“You mean to say I might get my own back?” Philmore demanded, his plane dropping to his side.

“It is, of course, possible. But so long as the person who killed French remains obscured — so long as justice is not done — there can be no hope of amendment.”

Philmore considered this, his rough hands flexing with his thoughts. “I’m a man of heart, ma’am. I’ve no grudge ’gainst Jemima French, what I’ve known since we was both little ’uns.”

“... Running through the fair at Robin Hood Butts,” I murmured distantly. “It is sad that she should be left in such distress of circumstances.”

“You’re a relation of the Squire’s, aren’t ye?” he observed.

“Be it likely he’ll have heard of this business?”

“We expect Mr. Austen in Chawton every hour. I only hope he arrives in time to prevent Mr. Prowting from moving under his own authority. The magistrate has not so deep an understanding as my brother; he is likely to act in haste, and commit a regrettable error. He seems convinced French was killed in a matter of fisticuffs. A row between two mates, the magistrate said, will likely account for the business. ”

Philmore visibly blenched. “I never did it! I left him at my door, same as my wife Rosie’ll tell you.”

“I am sure you did, Philmore — but I cannot vouch for Mr. Prowting’s good will. He is a magistrate, and magistrates must charge somebody.”

The joiner stepped towards me, wavering as tho’ ill. “You’ll speak for me, ma’am? You’ll speak to your brother the Squire?

You’ll tell him as how I couldn’t have done it, being shut of Shafto before ever he left Alton?”

“But I cannot know that,” I said gently, “having been miles from Alton at the time.”

He swallowed hard, and appeared to come to a decision.

“I don’t rightly know what French’s business were, ma’am. He were too far gone in drink to tell me much that night, and cagey with it. But I guessed it had to do with a job of work old Dyer put us onto up Sherborne St. John way. French knew summat as had to do with Stonings — and he was that puffed up about hisself, like a cock o’ the walk come egg-laying day. Blood money, he called it.”

There it was again — that chilling phrase, so suggestive of both blackmail and murder. Whose blood, after all, had been lost but French’s own?

“Sherborne St. John,” I mused, familiar with the name of the village from my girlhood, tho’ I had not visited it this age.

“Mr. Dyer told the coroner his men were wanted there on the Monday. But French, you say, had been at work about the place already some time?”

“Digging trenches fer walls, Shafto were. Stonings is a grand old pile, but falling to rack and ruin, ma’am. There’s a deal of work to be done — should keep old Dyer in fine feather a year or more.”

“Stonings? That is the name of the estate in Sherborne St. John? I do not know it. Who might the master of Stonings be?”

Philmore shrugged. “A military man just back from Spain, and limping with it. Spence is his name. It’s not for me nor Shafto to deal with the likes of they; we take our orders from Dyer. How the poor fool thought to turn a shilling by his knowledge of Stonings, I know not. Maybe the Squire can tell. He’s a rare man for sense, Mr. Austen is.”

“Thank you, Philmore,” I said as Henry reappeared in the doorway. I drew a few shillings from my reticule and dropped them into the joiner’s hand. “It is not five pounds — but may start you a little on the way to recovering them.”

• • •

“Are you at all familiar with a place called Stonings, Henry?” I enquired as my brother escorted me to the street.

“It is the Earl of Holbrook’s seat in Sherborne St. John,”

Henry replied, “tho’ I do not think his lordship has lived there in years — he prefers his London house, or the shooting box in Leicestershire, I believe. Why do you ask?”

“Is the Earl’s family name Spence? Is he an officer who nurses a limp recently earned in the Peninsula?”

Henry stared. “Not at all! Holbrook never stirs from Carlton House if he can help it. I told you, Jane — he’s the man believed to have sired Julian Thrace. Tho’ there are as many who would insist it was not Holbrook at all, but the Viscount St. Eustace.”

“Henry — Shafto French was put to work at Stonings with Dyer’s men a few weeks ago. And now we find Julian Thrace is descended upon Hampshire. Is it not a strange coincidence?”

“Strange — but no less happenstance,” he retorted impatiently. “You might mention it to Thrace when we dine at the Great House tonight. I intend to learn as much as may be about our interesting friends the Middletons and their even more curious guest this evening; the engagement forms one of the chief objects of my Hampshire interest.”

