“The War Office?” His father’s voice boomed, seeming to fill the entire room. He stroked his chin. “McDowell, of the Westmoreland McDowells, a second son who is in the Foreign Office. Then there’s the Griffiths’ third or fourth son, but he’s little more than a clerk in the Home Office, I understand. Why do you ask?”
Nicholas cringed inwardly at the way his father qualified men as to their birth order. Just the way he said the words “second son” showed that he held them in lesser esteem, while “third or fourth son” carried even more of a stigma. Nicholas had always known that, in his father’s eyes, he was lesser than his brother, Jonathan. And the making of Nicholas’s military career was his father’s pet task, much like altering the nursery and children’s rooms at Glyncove Abbey was Isabella’s.
“I was only curious.” For some reason, he didn’t want to tell his father about the diary.
“Not thinking of transferring to the War Office, are you? There’s no glory in that, and you could hardly make your fortune there.” His father picked up his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. “Little enough chance to make your fortune in the army, even in wartime, but at the War Office? No chance at all. Speaking of which”—he paused to puff on his pipe as he lit it—“is it time for me to pay for your advancement to captain’s rank?”
“Not yet, Father.” He frowned, but his father would never notice, nor would he notice the wry tone of Nicholas’s voice. “I need more experience.”
“More experience?” his father bellowed. “You’ve had nearly a year’s worth of fighting and been wounded besides. Another year, my boy, and then it will be high time you were made a captain, at least. Perhaps even a major.”
“I appreciate your interest, Father, in furthering my military career.”
This elicited a grunt from his father.
He was eager to leave before his father began to outline plans and strategies for Nicholas’s future as a great army officer. Besides, he had the information he needed.
He headed back to write a letter to Philip McDowell, with whom he had a friendly acquaintance. In his short letter, he requested to meet with him as soon as possible.
After making sure his letter would be sent by the two-penny post and arrive later that day, he went to his trunk and found the diary. He undid the metal clasp over the brown leather cover and opened the book. He carefully flipped the pages. Most of them were blank. But when he came to some writing, he paused to read it. There was some unimportant talk of Beechum taking the post chaise for a visit to his grandmother as well as a description of a bird’s nest he had found. Nicholas skipped a few pages until he came to one that made no sense. The passage was filled with what looked like words, but instead of words, the letters and numbers and symbols seemed to be strung together randomly. He studied it more closely, but there was no sense to be made of it. He turned the page and found more of the same, just gibberish at best, undecipherable code at worst.
Code. Perhaps this diary was written in some sort of code.
He leaned closer and searched through the entire book. He could not make out a single word of the rest of it. He used his fingers to probe the inside of the covers, looking for a hidden pocket where something had been concealed, but there was nothing. All the information Nicholas had was that the diary had belonged to Richard Beechum, now dead, and the name Garrison Greenfield.
If what was written inside the diary was sensitive information, perhaps it was best if he made a copy of it. On the other hand . . . perhaps it was safer not to. If it were to get into the wrong hands, it could be dangerous. Still, better to have two copies than one. Nicholas grabbed a stack of parchment and dipped his pen in ink and began copying the first page of the diary.
It was dull work. After half an hour, he was tempted to stop. But it wasn’t as dull and tedious as lying still in bed for months with a broken leg and a bullet to the shoulder. After enduring the pain of travel with serious injuries, and then the inactivity of convalescence, he could certainly persevere through the task, as the diary could prove to be an important message pertinent to the safety of his fellow Englishmen fighting in a foreign field for crown and country.
Julia sat in front of the looking glass preparing her hair, as they were all invited to Mr. and Mrs. Smallwood’s for a dinner party. She was thinking of her dance with Mr. Langdon. True to form, he had danced all night but never with the same girl twice.
Julia couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. But she would never allow herself to develop an affection for the man her cousin wished to marry. And she still blushed to think he had seen through her scheme of trying to influence him.
As if Phoebe needed any help getting a husband, with her twenty thousand pounds. Phoebe’s reckless infatuation with Mr. Langdon and Julia’s loyalty to Phoebe had caused her to do something she wouldn’t normally do. But from now on, Julia would be strictly sensible—and stay away from Mr. Langdon.