A Gentleman of Modest Ambitions, page 1
part #1 of Book Twelve Series
A Gentleman of Modest Ambitions
The Lord Julian Mysteries
Book Twelve
Grace Burrowes
Grace Burrowes Publishing
Copyright © 2026 by Grace Burrowes
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
To My Dear Readers
An Heir of Possibilities—Excerpt
Dedication
To those who persist in the face of daunting odds.
Persist anyway!
Chapter One
I should have been the happiest of men.
I had endured the Yuletide holidays on my own at Caldicott Hall—a milestone for anybody prey to seasonal megrims. Immediately thereafter, I had resolved a knotty problem for a fellow former soldier, who was now blissfully taking up residence on his acres in Hampshire.
Over the past year, I had made a fairly good job of handling matters for my older brother, Arthur, Duke of Waltham, while that worthy enjoyed extended travel on the Continent with his devoted companion, Osgood Banter.
Best of all, I had secured the affections of Miss Hyperia West, and she had chosen a date not two months hence for our nuptial ceremony. My intended was busy in London, putting the finishing touches on her trousseau and—I suspected—giving me a chance to change my mind.
Darling Perry was that good, that brave.
Or that uncertain of me.
I was neither good nor brave by nature. I did seem to have a knack for untangling Society’s more delicate puzzles, though in my present state, puzzles held little interest for me. I was equally indifferent to food, and even books had lost much of their appeal.
Melancholia and I were old foes, and I should have known that surviving the holidays without company was no mark of victory for me. The enemy had lain in wait patiently, then ambushed me when I was without allies, and winter still held the land in an iron-cold grip.
“Not entirely without allies.” I stroked a hand over my horse’s neck. Atlas was, like me, a veteran of the Peninsular campaign. His antecedents blended the power of the draft horse with the fire and refinement of the Iberian breeds, and I loved him dearly. We’d been through any number of battles together, and thus when my mood was threatening to plunge, I turned to Atlas.
The best tonic I had found for an inchoate bout of the blue devils was fresh air and movement. The cure was neither instant, nor dramatic, nor permanent, but any relief was better than spiraling down into desolation and despair.
Atlas jigged sideways, then settled into a walk that covered ground without tiring his rider. Winter was at its most bleak, the sky a blue-gray quilt of overcast, the ground bare and frozen. An arctic breeze pushed dead leaves around on the bridle path. Snow might have been an improvement, a pale mantle over a dreary ensemble, but the elements refused to oblige.
And that was fortunate, because my daily hacks about the property were keeping me sane. I was careful to avoid the village or the more highly traveled lanes. The only human company I sought was Hyperia’s, and in that regard, I had to content myself with epistolary comforts.
A noise on the far side of the hedgerow had Atlas pricking his ears. He wasn’t alarmed, merely alert, suggesting a few sheep, perhaps a stray dog…
“Lord Julian! Just the fellow I was intent on seeing. The very one, and I’m sure this encounter is divine providence taking a benevolent interest in my plight.”
Sir Clive Arbuthnot qualified as a plight in rustic tweeds. He was on horseback on this occasion—he was frequently on horseback—and wreathed in smiles. Sir Clive was the salt of the earth, if salt was voluble, jovial, inclined to retelling the same stories repeatedly, and very hard to dislodge once he’d found a seat in your informal parlor.
Everybody liked Sir Clive, but after about fifteen minutes in his company, people tended to recall a pressing appointment for which they were already late. He was a hale and hearty antique, tall, angular, white-haired, and energetic.
Why be so jocular? Why jaunt about as if on the king’s merry business? Why such relentless good cheer? Sir Clive enjoyed either the fool’s innocence, or he knew enviable secrets about fostering good spirits.
Merely beholding him exhausted me. “Sir Clive.” I touched a finger to the brim of my top hat. “A fine morning for a hack.”
“’Tisn’t,” he said, his smile full of mischief. “Beastly wind rattles the bones. How is it spring and autumn last a mere fortnight, and summer’s heat and winter’s shivering drag on forever? A mystery for the ages.”
“True enough, and in such a brisk wind, you mustn’t let me keep—”
“We nonetheless gather rosebuds while we may, as it were.” He steered his horse, an aging bay gelding built on the same rangy, angular lines as his rider, alongside Atlas. “I hope your mother is keeping well?”
One could not fault a man for good manners. “Her Grace yet bides in Hampshire. I expect her home before spring.”
“Do pass along my regards when next you write to her. Splendid woman, Her Grace. She’s left you to rattle around the Hall all on your own?”
I did not want Sir Clive cheering me up with a visit or two or three. “I generally prefer a quiet existence. Soon enough, we’ll be busy with lambing, plowing, and planting.” Lambing had, in fact, already started, always an occasion for celebration at the home farm.
Though, only sheep would think it a fine plan to drop their newborns on frozen ground.
