The Lady Chosen

Chapter Nineteen

“It’s all still a mystery to me. I can’t make head or tail of it—if you can shed any light on the affair I’d be grateful.” Jonathon settled his head against the back of the chaise.

“Start at the beginning,” Tristan advised. They were all gathered around—in chairs, propped against the mantelpiece—all keenly focused. “When did you first hear of anything to do with Cedric Carling?”

Jonathon’s gaze fixed, grew distant. “From A. J.—on her deathbed.”

Tristan, and everyone else, blinked. “Her deathbed?”

Jonathon looked around at them. “I thought you knew. A. J. Carruthers was my aunt.”

“She was the herbalist? A. J. Carruthers?” Humphrey’s disbelief rang in his tone.

Jonathon, somewhat grim-faced, nodded. “Yes, she was. And that was why she liked living hidden away in north Yorkshire. She had her cottage, grew her herbs and conducted her experiments and no one bothered her. She collaborated and corresponded with a large number of other well-respected herbalists, but they all knew her only as A. J. Carruthers.”

Humphrey frowned. “I see.”

“One thing,” Leonora put in. “Did Cedric Carling, our cousin, know she was a woman?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jonathon replied. “But knowing A. J., I doubt it.”

“So when did you first hear of Carling or anything to do with this business?”

“I’d heard Carling’s name from A. J. over the years, but only as another herbalist. The first I knew of this business was just a few days before she died. She’d been failing for months—her death was no surprise. But the story she told me then—well, she was starting to drift away, and I wasn’t sure how much to credit.”

Jonathon drew breath. “She told me she and Cedric Carling had gone into partnership over a particular ointment they’d both been convinced would be eminently useful—she was a great one for working on useful things. They’d been working on this ointment for over two years, quite doggedly, and from the first they’d made a solemn and binding agreement to share in any profits from the discovery. They’d enacted a legal document—she told me I’d find it in her papers, and I did, later. However, the thing she was most urgent to tell me then was that they’d succeeded in their quest. Their ointment, whatever it was, was effective. They’d reached that point some two months or so before, and then she’d heard no more from Carling. She’d waited, then written to other herbalists she knew in the capital, asking after Carling, and she’d only just heard back that he’d died.”

Jonathon paused to look at their faces, then continued, “She was too old and frail to do anything about it then, and she assumed that with Cedric’s death, it would take his heirs some time to work through his effects and contact her, or her heirs, about the matter. She told me so I’d be prepared, and know what it was about when the time came.”

He dragged in a breath. “She died shortly after, and left me all her journals and papers. I kept them, of course. But what with one thing and another, my work for my articles, and not hearing anything from anyone about the discovery, I more or less forgot about it, until last October.”

“What happened then?” Tristan asked.

“I had all her journals in my rooms, and one day I picked one up, and started to read. And that’s when I realized she might have been right—that what she and Cedric Carling had discovered might, indeed, be very useful.” Jonathon shifted awkwardly. “I’m no herbalist, but it seemed like the ointment they’d created would help to clot blood, especially in wounds.” He glanced at Tristan. “I could imagine that that might have quite definite uses.”

Tristan stared at him, knew Charles and Deverell were doing the same, and they were all reliving the same day, reliving the carnage on the battlefield at Waterloo. “An ointment to clot blood.” Tristan felt his face set. “Very useful indeed.”

“We should have kept Pringle,” Charles said.

“We can ask his advice fast enough,” Tristan answered. “But first let’s hear the rest. There’s a lot we don’t yet know—like who Mountford is.”

“Mountford?” Jonathon looked blank.

Tristan waved. “We’ll get to him—whoever he is—in time. What happened next?”

“Well, I wanted to come down to London and follow things up, but I was right in the middle of my final examinations—I couldn’t leave York. The discovery had sat around doing nothing for two years—I reasoned it could wait until I was finished with my articles and could devote proper time to it. So that’s what I did. I discussed it with my employer, Mr. Mountgate, and also with A. J.’s old solicitor, Mr. Aldford.”

“Mountford,” Deverell put in.

They all looked at him.

He grimaced. “Mountgate plus Aldford equals Mountford.”

“Good heavens!” Leonora looked at Jonathon. “Who else did you tell?”

“No one.” He blinked, then amended, “Well, not initially.”

“What does that mean?” Tristan asked.

“The only other person who was told was Duke—Marmaduke Martinbury. He’s my cousin and A. J.’s other heir—her other nephew. She left me all her journals and papers and herbalist things—Duke never had a moment for her interest in herbs—but her estate was otherwise divided between the two of us. And, of course, the discovery as such was part of her estate. Aldford felt duty-bound to tell Duke, so he wrote to him.”

“Did Duke reply?”

“Not by letter.” Jonathon’s lips thinned. “He came to visit me to ask about the matter.” After a moment, he went on, “Duke is the black sheep of the family, always has been. As far as I know, he has no real fixed abode, but is usually to be found at whatever racecourse is holding a carnival.

“Somehow—probably because he was strapped for cash and so at home at his other aunt’s house in Derby —Aldford’s letter found him. Duke came around wanting to know when he could expect his share of the cash. I felt honor-bound to explain the whole to him—after all, A. J’s share of the discovery was half his.” Jonathon paused, then went on, “Although he was his usual obnoxious self, he didn’t, once he understood what the legacy was, seem all that interested.”

“Describe Duke.”

Jonathon glanced at Tristan, noting his tone. “Leaner than me, a few inches taller. Dark hair—black, actually. Dark eyes, pale skin.”

Leonora stared at Jonathon’s face, did a little mental rearranging, then nodded decisively. “That’s him.”

Tristan glanced at her. “You’re sure?”

She looked at him. “How many lean, tallish, black-haired young men with”—she pointed at Jonathon—“a nose like that do you expect to stumble over in this affair?”

His lips twitched, but thinned immediately. He inclined his head. “So Duke is Mountford. Which explains a few things.”

“Not to me,” Jonathon said.

“All will be made clear in time,” Tristan promised. “But carry on with your tale. What happened next?”

“Nothing immediately. I finished my exams and arranged to come down to London, then I received that letter from Miss Carling, via Mr. Aldford. It seemed clear that Mr. Carling’s heirs knew less than I did, so I brought forward my visit…” Jonathon stopped, puzzled, looked at Tristan. “The sisters said you’d sent people asking after me. How did you know I was in London, let alone hurt?”

Tristan explained, succinctly, from the beginning of the odd happenings in Montrose Place to their realization that A. J. Carruthers’s work with Cedric held the key to the mysterious Mountford’s desperate interest, to how they had tracked and finally found Jonathon himself.

He stared at Tristan, dazed. “Duke?” He frowned. “He is the black sheep, but although he’s nasty, mean- tempered, even something of a brute, it’s a bully’s facade—I’d have said he was something of a coward beneath his bluster. I can imagine he might have done most of what you say, but I honestly can’t see him arranging to have me beaten to death.”

Charles smiled that deadly smile he, Tristan, and Deverell all seemed to have in their repertoires. “Duke