Dangerous to Kiss (29 page)

When she stopped in mid-sentence to pick up her skirts before mounting the steps, he finished for her. “That I’m not more like them?”

She did not return his bantering tone, but gave him a look that he could not decipher, and which made his own smile die away. “That there are so
few
like them, is what I was going to say.”

For the rest of the afternoon, she devoted herself to Quentin. She’d expected that Jason and Gray or one of the others would be there too, but everyone made excuses, and she guessed that Gray had arranged for her to have this time alone with Quentin.

Her first impressions of Quentin were confirmed. His horizons had expanded and he was in his element. She wasn’t sorry, but it made her feel terribly alone. Everything seemed to taste of a bittersweet flavor. She didn’t want to think about the future. She refused to think about the future. The present was all she had, and she was going to make the most of it.

Dinner was a lighthearted affair. It always was with the Graysons. Later, when they had repaired to the drawing room, Gussie began to describe the pleasures of country life. The country, Gussie told her, had everything the town had to offer and more besides. Though the assemblies might not be as brilliant, many a match had been made right there on the dance floor between a country lass and an illustrious nobleman who had come into the area for the hunting season. When the gentlemen’s hoots of laughter had died away, she went on to praise the shopping in Dartford and the riding on the downs. There were interesting walks as well as many ancient ruins.

“And there is Sommerfield,” said Gray when Gussie paused to draw breath. “It’s worth a look.”

“Sommerfield?” asked Deborah.

Hart answered. “The seat of the earls and barons of Kendal for three centuries. You can see its roof from the upstairs windows. That’s Gray’s place, didn’t you know?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I believe I did.”

“We would be there now,” said Gray, “except that workmen are redoing the plasterwork. One of the ceilings collapsed and the others looked as though they were ready to follow suit. Oh, it’s safe enough, though rather dusty. If you like, and if you have time, I’ll show you over the house and grounds.”

He was offering her an olive branch and she was glad to accept it. “Thank you. I should like that.”

Hart made a derisory sound. “Best beware, Deborah. Gray sets great store by that heap of old bricks. Say one word against it and you may find yourself at the short end of his temper.”

“It’s a showplace, then?” She knew all about show-places.

The countess answered innocently. “Any house is a showplace when there are no children in it. That is easily remedied.”

This gibe provoked more gibes, all at Gray’s expense, and though Deborah laughed dutifully, her heart wasn’t in it. She was beginning to feel too cozy, too much at home with this congenial family.

There flashed into her mind a picture of her father entertaining guests at Belvidere. He smiled in a way that was totally unfamiliar to Deborah. In fact, she scarcely recognized him. He was a gracious, affable host, and very approachable. There was no frost in his eyes as there invariably was when he looked at her or Stephen. He hated them, seeing them as their mother’s children, and they could never do anything to please him.

She remembered one occasion in particular, when Stephen had come home for the holidays. This was their first venture into grown-up society and they were on their best behavior. The guests had hardly departed when the earl rounded on his son, and the frost was back in his eyes. Stephen’s table manners were atrocious; his conversation did not bear repeating. He was not fit to be the heir to the title and estate of Belvidere. Deborah would have slunk away with her tail between her legs. At fourteen years, Stephen was beginning to flex his muscles. The day he inherited Belvidere, he retorted,
he would put a torch to it. He’d known he would pay for that remark, and he had.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour. Eight o’clock, thought Deborah. In a few hours, she would be with Stephen.
Patience
, she told herself, even as she automatically responded to something the countess said. She could never escape detection during the daylight hours, but when everyone had retired for the night, she could slip away unseen and make her way to Dartford. She would have to walk the two miles. To borrow one of the horses from the stables was too risky. Besides, a two-mile hike was nothing to her. She hoped to God that Stephen was alone when she got there. He didn’t know she was coming. There was no way to let him know.

Her eyes flicked to Meg. The girl was very quiet, very subdued. Poor Meg, and all women who loved unwisely. A thought came to her, not quite formed, and she resolutely pushed it away.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. Gray looked up from the papers he had been studying and saw that it was an hour past midnight. His muscles were cramped and his neck was stiff. For the last hour or two, he had been poring over all the information he had gathered on various subjects. There was a report from Jervis on Quentin’s progress, and a report from the physician on his health and state of mind. There were also notes on two conversations he had had with Sophie Barrington, one shortly after Gil’s death and one that had taken place less than a week ago.

One thing was clear. He was no closer to discovering the identity of the person who had murdered Gil Barrington. He did not think he would ever know until Quentin regained his memory, and that likelihood was fading. The thought that he could set a trap for the murderer using Quentin or Deborah as bait continued to tickle his mind, and he was equally persistent in rejecting it. Deborah would never agree to it. She would
think it was too risky. There
were
risks involved, but sometimes risks were worth taking. One had to weigh everything in the balance. He thought about it for a long time, toying with the idea, thinking of possible strategies. He always came back to the same thought. Deborah would never agree to it.

Deborah.
He was no nearer to solving
that
mystery either. He might have called Lawford in to help him, but he was reluctant to do this. What he wanted was for Deborah to come to him of her own free will and
tell
him what he wished to know. She had told his mother that she had been born and bred in Ireland. She’d lied of course. When he’d looked into it, he’d discovered there was no such place as Beg in the county of Antrim. Who was she and what was she running from?

