“Well done, lass,” said Huw. “What did you discover? Do you know where Davis has taken the rifle scope?”
Everyone waited for her to answer, and to her surprise, she found she could.
“I don’t know precisely,” she said. “I only know that when he was writing the majority of the letters, he seemed to be living in or near a town called Haddon Grange. His lordship says you are familiar with it?”
“Yes, of course.” Bertie picked up a quill and spun it eagerly between his fingers, as though he meant to take notes on their conversation. “About three hours from here on horseback; we sell some of our grain to the milner there. A not insubstantial village—a few dozen houses and shops. The estate of Lord and Lady de Younge is not far.”
“Could Davis have resided there?” Georgiana asked. “Perhaps under an assumed name? Would his face have been known to the people of Haddon Grange?”
“Aye,” Arthur said. “We’re both familiar enough to them—his face and mine as well. Most of the town, I think, would recognize him if they saw him there.”
“He could be there now,” said Huw, “practically right under our noses.”
Lydia felt an unexpected ripple of pride.
Between her naive trust in Davis and her impulsive journey to Scotland, she’d marinated in her own foolishness since the moment she’d arrived at Strathrannoch Castle. But perhaps—if she helped Arthur find his brother, if she played a role in preventing violence—perhaps she would have turned a rash impulse into something worthwhile.
Perhaps she could do right in the end.
“You should go to Haddon Grange,” Bertie said decisively, his gaze trained on Arthur in the threshold. “As soon as you can. Tomorrow, if you can manage it. See if you can find him—or, if he’s no longer there, see if you can work out any clue as to where he might have gone.”
“Aye,” Arthur said. He levered himself up from where he had been leaning against the frame of the door. “Come up to your office with me, Bertie, and we’ll make a plan for the estate in my absence. I trust you to know what’s right, of course, but you’ll understand if I want to speak of it anyway.”
“Yes,” said Bertie, drawing the word out as he slid the quill between his fingers. “Yes. But you ought not go alone. You should take Miss Hope-Wallace and Lady Georgiana.”
Lydia felt slightly dizzy as the words registered. There was a faint buzzing sound in her ears that almost drowned out the rough sound of Arthur’s next words.
Not quite though. His deep voice rumbled straight into her chest.
“Absolutely not.”
“Only think upon it,” Bertie said serenely. “If Davis is there, he may be more willing to meet with Lydia than with you. She may be able to entice him—”
“I will not use her as bait!”
“She need not involve herself beyond writing Davis a note, perhaps. He knows her hand.”
“She is too bloody involved as it is!”
The words stung. They scraped at the soft parts of Lydia’s heart.
She wanted to tell him he was right. She was far too involved; she should never have come in the first place. She wanted to say that she had no desire to accompany him in any case, that she only wanted to help him with the letters and then go home.
No. In truth, she wanted not to speak at all. She wanted to bury her face in her hands and let them argue above her head, to fade away until no one in the room could see her.
It would be so easy to disappear from the conversation. She was exquisitely accomplished at disappearing.
And what had it gotten her? That hiding, that lying in wait?
She had done some good these last three years as H. She knew that she had. She had helped rouse public sentiment in favor of universal suffrage and divorce reform. She’d been largely responsible for the failed campaign of a pro-slavery MP in Camelford. She had arranged alternate employment for all of the Marquess of Queensbury’s female staff after she’d discovered that he’d impregnated three serving girls and then tossed them out on the street.
But she herself had not changed. Not yet.
“I want to go.” Her voice came out small and strained, and though she was painfully embarrassed, she tried again. “I want to go with you to Haddon Grange. I’d like to see what we can find out about Davis.”
Arthur turned toward her, shifting his glare from Bertie’s face to hers. “And what will you do if Davis finds you there? If the first time he lays eyes on you is through my rifle scope, aimed at your heart from a hundred leagues away?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll propose.”
