The Gentleman's Quest (7 page)

Kit was glad he had not gone down to confront them since he was already plagued by one arrest warrant. “These two may be similar in height, but that’s not the way our pursuers were dressed.”

Miss Ingram turned her head, as if to argue, but a knock came at the door, and she moved quickly away. She slid into a shadowed corner, as though expecting
the two men to burst in. Kit knew that was highly unlikely, but reached for his pistol nonetheless just as the door opened to admit a harried-looking chambermaid.

After handing them a tray of food, she lit the fire and was on her way, leaving them to their supper. Kit let Miss Ingram have the chair and pushed the bed stairs between them, so that she could place her plate on the top step while he sat on the floor and used the bottom.

The room was dark but for the fire, and for a while they ate in silence, broken only by the crack of the logs. Kit told himself that the only difference between this night and the last was that their room was smaller and better appointed. Yet somehow this evening seemed more intimate. Perhaps it was the earlier hour or the fact that they were sharing a meal.

Last night Kit had leaned against a door, staring at a dark shape that was hardly recognizable. But tonight, the firelight danced across Miss Ingram’s face, highlighting the line of her cheek, the curve of her lips. Her skin glowed golden, and Kit wished she would take off that wretched cap, so he could see her hair…

“What?”

It wasn’t until she spoke that Kit realized he was staring, and he looked down at his plate. He was tempted to tell her that she need not wear the cap in here, with only the two of them to see, but perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.

“Nothing,” Kit muttered. He needed to gain more control over his thoughts, especially since his companion appeared completely unmoved by their nearness,
the firelight and the night outside. Yet when she reached for her wine, Kit could have sworn her hand was shaking.
Perhaps Miss Ingram was not unmoved, after all.

“How can you be sure those weren’t our two men?” she asked.

Kit barked out a low laugh. Now he was assured that Miss Ingram was not as entranced as he by their intimate supper. She was all business, a reminder that he would do well to heed. “Because they wore the livery of the Duke of Montford,” he said.

“So?”

“So, I doubt that the duke’s men are out searching for a book on Druid lore,” he said, spearing a forkful of beef.

“And why not?” she countered. “The Prince Regent himself is a great collector, as is the Duke of Devonshire. The book madness strikes any and all, regardless of station. No less an authority than Reverend Thomas Dibin claims that it lasts year-round and through all of human existence.”

“Perhaps,” Kit acknowledged, “but I can’t see a nobleman hiring thugs or arranging a kidnapping.”

“Even to acquire such a rare book?”

“Even to acquire such a rare book,” Kit said. He suspected that greed did not drive their pursuers, but something darker and twisted.

“I don’t know. I’ve heard tales that you would not countenance,” Miss Ingram said. “Stories of thievery and forgery, of collectors who have bought back their own books after having sold them or given them away, of despondent souls who killed themselves over lost
libraries. One antiquarian actually bought a property that had been owned by the astrologer John Dee in the hopes that valuable books might be buried there.”

Kit would have laughed at that example, if it hadn’t hit too close to home—his home. Although the Mallory hadn’t been buried at Oakfield, that hadn’t stopped people from digging up the grounds for it.

“The most avid formed their own society, the Roxburghe Club, after the Duke of Roxburghe’s collection went up for sale. And you must have heard of Richard Heber, who is filling several homes with books to the very ceilings, purportedly over a hundred thousand and counting.”

“And I thought my father was devoted to them,” Kit said with a shake of his head.

Miss Ingram paused to study him anew. “I’m surprised you did not catch his mania,” she said, as though she suspected Kit of hiding his expertise.

“I never shared my father’s singular fascination with study. I loved him, and I’m very grateful for his tutoring and his gentle wisdom, but he seemed to prefer the inside of his books to the world itself. And that wasn’t for me—or Syd,” he said with a grin.

“Syd?”

“My sister Sydony.”

“An unusual name.”

“She’s an unusual woman,” Kit said. He slanted her a glance. “Actually, you remind me a lot of her.”

Miss Ingram ducked her head. “And your mother? Was she fond of books?”

Kit drew a deep breath. “She died when I was young.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps that is why your father sought to escape into his work.”

The romantic suggestion coming from the pragmatic Miss Ingram made Kit look at her in surprise. But as always, her face, bent over her plate, revealed nothing.

“Perhaps,” Kit said. He barely remembered his mother, so he could not recall if his father had behaved differently, and yet he’d always felt the loss. It might well be that Miss Ingram was right, and his father, always a scholar, had simply retreated further into his pages.

