The Gentleman's Quest (5 page)

Although Kit hoped the old man was making only a desultory check of the church, he turned unerringly toward the window where Kit and Miss Ingram crouched. Leaning close, Kit was ready to dive in front of her, should the fellow lift his rifle. But he only squinted and cleared his throat.

“Mr Marchant, is that you?”

S
ince Kit could not remember seeing the old man before, he remained wary until the fellow lowered his rifle and grinned, revealing some missing teeth.

“I’m John Sixpenny, sir,” he said. “I look after the chapel. It’s been on Oakfield land as long as I can remember. So I guess it’s yours now.”

“John Sixpenny, I could not be more happy to make your acquaintance,” Kit said, rising to his feet. He didn’t know if the old man survived on donations or some other source of income, but he planned to provide a hefty bonus for this day’s work.

“I’ve got a little place over there,” Sixpenny said, with a jerk of his head. “I’d be honored if you’d come have a bite to eat or a bit to drink.”

Kit nodded in thanks. A visit would gain them some time away from the riders who were searching for them. And another man, especially one armed with a rifle, was all to the good. Still, he glanced toward Miss Ingram, but she was already re
trieving her valise, and he hurried to lead Bay out of the church.

At the sight of the horse, the old man frowned, so Kit slipped him a coin for any damage to the floor. Following behind Sixpenny, they moved as quietly as possible along a barely discernible path, Kit carrying Miss Ingram’s baggage, while she clung tightly to her reticule.

They had not gone far when they came across a small structure overgrown with vines and plants. The crumbling remains of other buildings could be seen, but the forest had reclaimed whatever settlement that had once been here, except for the church and the home John Sixpenny had made for himself.

The house was an odd one, its stone base having been built up with timber and thatch. At some point, a lean-to for animals had been added onto one side, but it was empty now, and Kit tied Bay there, away from prying eyes. The inside of the home was odd, as well. For despite his wild appearance, Sixpenny kept it neater than a pin, and the fire burning in the hearth was welcome.

There were several simple wooden chairs, but Miss Ingram took a stance at the small window, as though to keep watch. She did not appear to trust their host, and her reticence made Kit refuse food and drink as politely as possible. Although he did not suspect Sixpenny of planning any mischief, his own bout with doctored cider made him leery of any offerings, no matter how innocent.

“Well, then, sir, is there anything else I can do for you?” Sixpenny asked, his blue eyes shrewd as he
glanced up from poking at the fire. “I can’t help but notice that you were hiding in my church, just when I chased a ruffian away from my graveyard.”

“Our carriage was attacked,” Kit said.

“The villains. A man isn’t safe in his own home any more, let alone on the roads,” the old man said, muttering a low string of imprecations. “Do you want to stay here?”

The question was one Kit had been mulling over himself. Sixpenny’s home was well hidden, but if the riders decided to search the area carefully, they would stumble across it, and Kit didn’t like the idea of being cornered—or putting the old man in danger.

The most expedient course would be to go back to the carriage, but one or more of their pursuers might be waiting there or watching for them. These riders were no ordinary footpads, who would scatter at the first sign of other travelers. They had not been fooled by the switched conveyances, and Kit could not count on the cowardly coachman to do anything, even wait for their return.

There was a third choice, and Kit looked toward Miss Ingram, wondering whether she would agree. John Sixpenny’s introduction had reminded him that they weren’t that far from Oakfield. Heading across open country, they could reach the manor without returning to the road. But they would have to ride together on Bay.

As if reading his thoughts, Miss Ingram glanced his way, and her calm gaze assured him that she could do whatever he asked. So while Kit thanked the old man, he refused the offer of sanctuary.

“I think we’d better keep moving,” he said, though he did not mention their destination. And Miss Ingram’s nearly imperceptible nod of approval told him he had made the right decision—for now.

Raven liked to claim he had trained her well, but nothing had prepared Hero for her current situation: riding behind Christopher Marchant, her arms wrapped around his torso. Given his startling effect upon her, it did not seem to be a wise position to be in. But she had refused to dangle sideways and insisted upon riding astride, her cloak tucked around her legs. And if Mr Marchant was shocked, he did not show it. In fact, the man seemed undisturbed by anything, from gun-wielding robbers to wild-eyed hermits.

