She threw a look of challenge at Julian Thrace. There were several meanings implicit in such a speech, and I thought I had missed none of them. Lady Imogen was the Earl of Holbrook’s daughter — the legitimate issue about to be supplanted in the bulk of her inheritance by a man sprung from exactly nowhere. Her looks said plainly that she was fiercely determined to rout her rival, and expose him to the world’s censure as an imposter; but she should never fail in politeness while she did so. I guessed her to have courage and wit enough to meet any trick the Bond Street Beau might serve her.

Henry smiled at the lady, his face alight with all the interest of the party before him. There was a fortune to be made among the betting books of the St. James clubs, and if truth was to be drawn from present company, my brother was poised to reap the whirlwind. The Viscount St. Eustace was as naught; the wise money should be entirely on the Earl of Holbrook. I wondered Henry did not post immediately to London.

“I should not wish you to put the horse through its paces at present,” Charles Spence observed. “Stonings has been sadly in want of refurbishment for many years. I am presently employed by the Earl of Holbrook as his steward, Mr. Austen — and am charged with the duty of bringing order where neglect has been the rule.”

“The place is in such a degree of decay,” Mr. Middleton added, “that I pressed Spence most earnestly to make a stay of some duration here at the Great House. It cannot be a pleasant thing, to sleep amidst dust and plaster, with the sound of Dyer’s joiners toiling away in the lower parts of the house; but our Stonings party comes to us for this evening only, and will depart on the morrow — depriving Chawton of its most lovely flower.”

He bowed in Lady Imogen’s direction.

Dyer’s joiners, I thought. Had any of the present labourers discovered Shafto French’s secret? And did the handsome party assembled before me share his guilty knowledge — or that of his sad end?

As Mr. Middleton quitted us to greet another of his guests, Major Spence said, “Am I to understand, Miss Austen, that you are but two days arrived in Chawton?”

“That is true, sir. We are hardly strangers to Hampshire, however, having lived in this county the better part of our lives. My father was once rector of Steventon, where presently my brother James is incumbent.”

“A clergyman’s daughter,” he observed with a smile, “and I am a clergyman’s son.”

“Are you, indeed? From what part of the country do you hail?”

“The North. I was raised in Yorkshire. Do you know that part of the world, ma’am?”

“I regret to say that I do not. But how are you come to be in this part of the world? It is a great change of scene, surely?”

“It does not follow that such a change must be unwelcome. Unlike your brother, I had no inclination for the Church, Miss Austen, and broke my father’s heart at the age of seventeen by running away to the Army. I am recently sold out from the Eighteenth Light Dragoons, having suffered a trifling wound at Vimeiro.”

A military man just back from Spain, and limping with it. I had not yet observed the game leg in action — but should have dearly liked to examine the Major’s footwear more closely. The notion of this particular gentleman riding some twelve miles at night in order to drown a man and hide his body in my cellar seemed, however, fantastic. “You were with Sir Arthur Wellesley, then, last September?”

“I was — altho’ the injury to my leg required me to be taken off the coast of Maceira immediately following our engagement with the French. I was not required to endure the privations later visited upon my fellows during Sir John Moore’s catastrophic retreat — to my enduring shame.”

“My brother, Captain Frank Austen of the Canopus, carried away the remnant of Sir John’s men this past January,” I said in a subdued accent. “From his account I must suppose the losses to have been frightful.”

“But no worse than we shall serve Buonaparte in future,” Spence replied stoutly.

We were both silent an instant, our thoughts far removed from the frivolity of a summer evening; mine were travelling in memory to Southampton the previous autumn, and the lowvoiced communication of a government spy in the hold of a Navy ship. Where Major Spence’s thoughts might be wandering, I could not hazard a guess; but from his expression, it was no Elysian Field.

“And so I threw myself upon the mercy of my relations,” he resumed with forced lightness, “and accepted employment as the Earl of Holbrook’s steward. I may say that I am entirely unfitted to the task — being a soldier is no recommendation for business — but his lordship was prevailed upon to accept me. I am a second cousin to the Earl, once removed, on the distaff side.”

“I am sure he has every reason to be grateful for your stewardship of Stonings,” I observed. “Mr. Dyer’s men have been very busy about the place, I collect?”

“It is a noble estate,” he said thoughtfully. “But the degree of neglect is much to be deplored. The Earl, being an intimate of the Carlton House Set, formed the early habit of repairing to Brighton in the summer months. He spends the winters at his hunting box in Leicestershire. The remainder of the year is passed in Town. I do not think the Earl has descended into Hampshire above three times since his accession to the title.”

He glanced about the panelled hall, gaze roving among the leaded windows. “Your brother, I believe, is the owner of this house! It is a very fine old place — Elizabethan, I should judge?”

“Exactly so. But like your Earl, my brother does not deign to live in Hampshire.”

“Middleton informed me that he is an excellent landlord; so very liberal, in fact, that Middleton cannot keep away from Chawton. He has leased this estate twice in recent years.”

“And is a most agreeable tenant in every respect. Are you very much acquainted with Mr. Middleton?”

“A sporting acquaintance, one might call it,” Spence said diffidently, “formed on the hunting field. He is all affability, however, and does not disgrace your brother’s good opinion. I hope to see more of him.”

“And was it you who introduced Mr. Thrace to Mr. Middleton’s acquaintance?”

“Not at all. Thrace fell in with the Middleton family while travelling on the Continent, I believe. But Thrace will have to tell you how it was himself; I am not perfectly in command of the history.”

Henry had referred to Thrace’s past as being obscured by war and curious incident — a childhood in France, or a French mother, perhaps. It was impossible not to speculate at what point he had first sought the Earl of Holbrook’s notice, and claimed the relation of son to father — impossible not to wonder how the Earl had received this news. Or broken it to Lady Imogen.

I found my eyes lingering on the Beau’s face, attempting to trace some likeness between himself and Lady Imogen; but I confess I could find none. One so dark, the other so light, they appeared to excellent effect — but hardly as brother and sister. But then I recollected: they were related in half-blood only. Much might be attributed to the influence of different mothers. Thrace, I noticed, was exerting himself to engage Catherine Prowting in conversation — despite the jealous attempts of her sister to divert the gentleman’s attention. Catherine’s colour was high, her eyes brilliant; and tho’ she remained the picture of elegant self-possession, I thought she did not meet Mr. Thrace’s attentions with indifference.

“I hope I do not intrude — but I could not forbear to offer my sympathy for the trials you have so lately undergone,” Major Spence continued in a lower tone. “Thrace told me of the shocking affair only this morning, as I was arrived with Lady Imogen from Sherborne St. John. I trust you have suffered no ill-effects from the anxiety?”