Dangerous to Kiss (19 page)

An hour later, when Gray entered the bedchamber he was to share with Quentin, he was reflecting on what the Moffats had told him. They had corroborated Deborah’s story except in one particular. She had told them she didn’t know who the murderer was. He understood her reticence. She must have known that if she had accused him of the murder, the Moffats would not, could not have accepted it. They had known him from the time he and Gil got up to deviltry as schoolboys at Eton, to their scrapes in the petticoat line, years later, as young bucks on the town. Even if a judge and jury convicted him of the crime, they would still believe him innocent.

He was, however, no nearer to plumbing the mystery surrounding Deborah’s past. Deborah was a darling, according to Mrs. Moffat, and that was about the sum of it. They knew nothing of her origins, or her life before she had become Quentin’s governess.

Gray could picture, without much difficulty, the solitary existence Deborah must have led. A governess’s position was awkward at the best of times. In Deborah’s case, it must have been painfully lonely. Before his marriage, Gil rarely entertained. For the most part, he lived in London, while Quentin spent his days in the country, under Deborah’s supervision. It would have been better for her if she had found a place in some respectable family of less distinction, where there were opportunities for her to meet people of her own age. Instead, she had accepted a position with Gil, knowing that she would be stranded in the country. Later, after Gil’s marriage, she had accompanied Quentin to Paris. But to Gray’s knowledge, she had not mixed with the diplomatic corps. This was not Gil’s doing, he was sure, but Deborah’s preference.

That the Moffats were her most trusted confidants next to Miss Hare he found truly disturbing. A girl like Deborah would have no difficulty in making friends of her own age or in finding herself a husband. In spite of his suspicions, he had taken to her at once, as had Nick
and Hart. Then what reason did she have for shunning society?

It did not take much imagination to deduce that Deborah was running from something in her past, something that made her change her appearance whenever she came into the public eye. He couldn’t begin to guess what it was, but at the same time, he didn’t think it was anything he couldn’t fix. How much trouble could a girl of eighteen or nineteen, as she must have been then, get into? Whatever it was, it no longer mattered. He owed her something for her care of Quentin, and he would do whatever was necessary to protect her.

He sank onto the small trundle bed and began to ease off his boots. He was on the second boot when he paused, his mind taken with the image of Deborah, not as she was but transformed into a beautiful young woman dressed in the height of fashion. He could easily picture her pouring tea in a lady’s drawing room, or surrounded by beaux at some grand ball. His imagination took him further-Deborah married to some eligible young gentleman, in her own establishment, with a brood of infants hanging on her skirts. Auburn-haired infants with big green eyes and irresistible dimples, he thought, and chuckled. Deborah and marriage to some eligible young gentleman? The thought had merit. It could be done, under his mother’s sponsorship. He thought about it for some time, and the more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. It was the perfect solution to Deborah’s problems, but whether she would accept it was another matter.

It went without saying that he must learn to keep his hands off her. He wasn’t going to chastise himself for what had almost happened in the cottage. Though she was inexperienced and unaware, she was also a caldron of suppressed passion. Any red-blooded male would have fared no better than he. The man who finally won her was going to be a very lucky man, indeed. But it would not be he. She looked upon him as she might look upon a worm she’d found in an apple she was eating. No. That was not precisely right. She looked upon him as a ravening beast of prey, her ruthless captor, and that
impression had stuck in her mind. He wondered if it would ever be possible to dislodge it. He wondered why he should even want to try.

He was gazing into space, lost in reverie, when the candle sputtered and went out. Cursing under his breath, he rose to his feet, and with one boot on and one boot off, hobbled to the candles on the mantel. Halfway there, he fell headlong over some obstacle that had been left lying carelessly on the floor. His roar of rage not only wakened Quentin, it also disturbed Deborah in the room next door.

She awoke to the sound of Quentin’s laughter and a string of expletives that made her eyes widen with wonder. There was the sound of a flint repeatedly striking, and Quentin giving advice between gasps of hilarity. Then Lord Kendal’s voice raised alarmingly, damning Miss Deborah Weyman for leaving her valise in the center of the floor for some poor unsuspecting male to break his leg on.

