Dangerous to Kiss (40 page)

Her fears had totally evaporated, and she smiled up at him. “If I had to, I would wait for you till the end of the world.”

It was he who felt the tightness in his throat now. “Let’s catch up on the others,” he said gruffly, “or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

Deborah returned to Channings with a glow on her cheeks and a spring in her step. They had been gone for some time, but that was because they had lingered so long at Gray’s house. It was a remarkably preserved mansion of Tudor origin, with not a Greek column in sight, no marble, and no gilt worth mentioning. Warm oak paneling was everywhere, and small mullioned windows and a splendid three-story oriel window in the Great Hall. Her father would have scorned to live in such an old-fashioned house with its small rooms and closets. The Graysons were proud of it. Every room seemed to have a story attached to it, going back to the days of the Wars of the Roses. There were collections there too, but these were of weapons and suits of armor and parchments or prayer books-historical relics of former generations of Graysons. And there was Old
Warwick, the stuffed war horse that held pride of place in the Great Hall. She didn’t know why, but that shabby, battle-scarred destrier had caught her fancy.

She was eager to tell Gray how much she had loved his house, but just as she was taking off her coat, the countess entered her chamber. After a long disjointed preamble about Gray’s numerous failings, the countess explained that Gray had suddenly decided to take Quentin to London to consult with Dr. Marchand. Jervis, the tutor, had gone with them.

“And what mystifies me,” said the countess, “is that Quentin seemed quite recovered from his ordeal. He was laughing and joking as though it were a great adventure.”

There was a letter from Gray, and Deborah read it in stunned silence. Quentin, Gray informed her, had awakened to think he was back in France. He had managed to calm him, but had decided it was no longer possible to accede to Deborah’s wishes. It was in Quentin’s best interests to recover his memory, and he hoped that Dr. Marchand would accomplish this.

There was more, about how she was not to worry, and how he would keep her informed. And it was only for a short time. He would see her in a week or so in Berkeley Square, with his mother and the others, when they returned to town. In the meantime, on no account was she to take chances with her own safety. This last was underlined. There was still a murderer at large, and they must never forget it.

“Why wouldn’t he wait and take me with him?” Deborah asked faintly.

“But how could he, my dear?” said the countess. “Without me to chaperon you, you and Gray could not reside in the same house. Don’t look so crestfallen. It’s only for a week. Then we shall all return to Berkeley Square together.”

It was a reasonable answer, but somehow, it did not satisfy Deborah.

Gray adjusted the wrap around Quentin’s knees, then settled back against the banquette. “Warm enough?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Uncle Gray.”

“You should try to get some sleep.”

“I slept all morning,” protested Quentin.

“Oh? I thought that was just a sham, you know, to throw Deborah off the scent.”

“That’s how it started out, but I did fall asleep, without meaning to.” He didn’t sound too pleased about it.

“Headache all better?”

“It was only a little headache. Do you think Deborah knows that I was pretending? She’s very clever, you know.”

“In this case, I think she believed you. You played your part so well, you had
me
believing you.” Observing the uncertain look on Quentin’s face, he said in a more serious vein, “You mustn’t feel bad about deceiving Deborah. We are only exaggerating the truth a little.”

“Deborah says that it’s all right to tell lies, but only as a last …” He floundered.

“Resort?” offered Gray.

“Yes. That’s the word.”

“Now that surprises me. When did she say this?”

“You know, when we were coming home to England, Deborah told lies all the time, and not just little ones. Some of them were great whoppers, Uncle Gray.”

Gray was grinning hugely. “That makes me feel much better about this whole escapade,” he said.

“Is that a last resort?”

Gray’s expression sobered. “That’s exactly what it is, Quentin. Listen to what I say very carefully. I hate lies and deceit, and you must grow up hating them too. There is only one reason ever to use them, and that is in a matter of life and death. I wish I could have told Deborah everything, but if I had, she would only spoil all our plans, and we don’t want that, do we?”

Quentin thought about this for a minute. “Is it a good plan, Uncle Gray?”

“That remains to be seen. Now, would you mind if I
caught forty winks? Unlike you, I have been up half the night setting things up.”

Gray’s plan got under way as the first rumors began to circulate in London. Matthew Derwent, who had returned to town with Leathe, created some minor interest when he related details of the shooting mishap to members of his club. They were in the card room at White’s, enjoying a quiet game of whist.

“Quentin Barrington?” murmured Lord Denning, dragging his thoughts from the perpetual problem of finding a mother for his two motherless daughters. He kept his face impassive as Leathe took the last trick with his trump. He was thinking that either Leathe’s manners had improved since he had last met him, or he had misjudged the fellow. He wasn’t such a bad-tempered young whelp. In the right company, he could be positively likable.

It was his turn to deal. Picking up the cards, he continued. “Miss Weyman told me that he was just getting over the tragedy of his father’s death. Poor boy. Is he quite deranged, then?”

“God, I hope not,” cried out young Derwent, raising a few brows. “If he is, I shall blame myself.”

Leathe had rehearsed in his mind what Gray had told him to say, and while he scanned the cards in his hand, he threw out casually, “Don’t be absurd, Matthew. The boy had suffered a memory lapse and the sound of the guns going off gave him such a shock that he began to remember things. That’s all it was.”

