Dangerous to Kiss (8 page)

When they entered the small, medieval town of Wells, Deborah gave a cursory look out the window. “The mist is lifting,” she said, “and it’s stopped raining.”

“Most people,” observed Gray easily, “show a little more interest when they see Wells for the first time.”

“This isn’t my first time. I’ve been here with some of the girls from school. We’ve even been as far afield as Glastonbury. The area is so rich in history, and legends and so on, that Miss Hare considers such outings essential to the girls’ education.”

Interesting, thought Gray. Though her words flowed easily, her hands were knotted together in a stranglehold. “Are these regular outings?” he asked in an offhand way.

“Oh no, nothing like that, just whenever the fancy strikes us.” Uncomfortable with this subject, she remarked on the façade of the King’s Arms as the carriage made an abrupt turn and entered the inn’s stable yard.

Like many of the houses in the area, the inn was a low, half-timbered building with small windows and an uneven roofline. Deborah had been here before and knew that in spite of alterations, the small, low-ceilinged rooms and narrow twisting passageways had hardly changed in the last several centuries. They were dark
and dank and put her in mind of the coal cellars she had once played in as a child. Shivering, resigning herself to an uncomfortable half hour, she allowed Gray to assist her from the carriage.

As ostlers came running to unharness the horses, Gray led Deborah through the back door of the inn. The noise emanating from the taproom indicated that the King’s Arms was a popular watering hole. Deborah kept very close to Gray as he found the landlord, who soon ushered them up a dark, steep staircase to a private parlor at the back of the house. Having seen to Deborah’s comfort, Gray withdrew on the understanding that he wished to instruct the stable boys respecting Jupiter, upon which he would ask their landlord to serve them a glass of wine.

“Oh, and for your own peace of mind, I advise you to lock the door while I am gone,” he said.

This was soon done, and having thrown off her cloak, she went to stand by the blaze in the grate, lifting her skirts to toast her frozen limbs. Mr. Gray, she reflected, was the most considerate of employers. Not many of her acquaintance would have gone to so much trouble for a mere governess. Somehow, without embarrassing him, she must find a way to thank him. He really was a dear.

Now that there was no one to see her, she removed her spectacles and did a little pirouette around the furniture. She would have liked to have removed her lace cap and shaken out her hair, but it could not be put back together without a great deal of bother. She stilled, imagining for a moment how Mr. Gray would respond if he could see her as she truly was. Would he think she was pretty? Would he be completely bowled over? Would he want to … kiss her? She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering. But he hadn’t wanted to kiss her. They had been playing a game, nothing more.

Resolutely turning from such vain speculations, she veered off to stand by the small window. There was nothing to be seen but the inn’s courtyard and stable block and off in the distance, the Mendip Hills. But Quentin was here. Here! And Mr. Gray’s villa was only
a stone’s throw from Wells. Soon, very soon, she would be in a position to see the boy more regularly. No one would think it odd if Miss Gray’s companion chose to spend her leisure hours in Wells.

She was gazing out at the Mendip Hills, her mind dwelling on Quentin, when she heard the knock on the door. Reaching automatically for her glasses, she shoved them on her nose before going to answer what she supposed was the landlord with their wine.

The lady who stood on the threshold was a study in elegance. Her high-waisted tan carriage coat was of the finest velvet and trimmed with black braid. Her matching hat was adorned with long black feathers. Color was high on her cheeks and her hazel eyes held a friendly glint. Deborah could easily picture her riding to hounds or presiding at some county assembly. The word “picnic” slipped into her mind and she felt a flash of unease.

“Miss Weyman,” said Lady Pamela Becket, “so it is you. I saw you at the window as I alighted from my carriage. May I come in for a moment?”

Deborah fell back as though felled by a blow. The last time she had heard that cultured voice was on the lawns of Lord Barrington’s house in Paris, when they had entertained Quentin’s friends to a picnic.

Lady Becket advanced, her brows knitting in a worried frown. “What is it, my dear? You look as though you had seen a ghost.”

Deborah’s thoughts were racing off in several directions at once. One thought took precedence. She had to get rid of Lady Becket before Mr. Gray returned.