His capability was appealing, and Hero had to fight the urge to lay her head upon his strong back and lean upon him, in more ways than one. She could feel his warmth even through their cloaks, and for someone who was perpetually cold, it was like cozying up to an oven, only better.

Yet she could just as easily be burned.

Despite her scattered wits, Hero realized that Mr Marchant was not what he seemed. At first glance, he appeared to be a simple rural resident whose every thought was visible upon his face, but he had surprised her too many times for her to believe that. And Hero did not like surprises. They were too dangerous.

Just who was this man? The shabby gentry did not own enough land to include an abandoned churchyard. Nor did they have the skills to snatch a women off her feet with one arm while riding on the back of
a horse. Nor did they hide beneath their simple clothes and relaxed demeanor a body that was hard with muscle.

Her suspicions aroused, Hero wondered whether Mr Marchant was spiriting her away for his own purposes. But pressed so close to him, she could not muster any panic. For protection, she had her pistol, though she did not know whether she would be able to fire at him. And what else was she to do? Hero could only follow instincts honed through years of doing Raven’s bidding.

Was that what he had planned? Surely, even Raven could not have anticipated her reaction to the attractive Mr Marchant. And yet, it was just the sort of thing he would find amusing, toying with her or testing her, safe in the knowledge that nothing could come of it.

“I’m going to ride right up to the house,” Mr Marchant said. His low voice dragged Hero from her thoughts and sent shivers dancing up her spine. “So we can get you inside as quickly as possible.”

“And then?”

“I’ll have someone go for the carriage, but you should be safe at Oakfield. I’ll send word to your uncle and hire some extra men to make sure we get you home as soon as can be arranged.”

He turned his head toward her, and the nearness of his face made Hero’s heart hammer. His skin was not pasty and pale like the antiquarians she usually met, but a deeper hue that bespoke time spent out of doors. His lashes were long and thick, his hair as dark as his eyes, and Hero wanted to reach up and push a stray lock from his forehead.

Instead, she shook her head. “What we need to do is find what they’re after. The book.”

Mr Marchant groaned. “Not that again! What of your coach, your footman, your
chaperone
?”

“I think we both know that we can’t go back there, and they provided little in the way of protection,” Hero said. “We’re better off by ourselves.”

Mr Marchant slanted her a dark look of speculation. “We can’t travel, just the two of us, unrelated and unmarried.”

“If you refuse to help me, I will have to go alone.”

“You’re not going anywhere alone,” Mr Marchant said with sudden ferocity, and Hero had to suppress a shiver.

“I assure you that I won’t accuse you of compromising me,” Hero offered.

“I’m not worried about myself!”

“Well, there is no need to worry about me,” Hero insisted. “I am a nobody with nothing to ruin.”

“Except your good name and your future,” Mr Marchant said. “Your uncle would hardly approve.”

“Raven couldn’t care less about my reputation,” Hero said. And neither her name or her future were of any consequence. To anyone.

“But you’re his niece,” Mr Marchant protested.

“Of sorts,” Hero said, though she did not elaborate. What was between her and Augustus Raven stayed between them. “He’s more concerned with his collections than people, which is why we should go to Cheswick.”

Mr Marchant sent her another speculative glance. “Let me make sure that I understand you correctly. On
the basis of a fragment of an old letter that might never have even been sent, you want to go searching for a book that could have been lost, destroyed or hidden beyond reach more than a century ago?”

“Exactly.”

Kit sat facing his guest, unsure what to make of her as he watched her pick at her supper. She didn’t look addled and had proposed her mad scheme without batting an eyelash. But how else could he explain such a proposal?

And yet, Kit had been tempted to agree, to bow to an urge to take action against the unseen foe, rather than kick his heels at Oakfield as he had been, brooding and impotent. But recent events had made him vow to become more responsible, not less so. And chasing after a snippet of torn paper with Augustus Raven’s niece was not exactly sensible behavior, especially after the ride to Oakfield had left him feeling a bit too close to the young woman for comfort.

Kit reached for his glass of wine, flush with the memory of Miss Ingram leaning close, her slender form pressed against his back, her thighs bumping against his own, and her throaty voice whispering in his ear.