“An unattractive time of year,” Sir Clive said, surveying the bracken and bare limbs of the hedgerow, “which is why I often invite some company to the Knot after Yuletide. Your mama has the right of it—fill the den with friendly faces, and waiting for spring becomes a happier undertaking.”
That was my cue to invite him up to the Hall for a toddy. Luckily for me, we approached the lane that led to the Hall’s home farm. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Clive—”
“Won’t keep you,” he said, “but I did want to mention to your lordship a bit of a small contretemps that has me slightly flummoxed. Was on my way to look in on you at the Hall, as a matter of fact. Her Grace said I must, and I have been remiss. It occurred to me: Lord Julian is the very man with whom I can discuss a situation requiring a touch of discretion.”
As a former reconnaissance officer in Wellington’s army, one with a talent for overhearing what I wasn’t meant to overhear in languages I wasn’t meant to understand, I noted two aspects of Sir Clive’s salvo. First, my mother had put him up to looking in on me. Whatever was afoot there? Second, Sir Clive was normally forthright to a fault.
He’d resorted to a bit, small, slightly, and a touch by way of verbal camouflage, which all but shouted that his situation was serious.
“Might you come by the Hall one day next week?” I asked, rather than court maternal ire by avoiding the old boy altogether. “I’m on my way to the home farm and running a bit late.”
“I’ll accompany you, if you don’t mind. The matter vexing me grows both delicate and a trifle urgent.”
A trifle. I did not care for matters that were a trifle urgent, especially when my every instinct was to go up to my cozy apartment, shut and lock the door, and indulge in several weeks of staring grumpily into the fire.
In which case, my horse would lose condition, the housekeeper would report me to Her Grace, and Hyperia would decide I was a poor candidate for a husband’s honors.
“Say on, Sir Clive. What troubles you, and how can I be of assistance?” I regretted those words even as I spoke them, and instinct didn’t come into it.
“Well, you see, I’m flummoxed on behalf of the earl. Lord Dantry. Appears I’ve misplaced him, and there’s Parliament about to start sittin’, and his lordship generally votes his seat, and he should have gone on up to Town, but he hasn’t, and he’s not at the ancestral pile in Kent, and he’s not at the Knot. Damned fool man has disappeared, but he disappeared on my watch, so I am expected to locate him, and he is my cousin. One worries. A bit.”
Good soul that he was, Sir Clive was honestly concerned for his titled cousin, who had probably dodged down to Brighton for some brisk sea air with his light o’ love, or jaunted over to Paris for a change of scene.
My mother had insisted that Sir Clive look in on me. Could that possibly have been for my sake?
Atlas sidled to the left, ready for another canter if I was game.
I’ll stop by the home farm another time,” I said. “Let’s have a run past the orchard, and you can explain the rest of the situation to me up at the Hall. Mrs. Gwinnett makes a toddy that will tempt you to compose poetry.”
Sir Clive tugged down his hat. “First past the orchard wins.”
We thundered off, and because I was trying to be polite, and respectful of my elders, and a good sport, I kept Atlas shoulder to shoulder with the bay. By the time we came upon the orchard and galloped along its length, my nose, cheeks, and chin were numb. I was considering when to let Atlas have his head just as the bay sprinted forward with a blazing burst of speed, and then the orchard was behind us.
Sir Clive saluted with his crop as his mount slowed to the canter, and I was put in mind of the old soldier’s maxim about age and treachery besting youth and ability. Perhaps the better aphorism would be that humble experience would always outwit scheming arrogance.
I patted Atlas, though he was cavorting in protest of his loss. I had left the winning move too late, and the old knight had bested me fair and square. I’d likely never hear the end of my defeat, and neither would the entire village.
The reasons to hibernate in my apartment were growing, while the temperature, dauntingly cold to begin with, was dropping apace. If Lord Dantry had slipped down some ancient mine shaft, or twisted an ankle and been stranded out of doors, the weather had likely finished him off by now.
Such thoughts were hardly cheering, but I well knew the sorrow endured when a loved one was presumed dead, despite a lack of direct evidence of his demise. One grieved and wondered and grieved some more, the wound healing slowly, if at all.
With that sorrow in mind, when Sir Clive and I were ensconced before a roaring fire, toddies at the ready, I began the necessary questioning.
“When did you last see Lord Dantry, and have you any reason to suspect foul play?”
“Foul play.” Sir Clive considered his toddy. “Rotten notion. Foul play in the heart of Merry Olde’s most beauteous shire. Your years in Spain have given you a jaundiced view of your fellow man, my lord. A pity that.” He nosed his toddy, a rich, spicy, aromatic creation for which Mrs. Gwinnett should be canonized. “Foul play. Indeed.”
Now, he turned up evasive?
