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“No, indeed.” Horn bowed to a carriage of elderly ladies. “I traveled Italy and Greece to view the ruins and collect statuary.”
Jasper raised his eyebrows. “I had not realized you were a connoisseur of art.”
Horn shrugged.
Jasper looked ahead. They’d nearly reached the far end of the park. “Did you find Nate Growe?”
“No.” Horn shook his head. “When I went to the coffeehouse I thought I’d seen him at, they had no knowledge of him. It may not even have been Growe in the first place. It was months ago now. I’m sorry, Vale.”
“Don’t be. You tried.”
“Who does that leave us with?”
“Not many. There were eight captured: You, me, Alistair Munroe, Maddock, Sergeant Coleman, John Cooper, and Growe.” Jasper frowned. “Who am I missing?”
“Captain St. Aubyn.”
Jasper swallowed, remembering Reynaud’s sharp black eyes and sudden wide grin. “Of course. Captain St. Aubyn. Cooper was killed on the march. Coleman died from what the Indians did to him when we made the camp, as did St. Aubyn, and Maddock died in the camp as well,from his battle wounds festering. Who does that leave alive?”
“You, me, Munroe, and Growe,” Horn said. “That’s it. We’ve hit a dead end. Munroe won’t talk to you, and Growe has disappeared.”
“Hell.” Jasper stared at the dirt track, trying to think. There had to be something he’d missed.
Horn sighed. “You said yourself that Thornton was probably lying. I think you have to give it up, Vale.”
“I can’t.”
He had to find out the truth—who had betrayed them and how. There’d been too many men lost, his men, at Spinner’s Falls for it all to be simply forgotten. He could never forget, God knew. He glanced around. People strolled and rode and gossiped. What did these gentle people in their silks and velvets, their slow paces, their elegant bows and curtsies know about a forest half a world away? A place where the trees blocked out the light and the silence of the forest swallowed the panting of terrified men? Sometimes, late at night, he wondered if the whole thing had been a nightmarish fever dream, a vision he’d had many years ago that he was unable to escape even now. Had he really seen his regiment slaughtered, his men killed like cattle, his commanding officer pulled from his horse and nearly beheaded? Had Reynaud St. Aubyn really been stripped and crucified? Tied to a stake and set alight? Sometimes at night, the dreams and the reality seemed to merge so that he couldn’t tell what was real and what was false.
“Vale—”dis—”
“You said yourself that it was the officers who knew our route,” Jasper said.
Horn looked at him patiently. “Yes?”
“So, let us concentrate on the officers.”
“They’re all dead, save me and you.”
“Perhaps if we talked to their survivors—friends or relatives. Perhaps something was mentioned in a letter.”
Horn was looking at him with something close to pity. “Sergeant Coleman was near to illiterate. I doubt he wrote any letters home.”
“Then what about Maddock?”
Horn heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. His brother is Lord Hasselthorpe, so—”
Jasper’s head whipped around. “What?”
“Lord Hasselthorpe,” Horn said slowly. “Didn’t you know?”
“No.” Jasper shook his head. He’d been a guest of Hasselthorpe just last fall and had never known the man was related to Maddock. “I must talk to him.”
“I don’t see how he’ll know anything,” Horn said. “Hasselthorpe was in the Colonies as well, or so I’ve heard, but he was in an entirely different regiment.”
“Even so. I must try and talk to him.”
“Very well.” They’d come to the end of the track and the entrance to Hyde Park, and Horn pulled his horse to a halt. He looked worriedly at Jasper. “Good luck, Vale. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”
