I frowned. “I had not expected you to feel the maid’s murder with any personal sensibility, my lord.”

“I confess I do not,” he returned, with a brusque laugh. “Indeed, I have entirely failed to consider of the wretched girl. She is nothing to me. It is for those who might be encompassed in the affair, that my anxiety is all alive. If I but knew what Georgiana would do — how she would wish me to act—” He broke off, and raised his hand to his lips in mute frustration.

The late Duchess. Comprehension and astonishment broke upon my head at once. I leaned forward and spoke in no more than a whisper, conscious of the footman behind and the coachman before.

“Would you suggest, my lord, that an intimate of Chatsworth is somehow entangled in the murder of Tess Arnold? But her death was an act of savagery — an act of madness! Surely no one from that exalted family—”

He looked at me with pain. “I am not master enough of the circumstances, Jane — I am too much in the dark on several fronts — to know what can or ought to be disclosed. Would that I might share the worst torments, the most despicable of my fears! But such are not for your hearing.”

I sat back against the squabs and studied him narrowly. “Why was it so necessary for me to call at Chatsworth, my lord?”

“Because Mr. Andrew Danforth, the younger son of Penfolds Hall, rode out with His Grace the Duke this morning; and shall certainly be attendant upon the ladies at this hour.”

“I have not seen the younger brother,” I mused, “though I was so fortunate as to observe Charles Danforth only a few hours since. He is a … singular gentleman. I have rarely remarked so much grief and suffering upon so contained a brow.”

“Charles Danforth is an exceptional fellow. You know that he is descended on his mother’s side from the d’Arcy family, and in Charles one might almost discern the d’Arcy powers reborn.”

“I confess I am unacquainted with the name. Are they well known in Derbyshire?”

“It was the d’Arcys who conspired with the Cavendishes and the Rutlands to bring about the Glorious Revolution,” Lord Harold informed me, “in an alehouse in Whittington named the Cock and Pynot. It was there the Whig party was born, Jane.”[2]

“And has not escaped the air of the alehouse from that time to this,” I murmured. “But you were speaking of Mr. Andrew Danforth, I believe.”

“Unlike his brother, Andrew was raised on the Penfolds estate. He is said to have been Tess Arnold’s playfellow when they were both in their infancy.”

“Was he, indeed? Then is Andrew a good deal younger than his brother?”

“By some eight years, I believe. He is but a half-brother, being the son of old Danforth’s second wife. I would dearly love your opinion of both gentlemen, Jane.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “I suspect them of being rivals for the hand of the Duke’s younger daughter — Lady Harriot Cavendish. Which of the brothers she prefers is yet in doubt — Charles Danforth, though far superior to Andrew in almost every respect, has age and unhappiness and a widowhood against him — but I shall leave you to judge. Charles being detained at the maidservant’s Inquest, and Andrew being claimed by His Grace, they shall both be served up now on the back lawn, over ratafia and rout cakes.”

My lord’s countenance was inscrutable as always. The grey eyes were fixed upon the road falling away behind us; he had placed himself at the coachman’s back, in deference to a lady’s sensibility and abhorrence at being driven by another.

“Do you suspect one of the Danforths,” I enquired in very nearly a whisper, “of having done away with his maid? And is your concern, then, all alive for the feelings and prospects of Lady Harriot Cavendish? But surely the fact of Tess Arnold’s having stolen Mr. Danforth’s clothing would preclude that gentleman’s involvement. A more careful assassin, in severing her tongue, would have severed all connexion with himself.”

Lord Harold’s gaze dropped to his hands. As always, they were spare and elegant; not for him the marks of distress, in torn and bitten fingernails. “I scarcely know what I suspect, Jane. You have heard the rumours of Freemasonry, no doubt?”

“Who in Derbyshire has not? The Coroner is most anxious to discredit his neighbours; but his reasons for doing so remain obscure.”

“Why should any man throw mud upon his superiors in birth and fortune? From hatred — resentment — a conviction of inferiority. Tivey cannot possibly credit the accusations he has formed. They are in every way absurd. But that will not prevent them from working a hideous change in the peace of this village. And for that I cannot forgive him.”

I cast Lord Harold a sidelong glance. “You speak with real feeling, my lord. I might almost imagine you injured yourself.”

“If you would enquire whether I am a Freemason, Jane, then I shall not hesitate to answer in the affirmative. I have no compunction in proclaiming my pride in an institution that may trace its origins to the Knights Templar themselves; had I lived in the world in the twelfth century, I should have been a Templar in any case.”

“But for the vow of celibacy,” I murmured.

“When the Templars were cast out and denied their worldly powers, their tradition of service to God and country was forced into secrecy, Jane,” Lord Harold continued, “and took upon itself another name. That is why it is death to betray the Masonic Brotherhood; lives once depended upon such protection. The obligations of Brotherhood transcend the ties of nations and their allegiance. If the Monster Napoleon is ever thwarted, my dear girl, it will be due in large part to the work of enlightened men of every country in Europe — and no few of them Masons.”

It was the longest outburst he had yet managed; in his voice I detected something of the Gentleman Rogue, that from his looks, might have been banished forever. I was quietly gratified at having excited so energetic a defence of the gentleman’s realm.

“I understand His Grace the Duke is a member of the local lodge.”

“It was founded in his father’s time. You perceive, now, the cause of my anxiety. The murder of the still-room maid bids fair to involve the Great very far above her station.”

And it was Lord Harold’s practise to defend the Great from harm. “You are afraid, perhaps, that the men of Chatsworth and those of Penfolds Hall are somehow united — not only in being members of a lodge, but in Tess Arnold’s murder?”

“I do not know, Jane. I cannot possibly say. What I may fear, however—”

“Lord Harold,” I attempted, “surely you take too much upon yourself. If the girl were murdered as a traitor to Freemasonry — then what did she hope to betray? The gentry are all members in good standing; and the common folk of the town should never credit Tess Arnold’s story!”

Lord Harold inclined his head; but he remained unconvinced.

“His Grace has been described as far too indolent to stir himself in any cause,” I persisted, “and he was dining at home in company with Andrew Danforth on the night of the murder. Besides — the wounds to the girl’s body did not entirely correspond to those prescribed for ritual execution.”

My companion stared at me in surprise. “Have you been overlistening the ritual yourself, Jane, in a suit of your brother’s clothes?”

“Sir James Villiers supplied the intelligence. Had she been killed by a true Mason, Tess Arnold should have died of a cut throat, and not a lead ball. Very well — a true Mason did not kill her; or not for the reasons described. The Masonic mutilation is by way of subterfuge, visited upon her body after death.”

“By her murderer — or another person altogether?” Lord Harold enquired, with a narrowing of his eyes.

“I cannot say. I believe, however, that it is a diversion — intended to direct our gaze from the true nature of the crime.”