I had chosen the family parlor for this discussion, one of few rooms kept toasty at all hours. The chairs were comfy, the dimensions modest, the hearth generous. A pair of windows let in what light the day offered, and the art on the walls was landscapes of local scenes. The millpond, the Hall’s eastern façade in all its springtime glory, the ruin of an old round tower where my brother Harry and I had played by the hour.
I wanted to turn that particular painting to the wall.
“Foul play can result from gaming debts,” I said, ignoring Sir Clive’s reference to my military career. “Duels in which parties are injured or killed, affairs of the heart involving ladies with legal commitments to other fellows, business associates with bad tempers, inane wagers… I could go on. Many an otherwise decent person makes enemies.”
I had a few, mostly former soldiers who blamed me for harms I had not caused. A certain breed of morally simplistic officer much preferred to have enemies and to categorize every person he met as either friend or foe. Sir Clive, by contrast, had likely never made an enemy.
Or had he? “Might somebody be causing trouble for you by absconding with your cousin?”
He peered at me owlishly. “Trouble for me? By spiritin’ off with my houseguest? I don’t see how. Dantry and I have always rubbed along well enough. The difference in our ages means I have been more like an uncle to him than a cousin. He’s my heir, I am not his heir—he has a younger brother who’s a bit of a rapscallion.”
I trolled the depths of memory. “Sheldon.” Nickname Hellion. “He was a couple of years behind me at university.” One of those obnoxious people who appeared to master complex material effortlessly, despite spending every waking hour carousing. He’d never suffered a sore head or gone short of coin, as best I recalled.
“I invited Sheldon for a visit as well—would not be polite to invite only the one brother, would it?—but he’s soon off to Town, and this apparently requires more preparation than polishing his best boots and trimming his handsome locks. Why they are both as yet unmarried baffles a simple old man like me.”
A simple old man who knew how to win a horse race. “Do Dantry and Sheldon get on well?”
“They absolutely do. My late uncle got that part right, bless him. Not the best farmer in creation, did not marry brilliantly, and somewhat lacking in charm, but he raised those boys right.”
An odd eulogy. Sir Clive, by contrast, was an excellent farmer. He’d been devoted to his late wife, and he was a friend to all whether they sought friendship or preferred quiet solitude on a winter morning.
“Might Dantry have simply gone up to Town and failed to apprise you of his plans?”
Sir Clive’s genial expression knit into consternation. “First, he would not be that rude. Dulcie would be hurt if he’d abandoned us in such an ungentlemanly fashion. Hurt and offended, and one does not willingly offend my niece. Second, if he went up to Town, why ain’t he in Town? I sent an express to the earl’s London residence. They are expectin’ Sheldon, but no word as yet from the earl.”
I cast around for other benign explanations for a peer’s disappearance. “Could the earl have eloped with a local lady?”
“Dantry has no need to elope, my lord. He’s a peer and a good-looking specimen. The distaff find his company very congenial.”
My company was often not congenial. I was either battling old ghosts or sorting out some scandalous puzzle for polite society. I enjoyed the investigations in hindsight—enjoyed having made sense out of clues, evidence, and witness recollections. In the midst of the sleuthing, I was often irritable and difficult.
Would Hyperia expect me to give up my investigations? Would Society assume I was no longer interested in solving their delicate riddles?
I bit off a corner of my cheese toast. Mrs. Gwinnett railed against my demands for simple fare, then made even humble bread and cheddar into food for the gods.
“If Dantry was smitten with an inappropriate parti, he might have eloped,” I said, though the theory was farfetched. A peer married where he pleased. Some choices were outrageous—a former mistress, for example. The marriage was nonetheless valid, and eventually, if the parties behaved, limited acceptance from less-formal quarters followed.
“Do we have inappropriate partis out here in the shires?” Sir Clive asked. “If you mean a washerwoman or dairymaid, I cannot see Dantry making their acquaintance, much less succumbing to their charms.”
I could not see a young, unwed peer going for long without female companionship, but then, I’d come home from the war utterly uninterested in amatory pursuits. Perhaps Dantry had monkish inclinations or, like my brother Arthur, was devoted to a partner of his own gender.
If so, anybody privy to that information could threaten Dantry into a permanent remove to France.
A remote possibility at best. “What do you think happened to Dantry?”
“Haven’t a clue, my lord, else I’d be about locating him. I’ve looked for tracks, though without mud or snow to aid the situation, I haven’t sighted any. Dantry is a good-sized fellow—Arbuthnots tend to height—and he’s not particularly wise to the ways of the country. I don’t believe he could set a snare to save himself. If he hasn’t come to grief at the millpond—frozen, of course—or been set upon by wolves, he’s in comfortable surrounds. I would not call him soft, but you would probably refer to him as a civilian.”
A civilian did not realize that snares properly set could mean the difference between surviving a winter in the Spanish mountains or starving. A civilian would not obscure his trail as a routine element of passing through the countryside. A civilian would have no idea that a sheep byre could be positively cozy—if spectacularly malodorous—in the midst of a winter storm.
