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Foley frowned, a genuine expression. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.” His eyes locked again on Stokes’s face. “Are you saying that William is alive and that he might return, but”—Foley’s expression grew openly confused—“there are those who might not wish him to?”
Stokes dipped his head in response.
Foley drew himself up. “I assure you, Inspector”—his gaze switched briefly to Barnaby—“and you, too, Mr. Adair, that everyone in this firm, as well as the Percival family, would be thrilled to have William returned to us. More, that we would do everything in our collective power to effect such a happening.”
Stokes held Foley’s gaze, no longer so distant and remote, then, in acceptance, inclined his head. “In that case, Mr. Foley, as the police are now working to resolve William Percival’s disappearance, I would respectfully suggest that it would be in yours and the Percival family’s interest to assist us in whatever way you can.”
Foley was clearly caught on the horns of a dilemma—should he bend his rigid stance against revealing anything about his clients and perhaps assist in the return of the young heir, or hold to his line and . . .
“If I might make an observation?” Barnaby said.
Foley looked at him. “Yes?”
“When William returns, even though he’s a minor, he will be your principal client with regard to the Percival family’s holdings and the Seddington estate.”
That was a simple statement of fact, but as William had been a small child when Foley had last seen him, it wasn’t a fact Foley had truly considered. . . . He did now. After several moments, his features eased. Slowly, he nodded, then he looked at Barnaby and inclined his head. “Thank you, Mr. Adair. That is, indeed, a pertinent point.”
Returning his gaze to Stokes, Foley reclasped his hands. “So, Inspector, let me hear your questions, and I’ll answer as best I can without infringing on my duty of discretion toward my other clients. In this matter, I am still constrained, as I act for all the Percivals, not just the principal line and the estate.”
“That shouldn’t be an issue at this point—our questions today concern William Percival and the Seddington estate.” Stokes consulted the notebook he’d settled on his knee. “The first matter we wish to confirm is that Richard Percival was named William’s principal guardian, with the late viscount’s uncle, Marmaduke Percival, as co-guardian.”
Foley nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.” He glanced at Barnaby. “But that’s a matter of public record.”
“Indeed,” Stokes continued, “but we wondered if you could explain why a principal guardian and a co-guardian were appointed.”
Foley clearly debated, then offered, “The late viscount, Robert Percival, was well aware of the foibles of certain members of his family, and so he, very wisely in my view, insisted on two guardians.”
“So the appointment of two guardians,” Barnaby said, “came about because Robert Percival didn’t trust one or the other, at least not entirely.”
His gaze on Barnaby’s face, Foley’s lips slowly compressed, then he shook his head. “I cannot comment on anything specific regarding either Richard Percival or Marmaduke Percival. Both are private clients of mine.”
Barnaby nodded in acceptance. He glanced at Stokes.
“Our second question,” Stokes said, “relates to the estate itself. We are in the process of confirming that the estate is intact—our contacts have led us to believe it is. Can you add anything to that confirmation?”
Foley hesitated, then, clearly choosing his words carefully, said, “To my knowledge, the estate remains intact in all ways. It has been preserved as it was at the time of Robert Percival’s death. And while I am unable to disclose any specifics as to the people involved, the wisdom of Robert Percival in appointing co-guardians, where the approval of both must be gained for any change to the estate, has proved critical in protecting the estate from depredation.”
Barnaby and Stokes shared a glance; that was more than they’d hoped to learn.
“Thank you,” Stokes said. “That brings me to our final question.” He looked up and met Foley’s gaze. “Is the estate entailed?”
Foley nodded. “Yes, sadly, it is—virtually in its entirety.”
“So,” Barnaby confirmed, “if William were to die, the estate, virtually in its entirety, would pass to William’s next of kin.”
A faint expression of distaste on his face, Foley nodded. “Indeed—just so.”
Barnaby and Stokes shared another loaded glance, then both rose and thanked Foley. He’d answered all the questions they had for him to that point, and, despite the constraints under which he’d labored, he’d given them more than they’d hoped.