“What of your parents?” Kit asked. “Are they collectors?”

“They, too, are dead,” Miss Ingram said briskly. Putting down her fork, she set aside her plate.

“I’m sorry,” Kit said. “Have you been long without them?”

“Long enough,” she said. “Now, before we head to Cheswick tomorrow, let’s go over a few things.”

The sudden change of subject took Kit by surprise. Had the conversation become too personal, or was Miss Ingram loath to reveal anything of herself?

“As you probably know, libraries are often arranged according to the owner’s specifications,” she said, and from her tone, Kit realized that the earlier intimacy would not return.

“A collector may group his prizes together by subject, date of publication, date of acquisition, or any other method that strikes his fancy or the fancy of whoever handles the purchase and cataloging of the books,” she said.

“Well, that’s helpful,” Kit noted drily.

Miss Ingram’s mouth quirked at that, and Kit realized just how rarely she smiled. Here in the glow of the firelight, even that gentle curve of her lips was delightful and alluring—and all too fleeting. What had made her so serious, and how could he coax more smiles from her when their situation was not exactly humorous?

“One famous collector housed his volumes in presses decorated with Roman personages, so there would be no way of knowing where to find something without looking through his ‘emperor system’,” she said. “And Samuel Pepys shelved according to size.”

Her descriptions only confirmed Kit’s opinion that their search was futile. But he knew that she would not be satisfied until she realized the truth: that they weren’t going to find a copy of the Mallory. If he didn’t know how dangerous the book was, he might even wish for her to obtain it, if only as reward for her dogged persistence.

“So how do you expect to find anything, let alone a volume that’s been missing for a century?” he asked.

“I’ll see when we get there.”

Kit did not bother to ask how they were going to gain access to the Earl of Cheswick’s library. Perhaps tomorrow, Miss Ingram would see for herself that her quest was impossible. And then…like the gentleman that he was, Kit would have to deliver her safely into the hands of her uncle. Unharmed. And untouched.

Kit might rue his earlier claim, but it was not something he could deny. Although honor was not much discussed in the Marchant home, his father had made
his expectations clear, and his children did their utmost to live up to them. It had not required much effort on Kit’s part. He had never been tempted by the dissipations that once had threatened Barto’s future, and his most difficult challenge had been holding the Mar-chants together after the death of their parent.

But now, alone in a shadowed bedroom with a woman like no other, Kit began to sweat. Somehow, he didn’t believe that this was the sort of test his father could ever have imagined.

Bringing Bay to a halt at the edge of the hill, Kit looked down at the house that lay nestled below. The afternoon sun lent a golden glow to the front of the neat stone structure and glittered off three stories of windows. Cheswick wasn’t one of the grandest homes in the land, but it was grand enough to make Kit think twice about breaking into it.

“Well, here we are,” he said, turning to his companion. “What do you suggest we do?”

Kit had expected that Miss Ingram might veer from her course when confronted with the sight of the ancestral home of the Earls of Cheswick. But she evinced no doubt or confusion, simply eyeing the estate with her usual calm deliberation.

Then, glancing around her, she frowned. “First, we need to find a place where I can change.”

Kit swallowed a grunt of surprise. He could understand her wish to get out of boy’s clothing, but how? He only hoped that she did not intend to march into Cheswick, demanding the use of a dressing room.

Thankfully, she did not. Nor did she attempt to use
any of the numerous outbuildings. “Too many servants. Too many eyes,” she told him, turning away from the house. Instead, she rode into a copse of trees and dismounted.

Kit followed, dismounting, as well, though he was unsure of her intention until she shook out the blanket and flung it over some branches. The next thing he knew, her hat and coat were perched upon a limb, too.

Kit found himself staring at the sight of her head and shoulders visible above the makeshift curtain. Then he blew out a breath and promptly turned around. He had slept a few feet from her the past two nights, but he was not prepared to watch while she removed her clothing with only a thin piece of material standing between them.

His back to her, Kit could not see what was happening, yet he could hear well enough. And he tried not to picture what else was being removed. Her shirt? The breeches? Did she wear a shift beneath? She had to be cold, and the inevitable reaction of certain parts of her anatomy had certain parts of Kit’s anatomy reacting, as well.

