The brothers had walked around Half Moon Street and the adjacent roads for the better part of two hours, scanning the streets for any lost communication the messenger might have dropped that night, but to no avail. Currently, they were making their way down Charles Street.
“Truthfully, the attack took place on the corner. We do not even know where he was going. It might be hopeless after all,” Christopher said, his voice now full of doubt. They might just be wasting their time. Yes, it was the right thing to do, to return the pendant to its true owner. It was the honorable thing. Certainly, seeking out the owner was the kind of thing their mother would have encouraged them to do.
Yet, it was not practical. He ought to concentrate on the matter of his social standing, not roaming the streets in search of lost letters. As so often, Christopher found himself torn between what was expected, and what was right in his heart.
“Topher!” Henry called out using his childhood nickname.
“Yes?”
“Let us cut around and head through the park. White’s is not far from here. I am famished.”
“Very well,” Christopher nodded and the two headed in the direction of Green Park. He noticed that the streets were not as busy as they had been in the past few days. Given that the weather had taken a turn for the worse, this was no big surprise. It only meant that White’s would be crowded, which was fortunate.
A full club meant many opportunities to make connections and with Henry by his side, it would be all the easier. They were both outgoing, outspoken individuals. They often made a wonderful team.
“Let’s see if we can find some lords willing to play us in billiards. Perhaps we can make connections and win some guinea at the same time.”
Henry laughed out loud. “Always a scheme going, Brother, eh, wot?”
“Eh, wot? You are beginning to sound like Uncle Nestor, Henry. It is about time we moved back to Havisham House before you start turning into an old man before your time.”
His brother’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is unwise to set your hopes on reclaiming the house. The Viscount may not be willing to sell it back to us, even if fortune’s wheel turns in our favor once more.”
Christopher shook his head.
“Let me worry about the matter when it comes to it. Havisham House is the London home of the Dukes of Westmond, and it shall never change. I am certain I will reclaim it.”
Christopher had not found it in his heart to go to Westminster to see the house, instead taking the long way around each day on his way to Parliament to avoid seeing it. He was determined that the first time he’d go near it again would be the day he was ready to purchase it back.
“Brother!” Henry’s voice drew him back to reality. He turned around and saw his brother point at a house across the street, on the corner of Charles and Queen Streets.
It was one of the more modern town houses and looked to be four-stories tall. Christopher spotted two bricked-up windows, done so to avoid the window tax, of course. A clear indication that the owner was wealthy.
The windows on the lower floors were tall and the building’s exterior was stucco, another indication that it was new. Christopher disliked these more modern homes. He much preferred the older Tudor style of Havisham House, or his Uncle’s home.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There, look.” His brother pointed at the two columns which framed the black front door. Like many in the area, they were of a stark white, but there was something unusual about them. On each of the two columns was a distinct painting. Three roses intertwined to appear as though they had one stem.
“The same as the pendant,” Henry said while Christopher stared.
“Indeed.”
They two men made their way across the street and peered at the engraving on the marble columns. Christopher pulled out the pendant and held it up for comparison when suddenly, the door opened.
“Can I help you?” an older man, the butler no doubt, asked in a stern voice.
Feeling not unlike a child caught doing a misdeed, Christopher lowered the pendant and cleared his throat while fishing in his pocket for a calling card.
“Indeed, good sir. I am Christopher Newmont, Duke of Westmond. I would like to call upon the lord of the house. Lord…?” He tilted his head to one side, aware that his calling upon a house whose owner he did not know and was most likely not yet formally introduced to was frowned upon.
But then, he had not called on them, really. The butler had come out to call on him, so to speak.
“Lord Hazelshire is not at home. I will present your calling card upon his return.”
Hazelshire. The name is familiar. How do I know it? Have I met the man at Parliament? Or at White’s perhaps?
“When can His Lordship be expected back?” Henry asked as a carriage came to a stop on the street behind them.