She shrank down in her bed and pulled the covers up to her cold nose. Lord Kendal had lost his temper and she was responsible. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

There is nothing like the aftermath of needless terror to rouse a person to a paroxysm of fury. This was Deborah’s thought as she banged about her bedchamber, readying herself for the new day, which was already halfway over if the porcelain clock on the dresser was anything to go by. Last night, as was to be expected, she had been ravaged with remorse for having misjudged the situation and endangered Quentin’s life. This morning she was cataloging all the needless terrors she had been made to suffer at
that man’s
hands, and now that she no longer feared him, her rage knew no bounds.

The sound of laughter led her to the kitchen. She knew that Hart and Nick were putting up at the King’s Arms. When, however, she entered the room and found that the only occupants were Quentin and Lord Kendal, she was taken aback. What had they found to talk about? What were they laughing at? She dismissed Gray with a flick of her lashes before her gaze fixed on Quentin. There was a sparkle in his eyes and his cheeks were flushed with excitement.

Gray was reclining on a wooden chair, his booted feet resting comfortably on the flat of another chair. One look at Deborah’s face told him all he needed to know. It was just as he had imagined. Now that she had
recovered from her terrifying ordeal of last night, she no longer saw him as her savior. Once again, he was the ruthless abductor who had terrified the life out of her, and he would be made to pay for his sins.

At sight of Deborah, Quentin burst into a spate of excited chatter which the earl silenced by raising one hand.

“Mustn’t forget the observances to the ladies,” he said, and suiting action to words, he gracefully unwound himself from his chair and rose to his feet.

Quentin eyed him carefully, then followed suit.

When Deborah simply stared at them, Gray said gently, “I believe it’s customary for a lady to curtsy when a gentleman pays her the compliment of recognizing her presence.”

Conscious that Quentin was watching the exchange with avid interest, she bobbed a grudging curtsy and seated herself. When Gray resumed his place, so did Quentin.

Keeping her tone light, she said, “Where is everyone? What happened to my breakfast? And why wasn’t I wakened before the day was half over?”

At these words, Quentin clapped a hand over his mouth and gazed dumbfounded at the clock on the mantel. “Gadzooks!” he said. “We forgot about you, Deb.”

“You forgot about me?” she asked, trying not to sound offended.

“Uncle Gray was telling me stories about Papa, you know, when they were both at Eton.”

“You know how it is,” said Gray, unconcerned. “We got carried away. Besides, I thought you could do with an extra hour or two’s rest.”

“And Uncle Gray says I am going to Eton, too, just like Papa. Isn’t that famous, Deb?”

“When are you going to Eton?” she asked sharply.

A look passed between man and boy. “That has yet to be decided,” said Gray.

She opened her mouth to argue the point, but a speaking look from Gray quelled the impulse. One did not argue in front of servants or children.

“We have already eaten,” said Gray, “but we are under orders to wait on you. The Moffats are in the shop, looking after their customers, and Hart and Nick are running a few errands for me. No, don’t move from that chair. Quentin and I are quite capable of fixing breakfast.”

As she watched, they moved around the kitchen, conversing amiably, opening drawers and cupboards, removing dishes and cutlery and the makings of a cold meal. They seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously, as though finding their way around a lady’s kitchen was a grand adventure. Before long, there was a kettle of water set on the hob to boil and the table was laden with a selection of savory pies and cold cuts of meat.

She was so lost in thought that she was only half aware when Quentin excused himself to work on his lessons, or that she had given Gray permission to fill a plate for her. Picking up her knife and fork, she absently began to toy with the food on her plate.

There was no doubt in her mind that for the first time in months, Quentin looked happy and healthy. And that the earl had managed to get the boy to speak about his father without bursting into tears was no small victory. Lord Kendal, she acknowledged, had a way with children. Or it could be that Quentin was in sore need of a man’s companionship. Mr. Moffat was fine in his way, but he could never be a model for the boy. Quentin was a viscount. On his father’s death, he had succeeded to the title. It was right and proper that he turn to some suitable gentleman, someone he could admire, whose guidance he would accept. Then why was she angry?

