The Gentleman's Quest (4 page)

Again, Kit felt a leap of excitement at the dare, at
the opportunity to move against the dark threat that clung to his home. But he did not see how banging on the Earl of Cheswick’s door would solve anything.

Perhaps once he got Miss Ingram safely home, Kit would ask Barto for an introduction to the earl. As Viscount Hawthorne, Kit’s old friend moved among the
ton
and might even know the fellow nobleman. A few discreet inquiries could be made, though Kit doubted the book would ever be found. And as far as he was concerned, it could stay lost for ever.

Kit shook his head. “I’m just a gentleman farmer, not one of the desperate characters you described, driven by book madness.”
Or worse.

“But you must know more about the Mallory than anyone,” Miss Ingram protested.

“I can’t even tell you what the book looks like because I never saw it—none of us did,” Kit said. “Which makes going after it a fool’s errand and perilous, as well. You can pursue the letter’s history through the proper channels, if you wish, once you are home, where your uncle can watch over it—and you.”

For someone who had argued so passionately for her preferred course, Miss Ingram seemed to accept his decision with equanimity. Straightening in her seat, she gave him a slow nod of resignation, and Kit was too glad she had seen reason to question her response. Instead, he leaned forward.

“Now, here’s my plan.”

Since Mr Marchant’s scheme required some time to organize, Hero took the opportunity to look through the house once more. Although Gothic, it was small
enough to be made into a cozy home without much work. And as she walked through the rooms, Hero began imagining improvements, not the sort that Raven undertook, but the kind that would make it comfortable, inviting…

Hero shook her head at such fancies. What Mr Marchant did or did not choose to do with his property was none of her concern. Her only concern was acquiring the Mallory, and that was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Hero conveniently ignored the small voice that told her she should have fled, broken wheel or not, refusing Mr Marchant’s offer to escort her.

By ceding to him, hadn’t she proven her fears were valid, that she couldn’t refuse him? Hero shook her head, unwilling to consider any such possibility. She was only doing what she had to, and if he insisted on coming along, why not make good use of him?

Stepping into a parlor at the back of the house, Hero realized it was probably a later addition to the original structure, for tall doors led onto a terrace. Although it had been raining yesterday, she could see the rear of the property more clearly now through wisps of fog.

The sight was not heartening. The blackened stubble that stretched behind the house gave credence to Mr Marchant’s story of a recent fire. Although Hero had questioned the servants about it, they claimed to be newly hired and ignorant of the facts. But something had burned back there. Had the book been destroyed, as well? Hero had only Mr Marchant’s word on that, and she had learned long ago not to trust anyone.

And that included a man who could trip her pulse with one look. No matter how straightforward he might seem, Hero knew that his casual air could be deceiving. Christopher Marchant was smarter than he looked and far more observant. Despite his often heavy-lidded gaze, he was awake on every suit, and no matter how appealing he was, Hero could not afford to let down her guard.

As if to prove her point, Hero felt, rather than heard, him move behind her, and her heart pounded in response. Such quiet steps might be those of practiced stealth, she reminded herself as she tried to calm her clamoring senses.

“What do you think of the house?” he asked.

The question was not what she expected, and Hero turned to face him, an automatic response upon her lips. “It’s very nice.”

He sent her one of those probing looks that usually made her uncomfortable, but this time Hero did not dissemble. “Perhaps it could use a little work,” she admitted. “Some paint, wallpaper and bright fabrics to lighten the atmosphere wouldn’t be amiss. I’m sure whatever your sister has planned will be lovely.”

Mr Marchant glanced about him, as if at a loss. “I don’t know whether she got that far, and now she’s gone. She’ll be getting married soon.”

“Oh,” Hero murmured. “Congratulations.”

Mr Marchant did not comment, for he was still studying the room, with its heavy curtains and even heavier furniture. “It needs a feminine touch,” he said, and for some reason Hero’s heart skipped a beat. He did not mean
her
touch, she told herself. She was def
initely not the feminine ideal, for she could not watercolor or sketch or play the pianoforte. And a gentleman would have little use for whatever skills she did possess.

