Mrs. Herschel’s shelves I would have you examine.”

  No circumstance slowed him down at all! He came on like a runaway carriage.

  The baroness had risen and said, very decidedly Kitty thought, “I think not, Sir John. My daughter and I are just taking our leave. In future, there can be no cause to pull Kitty aside for a book or anything else.”

  Sir John had seemed on the verge of challenging Lady Penderton. She had stared at him as he stood in their way and said, “If you please?”

  She’d said it in a tone Kitty had not heard from her mother. It was cold and steady and felt cloaked in animosity.

  Sir John had reluctantly stepped aside and let them pass. Her mother had laughed about it in the carriage, but to Kitty it had felt a lucky escape.

  Hidgson brought her mind back to where she was, safe in her own house. He’d softly knocked and now brought some letters into the drawing room. He held a package too and Kitty looked at it inquiringly.

  “It is addressed to you, miss,” Hidgson said. “I will present it to Lord Penderton as soon as he emerges from his study.”

  Kitty could well guess it was a book, and as she’d ordered several of them recently, from a variety of shops. Whenever she passed a shop window stacked with books, she could not help drifting in and inevitably found something she required. She saw no need for her father to review this particular package.

  “I can take it, Hidgson,” she said. “It is not from any suitor, but one of the books I have been waiting for.”

  Hidgson looked dubious and glanced down at the package. Kitty could see for herself that it did not have a return address.

  “It will be the one from the tiny shop on James Street, I am sure of it,” Kitty said, reaching out her hand.

  Hidgson handed it over, albeit reluctantly.

  After he had closed the door, Kitty tore off the brown paper wrapping. If it were the obscure little book on Devon flora she’d ordered, perhaps that would engage her thoughts for an hour or so.

  It was not that book at all. It could not be, the shopkeeper had expressed quite clearly that the book was bound in brown leather. This was some strange sort of very pale leather. Was it even leather? It was soft, and yet bumpy.

  She opened the book and a note fell out. She unfolded it and read:

  Found among the possessions of Sir John Kullehamnd.

  A friend.

  “What on earth,” Kitty whispered. She put the note aside and opened the book. There, inscribed on the first page:

  An account by a faithful servant to Sir John Hill

  Kitty began turning the pages. It was a diary of sorts, though an unusual one. Most diaries documented the writer’s experiences, this one documented somebody else’s.

  That somebody else whose life unfolded on the page was John Hill.

  Was it real? Had it really been found in Sir John’s things? If it had, why was it not still in Sir John’s things? Why had Sir John not mentioned anything of it? Who had sent it and how had they acquired it?

  There were so many questions, and Kitty did not think she could begin to answer them before she had studied the book and was fully acquainted with its contents.

  She stuffed her sewing things back in their basket and hurried up the stairs with the volume tucked under her arm.

  *

  Giles sat in Dalton’s library, mulling over what he ought to do next. He’d sent Miss Dell the book and had every confidence that she would show it round, including his note, at Mrs. Herschel’s next drawing room. As all those fellows congratulated themselves on being intellectuals, he hoped they could use their incisive minds to figure out the obvious. Sir John would be condemned and that would be that.

  He would be off to the countryside to rehabilitate himself. At least, he would try. He had not the first notion of what would be involved, though he suspected it would be a self-reflection of sorts.

  “There you are,” Dalton said, coming in with a letter in his hand. “This is addressed to you and appears to have made a world circle before arriving.”

  Dalton handed over the worn and crumpled letter. Giles had nearly forgot he’d written to all of his unknown relatives on the continent. Now, it seemed one of them had finally written him back.

  He opened it. It was from Count von Fersen, whoever he might be. Fortunately, it was written in English.

  My dear relation of some kind,

  I cannot claim to understand our exact connection, but as your dowager insists on writing us every year, I presume there is one. However distant.

  In regard to your inquiry, I have not the slightest information about either a Sir John Kullehamnd or a Sir John Hill. As it is preposterous, I believe you have invented this for your own amusement, though I fail to see the wit.

  I make the leap that this inane English jest is in the name—kulle meaning hill and hämnd meaning revenge.

  Neither the countess nor I are smiling. Please do not write again.

  Von Fersen

  Giles dropped the paper. “That’s it!” he cried. “Von Fersen styles it a joke and so it is. Sir John Kullehamnd. He’s made up the name using two Swedish words to describe his aim. Hill and revenge. He revenges John Hill, who was knighted in Sweden. I knew I was right! Sir John is Veritas!”

  Giles paused, an entirely new question presenting itself. Why was Sir John, whoever he really was, attempting to revenge John Hill? What connection was there? What purpose could it serve? What would be gained by it?

  “Have you entirely lost your wits?” Dalton said, staring at him.

  “No, not in the least. I am only going to solve Miss Dell’s mystery, as I knew I would.”

  “Miss Dell’s mystery?” Dalton’s lips tightened and Giles could see he was getting r
eady to launch into a tirade about avoiding the altar again.

  “Do not even trouble yourself, Dalton,” he said. “I have quite given up Miss Dell. In fact, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve given up on flirtations altogether and so there is no danger I will somehow end up married.”

  “And what, pray, has led to this remarkable transformation?” Dalton asked suspiciously.

  “Miss Dell, of course. She is far too good for me. Burke pointed it out, you see, and I realized I must give her up.”

  “One can only applaud Burke, then. But what is this mystery and why should you solve it for Miss Dell, the lady you claim to have given up?”

  “To save her from Sir John, obviously,” Giles said, re-reading the letter.

  “Nothing about this is obvious to me,” Dalton said.

  “Then order some wine and I’ll tell you all about it,” Giles said happily. “The story, as it were, is coming to an end.”

  As he said so, though, he wondered if he were not too optimistic. He still did not know who Sir John really was or why the man had set this whole scheme in motion. What he did know, though, was that Sir John had some kind of designs on Miss Dell and he was not who he said he was.

  *

  Kitty had closeted herself in her bedchamber until the late afternoon, reading the diary and then reading it again. It documented John Hill’s lofty dreams and aspirations, his new ideas, his hopes, and how they all unfolded. Some of his ambitions were realized, but his crowning ambition was not—entry into the Royal Society.

  Throughout the volume, the writer’s feelings on all of these happenings appeared to become more and more agitated. Kitty could not know if John Hill himself suffered greatly from his disappointments, but it was clear enough that this servant who kept record had felt them all keenly. The tone grew darker as the writings went on until they almost hinted at madness. The end most definitely hinted that the writer had gone down a very dark path and would not turn round. She read the last page again, wondering what had ever happened after it had been written.