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Horn blinked. “What?”
“He also said you were in Paris.”
“What?”
“He said he has a French friend who wrote that he met a man named Horn at a dinner party in Paris.”
“That’s preposterous,” Matthew exclaimed. His face had reddened, and his mouth was a grim horizontal line. “Horn is not such an uncommon name. It was another man.”
“Then you weren’t in Paris this last fall?”
“No.” Horn’s nostrils flared. “No, I was not in Paris. I toured Italy and Greece, as I’ve already told you.”
Jasper was silent.
Horn gripped his reins and leaned forward in the saddle, his body stiff with anger. “Are you questioning my honor, my very loyalty to my country? How dare you, sir? How dare you? Were you any other man, I would call you out this very minute.”
“Matthew . . . ,” Jasper began, but Horn wheeled his horse and cantered off.
Jasper watched him go. He’d insulted a man he’d considered a friend. Jasper rode back to his town house, grimly pondering what made him insult a man who’d never done him any harm. Horn was right: Munroe’s friend could very well be mistaken as to who he’d seen in Paris.
He reached home, his thoughts conflicted, and found that Melisande was still out, a fact that turned his mood even more black. He’d been looking forward to seeing her, he realized, and discussing the disastrous ride with Matthew Horn. He bit back a curse and stalked to his study.
He’d only time to pour himself a splash of brandy before Pynch knocked on the door and entered.
Jasper turned and scowled at his valet. “Did you find your man?”
“Aye, my lord,” Pynch said as he advanced into the room. “Mr. Horn’s butler was indeed the brother of a fellow soldier I served with.”
“Did he talk?”
“He did, my lord. Today is his half day off, and I met him in a tavern. I stood him several drinks as we reminisced about his brother. The man died at Quebec.”
Jasper nodded. Many had died at Quebec.
“After the fourth drink, Mr. Horn’s butler became loquacious, my lord, and I was able to turn the conversation to his master.”
Jasper gulped the brandy, no longer sure he wanted to hear what Pynch had to say. But he’d started these events in motion, had sent Pynch on the hunt as soon as they’d returned to London. It seemed cowardly to balk now.
He looked at Pynch, his loyal servant who’d nursed him through the worst of the drunken stupors and nightmares. Pynch had always served him well. He was a good man.
“What did he say?”
His valet looked at him, his green eyes steady and a little sad. “The butler said the Horn finances were quite distressed on Mr. Matthew Horn’s father’s death. His mother was forced to relieve most of the servants. There were whispers that she’d have to sell the town house. And then Mr. Horn returned from the war in the Colonies. The servants were rehired, a new carriage was bought, and Mrs. Horn wore new gowns—the first in six years.”
Jasper stared blindly into his empty glass. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t the relief he’d sought. “When did Mr. Horn’s father die?”
“The summer of 1758,” Pynch said.
The summer before Quebec fell. The summer before Spinner’s Falls.
“Thank you,” Jasper said.
Pynch hesitated. “There is always the possibility of an inheritance or some other perfectly innocent source of money.”
Jasper arched a skeptical eyebrow. “An inheritance the servants never heard about?” That was very unlikely. “Thank you.”
Pynch bowed and left the room.