Summoning all her powers of control, she bobbed a curtsy and said, in a voice that gave no indication of her agitation, “Lady Becket, this is a pleasure. Unhappily, I am not at liberty to receive guests. You see, my employer—”

Lady Becket laughed and waved her to silence. “Oh, you need not fear that your employer will object to my presence. Lord Kendal and I are well known to each other, on account of Helena, you know.” She made a small sound of exasperation. “What am I saying? Of
course you wouldn’t know. Forgive my unruly tongue, Miss Weyman.”

After Lord Kendal’s name was mentioned, Deborah had heard almost nothing of Lady Becket’s conversation except in a vague way. She felt as if her tongue were glued to the roof of her mouth and her feet weighted with lead. Her brain seethed with a confusion of thoughts.

“Lord Kendal?” she said faintly.

As she spoke, Lady Becket moved to the fire and stationed herself so that the blaze warmed her back. “I recognized his horse, you see. Jupiter, is it not? Had I known he was coming into the area—Lord Kendal, I mean—I would have invited him to our little house party at the Hall. That’s why I am here. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so to speak, and Lord Kendal’s presence would be in the nature of a coup for me, if I can persuade him.”

Her ladyship eyed her frozen companion with no little curiosity. Deciding that she had thrown Miss Weyman into confusion with her muddled explanation, she started over. “I was alighting from my carriage at the White Hart, when Gray, that is, Lord Kendal, passed me on horseback. That is, he was on horseback. Oh, you know what I mean. So I gave my coachman the order to follow your carriage. I know Gray is here somewhere because Jupiter is in the stable. However, the landlord knew nothing of Lord Kendal, but when I described him, he directed me to this parlor. I say, Miss Weyman, are you sure you are all right? Sit down, why don’t you, and I shall fetch you a glass of wine.”

“What description?” demanded Deborah. She was debating inwardly, telling herself it couldn’t be true. Lord Kendal was tall, dark, and handsome. She didn’t know how she knew this, but she knew that she did. He looked nothing like Mr. Gray.

Lady Becket sighed. “Oh dear, I really am making a muddle of this, aren’t I? Well, you know—tall, blond, and with the face of an angel. Lord Kendal, I mean. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to fetch you a glass of wine?”

Deborah was already reaching for her cloak. Though her brain was reeling from the shock of discovery, she forced herself to act naturally. “I’m a little shaken after the ride in the carriage,” she said. “It’s of no consequence, really. Pray be seated, Lady Becket, and I shall undertake to find Lord Kendal for you.”

Lady Becket’s eyes were fixed on the cloak which Deborah was clutching to her bosom. “Oh, is he not on the premises, then?”

“I believe he is in the stable block,” answered Deborah, and without more ado, she whipped herself out of the room.

As her momentum carried her to the top of the stairs, she flung her cloak around her shoulders. Her brain was churning as it made connections of trifles that had puzzled her. But they weren’t trifles. They were indications that all was not as it appeared to be. She could have wept for her gullibility.

She had just begun to descend the stairs when she heard the tread of footsteps ascending and the word “Gray.” Doing a quick about-face, she hared off in another direction, praying that she would come upon the back staircase. She was in luck. Without looking to left or right, she clattered down the wooden stairs and did not stop till she was outside the building. Here she hesitated, taking her bearings.

Gray, meantime, had ascended the stairs and was striding along the corridor to the parlor where he had left Deborah. Having conferred with Nick and Hart in the taproom, he had made up his mind to forgo the small repast and remove Miss Weyman forthwith. He was right about the Beckets. They were hosting a house party, and when their guests were at a loose end, they sometimes made forays into Wells. He wasn’t going to chance meeting up with any of them.

He knocked on the parlor door and waited for Deborah to unlock it. The moment it swung open and he came face-to-face with Pamela Becket, he knew the game was up.

“Gray! Well, I must say that was quick.”

“Where is she?” His tone was imperious and not at all friendly.

Lady Becket peered up at him in some uncertainty. This was not the reception she had anticipated. “Oh dear, I knew Miss Weyman was upset. Was it something I said? You see—”

“Dammit, woman, just tell me where she went.”

