Wise and right were not always the same, but I did not voice the thought. Instead, I broke open my bread roll and settled in to eat and wait—impatiently—for Colonel Drysan to make his call. Maybe he would impart something useful, or incriminating, that might hold the key to my beloved’s exoneration. And that restoration of Evan’s good name might, in turn, provide Lady Hester with a brother-guardian who did not seek to rip her from the arms of Miss Grant and incarcerate her in an asylum again.

A lot to place upon a polite interrogation held over tea and pound cake.

3

Colonel Drysan, retired, eyed Cook’s elaborately iced creation set on the low table between us and said, “Thank you, Lady Julia. Most kind, most kind. I would not say no to a slice.”

A circuitous way of saying yes, but I was quickly discovering this was how the colonel expressed himself: every thought in his head uttered, the words often circling around the subject until they met in some semblance of his true meaning. It was not what I expected from a former military man whose correspondence with me had been crisp and brief, nor from a man who I thought might be a suspect in Mr. Sanderson’s murder.

Julia cut an enormous slice—the sound of the knife chinking against the cake stand seeming to add emphasis to its size—and slid it onto a plate. She handed it to the colonel with a warm smile. We had dismissed our footman, for discretion, and Julia was doing her charming best to make our visitor feel comfortable. The colonel, however, was still sitting ramrod straight on the sofa opposite us. He had clearly been, by breadth of shoulder and chest, a burly man in his prime, but the years since retirement had settled around his middle and now strained his well-cut navy waistcoat. He had also limped into the room upon a handsome mahogany walking stick, so perhaps he had been truly afflicted with the gout, after all.

We had finally gotten through the inquiries after his health—greatly improved, it seemed, although I did glaze over during his response, so maybe not—and his thoughts upon the cold weather—not unseasonable, mind you, but rather unusual for October, so, yes, quite unseasonable—and I was impatient to move on to the first purpose of the meeting: what he remembered of the duel.

I sat forward.

“Tea?” Julia asked him.

Damn. I sat back, waiting for his response to wend its way toward positive or negative.

Apparently, he was, indeed, thirsty.

Julia poured him a cup and said, “You must be wondering why we have asked you here, Colonel.” She passed the tea across and shot a quelling glance at me, sensing my irritation. “My sister and I are hoping you will answer some questions about an event twenty years ago. The duel between Mr. Sanderson and Lord Evan Belford.”