“You don’t think the place gloomy beyond redemption, do you? Haunted by the history of its original owner? Far too eerie to ever be livable?”

Hero choked back a laugh. “Eerie? You can’t know the meaning of the word,” she said. “I live at Raven Hill.”

“Oh, sorry,” Mr Marchant said. “Your uncle does have a reputation for being eccentric.”

That was putting it mildly. However, Hero had no intention of discussing Raven or his home, and she hurried to change the subject. “Shall we be leaving soon?”

Mr Marchant nodded, but his expression grew rueful, as though he were disappointed by the turn of the conversation. Had he hoped for more personal information? Hero had never met a man who evinced interest in something other than himself and his acquisitions. Indeed, such behavior was so unusual that she couldn’t help wondering what had prompted that interest.

Was it curiosity for curiosity’s sake or something more sinister?

Now that his plan was implemented and they were on the road, Kit felt a bit easier. If things went as he hoped, whoever was interested in Miss Ingram would be far away by now, traveling in the opposite direction behind Augustus Raven’s old-fashioned coach.

Hob had agreed to drive it, taking a circuitous route along the moors and on to Burrell, where he could leave it with a fellow who owned an inn. Hob had wanted to continue on, making his roundabout way to Piketon, where they could exchange vehicles, but Kit was leery of dropping the charade too soon.

There was no reason why Miss Ingram and her companion couldn’t ride in his more comfortable carriage all the way to Raven Hill, their driver and footman at the reins. Augustus Raven could easily send someone to fetch his coach, and should he not be willing, Kit would hire someone to do so.

Kit’s main concern was Miss Ingram’s protection, and if he managed to spend more time with her in the process, that was simply an additional benefit. But once she was safely delivered, Kit did not see how he could further their acquaintance, for they did not move in the same circles.

Miss Ingram was no country lass to be courted at local dances, flirted with during long walks with other young people or invited with relatives to visit. No doubt, her uncle would look askance at a barely landed gentleman such as Kit.

The idea was sobering, and Kit might have dwelled upon it, if the sound of another vehicle had not dragged him from his thoughts. Abruptly, he realized that the fog was becoming thicker, threatening to obscure approaching riders. Although he had traveled this section of roadway many times without concern, now the trees on either side seemed too close. Putting his hand on the pistol he had thrust into his bag, he urged Bay past the carriage to get a good look at whatever was coming.

At the sight of a horse and cart, Kit’s tension eased, yet he remained alert, for just such a farm cart had been part of his undoing before the fire. Studying the driver and his load carefully, Kit saw nothing more threatening than a couple of old sows, but when it had gone by, he heard the echo of its noisy passage.

Too late, Kit realized that the sound was of something else. And by the time he looked behind him, the carriage had been stopped by riders who appeared out of the mist, kerchiefs obscuring their faces and guns in their hands.

Still, Kit might have prevailed with the aid of Miss Ingram’s coachman and footman. But instead of presenting some kind of defence, the two cowered like frightened children, more frightened, in fact, than Miss Ingram, who was ordered to exit the carriage by one of the riders.

No wailing or sobbing or screaming ensued. Indeed, she stepped out with a composure that awed Kit, but made charging the riders impossible. He did not want her caught upon the ground among rearing horses.

“You stay in there,” the taller of the two men ordered Miss Ingram’s companion, who was more formidable than either of her male attendants. “We just want this one.”

Kit tensed at the words that confirmed his worst fears. Highwaymen were mostly a thing of the past, and travelers were rarely robbed on today’s busy roads. Although this was a quiet stretch that might be more prone to such thievery, why hadn’t they taken Mrs Renshaw’s jewelry or looked through the baggage?
More than likely, these two were responsible for the earlier accident, and they weren’t intent upon questioning or searching, but kidnapping.

“Which one of those is yours?” the tall one asked, nodding toward the cases on top of the carriage. When Miss Ingram pointed to a valise, he told the footman to toss it down. Then he backed away, perhaps to avoid getting hit with the piece, an opportunity that the footman didn’t have the good sense to act upon.