“You should never have remained in Alton so long, in fact, with only your sister to entertain you.”

“Indeed I should not. The country is a dead bore, Jane, without violent death to lend it spice.” He bowed me satirically on my way.

As I quitted the town once more in the direction of Chawton, I was surprised to notice my informant of the morning, Bertie Philmore, on the point of entering the Swan Inn. He was probably intending to spend the shillings I had just given him on a draught of ale — but his path was blocked by a most surprising interrogator: slight of figure, elegant of appearance and sharp in his grasp of Philmore’s sleeve. The Romantick Poet of yesterday’s inquest was unmistakable. But what could Mr. Jack Hinton have to say to Bertie Philmore, that must animate his countenance with distinct anxiety?

Excerpt from the diary of Lord Harold Trowbridge, dated 17 April 1785, on board the Indiaman Punjab out of Calcutta, bound for Portsmouth.

Her name is Hélène, third and most lovely daughter of the Comte de Pont-Ravel, of an obscure and little-travelled family locked in the Jura. Her father fled the boyhood domains at a tender age, having a lust for adventure not shared by his fellows; and but for the untimely death of the eldest and heir, might have remained forever in Madras and made a fortune for the Compagnie des Indes. Sadly, the Comte was recalled last year to take up his estates, and show a proper face to the local gentry, and Hélène remained behind. In a convent school run by the nuns of Sacré-Coeur, who rely upon the good will of the French officers brought in to defend the French traders from the rapine of the British — except that the British have slowly and surely become the masters of the French on the Subcontinent, and the convent school is closing, and Hélène is bound in all irony for England itself, aboard an English ship.

And how, I asked her lightly, did this betrothal come about?

She lifted her pretty shoulders, and twirled her parasol. Papa has known the English Viscount’s family for many years; there was a time when they were united by blood; and Papa has found his circumstances much embarrassed since his return to the Jura. The estates are not in good repair, the harvests are bad, the wine-making imbecilic; in short, all Papa’s Madras gold is unequal to the necessities of his domain, and he has sold his youngest daughter to the highest bidder.

This much I learned from his daughter’s piquant mouth as we strolled about the quarterdeck in the cooling world of the southern hemisphere autumn, while the passage of the Horn and its terrors loomed still ahead of us. I have so far advanced the trust of Captain Dundage that he sees no harm in these young British noblemen entertaining the young lady, as assuredly she must improve her English; and it required only the knowledge of my acquaintance with her espoused husband, tactfully dropped in Dundage’s ear by Freddy Vansittart, to win the right to place the lady’s arm through mine and lead her about the stern. Freddy makes a third in these jaunterings, and unlike myself is fairly well lost to the charms of Hélène. I observe her parted lips — how they swell childishly in the sea air — observe her hair, whipped free of her bonnet by the compelling wind and shining gold in the sunlight; I hear her melodious voice, like lark song in the morning; and I am unmoved. She is but a child, and I no longer find children enchanting. Hélène, be she ever so fair, is doomed like the victim of tubercular fever, like the prisoner of a castle already under siege. I was foolish enough once to believe love could change the terms of one’s very existence, if only one loved hard enough; I was ready to kill or be killed for love’s sake; and I have since learned that the murder of the innocent is the true end of passion. I would not win this chit’s heart now, if I could; I am certain that in working my revenge upon St. Eustace I should only succeed in destroying Hélène’s peace — and should never land a blow upon the Viscount’s impassive façade. If I am weak, so be it. I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am not yet beyond the reach of all human feeling. Freddy, having a more carnal object in view, is no such respecter of the fair Hélène’s predestination. “Bollocks,” he said, when I would have pled St. Eustace’s case. “Don’t tell me you don’t hate the man. I know that you do. He’s a Viscount; well, by God, I’m an Earl now, Harry — and I claim my droit de seigneur. ” I must hope that if Bertie is thrown from his horse one day, and leaves me in possession of the strawberry leaves and Wilborough House, that I do not commit the same follies of arrogance that Freddy has come to, since the receipt of that letter from Hampshire.[12] And so, regardless of whom she may love, Hélène de Pont-Ravel is forever a chattel, the property of one man or another who proposes to claim her. No wonder Mamma saw fit to run off to the Parisian stage. Freedom is worth any amount of scandal.