“To Aurelia Finch.”
“Yes.”
“And she agreed.”
“She did.”
Thomas exhaled through his nose and shook his head once, as though struggling to decide whether the matter was absurd or admirable.
“At least now,” he grinned, “I understand why your expression has looked so particularly grimly satisfied all day.”
“It does not.”
“It does.”
But the teasing did not return in full. Thomas’s mind had already moved where Owen’s had hoped it would: to the military matter underneath.
He grew still. “If the scandal is truly attached to that affair, then it is a serious thing.”
“It is.”
“And if Langley was involved—”
“He was involved,” Owen interrupted. “He was in charge of the mission, after all. Nothing could have taken place without him knowing of it.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened. Among all the men Owen knew, Thomas Harrow possessed perhaps the lightest social manner, the easiest laugh and the readiest charm. But military matters were another thing entirely. In those, he had a sternness thatcould surprise people who knew him only in drawing rooms. He cared deeply for the honor of the service. He believed, stubbornly and sincerely, that it ought to be better than the men who occasionally disgraced it.
“If that report was altered in any way,” Thomas mused, “and if people were hurt for the sake of preserving some senior officer’s reputation, then we cannot leave it where it lies.”
“That was my thought.”
Thomas nodded without hesitation. “Then you have my help.”
Owen looked at him.
Thomas returned the look steadily. “Whatever I can do. If there is rot in it, I would rather drag it into the light than pretend it is not there. The army is meant to stand for more than protecting the pride of men too highly placed to be contradicted.”
Some of the tension in Owen eased. “I hoped you would say as much.”
They spent the next hour gathering together what little each of them remembered of Carter. It was not much. What they recalled of the man was that he was a capable sergeant. Neither man could immediately call his face to mind, which irritated Owen more than it ought. Thomas thought Carter might havebeen attached to one of the companies nearest the original dispatches. Owen thought he might later have disappeared from general notice far too quickly for a man of no consequence.
They pulled at half-remembered fragments and found that none of them held together.
“We should ask around,” Thomas suggested, glancing at the room.
The club was full enough that afternoon to provide several possibilities. Owen and Thomas made their inquiries carefully, almost casually, speaking first to one former officer and then another, men who might have known the old campaign or remembered names from it.
A few recalled Carter vaguely. One thought he had been a decent fellow. Another said he believed the man had left the army soon after the affair in question. A third was not even certain whether Carter had been promoted or merely transferred before vanishing from view.
The result of all these conversations was frustratingly slight.
Knowledge broke apart in their hands as soon as they touched it. No one knew enough. No one remembered clearly. Or perhaps, Owen thought more darkly, some remembered rather more than they wished to admit and had long since trained themselves to say less.
By the time he and Thomas settled again into their chairs with fresh drinks before them, they had learned little beyond the fact that Carter had indeed existed, had likely been regarded as competent, and had not remained in any obvious military position long enough to become easily traceable.
“We shall need more time,” Thomas told him.
Owen disliked the words at once because they were true.
