His vibrant mother passed away a scant two months later. The doctor had said she contracted a lung disease. James knew then, at the age of twelve, that her illness was a result of the chill she had developed on their last outing. If only he had not requested that last picnic, she might still be alive.

His father had agreed. The day his mother was locked in the family crypt was the last day his father had spoken to him. In whispered tones James overheard the servants saying he looked too much like his dear mother for his father to stomach. And just at the age when James had needed his father the most, he was completely out of reach.

Unreciprocated love was a bitter thing.

James recalled the last evening he had allowed himself to cry. He had been in bed when he’d heard his father screaming in anger. James had come running, only to duck as a spray of glass crested the top of the staircase. He had cowered at the railing, peering through the uprights, hidden from his father’s view. But James had a clear view of the tableau.

The gathered servants had scattered in all directions. His father had gone into a frenzy, threatening to tear the ceiling down. He had hurled two more crystal goblets at it, but no damage was done. He had then crumpled to the floor and cried for what seemed like hours. Unbeknownst to the older man, only a stone’s throw away, his young son had cried with him. Cried for his father and for himself.

His father drank enough to forget his enraged promises concerning the ceiling, but James had not forgotten. He couldn’t recall ever seeing his father sober again. His father’s gambling exploits became legendary and he was rarely in residence at the London townhouse.

The marquess finally joined his beloved wife a year later, leaving his only offspring with a ruined empire and the assured knowledge he would never fall in love. Never succumb to weakness.

James broodingly stared at the half-full glass of scotch in his hand. He abruptly placed it on the Queen Anne table and left the room.


* * *

Deirdre and Robert walked into Calliope’s sitting room an hour after she returned to the townhouse. Robert looked determined. He was undoubtedly there to discuss her dealings with Angelford and had decided to bring reinforcements.

"When did you acquire such a burly staff?" Deirdre queried.

Two of Angelford’s footmen had ridden home with Calliope and were now installed in her household. They looked more like pugilists than servants. "They are temporary replacements for Stephen’s footmen. Charlie contracted pneumonia and Fred twisted his ankle. I believe the new men are relatives."

She pulled out a portmanteau and started packing, trying to avoid their sharp eyes.

"Where are you off to?" Robert demanded.

"I am attending a house party at Lord Pettigrew’s estate."

Calliope looked over in time to see Deirdre’s brows shoot skyward. Deirdre and Robert exchanged a glance. "House party?"

Calliope fastened a determined look on her face. "Yes. I have never been to one, and this is a wonderful opportunity."

Robert looked at her disapprovingly. "I will talk to Stephen. He’s gone too far this time. You cannot go."

Calliope lifted her chin. "I can and I will."

She pulled a day dress out of her closet. "Furthermore, I’m not going with Stephen because he’s away on business. I’m going with the Marquess of Angelford."

She heard Deirdre gasp and Robert exclaim, "What?"

Calliope didn’t meet their eyes. "Stephen gave me permission to be escorted by the marquess. He is perfectly harmless." Calliope choked the last out with some difficulty.

Robert touched her arm, forcing her to look at him. "To say that Angelford is perfectly harmless is paramount to saying a lion is a tabby cat. You don’t know what he’s capable of, Calliope. He behaves politely in society, but I have it on good authority that he’s not one to toy with. Besides, I thought you couldn’t stand Angelford. Remember all those caricatures y0u’ve drawn of him? The insults, the cuts, your displeasure at his behavior?"

She met his eyes firmly. "I told you, I’m going to a house party to observe. It’s an opportunity to do my job better. That is all, Robert, nothing more. I have nothing to worry about from Angelford. Now, if you two will excuse me, I need to pack."

She caught the hurt expression in Robert’s eyes and the bewildered look in Dee ’s. Guilt clenched at her gut, and she struggled with her conscience. Deceiving her friends went against her principles, but there was nothing she could do about it at the moment. Stephen’s life might be in jeopardy and she had to carry on with the plan.

She softened her eyes and put her hand over Robert’s. "Stephen will be back soon and everything will return to normal. Please, believe me. Just trust my judgment in this."

Confusion warred in his face and he turned and exited the room without another word.

Deirdre remained a minute longer, her expression registering hurt and concern. " Cal?"

The deeper question was implicit.

There was an uncomfortable pause and Calliope was at a loss for words. She dashed a hand through her hair. " Dee, I can’t tell you now. Just trust me, please?" She looked up at Deirdre pleadingly, but her sister continued to look concerned.

"Be careful Cal. See that you don’t get burned."

Deirdre shook her head and followed Robert out of the house.

Calliope walked to the window and watched her friends leave. She hated shutting them out.

Deirdre’s assessment was correct, as usual. The fire was feeling a bit too warm.


Robert spotted the man in the smokiest section of the tavern. The ramshackle building was located in one of the worst parts of London. He didn’t enjoy meeting here. Calliope’s face flashed in his mind. It was to her that he owed the pleasure of the night’s surroundings. He was still simmering over the conversation hours before. He longed to go back and shake some sense into her.

Robert sat across from the man. "Do you have it?"

The man shook his head. "No."

Damn. He had heard Stephen say that it would be there. Now it was too late to ask for more information. "Does she have it?"

"Pretty sure."

"Do you think she will give it to me?"

