He did not move, did not reveal that he had heard me.

“You may have already perused the contents of my chest. I cannot say what you found there. But the sequel must give a partial knowledge. By Saturday, Lady Imogen was dead; and Julian Thrace accused of her murder. I collect, then, that the unfortunate Mr. Thrace is undeniably Lord Holbrook’s heir — and that only a noose could prevent him from inheriting your earldom, Major Spence.”

“Lord,” the Earl of Holbrook murmured, “it is as good as a play! Dolly Jordan is as nothing to you, Miss Austen. But you need not have gone to such trouble, Spence. I could have shown you the proofs myself, had you only asked. They are not to be found among Lord Harold’s papers, you know. They are among mine. ”

We turned as with one will and stared at Freddy Vansittart.

“Wrote to me direct from France,” the Earl explained, “when he recovered the boy. Wrote the particulars and enclosed Hélène’s dying words. Didn’t need Harry’s fist to convince me of the gel’s constancy. Never had any doubt regarding Julian’s blood. I’ve maintained him in school all these years, haven’t I, and made sure he was raised an English gentleman?”

The Earl withdrew a wallet from his coat with thick and fumbling fingers. They trembled slightly as he extracted a thin sheet of foolscap, fragile and transparent with age and much folding. Even at a distance of ten paces, I could discern the familiar sloping hand. Lord Harold’s writing.

“There,” the Earl commanded. “You may read it for yourselves. I’ve never parted with Harry’s letter. It’s all I have left of Hélène.”

We all of us stood paralysed, uncertain to whom this charge was directed. And at that moment, Spence made his move. He threw himself not at the Earl or the precious relic held in his hand; nor did he grapple with Edward in a desperate surge for the door. He did not knock me down, or hurl himself through a window as Thrace had done; he dived for the great desk’s drawer.

I believe that Edward understood before I did what the Major intended. But by the time my brother had reached him the cavalry pistol was already levelled against Spence’s own temple.

“No!” Edward cried. “I beg of you, Spence—”

But the report of gunpowder and ball must serve as his only answer.

Letter from Lord Harold Trowbridge to Frederick, Earl of Holbrook, dated 8 January 1792; two leaves quarto, laid; watermark fragmentary ELGAR; signature under black wax seal bearing arms of Wilborough House; Personelle, Par Chasseur Exprès, in red ink.

(British Museum, Wilborough Papers, Austen bequest)

Dearest Freddy:

I achieved Paris three days since, and have spent the interval in searching for the Citizeness Hélène. I will not tax your patience with a report of the state of affairs in this miserable place; I will say only that I have found her, but she is in no condition to be restored to you. To be brief: she is to meet the guillotine on the morrow. Nothing I can contrive among her gaolers — neither payments of what gold I still possess, nor the promise of safe conduct to my country — has succeeded in winning her freedom. It appears Hélène committed the fatal errors of remaining in the city when all was lost, and of championing the cause of a childhood friend similarly consigned to execution. Someone — I know not whom — has informed upon her as the paramour of a conspiring Englishman, and you know well that such trahison shall never go unpunished. I shall endeavour to do what I can to disrupt the Committee’s plans, but will say no more here lest this missive go astray. Of your son I have better intelligence — he is placed with a cottager near Versailles and knows nothing of his unfortunate mother’s fate. I have seen him, and when all is concluded — for good or ill — I shall get him to you in Marseille, or die in the attempt.

You may expect us within a fortnight.

You would find your poor lady much changed. She remains, despite the grossest of indignities and a cause for despair beyond imagining, the sweetest-tempered female I have ever met with. She begs to be remembered to you and her father, and asks on her dying eve that you guard well the life of your son. Some token he bears with him which you will recognise; I know not what. Pray God that we arrive safe.

Yours ever,

Harry

Chapter 25

The Earl ’s Story

10 July 1809, cont.

It was Edward who rode out to fetch the surgeon, Mr. Althorp, from Sherborne St. John, in order that he might pronounce another sudden death to have been achieved at the great estate of Stonings. I remained with the Earl of Holbrook while Charles Spence’s valet took his master’s body in charge, and saw it washed and laid out for burial with his own hands. I had not encountered the Major’s manservant before, but was much struck by the expression of suffering that was writ on his countenance; clearly Charles Spence had been beloved of somebody.

The Earl escorted me from the scene of gore and misery that had become the library, and deposited me with a decanter of sherry and Lord Harold’s precious missive in the white and gold saloon. He disappeared for an interval, in which I assume he paid his respects to his daughter’s bier, and issued orders regarding the Major’s remains. I walked about the room in some disorder of mind, debating every moment of the past week and my own tragic miscalculations regarding the persons I had lately met. The Earl returned after twenty minutes, in apparel freshly exchanged for his garments of the morning, and looking the better for his respite.

“My dear Miss Austen,” he cried, “I could wish us to have met under more cheerful circumstances. It is shocking indeed to consider the scenes to which you have been subjected. But I am grateful to you for the perspicacity you have brought to Stonings; I should not have suspected Charles Spence in an hundred years. Altho’ — given his ruthless determination to acquire my property — I doubt my life would have lasted so long.”

“I must agree with you, my lord.”

He threw himself onto the settee at my side and patted my hand encouragingly. “I apprehend, now, why Harry left you his papers, m’dear. You’re as shrewd as you can hold together, aren’t you? I wish Immy had possessed a little of your understanding; the gel might yet be spending my money hand over fist.”

He looked so troubled that I felt an unwarranted desire to protect and support him; the sort of desire that must often have attended Freddy Vansittart’s adventures, and ensured him the love and good will of those around him.

I offered the Earl Lord Harold’s letter. “I collect from this communication that the boy his lordship speaks of was Julian Thrace?”

“Indeed. Delivered like a package to my inn at Marseille not ten days after the date of that note. There was never anything like Harry for dependability; when Trowbridge gave his word, he backed it.”

“Had you known the boy before?”

“But naturally! I fell head over ears in love with Julian’s mother when I was a young man out in India, and by the hour of her death was almost Hélène’s sole support. I should have gone to her myself, at the last, but for the price the Committee had placed upon my head.”

I had an idea of the story, but forbore to interrupt him.

“She was the daughter of a French count, and the daintiest piece of work you should ever have seen, m’dear.” He sighed reminiscently. “No sapskull, neither. When we met Hélène was betrothed to another — a peer of the British realm — and her sense of what was due to her father, who had arranged the match, dictated the most scrupulous fidelity to his wishes. Her heart, however, was another affair altogether. Wonderful how these French women can reconcile the very Devil!”