“Bart was interested in antiquities?” Jason asked, surprised.
“It certainly appeared so. Lord Kinsey even gave him books to read. I often found his lordship and Bart together studying some scroll or other. I wasn’t entirely sure that was wise. But my employer is a very generous man. Felt sorry for Bart I imagine. It was a tragedy that Bart lost his arm, but he overcame his disability remarkably well. He appeared to take in every word Lord Kinsey said, I must say.”
“Why wouldn’t it be wise for Lord Kinsey to divulge his work?” Jason asked, his thoughts returning to the burned letter.
“Some of it should remain confidential.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m afraid I cannot say, Lord Peyton. You will have to ask Lord Kinsey.”
Jason nodded. “Thank you, Thorburn. If you think of anything, please contact me.”
Wishing to ask Fiske if he might be shown down to the servants’ hall, Jason left the library. He had not mentioned the burned letter or its contents to Thorburn. He doubted he’d get an answer, even if the man knew what the words electric fish referred to. The secretary appeared intent on guarding Kinsey’s secrets. He seemed genuine enough. The son of a wealthy country squire who’d sent his son to university to raise his station in life. But was Thorburn, as he made out, merely a keen student of ancient texts? Happy to remain in Lord Kinsey’s shadow? Or might he have bigger aspirations? And what about Bart’s aspirations? Jason realized how little he knew about him during the war and nothing about the man he’d become.
Wondering if he’d get a chance to see Helen, Jason rounded a corner and cannoned into a small soft body.
“Lady Helen…” He stepped away and searched her startled flushed face. “I wanted to apologize again for taking such liberties yesterday—”
A flush suffused her creamy cheeks. One glance at her delectable mouth and he remembered the sweet softness and the taste of her, discovering he wanted to repeat the action. It appeared he was a lost cause.
“There’s no need, my lord. It was merely the exuberance of the moment and is now forgotten.” Averting her eyes, she hurried on. “You are here to discover who killed Bart, and it’s my intention to assist you in that aim. Now, who else do you plan to see?”
She sounded so brisk his gaze roamed her serious face, searching for a way to put them both at ease. “The kitchen staff. I believe they’re expecting me.”
“As Jeremy is out, I shall take you down myself. Please come this way.”
She had retreated into the brisk, efficient manner of their first meeting. Regretting that it had been his impulsive act that had caused this change, he had an absurd desire to tease her out of it, wanting to hear her laugh. She cloaked her lively intelligence and sense of humor, but every now and then, he caught an intriguing glimpse. There was no chance of it now, however, as she led him down the servants’ stairs. Instead, he told her of his interview with Mrs. Chance.
She shook her head. “That sounds so unlike Bart.”
On reaching the servants’ hall, Lady Helen introduced Jason and left him to speak with young Jinx, Cook, and the kitchen and scullery maids, who had gathered together with the gardener and undergardener, shuffling their feet, hats in hand. He soon found everyone to be distressed and nervous, and he came away with nothing useful.
When he returned to the upper floor again, Lady Helen approached him with a hopeful lift of her eyebrows. He shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“Bow Street dealt rather harshly with them, poor things,” she said. “As if any of them could be responsible for such an act! May I offer you tea, Lord Peyton?”
“I would appreciate it, thank you.” He almost grinned at the inquisitive light in her eye. He suspected that her determination to discover Bart’s killer overrode her desire to keep him at a distance. He wished perversely that he had something exciting to tell her. “The servants all spoke well of Bart. Said he was one of nature’s gentlemen.”
“That is true, he was.”
“Which makes his rebellious attitude toward Mrs. Chance even more difficult to understand. But she did say she understood he was unwell.”
Lady Helen’s big eyes grew misty. “Bart would have been in terrible pain. And unable to perform his duties, which would have hurt his pride. He’d achieved so much since the war.”
“That’s certainly understandable.”
In the drawing room, Lady Helen tugged the bell pull. When Fiske appeared, she ordered the tea. “And please ask Cook to add some of her macaroons,” she instructed him.
Jason acknowledged her thoughtful gesture with a brief smile.
“Mrs. Chance mentioned that Bart lit a fire in the attic fireplace,” Jason said when the footman had left. “Apparently, that isn’t permitted except in winter. I gather they were the ashes from the letter fragment we found in the grate.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion why he would do such a thing. He would never have been deliberately disorderly. And why destroy that letter?” Her eyes glowed with passionate intent. “I do hope we discover who did this!”
“We will,” he said emphatically. He wanted to see that passionate light in her eyes for an entirely different reason. Heat flooded through his body, tightening his loins. Shocked, he sat back and crossed his legs. Lady Helen had the unfortunate effect of turning him into an ungainly youth. But there was something heady in the air, even though they both fought the attraction.
“What if Bart didn’t burn the letter?” Jason asked, enjoying looking at her, the delicate line of her jaw, and her firm chin, where a dimple appeared when she smiled.
