At precisely one o’clock that fine sunny Thursday afternoon, umbrellas in hand since a single dark cloud was spotted over Heathfield not five miles to the east, Ryder and Alex entered White’s to see Albert, a White’s mainstay for thirty years, step forward to greet them. “Mr. Sherbrooke and Mr. Ivanov, welcome. Lord Carberry and his guest are in the coffee room.”
Ryder smiled, inquired after Henry’s far-flung family. Alex marveled at how his guardian never slighted anyone, be it a chimney boy or the majordomo at this prestigious club.
Henry took their hats and gloves and umbrellas. “Do follow me, gentlemen.”
Ryder had always enjoyed White’s, so clearly he remembered his father bringing him here when he’d been up from Oxford so many years before. To the very young man, White’s had seemed a fantastical place filled with gentlemen who drank and gambled and owned the world. Now, he sawit as settled and elegant, so very certain of its place in the upper echelons of society, still a gentleman’s refuge and a stalwart building, a place that had seen so many lose their fortunes on the turn of a card. His father had taught him a man who gambled more than he could afford deserved to rot in a ditch. A lesson well learned.
They walked up the lovely winding stairs with the score of portraits on the walls, the vague but always present smell of cigarettes and cigars, the constant low hum of men’s conversations. They walked into the coffee room, sedate, welcoming, where gentlemen dined and didn’t smoke, the only room in White’s where it wasn’t allowed. The room gave off an air of intimacy and calm, the promise of an excellent meal. The walls were painted a rich dark hunter green, the floor covered in a thick Aubusson carpet. The tables were covered with pristine white cloths, the cutlery as fine as the place settings. There were again the low sounds of gentlemen speaking, the whisper of fine china being set down or picked up, the quiet voices of the gold and blue garbed waiters speaking to members, the occasional clearing of a throat, a cough muted by a hand.
As Henry led them to the table where Lord Carberry and Vicar Piercebridge sat, Ryder glanced at Alex, wondered what he was thinking on their carriage ride here. Plans for mechanical improvements? He’d scarce spoken, stared off into space as the carriage clomped through the London streets. To Ryder’s eye, Alex had the abstracted look of a man thinking about a woman, and the woman had to be Camilla Rohman. Rapier-sharp wit, that one, and Ryder really liked her glasses.
Alex was indeed thinking of Cam, wondering what she would make of this revered male bastion, austere and quiet this time of day, rustling newspapers the only sound coming from the Reading Room, the wafting smell of tobacco as one climbed the stairs. He smiled. Cam would probably remarkthat the table knives looked so sharp they’d make a perfect murder weapon.
Lord Carberry and Mr. Piercebridge both rose at their approach. The men shook hands and seated themselves again. The ever-present waiters were there in a flash.
They ordered their lunch after the requisite niceties, Alex his favorite lobster cutlets and Ryder boiled turbot. Wine was served by the silent, very efficient waiters. The four gentlemen clicked their glasses. Then, without preamble, Vicar Piercebridge said, “You may well wonder why I am here, gentlemen, but I believe it to be important. Mr. Ivanov, do you remember I mentioned you looked familiar to me at dinner Tuesday night?”
Alex cocked his head, nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“As you might also remember, I live near Dover in the town of St. Lucy Head. Just outside the town is the great house in the neighborhood called King’s Head. It’s set amid incredible parklands and very prosperous farms. It’s been called King’s Head since Malcolm Hepburn bought it from a bankrupt friend in the middle of the sixteenth century.
“A few years later, Malcolm Hepburn was elevated to Viscount Whitestone by Queen Elizabeth for loaning her a great deal of money that was, as one would expect, never repaid. I suppose the title was his payment. The queen even offered him a very rich lady he duly married.
“The Hepburn line has endured, father to son, for nearly three hundred years. George II raised Malverne Hepburn to Earl St. Lucy in his early years, the reason for his elevation, I do not know.” Piercebridge paused, searched Alex’s face. “I gave you this background, sir, because it’s important you know the players.”
Alex tried, but could find no memory of a town called St. Lucy Head or King’s Head or a Hepburn family or a St. Lucy earldom. He leaned forward, wanting to pull the words out of Piercebridge’s mouth, but at that moment a friend of Ryder’scame by to say hello and conversation turned to Prince Albert and his efforts to improve the unsanitary conditions in Buckingham Palace. “The place smells,” Lord Ealam said, shaking his head. “Hard to get down the vermicelli soup when chamber pot smells waft into your nose. Er, sorry, you’re about to dine.” And he laughed.