“She went to look for you, to—”

With a violent expletive, Gray spun on his heel and took off at a run. He found Nick and Hart in the taproom, in the act of settling with the landlord. “Hart,” he said, “pay for my shot and meet me out front. Nick, fetch the horses and follow us. The bird has flown the coop.”

Nick and Hart exchanged a startled look, then quickly complied with Gray’s instructions.

Having taken her bearings, Deborah was striking out along High Street in the direction of the market. Though everything in her was tempted to make for where she knew she would find sanctuary, where Quentin was, instinct went deeper. She must protect Quentin at all costs. She must lead Lord Kendal away from the boy. If she managed to evade him, she would decide later what was best to be done.

Two things stood in her favor. This was market day, and in spite of the inclement weather, the town was bustling with farmers and merchants as well as their customers. In addition, she knew Wells like the back of her hand, had made it her business to know it in the event that she and Quentin might be forced to flee for their lives.

“Halt, thief!”

At Lord Kendal’s cry, Deborah looked back over her shoulder. He had just flung out of the King’s Arms. Passersby were stopping to look and stare. The din of the street sellers as they called out their wares worked to her advantage. No one paid any heed to the man who was chasing her. Picking up her skirts, she slipped between two stalls and pushed her way to the edge of the throng, toward Penniless Porch on the far side of the square, the towered gatehouse that gave access to the cathedral precincts.
By the time she reached it, she was gasping for breath.

It took every ounce of her nerve to remain immobile under that great arched gatehouse where once the poor had begged for alms. Her prayers were no less fervent than theirs and were answered when stragglers moved off, leaving her alone. Her movements were jerky as she searched for the hatpin that secured her lace cap. Panicked now, she tore it from her head, hardly aware of the sting to her scalp as cap and hatpin came away together. Her spectacles were similarly dealt with. Stuffing everything into her pockets, she shook out her hair. A torrent of auburn tresses liberally laced with gray powder fell about her shoulders. Brushing out the powder as best she could, she moved swiftly through the little close and entered the cathedral.

No sound of the bustling marketplace penetrated the thick walls of that vast sanctuary. The great vaulted ceiling soared above her head, and beneath her feet the tombs of ancient bishops and knights kept silent vigil. There were a few visitors, but not as many as there would have been in the summer months. Nevertheless, one of the cathedral divines was leading a party of people down the length of the nave, pointing out some of the features of the architecture. Though he spoke in hushed tones, there was a slight echo, as though the buttressed walls that had stood for six centuries were weighing every word.

The click of Deborah’s first few steps on the flag-stoned floors brought the cleric’s head in her direction. Mumbling an apology that no one could hear, she rose on her toes. She knew exactly where she was going. Moving smartly and silently, she traversed the length of the nave. She had almost reached the party of visitors when the door creaked open and a gust of damp autumn air, smelling faintly of wood smoke and rotting leaves, swept in. Without breaking her step, Deborah turned aside to join the spectators, edging her way round so that she had a clear view of the west wall. Her heart raced. Lord Kendal stood with hands on hips, surveying the interior. He would be looking for a bespectacled
dowd with a lace cap on her head. From this distance, surely he would not recognize her?

“You will note the scissor arch,” said the divine, pointing upward.

All eyes obediently lifted. Not so Deborah’s. She took advantage of the moment to elbow her way to the very center of the group. When Gray advanced a few steps, spurs jangling, and carefully scrutinized faces, her knees began to knock together. It never once occurred to her to appeal for help to her neighbors. Magistrates and constables would not accept her word against Lord Kendal’s. Then Quentin would be handed over to his guardian to do with as he pleased. She would never let that happen.

Her nerves steadied as Gray crossed the nave to the north porch, but when a dark-haired gentleman entered it and joined him, Deborah went sick with fright. Now there were two of them.

“This way, ladies and gentlemen,” said the cleric, and eyeing the two spurred gentlemen with hostility, he led the way toward the famous clock in the north transept, bringing his little flock to within a few yards of Gray and his companion.

“Watch for the knight.”

“What?” Deborah glanced abstractedly at the lady who had addressed her. She was plump, with rosy cheeks, and her garments were not unlike her own, that is, well made though far from fashionable. A prosperous farmer’s wife, by the look of her, thought Deborah.