Drawing in a harsh breath, Kit concentrated on keeping a lookout, rather than taking a look behind. Just because the two fellows they saw at the Long Man were liveried servants in the employ of a duke, did not mean he could lapse into inattention. And the thought of anyone coming upon Miss Ingram in a state of undress kept him alert.

“I’m ready.”

Although Kit was surprised to hear Miss Ingram speak so soon, he swung round only to gape in wonder.
Surely no female had ever dressed herself so quickly—or transformed herself so completely.

The boy with the cap was gone, replaced by a prim young woman, her gloved hands clasped in front of her, her eyes downcast. Having acquired a taste for the sight of those long legs clad in breeches, Kit was prepared for disappointment. But a glimpse of a revealing bodice, visible below the ties of her cloak, banished all such concerns. In fact, he could have spent some time savoring the view, but Hero was already turning away from the trees.

Abruptly, Kit was reminded of their whereabouts, and he realized that they still faced the problem of gaining access to Cheswick, no matter what Miss Ingram’s guise. He shot her a speculative glance. “Now what?” And he didn’t know whether to be encouraged or disappointed when she answered without hesitation.

“We take the tour.”

A
s Hero had hoped, Cheswick’s housekeeper was authorized to give tours of the great house, and who could refuse Mr Marchant and his sister, two genteel tourists visiting the countryside?

Although Mr Marchant accompanied her without protest, he said little, and Hero was forced to comment admiringly on the elegant furnishings and works of art, while keeping her eye out for books. Yet as they moved from one spacious room to another, she didn’t see any. Had she made a misjudgment? Although she knew the current earl was no collector, she didn’t think he had sold off the family’s library. But if not here, where?

Hero tried to recall what she knew of the man, including his other properties. Perhaps Cheswick was too new and had never housed the Mallory. When had the family gained the earldom, and where had they lived before? Hero wondered frantically. If the volume was not here, she would have to look elsewhere, for
whether Raven had orchestrated this little jaunt or not, he would expect her to return with the prize in hand.

Despite her growing unease, Hero kept up a constant stream of chatter for the benefit of the housekeeper. But she must have given something away, for Mr Marchant shot her a speculative glance. Even as she ignored it, Hero felt suspicion roil through her again. Did he know something she did not? Is that why he hadn’t wanted to come here?

Just when Hero was trying to work out what she might do next, Mrs Spratling stopped before a closed door, opened it and ushered them through, with a curt explanation. “His lordship doesn’t often use this room, so it is usually kept shut, but it’s a fine library.”

Indeed it was. All four walls were lined with shelves, and all of those shelves were lined with books. Yet the room was open and airy, as was all of Cheswick, a relatively new house with none of the quirks of Raven Hill. Breathing in the scents of bindings, paper and beeswax, Hero felt her tension ease. She could have spent weeks browsing, but she knew they didn’t have that sort of time.

Catching Mr Marchant’s eye, she inclined her head toward the opposite wall, so that they might each search a section. As he had since their first acquaintance, Mr Marchant seemed to understand her direction without any speech passing between them. And when he casually strolled away, Hero turned to face the shelves. She paused, her hands behind her back, as though gazing in wonder at their contents. However, she was more interested in discovering their order, and she had to bite back a cry of dismay at what was soon evident.

The books in Cheswick’s library were carefully arranged, but not by a system that would do Hero any good. As she stared at the great blocks of hues, Hero cursed the earl or his decorator or whoever had decided it would be stylish to order the library according to the color of the covers.

Since Hero had no idea what the Mallory looked like, her only option was to seek out older volumes. However, a book’s condition depended upon a number of variables besides its age. If secreted safely away for a number of those years, it would bear few marks of usage, but if tossed in the cellar or worse, it could be damaged beyond repair.

Hero’s heart sank as she eyed the shelves. While this collection was not vast, there were far too many books to search quickly. And the housekeeper already was making noises about returning to her work.

“Oh, but the books are all so pretty,” Hero said. She turned to smile at the woman, then walked to where Mr Marchant was pondering the editions along the opposite wall.

“See how cleverly those are grouped,” she said aloud. But her whispered message was far different. “We need more time.”

“And how do you propose we arrange that?” Mr Marchant asked.

“Bribe the housekeeper?” It was no secret that most of the staff of these large homes were underpaid and overworked, but this one didn’t have the slack-jawed look of desperation. Still, it was worth an effort.

Turning away from Mr Marchant, Hero walked the perimeter of the room, checking the rows for a volume
that appeared old or pushed behind another. And all the while, she chattered away about her love of novels with the hope of distracting the servant.