Lord Carberry said, “The prince is a smart young man, Ealam, I don’t doubt he will fix the problem.”
When Lord Ealam returned to his own table, two waiters brought their macaroni soup. After the soup was removed Alex couldn’t contain himself. “Sir, why do you tell us about the St. Lucy earldom and the Hepburn family?”
Vicar Piercebridge studied Alex’s face and nodded to himself. “Carberry tells me you are the son of a Ukrainian count, sent to Mr. Sherbrooke when you were a boy to keep you safe. Alas, your parents lost their lives and their fortune. Mr. Sherbrooke made you his ward. But you see, it is all very curious. Your purported antecedents confuse me.”
Alex didn’t say a word, merely stared at the vicar. He felt Ryder stiffen, lean forward. He said, “Please explain your confusion, Vicar.”
Piercebridge said, “In this generation there is only one younger brother who is the present earl’s nominal heir. There is a daughter, Eugenie, thirty years old, quite lovely, I might add, married to Donner Oxbridge, the son of Viscount Morley.
“The current earl is an admirable man, a generous man, a man of outstanding moral character. His lady wife died many years ago, but he has not remarried in order to produce an heir of his body, and he has had many opportunities, presented with many young ladies.”
The vicar paused, tapped his fingers on his napkin. “Here is the source of my confusion, Mr. Sherbrooke. There were two Hepburn sons, both sent abroad in their youth with their tutor. Neither they nor the tutor ever returned. Of course thishappened before my appointment to St. Lucy Head, but many remember that dreadful time. Were the boys taken for ransom? Then murdered? Whatever happened, they were never heard from again. I was told the earl sent his own agents to search throughout Europe for any word of his sons, but nothing was ever learned. It’s been eleven years now since the sons, Graham and Simon—Graham the elder by fourteen months and thus the earl’s heir—simply disappeared.
“Earl St. Lucy, Vereker Hepburn, has never spoken of this tragedy to me, nor has he spoken of it to anyone else of my acquaintance in a very long time. I never knew Countess St. Lucy, she died before I came to St. Lucy Head. I did, however, see her portrait many times hung in a place of honor over the mantel in the grand drawing room. She was a striking woman, her features blending into a perfect balance. In her portrait, she looks out at you, as if ready to share a secret, a half smile on her mouth.”
Vicar Piercebridge sat forward. “You, Mr. Ivanov, have her eyes, the same vivid, quite startling blue I’ve never seen before except on her face, and her smile. And, if I’m not mistaken, you have your father’s stubborn chin and his dark hair, an unexpected combination, fascinating, actually. You, sir, have their combined features.
“In short, I believe you to be the long-lost son of Earl St. Lucy. But I do not understand how this could be since you are Ukrainian.”
CHAPTER 19
Whitsonby House
Ormond Square
Thursday
It was cold in her mother’s music room, untouched since Averil had moved in six months before and ordered all her mother’s private rooms locked. Cilly had told her Mrs. Willig had asked Mr. Osbourne if he knew what her current ladyship was planning to do with the lovely room, and her bedchamber as well. Cam knew when Averil decided to unlock her predecessor’s room she wouldn’t keep it a music room, no, she’d obliterate her mother’s memory. Cam didn’t doubt she’d discard her mother’s harp draped with a white Holland cover near the front window and her small pianoforte. She opened the draperies to bring in the morning sun. Now she could see. She pulled the covers from a small elegant writing desk done in the old Egyptian style decorated with women wearing Egyptian headdresses, carved scarabs and obelisks. She knew the furniture of the Regency time had tended toward clean lines and simplicity until Lord Elgin had rescued the incredible marble statues from Greece in 1812 beforethey could be destroyed and brought them to London. Almost overnight the Egyptian style became popular, a dramatic contrast indeed.
She always came here when she wanted to be alone, when Eliza or Averil was particularly bothersome. She sat down at the small desk, opened the top drawer in the small elegant desk. There were her pens, her elegant stationary, a gift from her father three years before, and her dark brown leather book. She opened the first page, smiled as she read the date, 1832. She’d been nine years old. She read:Cilly told me Lady Trillow came to dinner and she’d heard the old besom had sniffed out the veal cutlets from the drawing room and demanded dinner be served immediately.She smiled as she thumbed through to an empty page. There were still at least a dozen pages left in the bound diary since her tutor had always preached brevity in all things. She wondered if her mother had kept a diary. If so, she’d never seen it and her father didn’t know. She wished she could remember her mother, but she’d been too young. And now she’d been replaced by Averil with her bountiful upper works her father couldn’t resist. She wondered if her mother had kept a diary what she would have written about Averil.