"She ain’t gonna give it to you. Woulda probably given it to the blond bloke. He was over there quite regular-like."

Robert contained his impatience. Stephen was no help now.

"Yes, I know. But he is unavailable."

"I tried getting in there the other day, just to take a peek around, mind you, in case you folks wanted me to try other means to obtain it."

Robert frowned. "Don’t do that again. We need to figure out how to get it without raising her suspicions."

The man took a swig of ale and waited.

"Listen up," Robert said as an idea began to take shape. "Here’s what I want you to do."

Chapter 8

Finn entered the study around ten o’clock. James had spent a long, restless night. Since dawn he had unsuccessfully attempted to assemble the bits and pieces he and Calliope had uncovered. The trail remained cold.

"My lord, I haven’t found that Curdle fellow yet. Jaws are clamped tight."

"Some good news to start the day. Just what I needed."

Finn gave him an admonishing look. He was one of the few allowed the privilege. "Now, my lord. Things have progressed slowly before. Just need to give people the proper incentive and a little rope to hang themselves."

"I prefer sooner rather than later. Anything else to report, Finn?"

"Well, I do have some information on the other matter you asked me to look into."

James’s interest perked. "The caricaturist? What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much yet. Only that Robert Cruikshank takes the drawings to Ackermann’s and then collects the fees."

"Cruikshank? I just saw him yesterday. He’s a caricaturist in his own right."

"I figured you’d want me to dig into his background so I went ahead. His staff is discreet so I didn’t get any ready information from them. But I did learn that he has a predictable routine from which he varies only slightly. On the surface, nothing appears amiss. He enjoys the tables, but not overly so. He frequents the Adelphi Theatre and is often seen in the company of Miss Deirdre Daly."

"Very interesting."

Finn nodded. "Do you want me to keep closer tabs on him? I figured the Curdle job had greater priority, so I haven’t done so yet."

"Your instincts were correct, as usual. Stay on Curdle."

Finn nodded. "By the way, were you aware that Robert Cruikshank is also a distant relative of Mr. Chalmers? His great-grandmother was the first cousin of Mr. Chalmers`s great-grandmother. A loose connection, but one nonetheless."

James smiled sardonically. "That it is. I think I’ll pay the illustrious Mr. Cruikshank a visit."

Finn provided directions to Robert Cruikshank’s residence.

The illustrator seemed to be quite visible lately. Perhaps an early morning meeting would shed some light. And give James the advantage.

An hour later James presented his card to a wiry old butler.

Cruikshank appeared shortly and guided James to his study. "My lord, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

His expression looked anything but pleased. James decided to skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. "What do you know about Thomas Landes?"

"Landes is a young caricaturist who is gaining popularity. " His response was uttered in a matter-of-fact voice.

"I’d like to speak with him. Where can I find him?"

"Why ask me? You should try Ackermann’s." Robert Cruikshank looked unruffled. "Or perhaps you should take out an ad?"

"I’d rather you tell me his location and save me the unnecessary time and effort."

"Although I would love to be of assistance, my lord, it is not within my power to do so."

"It was confirmed by a reliable source that you supply all of the sketches to Ackermann’s. So I find it remarkable that you don’t know where or how to contact Landes. Perhaps you are he?"

Cruikshank perused him for a moment and then smiled. "Perhaps."

"I will find out sooner or later, Cruikshank. It’s only a matter of time. I would be more inclined to be generous if my energy and resources were saved."

Cruikshank looked relaxed, but James noticed he was gripping the chair arms.

The man was nervous. And he had deliberately allowed suspicion to rest on himself. James vetoed the notion that Cruikshank was Landes. He had to be protecting someone close to him. His brother? No, George was fanatical about signing his work. Besides, if rumors were true, Robert wouldn’t go to any great lengths for him.

"It would make matters easier if the man were to contact me. He would be better off doing so soon, before I send an outlay of runners to find him," James said.

"I’ll keep that in mind, should I happen to cross paths with Mr. Landes."

"Excellent."

"Good day, my lord."

James let himself out of the townhouse.

He would have one of his footmen follow Cruikshank. The trail would lead to Landes, Stephen or both.


James escorted Calliope to the carriage promptly at one in the afternoon and climbed in after her. He signaled to the two men standing in the doorway of the townhouse and they returned the gesture.

A wave of satisfaction swept through him. The wheels were in motion and the plan was set in action. The carriage began rolling steadily toward its destination.

He glanced across the seat. Calliope’s eyes were guarded, her movements anxious.

"It’s been confirmed that nearly every member on our list will be at Pettigrew’s this weekend. It should prove to be an interesting time. The Pettigrews are infamous for their extravagance."

She clasped her hands and nodded.

"We will arrive and rest before dinner. After dinner there will likely be entertainment. Tomorrow will be filled with lawn games and parlor activities. The festivities will provide an excellent opportunity to converse with the women and listen to any new gossip concerning the men."

She nodded again, continuing to peer out the window. They passed out of the city and James inhaled the fresh country smell. The sky was a bit bluer and the air practically caressed his lungs. He missed his Yorkshire estate and country life.

"There will be a dance tomorrow night, and Sunday after brunch we will leave," he said.

Discussing the weekend activities seemed to be making her knuckles whiter, so he switched topics.

"What do they call the shade of your gown? Mint? Celadon? Pistachio?"