He had ridden double with Sydony many a time in their younger days, but that, he had discovered, was not the same. During the quick trip to the abandoned church, they had been in too much danger for him to think about it, but on the longer jaunt to Oakfield, the difference became very apparent. And it was one more
reason not to travel unaccompanied with Miss Ingram, her assurances notwithstanding.

Of course, in the eyes of society, the damage was already done. They had been alone together for some time, enough to ruin any proper female. In fact, most young women would be having hysterics or fainting dead away at the very thought, yet Miss Ingram, as always, remained composed. Kit shot a glance at her, but her color wasn’t even high. Throughout the meal, she had said little, affirming what he already knew: Miss Ingram played her cards very close to her chest.

Kit frowned thoughtfully. He’d never been the suspicious type; that was Sydony’s job. But after all his sister’s wild theories had proven true, he’d begun to view the world differently. Instead of accepting everything at face value, he questioned what lurked beneath the surface. And as he looked across the table at his guest, he felt a twinge of doubt.

Hero Ingram could either be the most composed woman he’d ever met, or she could have some other reason for not turning a hair when her carriage was attacked. Perhaps she’d been unafraid because there was nothing to fear. Were the riders her uncle’s men, intent upon forcing his hand? But there was no denying the ball that had whizzed past his shoulder, Kit thought, shaking his head.

Another possibility, even more insidious, kept nagging at his thoughts. After all, what did he really know of the woman before him? Was she even who she claimed to be? Some of her comments had been so jarring as to make him wonder about her relationship with Augustus Raven.

The letter she presented to Kit could have been written by anyone. Those who accompanied her had been odd, at best, and seemed to have disappeared, along with the carriage. Although he’d sent Hob’s young helper Jack out to the road, the boy had found no sign of it.

Hob hadn’t returned, either, and Kit frowned at the darkness outside the windows. It had been just such a night as this when everyone in the household had been picked off. One by one, they had been lured away or drugged until no one was left except Sydony. Kit looked down at the mutton he had been eating and felt the sudden loss of his appetite.

A sound from the doorway made him glance up warily, but it was only Jack, half-hidden in the shadows, an expression of urgency upon his face.

“Excuse me,” Kit said, rising to his feet. He did not wait for Miss Ingram’s acknowledgment, but hurried to where the boy stood, drawing him farther into the other room for a whispered conference.

“What is it? Has Hob returned?”

His eyes wide, Jack shook his head. “No, sir, but when I was making the rounds, I saw a party coming toward Oakfield.”

“A party?” Kit echoed. His normally inactive imagination conjured up his worst nightmare, a cloaked group of so-called Druids intent upon a virgin sacrifice. Only this time, Miss Ingram would take his sister’s place.

“What kind of party?” he demanded.

“It’s the parish constable and a couple of his cronies, sir, and they’re nearly here,” Jack said, obviously agitated.

Kit felt some of the tension in his body ease. It was about time the local authorities, who had been noticeably absent before, stepped in to help. But something about the look on Jack’s face made him pause. “What’s wrong?”

The boy’s eyes grew even bigger, if that was possible. “They’re claiming to have a warrant straight from the magistrate for your arrest—on charges of kidnapping a lady!”

The idea was so outrageous, Kit might have laughed, but coming as it did upon the heels of their earlier peril, he was not amused. If he were taken away, Miss Ingram would have no protection at all as, one by one, those around her disappeared.
Just like Sydony.

After giving Jack some hurried instructions, Kit turned toward the open doorway and called softly to his guest, “Miss Ingram, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”

Although he had recently eyed her composure with dismay, now Kit was grateful for it. She evinced no alarm, but rose to her feet and moved toward him quickly, her golden brows lifted slightly in question.

“I’ve been told that the authorities are approaching with the intent of arresting me on a charge of kidnapping, presumably you. Now, we can either try to sort it out with the locals, who view Oakfield and anyone who resides here as in league with the devil. Or we can depart before their arrival.”

Miss Ingram took the news with her usual aplomb. “By all means, let us avoid any confrontations, especially since they might have been engineered to
destroy our alliance,” she said. “Just let me get my things.”