She wasn’t angry so much as hurt. Lord Kendal had made a grand entrance, and suddenly, she was invisible. They were even making plans for Quentin’s future, and no one had consulted her. Oh no, she was only the governess.

“Deborah,” said Gray, breaking the long silence, “it’s only natural for Quentin to turn to me at this time. I was his father’s best friend. I have a fund of stories I can tell the boy. Don’t you see, it makes his loss easier to
bear? You haven’t been displaced in his affections, as you seem to think. Give him time.”

She glanced at him, then looked away. His kindness made her want to pour out all the terrors she had endured these last few months, and all the fears she had for the future. At the same time, she wanted to throw his sympathy back in his face. He had abducted her, terrorized her, made her fear for her very life. She could never make a friend of this man, not in a hundred years.

“I want you to know,” he said, as humble as she had ever heard him, and just as though he could read her mind, “that I deeply regret what you were made to suffer these last few days. Don’t you see, I had to break you as quickly as possible?” When she bit ferociously into a crust of bread, Gray’s eyes glinted wickedly. “I didn’t like what I was doing. It was a job that had to be done and quickly. You must see that I am not the man I pretended to be. When you get to know me better, Deborah—”

“Get to know you better?” she said, mimicking his reasonable tone. She leaned across the table until they were nose to nose. “I’d as soon get to know a rabid dog.”

“Dammit, woman, will you listen to me?” he suddenly thundered, making her cower. “We have more to discuss than your petty grievances. There is a murderer on the loose, and it’s quite possible that you and Quentin are his quarry.” He nodded at the shocked expression on her face. “Yes, Deborah. The murderer. Try to put yourself in his shoes. What must he be thinking? He knows Quentin saw him that night. He must be wondering why the authorities have not arrested him by this time.” He gave her a moment to absorb his words, then went on, “I told everyone that you and Quentin were secluded in my estate in Gloucestershire, yet, to my knowledge, no one has come sniffing around asking questions about you, and the murderer would, Deborah, unless he thought he had nothing to fear.”

Her mind was working like lightning. “Perhaps he’s in France? Perhaps he was afraid to return to England?”

“Not if he is who I think he is. No, I don’t know his
identity, except that I am convinced he is the traitor Gil was close to unmasking, and since none of my colleagues at the Foreign Office has bolted in the last little while, it means that our murderer is carrying on as usual. Now, what does that suggest to you?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” he said tersely.

She did, then said, “He must be shaking in his boots. I don’t know what else to think.”

“Or he must know that Quentin has lost his memory, and be quite sure in his mind that you did not get a clear look at him that night.”

She stared at him blindly as her mind sifted through his words. “But nobody knows about Quentin’s memory lapse except Miss Hare and the Moffats, and no one has been asking them questions.”

“Yes, I know. Think carefully, Deborah. Did you say anything to the French authorities when they questioned you?”

“No,” she said uncertainly. “I told them that Quentin and I had come running when we heard the shot. I didn’t tell them he had witnessed the murder. They could see Quentin was in shock, but they didn’t know he had lost his memory. I didn’t know myself until the night before we left Paris. I was so worried about him, I sent for the physician.”

“Quentin was examined by a doctor the night before you left Paris?”

She nodded.

“Ah,” he said, and relaxed against the back of his chair. “Now I begin to understand.” “What do you understand?”

“That the report of Quentin’s memory loss has been relayed to the murderer in England. That’s why he has made no attempt to find you.” He turned his sparkling eyes upon her. “Don’t you know how lucky you were, Deborah? How lucky we all were? You got clean away before the French realized that you and Quentin posed a threat to their agent. Now everything is beginning to make sense.”

She said glumly, “It seems to me that their agent is
the lucky one. If what you say is true, he knows he is safe, while Quentin and I must always be on our guard. That’s why I don’t want Quentin to go away to school.”