He rose to his feet and stretched his arms above his head, then took a few paces around his bedchamber. He did not feel like going to bed, but Hart and Gussie kept country hours, and the house was as silent as a tomb.

He was restless and well aware of the reason for it. He wanted her. In fact, she had damn near become an obsession with him. He had even begun to have fantasies about her, and not only the typical masculine ones of taking her to his bed. The talk of Sommerfield had set him off tonight. He could quite easily picture her there, presiding at his table, with a brood of infants hanging on her skirts. The boys would have blond hair and blue eyes, in the image of their father, and the girls, naturally, would have auburn hair and green eyes in the image of their mother.

It was a womanish fancy and not worthy of a real man, and why the hell he was smiling was more than he could understand. He was tired of wanting, tired of thinking. What he needed was some hard physical exercise to take the fidgets out of him. The explicit images this thought evoked had him cursing fluently, and on the spur of the moment, he decided to go for a brisk walk. He had passed the door to Deborah’s chamber, when another door behind him creaked open.

“And how is Leathe?”

He whirled and saw his sister Meg. Her eyes were
red rimmed and she was in her nightclothes. She backed away from him. “Oh, it’s you, Gray. I beg your pardon.”

“Who did you think I was?”

Her face crumpled and she choked out something unintelligible, then turned back into the room. He could not let it rest there, not when she was so distraught. He didn’t wait to knock, but followed her into the room and shut the door.

“You didn’t answer my question, Meg. Who were you expecting? Who did you think I was?”

“No one. I … I made a mistake. Now may I go to bed?” She crawled beneath the bedclothes and indicated the candle. “I was just going to snuff it out.”

He regarded her steadily. “Something has upset you, and I want to know what it is. Is it Leathe?”

“Please, Gray, I don’t want to talk about it, all right?”

Baffled, he looked around the room, but there was no clue there. “Have you quarreled with him? Or Deborah perhaps?”

She scrubbed at her wet cheeks with her balled fists. “Don’t mention that woman’s name to me.”

He frowned. “You thought I was Deborah, didn’t you?”
And how is Leathe?
His eyes flared in sudden comprehension, and he snatched up the candle, turned on his heel, and made for Deborah’s chamber. The bed was made up and there was no sign of her. Furious now, he retraced his steps.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Truly, Gray, I don’t know.” Her eyes were wide with fear. She had never seen him so livid.

“But you know that she went to meet Leathe? What did she tell you? Answer me, Meg, or I shall shake the truth out of you.”

She shrank from him and shook her head.

“For God’s sake, if you know something, tell me! She can’t go traipsing all over the countryside in the dead of night. Anything could happen to her. She could be lying dead in a ditch.”

“I don’t know where she went!”

He gentled his voice. “But you saw her leave the house?”

She nodded, and looked away.

“And you think she went to meet Leathe?”

“Who else would she go to meet?”

“And where can I find Leathe?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me where he would be staying. He is friendly with Matthew Derwent and his parents. He could be staying with them, but I don’t know.”

“But you do know he has come into the district?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He breathed deeply. “How do you know?”

“Because I sent him a note, telling him that we would be here, yes, and received a reply. He said he would find a way to meet me.” Her shoulders shook and fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I thought it was me he loved, but all the time it was Deborah. I told you they knew each other from before. Oh Gray, what am I going to do?”

Viscount Leathe poured out a glass of wine and handed it to his sister. He was glad to give his hands something to do to smooth over the awkward moment. They had never been particularly demonstrative, but somehow the quick kiss she had pressed to his cheek when she had entered his rooms did not seem adequate to the occasion. It was almost nine years since he had last seen her. He wanted to hug her, but feared it might seem too effusive to be sincere.

A fire burned brightly in the grate, and Deborah was sitting so close to it that every few minutes she switched her skirts to prevent them scorching. It helped pass the awkwardness, for what she really wanted to do was fling herself into his arms and cry her eyes out.

“You are blue with cold,” he said, handing the glass to her. “What the devil possessed you to come here at this ungodly hour? You might have been attacked by footpads or worse. You should have waited till morning.
God knows what the landlord thinks of a woman in my rooms at this time of night.”

Her tone was on the dry side. “From all I hear of you, Stephen, he won’t think anything. Your reputation is not exactly spotless, as I’m sure you know.”

He grinned, seated himself, and stretched his booted feet toward the grate. “It wasn’t my reputation I was thinking of, but yours.”

She studied the wine in her glass. “An accused murderess doesn’t have much of a reputation to protect. Anyway, he didn’t see me. I crept up the stairs when his back was turned.”

He gave her a moment or two to collect herself, then said, “I don’t believe you are a murderess, Deb. I never did. When we were children, you used to collect injured birds and animals and nurse them in that makeshift infirmary of yours in the disused barn behind the stable block, don’t you remember? You couldn’t bear to see anything get hurt. And if I took a tumble or a scrape, God save me, you would almost kill me by pouring Father’s best brandy on the wounds, then dose me with a foul-tasting potion you had either bought or purloined from the gypsies.”