“Pray convey me to the chambers of Mr. Bartholomew Chizzlewit,” I told him, “in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

Henry was correct. I was missing Lord Harold.

I FIRST MADE THE REDOUBTABLE CHIZZLEWIT’S acquaintance nearly two years ago, in the cottage at Chawton which is now my home. Mr. Chizzlewit had journeyed from London for the sole purpose of putting into my hands a strange and enduring legacy: the private papers, correspondence, and journals of Lord Harold Trowbridge, second son of the fifth Duke of Wilborough: intriguer, man-about-town, and government spy. The Gentleman Rogue, as I was wont to call him, had long been an acquaintance of mine — having fallen in my way some years before, at the home of a friend newly-widowed and beset by unpleasantness.

Lord Harold progressed from an object of suspicion to one of profound attachment; his virtues being almost indistinguishable from his vices, his character one of iron tempered by great sorrow, his scruples unexacting as to means and almost wholly taken up with ends — he was, in short, the agent of my instruction in the ways of the Great World, and the most cherished friend of my heart. He was killed by a Buonapartist agent some three years ago; and I have not yet learned to supply his loss. But his papers, when I have the time and means to consult them, are a great comfort to me — reviving, for a little, the impression of his voice and mind, in the very signature of his hand.

They are also, I may add, a dangerous repository of intelligence, which any number of personages might do violence to obtain. There is enough matter stored in Lord Harold’s Bengal chest to end careers, induce violent hystericks, urge divorce or pistols at dawn — and having encountered the murderous effect of his lordship’s legacy in my own quiet Chawton, I resolved to despatch the chest to the security of Bartholomew Chizzlewit, who had served as his lordship’s solicitor almost from the cradle. Mr. Chizzlewit accommodated me with alacrity, and refused all my attempts at payment — remarking, in his enigmatic way, that it was a privilege to serve one who had merited his lordship’s trust, there being so few yet surviving in the world.

I drew a veil over my face — as behooved a lady reckless enough to consult the Law quite unattended even by her abigail — and paid off the driver at the door of the chambers. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist, but the aspect of the day was lowering and gloomy; Eliza would be dozing over her French novel, and never remark upon my absence. I was impatient beyond reason to settle down with a lamp, the panelled oak door thrust to behind me, and reach once more for the beloved wraith I had glimpsed by that Derbyshire brook only this morning.

A clerk, dressed all in black, suspended his quill as I entered the chambers. These were sensibly, if not richly, furnished with mahogany bookshelves and high tables laden with ledgers; a fire burned merrily in the open hearth; and the scent of cloves, heated by the flames, laced the air. There was no sign of the footmen in green livery who had attended the solicitor in all his state, at his descent upon Hampshire; but perhaps they were employed in Chizzlewit’s domestic establishment.

“How may I be of service, ma’am?” the clerk enquired.

“Miss Jane Austen, if you please, to see Mr. Chizzlewit.”

The fellow’s eyes ran from my bonnet to my boots. The coloured muslin I had chosen for the British Gallery was newly made up, a prize won of this trip to London; but I had been long enough in Town to learn that I presented a neat but hardly dazzling appearance. The usual run of the chambers’ patrons were of the cream of nobility, and quite above my touch. The clerk was not impressed.

“Are you expected?” he demanded impatiently.

“No. Is Mr. Chizzlewit within?”

“I cannot undertake to say. If I may send in your card … ”

The truth is that I possess none. Country ladies of modest means and uncertain age do not leave their cards at each other’s houses; all such formality belongs to Town, and the society of the fashionable select, or such gentlemen of trade as are required to offer their names as surety of respectability. I had never squandered the contents of my slim purse on hot-pressed squares engraved with black ink — but the insolence of this clerk was causing me to regret my providence.

“Pray enquire whether Mr. Chizzlewit is at leisure to receive Miss Jane Austen,” I rejoined, my voice overly-loud, “and if he is not — I shall engage to appoint an hour convenient to us both.”

“Is there some difficulty, Edmund?” a mild voice enquired — and I glanced over my shoulder to discover a gentleman younger than myself, in buff pantaloons and a well-made coat of dark blue superfine, his cravat dexterously tied. One of the noble patrons, no doubt — who possessed a card, and was expected, and should never be made to feel shabby-genteel by a person of little manners and less birth.

“This lady is wishful to see you, sir,” the clerk answered woodenly. “I was informing her you was engaged.”

“But happily you were mistaken,” the gentleman said, with the ghost of a smile in his eyes. “I am quite at leisure to consult with … Mrs ….?”

“Miss Austen,” I said quickly. “But I believe there is a mistake. It is Mr. Chizzlewit I require to consult.”

“I am Sylvester Chizzlewit,” he returned. “But perhaps you are better acquainted with my grandfather — Mr. Bartholomew Chizzlewit?”

“Indeed! He once informed me that the firm’s service to the ducal House of Wilborough dated from his grandfather’s time — and I perceive now that the tradition is an enduring one.”

“Wilborough!” The lurking smile broke fully on the gentleman’s face, transforming it from polite indifference to the liveliest interest. “And your name is Austen. I believe I may divine your errand, ma’am. Pray allow me to convey you to the private patrons’ chamber.”

BEFORE DESPATCHING THE BENGAL CHEST TO LONDON nearly two years ago, I had spent any number of hours in organising its contents. Lord Harold had pursued no particular method while amassing his accounts. He had merely tossed his correspondence and journals into the depths of the chest as tho’ it were a diminutive lumber-room. Over time his records of travels in India, his schoolboy missives from Eton, his maps of Paris scrawled with marginalia, and his passionate letters to ladies long mouldering in the grave, formed an incoherent jumble. During a succession of winter days in my Hampshire village, I had established my own system of classification as rigourous as any natural philosopher’s: at the bottom of the chest I placed the childish scrawls of letters written to his beloved mother; next, his first desperate entanglement with a lady and the dissolute accounts of young manhood: gaming hells, club debauches, meetings at Chalk Farm at dawn.[9] The squandering of a second son’s income could be traced in the piles of old debts, the dunning letters of tailors, wine merchants, chandlers, and gunsmiths; the sale of a string of hunters at Tattersall’s. The inevitable exile to India filled the next layer, and the layer after that; the fifth Duke’s death and his lordship’s accession to an uncle’s fortune; his investments in the Honourable Company; the Revolution in France and the demand for his talents as a secret government envoy. It was in this guise I had finally encountered him: the Gentleman Rogue at the height of his powers — polished, cynical, adept, and aloof. He caught and held my interest precisely because the greater part of his mind was always withheld from me — who had never found it very hard to understand everybody.

“My grandfather will be pleased to learn that you have paid us this call,” Sylvester Chizzlewit told me. “I hope I may assure him of your continued health and happiness, Miss Austen?”