Since Mr Marchant continued his inspection in silence, Hero could only deduce that he was unwilling to offer money to the woman or that he was waiting for the right moment. But it soon became clear that they could delay no longer.

With a loud harrumph, Mrs Spratling planted her formidable form directly in front of Mr Marchant. “I’m afraid I must insist that we move on.”

“Oh, please don’t say so,” Hero said, with an expression of dismay. “Couldn’t we just look around a bit longer? Christopher, give this wonderful woman a little something to let us linger. This is the most beautiful library we’ve seen yet.”

But Mrs Spratling would have none of it. “His lordship doesn’t allow for lingering,” she said, her lips pursed. “He’s having a ball tonight, and his party will be arriving soon.”

“A ball!” Hero clapped her hands with feigned delight. “Did you hear that, Christopher?”

Behind the housekeeper’s back, Mr Marchant shot her a pained look, which she promptly ignored.

“What kind of ball is it?”

“A masquerade,” Mrs Spratling said, unbending a bit. “His lordship does love the theatricals and such.”

“Oh, I can only imagine what sort of things they wear,” Hero said. She donned her most ingratiating expression as she turned to the housekeeper. “I suppose you have a hand in arranging them all.”

Mrs Spratling shook her head, but she smiled, ob
viously flattered. “His lordship does keep costumes on hand for those who aren’t prepared, but I just have to lay them out, keep them all in good condition. It’s the ball itself that I—”

Hero cut her off. “Oh, please, you must let us see! Just a peek,” Hero wheedled. “I’ll bet you have your favorites.”

“Well, I…” Mrs Spratling smiled. “I do have a couple that I recommend, only if the ladies or gentlemen ask for my assistance, of course.”

“Oh, you must show us, just for a moment, and they’ll we’ll be off, straight out the door,” Hero said. She squealed with glee when Mrs Spratling nodded her agreement and hurried to the woman’s side. Thankfully, Mr Marchant had the sense not to say anything, and as soon as the housekeeper marched ahead, Hero fell back, grabbing his arm to pull him close.

“We’re going to the ball,” she whispered.

When he turned to her with a dubious expression and a protest upon his lips, she shook her head to silence him. “You distract her while I get some costumes for us.”

And before he could argue, Hero moved toward Mrs Spratling, more flattery upon her lips. It had been her experience that most people loved to show off what meant the most to them. Obviously, the housekeeper was proud of the grand home in her charge, but she also had a soft spot for fripperies, the creative bent of her master and her own opinion, all of which Hero used to gain entrance to the dressing room, where the masquerades were kept.

Mrs Spratling swung open the door, and Hero stepped inside just as a loud thump echoed behind them. Hero did not pause, but hurried forward, scanning the room for what she could slip inside her cloak. Unfortunately, most of the garments appeared to be housed in matching wardrobes, and she did not know how much time she had. Mr Marchant was quick-witted, but the housekeeper would not be diverted for long.

A domino with an odd mask that could be folded lay upon the arm of an Egyptian couch, perhaps in need of mending, but it would serve her purpose. Rolling it as quickly and tightly as possible, Hero tucked it inside her cloak. On a nearby table was a set of brightly colored garments. Hero snatched up the top items, then spread another on the couch in place of the domino, just as she heard Mrs Spratling’s loud step behind her.

“Look at these,” Hero said. “Did you make them yourself?”

But Mrs Spratling’s mood had been ruined by Mr Marchant’s stumble and subsequent complaints about the slickness of the floors.

“Certainly not. His lordship employs seamstresses for such tasks,” she said. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room with the look of a general inspecting his troops. Hero inched in front of the couch, hoping that the missing domino would not be marked. She held her breath, heart pounding, until Mr Marchant provided another distraction.

“Are the costumes in here?” he asked loudly, limping to one of the wardrobes.

“Don’t touch that,” the housekeeper said. Barreling past Mr Marchant, she opened the doors to display a variety of hanging items, as well as numerous masques and headdresses.

“There. As you can see, his lordship likes to keep a good supply on hand, especially for those he favors,” she said with a sweep of a beefy hand. Obviously, she no longer intended to show them any contents of the wardrobes, Mr Marchant having fallen out of her graces literally. “Now, I have work to do, so you must be off.”

Hero nodded, but waited for the woman to lead the way before moving from her position. Mrs Spratling’s small eyes narrowed as she glanced behind her, as if looking for something. And Hero held her breath.

