Hollsworth looked down at the glowing end of his cigar. He looked over at Brentworth. Brentworth strolled away, to the other end of the terrace.
“One hears things,” Hollsworth said.
Adam was sure Hollsworth heard more than most. He was the kind of man everyone treated as a friend because he never spoke enough to make enemies. Had he been at the race in Brentworth’s stand, and sat to play cards, within fifteen minutes most of them would become unaware of his presence.
“I learned some jewels might have been involved.”
Hollsworth nodded. “Rich ones, belonging to your family. Valued in the thousands, by some accounts. Well, people talk. Who is to say the value? They found their way into the wrong hands while the Corsican was on Elba. French hands. They were used to help finance the new army.”
“How is this known or claimed?”
“After the war, questions were put to those involved. The usual methods. Not by us, of course. We are more civilized.”
“Of course.”
“Two officers in the know spoke of this.”
Adam’s mind rebelled at absorbing this. The rumors had not been baseless. “Who received them? To whom were they sent?”
“Marshal Ney.” Hollsworth puffed deeply, and a cloud of smoke swirled into the fog. “He was a friend of your mother’s father.”
Hell. Damn. Ney was the highest-ranking officer to join Napoleon’s Hundred Day campaign, and the only one to die for it.
What had his father said when presented with this story? How had he explained sending anything at all to Ney? And if he did it—he could not believe he allowed that thought into his head—why? Because his mother asked him to help an old family friend?
The questions kept coming, a chaos of them, filling his head and emptying his soul.
“Did Ney corroborate any of this before his execution?”
“Not a bit of it. That proved inconvenient. We were very interested in where the money came from, as you can imagine. It took more than those jewels to raise that army, unless a bushel of French jewels joined them. The investigation continued for several years in France. And here.”
Adam had known how it ended but not when it began. Early, it seemed. Long before the questions and suspicions took enough effect to be visible in his father’s mood and distraction.
“You can understand why the government had to take a look at all of it,” Hollsworth said softly. “It was to be very quiet. Very secretive. Well, that never happens, although very few learned much of the details. It would die down for a while, then voices that mattered would insist it be pursued and . . . well . . .”
“Which voices?”
“I’ll not give you names, I said.”
“I think I know anyway.”
Hollsworth’s cigar, half-smoked, gave up then. Its glow dimmed, then died. “Every man has enemies. Even a man like your father.”
“You don’t.”
Hollsworth chuckled. “There is something to be said for being forgettable.” He threw the cigar into the garden. “Your father did what he thought he should do. Perhaps you should leave it at that.” He walked toward the terrace doors.
Brentworth came out of the fog. “Did you learn anything?”
“Nothing good.” The notion of going into that ballroom sat poorly on him. All that bright gaiety . . . The damp fog suited him better.
All the same, he joined Brentworth in walking across the terrace.
“I think I did you no favor, if it was nothing good.”
“You did me a great favor. Thank you. You were right when you told him I needed to know.” He opened the French window. “Now tell me about this woman who seduced you. Don’t look at me like that. You are not so green as to believe it was all your idea.”
* * *
