It could be that Bart ingested arsenic or even mercury in some tonic he bought. Systematic poisoning pointed to regular doses, either by him or administered by someone else. It wasn’t an accident. The footman had something important to tell him. It was too convenient for him to be silenced so neatly. If only Bart had added his name and address to the letter, Jason might have been able to save him. The possibility brought him to a stop, and he curled his fingers around the green-painted wrought iron fence enclosing the entry and stairs leading to the basement of a townhouse and stared blankly, forcing his thoughts back to the war.
Some of his army friends liked to relive the glory of battle when they gathered together in some tavern. Jason did not. He left it to his dreams. But Bart’s death brought it back in all its gory horror.
It had rained during that night of the last campaign. While he stood here in Mayfair, he could almost detect the metallic smell of blood, mingling with the malodourous odors of farm animals and mud, the heavy moisture-laden air thick enough to choke a man. The screams and groans of the injured men and horses that rent the air came back with startling clarity.
After the British, under Colonel MacDonnell, had taken over the range of chateau buildings at Hougoumont, Jason spent the night working with the men, building fire steps and loopholing, which made narrow slits in the walls. All the gates were blocked, other than the main gate on the northern side to provide access.
On the morning of the eighteenth of June, the French attacked the chateau. They surged around the buildings and charged the main gate. Under the barrage, the gate was damaged. It became a deathly struggle to keep the French from swarming inside. Finally, Jason and a party of British and German soldiers were able to force the gate shut, and Sergeant Graham of the Coldstream Guards put the bar in place. After it was fortified, Jason led a group of men to hunt down the few French soldiers who had slipped through and roamed the outbuildings.
The attack on the château continued hour after hour, and during the afternoon, the supply of ammunition began to dwindle. Corporal Bartholomew Smyth volunteered to drive the ammunition wagon through the French lines. The young man argued forcefully that his childhood spent in Cumbria, the wettest county in England, lent him the advantage of being able to drive fast over the muddy ground. Jason had watched him go off toward the main line with little hope the lad would return. Two hours later, a cheer went up, when Bart, bleeding heavily from a nasty wound to his arm, arrived with a wagon of cartridges.
They held on when Napoleon ordered the château be razed to the ground. Howitzer shells demolished the château and set it ablaze. In the final closing hours of the battle, despite heavy casualties, and only the chapel left standing, they prevailed. The French failed to capture Hougoumont, and the woods and fields around it were strewn with their dead and dying.
Later, Jason visited Bart, whose wound was being tended to. He poured a considerable amount of his whiskey down the young corporal’s throat from his flask before the sawbones sawed off Bart’s arm at the elbow. Jason had seen many acts of valor during the war, but Bart’s cheeky young face, good humor, and stunning bravery remained in his memory.
Jason was only too aware that thousands of ex-soldiers like Bart flooded into London after the war. Jason had employed a few himself, sending some to his country estate. The small government pension did little to help them overcome their injuries, find work, or deal with the changed circumstances they’d returned to. It had disgusted Jason and caused him to lose heart. That Bart had been taken back into the Kinsey household as footman, even though he’d lost an arm, said a good deal about them.
With a soft curse, Jason pushed away from the railings and continued along the street, vowing to find Bart’s murderer.
He raised his cane to a passing hackney.
“Whitehall, if you please, jarvey,” he ordered, climbing inside.
“Right you are, guv.”
As the carriage turned into Pall Mall, Jason thought again of the compassionate Lady Helen. Most young women were more concerned with finding a suitable man to marry than taking care of staff. Bart must have appreciated her kindness.
He removed the fragment from his wallet but, even in broad daylight, still could not make out the blurred words. He put it away again as the jarvey pulled the carriage to a stop.
***
Helen entered the morning room, feeling uneasy about Lord Peyton. Why was she drawn to confide in him? To trust him when she knew so little about him? It was unlike her to allow his good looks and manliness to affect her judgment. And it would be foolish to put her trust in him before she found out what lay behind his involvement. Bart deserved her objectivity. She had promised him she would find out the truth.
“Where have you been?” Diana asked. “I wanted to show you the riding hat featured in this month’sLaBelle Assemblée.” She held the page up, showing a hat of a rather flamboyant design.
“I was just seeing Lord Peyton out. I don’t care for it. You’d have enough feathers to fly with.”
“Peyton was here?” Diana frowned. “And you didn’t tell me?”
Helen did not like keeping secrets from her sister but knew she must shield her from this worry. “I wasn’t aware of it myself until I came across him in the passage with Mama. He didn’t stay long. He wasn’t here on a social visit.”
Diana turned the page of her magazine. “Was it concerning Bart?”
“Yes. Peyton was his captain during the war.”
“Oh, really? How remarkable. What did Peyton have to say?”
“He is trying to find out why Bart wished to see him.”
The confusing mystery nagged at her. Had someone threatened Bart or even deliberately harmed him? What did those strange words written on the burned fragment mean? Would Peyton be able to make out more of it and discover their significance? If he did, would he tell her? Infuriating how women were shielded as if they were fragile ornaments to be tucked away somewhere safe. Even he had suggested she leave London. It was all she could do not to snap at him, when he really didn’t deserve it. He was obviously trying to protect them. She bit her lip. There she was making excuses for him. He was a man after all. And some men could be underhanded and ruthless. Well, she would continue to investigate on her own. She might find something of interest to aid him. Warming to the plan, she hoped another chance would come to talk with him and learn his thoughts. Something incomprehensible had occurred when their hands had touched. She still wondered at it. She must be on her guard and not be taken in by his clear green eyes, which appeared so compelling and trustworthy. Or his deep voice, which carried such authority. Bart had put his trust in him. But Bart was dead.
“Helen?”
Helen looked up from toying with the scalloped edge of her sleeve. “Mm?”
“I just asked if Peyton plans to call again.”
“Yes. When Papa arrives home.”