“A memory lapse?” asked one of the gentlemen interestedly.

“Yes,” said Leathe. “His father’s murder had a strange effect on him. He could remember nothing before or immediately after the event. It’s true that his mind is disturbed, but Lord Kendal is confident that there is some doctor in London who can help the boy. They are here now.”

“But how can you know all this?” asked Lord Denning.

“Because Jervis, the boy’s tutor, told me when I invited Lady Margaret to go walking with me.” He frowned. “I don’t think Kendal wants it known, however.”

It was the remark about Lady Margaret that was taken up with relish.

“You and Kendal’s sister?” demanded Lucas Spry incredulously. “Kendal would never allow it.”

Leathe laughed. “Lord Kendal is not the ogre you think he is,” he said.

The outcry that these words produced completely eclipsed the story about Quentin, but only temporarily.

Lord Denning mentioned it the following afternoon to Sophie Barrington when they were taking a turn in the park in his carriage. She was the boy’s stepmother and he assumed she knew all about it, so he began by asking how the boy fared, and stirred up a hornet’s nest.

The day before, a note had arrived from Gray canceling her visit to Channings, and her mind was rife with suspicion. She’d heard from Helena Perrin about Gray and Deborah Weyman, and it did not sit well with her. In fact, it infuriated her.

“Gray said nothing in his note to me about Quentin being unwell,” she said.

“Oh dear,” said Lord Denning, belatedly remembering that Leathe had said something about Kendal not wanting it generally known. “Perhaps I should not have mentioned it. Perhaps there’s nothing in it.”

She banged her reticule on the cushions, and the maid who was chaperoning her jumped. Lord Denning was taken aback. Having failed to make progress with Miss Weyman, he had cast his eye around, and it had finally settled on Lady Barrington. The girl was young, sweet-tempered, and malleable, or so he’d thought.

“And Gray did not even have the decency to come and tell me in person!”

She was practically foaming at the mouth, and Denning, thinking of his two darling, motherless girls in the
nursery, on whom he doted, began to tick off in his mind all the advantages of the single life.

She was so angry, she hardly knew what she was saying. “Do you know what I think? I think she put Quentin up to it. This is a ploy to keep us apart. She doesn’t want me there because she knows he is partial to me. Oh, he’s tried to hide it, but a woman knows these things.”

Truly bewildered, Lord Denning asked cautiously, “Who doesn’t want you there?”

“Miss Weyman, of course.”

“But why should she try to keep you and Quentin apart?”

“Not Quentin, you fool! Lord Kendal.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she had committed an indiscretion. Lord Denning stiffened up like a poker, and though Sophie quickly reverted to her usual flirtatious self, he barely spoke two words to her before he set her down at her house in Manchester Square.

When she ventured out that same afternoon with the same maid in tow, Sophie had herself well in hand. On arriving at Gray’s house in Berkeley Square, she presented her card to the footman and asked sweetly if Lord Kendal might spare her a moment of his time. When she entered the library, however, leaving her maid to sit outside the door, it was Philip Standish who came forward to meet her.

She had met Philip in Paris, at various diplomatic functions, and though she found him a bit of a dry stick, on this occasion, she used all her powers to charm him. Her charm slipped a little when he told her that, as far as he knew, Gray was still at Channings.

“But how can that be?” she asked. “The note I received from him only yesterday was marked ‘London.’ And Lord Denning told me, not an hour ago, that he and Quentin had come up to town.”

“How odd.” He removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “He hasn’t been here, or I would have known it.”

“Could he be putting up at one of his clubs?”

“With the boy? I hardly think so. Is this urgent, Lady Barrington? Do you wish me to find him for you?”

Sophie concealed her disappointment behind a bland smile. “No, not urgent,” she said. “It’s just that it threw me into confusion when Lord Denning told me about Quentin. I am the boy’s stepmother, after all, and it seems to me that I should be kept informed about what has happened to him.”

Her look was so appealing that for a moment, Mr. Standish lost the thread of what she was saying. Coming to himself, he stammered, then said, “What has happened to Quentin?”

She related as much as Lord Denning had told her, and ended by saying, “I would not have known if Lord Denning had not told me. That does not seem right to me. And now, not even to know where Lord Kendal has taken him! Perhaps Miss Weyman can tell me. Do you know where I can find her?”

“I had supposed that she was at Channings also.”

She threw him another of her particularly appealing looks. “If only I weren’t alone in the world, if only I had someone to act for me, I would soon satisfy myself that Quentin has suffered no grievous harm.”

It was her second appealing look that put Mr. Standish wise to her little ways. He remembered how in Paris she had made a spectacle of herself by pursuing Lord Kendal and embarrassing her husband into the bargain. He did not think she was concerned so much with Quentin’s welfare as with Deborah Weyman as competition for his lordship’s affections.

Nevertheless, he was puzzled. It was not like Lord Kendal to keep his whereabouts a secret from his secretary. Something very strange was going on.

He pushed back his chair, indicating that their tête-à-tête was at an end, a useful trick he had picked up by watching his employer. Lady Barrington rose with him.

“Why don’t you leave this with me?” he said. “I’m sure there is a simple explanation and the mystery will be resolved in a matter of days.”