Barnaby could barely wait to get outside and into the sunshine bathing the court to confer with Stokes, thereby fixing all they’d heard, and so learned, in their minds. They paused under a tree. “Let’s see if we both received the same messages.”
Stokes halted beside him and lifted his face to the breeze. “Cautious beggar—it was like reading in code.”
Barnaby grinned. “The legal profession doesn’t approve of simple and straightforward. So.” He settled his greatcoat across his shoulders. “First, we now know that Robert Percival distrusted the person who would normally have been appointed William’s sole guardian—namely Robert’s brother and William’s immediate next of kin, Richard Percival.”
Stokes nodded. “More, we now know that Foley, sound and conservative as he is and well acquainted with the family, considers the co-guardianship a wise appointment, and that attempts to draw on the estate have proved that to be true.”
“Which tells us that Richard Percival has indeed attempted to draw on the estate, but because of the co-guardianship—which Foley took care to tell us requires both guardians to agree to any such action—Richard has been blocked from doing so.”
“By his uncle, Marmaduke Percival.” Stokes’s expression hardened. “It all adds up nicely.”
“Indeed. And to cap it all off,” Barnaby said, “Foley just told us that on William’s death, Richard Percival will inherit the entire estate. So that, all along, has been his aim, exactly as Rose suspected.”
Stokes stood in the dappled shade under the tree and thought through the case. He stirred, then glanced at Barnaby. “The one thing we’re still missing is proof of his motive—the reason why Richard Percival needs to inherit and gain access to the estate.”
Barnaby grimaced. “True. Sadly we can’t just say he wants to be wealthy.”
Stokes snorted. “Right. So I’m heading back to see if my men watching his house have anything to report.”
“And I,” Barnaby said, “rather think I’ll do a circuit of the clubs and see if I can pick up any whispers concerning Richard Percival and his compelling need for cash.”
Side by side, they ambled out of the inn’s court, then hailed two hackneys. With genial waves, they went their separate ways.
Thomas had to exercise a certain degree of care in limping over the lush lawns in Kew Gardens; if he didn’t pay attention, the tip of his cane would sink into the thick mat of grass and the softer earth beneath, throwing him awkwardly off-balance.
Despite Adair’s assurances regarding the quality of his wife’s “guards,” Thomas had been unable to quiet his protective instincts, so he’d invited himself along on Penelope and Rose’s planned excursion. Somewhat to his relief, Penelope had rethought her original notion of simply bowling around the city’s streets, stopping wherever the children’s fancies dictated, in favor of a more formal day’s outing in the fresh air at Kew.
As he limped along in the ladies’ wake, admiring the view, he had to approve of the choice. It was highly unlikely that Richard Percival or any of his minions would happen upon them amid the garden beds, lawns, and winding paths, not even when they dallied in the new conservatory, admiring the exhibits housed within in company with dozens of other fashionable females and their children.
Not only was the lo
cation safe enough, but Conner, Penelope’s groom, ambled ahead of the ladies, and James, the footman, hovered close, at Penelope’s elbow, and Phelps, the coachman, was following behind Thomas, bringing up the rear.
Thomas paused in the shade of a tree. Ahead, the ladies availed themselves of an empty bench and sat, their parasols deployed to shade their delicate features. The children—not just Homer and Pippin but also Penelope and Barnaby’s young son, Oliver, a bouncing toddler still not quite steady on his chubby legs—settled in a group on the grass before the bench, gathering around Oliver’s nurse, Hettie.
As Thomas watched, Hettie drew a set of knucklebones from the pocket of her pinafore, and Homer and Pippin fell on them. Then the pair realized that Oliver wanted to play, too, and soon a rambunctious game was underway, with much overacting and antics to amuse the baby.
Hands folded over the head of his cane, Thomas stood and watched, and realized he was grinning.
Phelps came up and settled beside him. The coachman nodded to the group. “Sounds like they’re having fun.”