“I thought we were going,” Mr Marchant said, coming to the rescue again. “I dare say I think I might need your help, ma’am, for I can hardly walk. If you could just let me take your arm until we reach one of the carpets. Sister, if you would assist me, as well?”

Hero would have smiled at Mr Marchant’s posturing, if her heart hadn’t been pounding so fiercely. Pulling her cloak close around her, she loosed a low sigh of relief at escaping the dressing room. She had maintained her composure in worse situations, with no one to count on except herself. But she wasn’t sure that she could have managed this time, and she suspected that Mr Marchant had saved her from discovery.

As she took his arm, Hero was hard pressed to maintain her charade, for his effect on her was anything but brotherly. Fighting off the urge to press herself closer, she reminded herself that Mr Marchant was not what he seemed.

Nothing appeared to disturb him, not highwaymen, nor arresting authorities, nor difficult travels or accommodations.
Not even a sudden need for posing and deception.
On the contrary, he appeared to take everything in his stride, perhaps even thriving on their adventures.

Glancing surreptitiously in his direction, Hero noted that the dark circles under his eyes were gone. Had the grief and anger she had once seen been real, or had it all been a pose? And was Mr Marchant simply an actor playing a part?

As Sydony often said, there was very little that rattled Kit, but skulking around the Earl of Cheswick’s property was one of them. After practically being thrown out of the home by the housekeeper, Kit was anxious to make their escape. But Miss Ingram insisted upon looking over the outbuildings and admiring the grounds, though nothing was blooming this late in the year.

“Haven’t you seen enough,
sister
?” Kit asked, when a stable boy eyed them quizzically. He’d begun to wonder if she was like Lady Caroline Lamb, who was rumored to dress as a man, courting danger and pushing the boundaries of society. But Miss Ingram claimed she was checking out all available structures for later use.

“
Later
when?” Kit asked. “And
use
by whom?”

She only shook her head, smiled at the stable boy, and continued on her way. When, at last, she had seen her fill, Kit coaxed her back to the horses, eager to leave before the earl and his party arrived—or Miss Ingram’s theft was discovered.

After they exited the graveled drive that led to Cheswick, Kit breathed a sigh of relief, for no shouts rose from behind them, and there were no signs of pursuing footmen. “Don’t we have enough people chasing us without you stealing from the Earl of Cheswick?” he asked, slanting her a glance.

“How else were we going to get into the ball?”

Kit groaned.

“We need more time to find the book.”

As if posing as brother and sister, conning Cheswick’s housekeeper and outright theft weren’t enough, Miss Ingram wanted to return? Kit shook his head. Her facility for deception made him leery, for a woman who fooled everyone else might be fooling him, too. If she were playing some sort of game, it could have deadly consequences that she didn’t anticipate. And it made Kit’s task even more difficult, for how could he protect Miss Ingram from herself?

Once Hero was back in her disguise, it was easier to get a room without dealing with maids—or separating. As difficult as it was to spend the night with her, Kit was not about to leave her alone. And he insisted they take time to eat a meal.

But as soon as the sun set, they headed back to Cheswick. The terrain was familiar now, and they tethered their horses in a stand of trees well enough away to avoid the footmen and grooms and arriving guests. Under the cover of darkness, they hurried closer to the house, Miss Ingram steering him toward a small shed.

Apparently, this is what she had meant by later use,
for she opened the door and slipped inside, motioning for Kit to follow. He swallowed a protest, for this trespass probably would be the least of his worries before the night was over. Still, Kit balked when he saw the shadowy shapes of a large table and various gardening implements.

“A potting shed?” he muttered. Were they going to take a turn at impersonating the earl’s outdoor staff, as well?

“I was hoping there would be more room,” Miss Ingram said, moving over so that he could join her inside.

“For what?” Kit asked. Stepping into the dark and dusty interior, he was assailed by the smell of soil and manure. His eyes were still adjusting to the lack of light when Miss Ingram shut the door, plunging them into pitch blackness.

“For dressing,” she said. “We can change in here and walk to the house.”

Kit blinked blindly.
“What?”

“Here’s your costume.” She pushed something into his gut, and Kit grunted. Although he grabbed the bundle, he was still reeling from the idea that they should change clothes here. In the dark. Alone. Together.

“I should wait outside,” Kit said, clearing his suddenly dry throat. “It’s too cramped in here.”