But Miss Ingram did. She glanced toward Kit, her gaze telling him everything before she dropped her head in seeming surrender. These men must know nothing of their victim, Kit thought, or they would have paid more attention to her, instead of training their pistols upon Kit and the men who cowered atop the carriage.

When Miss Ingram leaned down to pick up the baggage, Kit was ready. As she swung it round toward the tall man’s mount, Kit kicked Bay forward. Reaching out an arm, he grabbed Miss Ingram and swung her up behind him as the tall man went down.

In the shouting and confusion that followed, Kit set off toward the woods on the opposite side of the road, hoping that the fog that had hidden his enemies would cloak their escape. Hearing a ball whizz past his ear, he ducked, pulling Miss Ingram down with him.

“Don’t shoot her, you fool!”

The shout spurred Kit onward, with Miss Ingram clinging to his back and her valise flopping against them both. Kit nearly told her to drop it, but the way she hung on to it made him wonder whether there was something important inside that she didn’t want taken.
Still, they were hampered in a way their pursuers were not, and Kit looked for some hiding place. Ahead, stones rose out of the mist that he soon recognized as an abandoned graveyard, its church looming beyond.

Kit did not hesitate. Heading toward the tall doors that were now worn and cracked, he leaned to the side, pushed one open and rode into the old building. Miss Ingram did not protest, but slid to the stone floor swiftly, and when Kit dismounted, he saw her slipping her valise under one of the old box pews, weathered, but still standing.

After leading Bay behind the fretwork at the rear of the small building, Kit stepped back to scan the dim interior. At first glance, the church still appeared empty, though anyone investigating thoroughly would come across the horse quickly enough.

But Kit had no intention of them getting that far.

He took up a spot at one of the narrow windows, his pistol in hand. The fog was growing thicker, which might work in their favor—or not, Kit mused as he squinted into the vapor. The heavy air blanketed the area, muffling sounds as he listened for movement outside, but all he heard was Miss Ingram’s breathing, loud in the stillness.

Turning toward her, Kit braced himself for a delayed reaction to what she had just been through. But she did not swoon. Instead, her delicate brows lowered over caramel eyes that stared at him intently, her voice a whisper as she spoke a question.

“Where the deuce did you learn that?”

“What?” For a moment, Kit had no idea what she was talking about, then he shrugged. “My sister and I
once saw some trick riding at a fair, and we practised until we could master some of what we’d seen. That was a long time ago, of course.”

“Yet you managed to snatch up a grown woman, with baggage, and toss me up behind you with one arm.”

“Well, not every woman would have the wherewithal to follow my lead,” Kit said, his lips curving in appreciation. In fact, most females would have fainted dead away at the sight of the masked men, instead of attacking one of them with her luggage. But Kit had the feeling that Miss Ingram had more than a few tricks of her own up her sleeve.

The crack of a twig outside drew Kit’s attention back to the window as one of the riders came into view. The villain made a good target and Kit was tempted to shoot him through one of the broken panes. Better yet, he’d like to take the man down and beat some answers out of him, but he couldn’t leave Miss Ingram alone and unprotected. And a shot would draw the other rider. But his choices were limited, and Kit lifted his hand as the man turn toward the church.

“Hey, you, get away from there!”

Kit jerked at the shout, which came from another direction, and as he peered through the mist, he saw a grizzled old man step out from behind one of the tilting gravestones. Kit was tempted to shout out a warning to the old man until he saw the fellow was armed with a rifle and appeared prepared to use it.

“This is a burial ground, not parklands! Off with you now, or I’ll put a bullet in you,” the old man shouted.

The rider paused, as though undecided, then kicked his horse and disappeared into the trees. When the sound of his passage faded away, Kit felt a measure of relief—until he heard the soft footfalls of the old man, heading toward the church. Perhaps the fellow was only securing the entrance, Kit thought, but he sank as low in the shadows as he could.

The creak of the door was ominous in the stillness, and Kit raised his pistol as the figure shuffled in. Dressed in worn and dirty clothes, his hair an untamed halo around his head, the old man had a wild look that made him appear not only dangerous, but possibly mad. No wonder the rider had been chased off.