“Yes, they are.” Thomas realized he hadn’t heard the children laugh quite so freely before. Even on the decks of the Andover they’d exhibited a certain sense of awareness, of caution with respect to those around them. Here, surrounded by Penelope’s guards, with Hettie close at hand, Rose and Penelope nearby, and no one else but other mothers and children within sight, the pair had finally relaxed enough to laugh unshadowed by any lingering care . . .
Thomas decided he could forgive Penelope the look—one filled with far too much understanding—that she’d slanted his way when, back at the hotel, he’d declared that he would be joining the party.
After a while, when the lure of knucklebones waned, the party rose and ambled on. Growing tired of the baby and the company of females, Homer dropped back to walk beside Thomas.
“I was wondering,” Homer said, “how they keep the conservatory so warm.” He looked up at Thomas. “I didn’t see any fireplaces.”
Thomas smiled down at him. “Steam. I read somewhere that there’s a patented system of metal coils carrying steam that heats the place.”
Homer’s lips formed an O. Several steps later, he said, “It seemed a very fine building, if you know what I mean.”
Thomas grinned. “You have a good eye. It was designed by Nash—architect to kings. It was one of a pair of pavilions Nash designed for Buckingham House, but the king sent one to these gardens, probably in honor of his father, who used to love walking here. And another famous architect, Wyatville, worked on changing what was originally designed as a pavilion into the conservatory.”
Several steps later, Homer glanced up at him. “Where do you learn things like that? About the steam and the buildings?”
“Mostly from the news sheets. I have a good memory.”
Homer looked ahead; they were nearing the gates and the wide drive along which the carriage waited. “I’ve a good memory, too. Perhaps I should start reading the news sheets?”
Thomas met Homer’s up-slanted glance, hesitated, then said, “If you like, after I’ve finished with mine every morning, you can have them.”
Homer nodded. “I’d like that.” Taking hold of Thomas’s arm, he walked with him to the carriage.
They bowled back into London at a brisk pace. Seated alongside Penelope, with Thomas opposite and Homer and Pippin beside him, Rose felt more content, more relaxed, than she had in years.
An entire afternoon and she hadn’t had to worry. More, the need to feel concerned, the anxiety she’d carried constantly for the past four years, had, over the hours they’d spent in the gardens, lifted. Eased.
That weight would return now they were reentering Mayfair’s streets, where turning any corner might bring them face-to-face with Richard Percival or one of his friends, or someone who knew them well enough to recognize them and inform Richard that they were there, but for the past hours . . . she had breathed freely, easily. For the last hours, she had been without care.
And although it had been Penelope’s suggestion, and her guards who had hovered close, the thanks for Rose’s hours of simple pleasure primarily lay at Thomas’s door. The fact that he’d accompanied them, that he had been there and she trusted him—more than anyone else—to keep her and the children safe, had been the necessary final criterion that had allowed her to let go and simply enjoy the flowers, the sights and scents, and give herself over to the distraction.
Looking at him across the carriage, she waited until she caught his eye, then smiled—in gratitude, in acknowledgment.
From the corner of her eye, Penelope glimpsed Rose’s smile; glancing swiftly across, she saw Thomas smile in response and pretended not to notice, letting her gaze drift unconcernedly on while inside she positively gloated.
They were so . . . connected. Connected herself to Barnaby, she recognized the signs; those shared smiles were so revealing. Almost as revealing as Thomas’s insistence on joining them today, when any sane gentleman would rather have done anything but.
Careful to keep her delight concealed—she wasn’t, she told herself, a matchmaker per se, but she came from a long line of matrons whose primary purpose in life had been arranging marriages, so her interest really wasn’t surprising—when the carriage halted outside the hotel, she declined Rose’s invitation to come in for afternoon tea. “I need to get on.”
She accepted Rose’s, Homer’s, Pippin’s, and lastly Thomas’s thanks with due graciousness, then, once she’d seen the party pass safely into the hotel, she sat back and frowned.
“Ma’am?” Phelps called down through the ceiling trap. “Where to?”
