Page 82 of A Modest Independence

“Mr. Vidyasagar is certainly very pleasant.”

“And very helpful as well.” Tom withdrew a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket of his coat. He opened it on the table, revealing the faded lines of a map of greater India. “I asked him if he had a map we might use during our stay.”

Jenny set aside her teacup. “Gracious, how vast it is!”

“It’s a large country. We’d be wise to plot our journey beforehand. The last thing we need is to be forever doubling back and covering the same terrain.”

She leaned forward in her seat to get a closer look. “What do you suggest?”

“To start, we should consider whether there are any other officers worth talking to in addition to Colonel Anstruther.”

“I have considered it,” she said.

“And?”

“It seems to me that we must pay a visit to Fort William.”

Tom couldn’t disagree. “I’ll send a note round.”

“You may address it to the Deputy Adjutant General. A fellow by the name of Sir Eustace Tavernier.” She smiled slightly. “You’re right. Mr. Vidyasagar is very helpful.”

His mouth hitched. “Let’s pray Sir Eustace is equally so.”

“We needn’t only question soldiers,” she said. “There are bound to be others who encountered Giles at one point or another. Friends and passing acquaintances—and the servants in their households. Though it has been two years. Perhaps they won’t remember him?”

“Why shouldn’t they? He was a nobleman. Wealthy—and handsome, I presume.”

“Very handsome.”

Tom suppressed a sharp pang of jealousy. “Yes, well…a gentleman so well-favored isn’t likely to have been forgotten.”

Unlike himself, a man who made it a practice to be—as Jenny had described him—purposefully unremarkable. It was a useful enough trait in gathering information to help his clients. However, when it came to romance, the last thing a fellow wanted to be was easy to forget.

Would Jenny remember him when they parted? Would she look back on their romance with an ache of longing? A twinge of regret that she hadn’t returned to England with him? Or would the memory of their time together slowly fade away, replaced by newer and better adventures?

Tom hated to think of it.

“The only difficulty is in knowing where to begin,” Jenny said. “Giles never mentioned any of his friends or acquaintances in his letters. Not with any regularity. He only ever described the weather and the food. That sort of thing.”

“What did you say to him in your letters?”

Her brows lifted. “In my letters? Goodness. I hardly know. Though I doubt it was anything more profound than what he wrote to me.” She gave him a curious look. “Why do you ask?”

Because he begrudged Giles Reynolds every word that Jenny had ever written to him. It was ridiculous—and so was Tom for fixating on such trifles. “Just trying to get a better picture of the man. Speaking of which…you don’t happen to have a likeness of him, do you?”

A faint blush seeped into Jenny’s cheeks. “I do, actually.”

Tom stared at her, a pit of lead forming in his stomach.

“It’s a daguerreotype,” she said. “Giles had it made for Helena before he left London.”

“Do you have it with you?”

She nodded. “It’s upstairs in my carpetbag. Shall I fetch it?”

“There’s no urgency.” He forced a reassuring smile, certain it must look more like a grimace of pain. “You were wise to bring it along.”

“I hoped someone would recognize him, even if they didn’t remember his name.”