Penelope considered Oliver, fast asleep in Hettie’s arms, then looked up and quietly called, “St. Ives House, Phelps. And then you and Conner can drive Hettie and Oliver home, and James can wait and walk me home later.”
Phelps hesitated but then said, “Aye, ma’am,” and lowered the trap.
Penelope leaned back, anticipation rising; St. Ives House was only around the block, and there, with any luck, she would find not just afternoon tea but information as well.
On being admitted to St. Ives House by the inestimable Webster and inquiring as to the possibility of partaking of afternoon tea in the company of his mistress, Penelope wasn’t surprised to be directed to the back parlor.
There, she discovered a relaxed female gathering. As she had hoped, Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, was playing host to two of her husband’s cousins’ wives, Patience, the wife of Vane Cynster, and Alathea, who was married to Gabriel Cynster. With all their children at either school or university, the three fashionable matrons often spent their days together. Now that the last of the Cynster girls had married, with none of the next generation as yet old enough for the marriage mart, there was little incentive to keep up with the social round; although needing to remain in town to support their husbands in their political and business activities, to act as their hostesses and partners at the dinners, soirees, and the occasional formal parties, daytime life for the three ladies was no longer the hectic progression of events it once had been.
As Penelope marched in, three heads turned her way.
Recognizing a diversion when they saw one, all three matrons smiled delightedly.
“Welcome, Penelope.” Honoria held out her hand.
Penelope took it, squeezing the duchess’s fingers as she bent to kiss her proffered cheek. “Thank you.” Straightening, she moved to greet the others in the same way. “I had hoped to find at least you three here.”
“Aha!” Patience grinned as she released Penelope. “You do have a query for us, something we can help with.”
Penelope nodded and settled on the chaise beside Alathea. “As I’m sure you know, all the elders have gone off to the country. Even my mama has retreated to Calverton Chase to play with Luc and Amelia’s children, and Amanda and Martin and their younger ones are there, too—Mama is determined to enjoy them while they’re young, or so she says. So with no one of
greater experience to consult, I’m here to appeal to you.” Pulling off her gloves, she surveyed the offerings displayed on the tiered cake plate that sat on the low table before the chaise.
Alathea chuckled. “We’ll try to live up to the elders’ standards, but I’m not sure any of us can as yet claim such all-encompassing knowledge.”
Leaning forward to pour Penelope a cup of tea, Honoria snorted. “In truth, I doubt any of us will ever be a match for Therese Osbaldestone—or Helena.” Lifting the cup and handing it to Penelope, Honoria paused, then amended with a smile, “Except, perhaps, for you, Penelope, dear.”
Laughing at Penelope’s arching brows and doubting expression, Honoria sat back. “But ask, and we’ll do our best to stand in for those not presently available.”
Penelope nodded, sipped her tea, then lowered the cup. “The Percival family. Viscounts Seddington, of Seddington Grange, in Lincolnshire. Robert, the late Viscount Seddington, died in a boating accident four years ago, and his son and heir vanished on the night after the funeral.”
“Ooh, yes. I remember that.” Patience looked intrigued. “Quite a to-do it caused—such a gothic tale—but as I recall, it happened in summer, so by the time the ton reconvened in September, it was old news.”
Penelope nodded. “What I need to know is everything you can tell me about the late viscount’s younger brother, Richard Percival.”
“Hmm.” The sound came from Alathea, but all three matrons frowned in thought.
Honoria spoke first. “I have met him socially, but only briefly. In age, he falls between us and you—midthirties . . .” Honoria focused on Penelope. “Actually, he must be around the same age as Barnaby. I take it Barnaby doesn’t know him?”
Penelope made a mental note to specifically ask, but . . . “I don’t think they move in the same circles.”
Patience humphed. “That rings true. Richard Percival is the sort all sensible mamas warn their daughters not to look at—in case they lose their hearts.”
“Indeed.” Alathea shifted on the chaise to face Penelope. “I vaguely remember Robert Percival—he was older than we are, but, as I recall, he was a handsome man. His younger brother, however, is a dangerously handsome man.”