The Gentleman's Quest (9 page)

“It was given to one of your ancestors, Martin Cheswick, for safekeeping,” Hero said, in a not-so-subtle attempt to lay claim to the volume.

The earl dropped his quizzing glass with a look of annoyance. “Well, that’s a sad disappointment. I had hoped for something a bit more interesting. A scandal broth, a bamboozle…a ménage à trois,” he said, with a hopeful glance.

Kit shook his head.

Sighing, the earl waved a hand to encompass the room. “Well, you are welcome to it. I’ve no use for them, though they are pleasing to the eye. And really, what else can you fill the shelves with, except books?”

“I take it you aren’t a collector?” Kit asked.

“Good heavens, no,” the earl said, with a shudder. “Spare me from the dusty old mopes, although I do have an antiquarian costume that is rather amusing.”

Obviously, the earl would have no idea what was or was not in his library, and while his offer was magnanimous, Kit didn’t put much stock in it. Such a frippery fellow might be prone to whims and on to the next fancy before they could finish their search.

“Are they catalogued?” Hero asked, as though the same concern had crossed her mind.

“Lud, no!” the earl said. “I believe Father engaged a man to do that—Richard Poynter, was it? A waste of coin, if you ask me, and I have no intention of throwing good money after bad.”

He looked around the room with a shrug. “I don’t care what’s here, as long as they look well. In fact, I think the architect had blank pages bound to his specifications in many cases. I certainly didn’t want any of Father’s old ones, horrid, musty, smelly things. That’s why I sold them off.”

“You sold your family’s collection?” Hero asked.

“And why not?” the earl asked. “They meant nothing to me.”

Kit could tell the earl was growing bored with the conversation, and he rushed to ask the most important question.

“Were the books sold at auction? Do you have a record of the buyers?”

“I don’t need a record,” the earl said. “I can tell you right now where they all went. We broke them up into four lots, very neat and tidy, and sold only to those among my acquaintances who like that sort of thing.” He paused, as though proud of his own cleverness.

“The Greek went to Devonshire, for far too paltry a sum, I might add. The Latin I gave to Chauncey Jamison, a decent enough fellow I went to school with. Apparently, he’s joined the antiquarian society and fancies himself some sort of scholar now,” the earl said with a derisive laugh.

“And the rest?” Hero asked.

“The French went to Claude Guerrier, as he is known since his hasty exit from his own country, and the English to Marcus Featherstone.”

“You sorted the books according to the language of the text?” Kit asked, trying to keep the surprise from his voice.

The earl gave a regal nod, obviously pleased with himself. “I couldn’t be bothered with a protracted sale, so messy and time-consuming, dithering over every single volume.”

“But I thought…” Hero began, only to pause, as if to reconsider her words. “That is, I had heard that one of the lots went to Augustus Raven.”

“That queer fish? Certainly not,” the earl said. “Why, the fellow has no taste. Have you seen that monstrosity of his, Raven Hill? Spare me from the Gothic lovers!” He shuddered.

“Thank you so much for your help…your Grace,”
Kit said hurriedly before Hero might betray her identity. “We have taken up far too much of your precious time when your guests are waiting.”

“Yes, we should go,” Hero said. Taking Kit’s lead, she began backing toward the door.

“But you must stay! As king of all I survey, I command you. And a private audience with you, my mysterious Harlequin, is in order,” the earl said, pointedly eyeing Kit. “Perhaps you’d like to get out of that tight costume. I own I fear for you. Constriction of the blood. We wouldn’t want any…damage.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Kit said. “But I’m afraid I can’t leave my…sister.”

“A pity,” the earl said, putting his quizzing glass to his face once more to scrutinize his guests. Although Kit felt no sense of threat, he was aware of just how long they had been ensconced in the library as trespassers. And who knew what awaited them outside?

Hero was already at the door, and when she pulled the chair away from it, it burst open.

“My lord, are you all right?” A man stumbled over the threshold, a bit breathlessly. Kit couldn’t tell if the fellow was a butler or simply masquerading as one, and he did not intend to linger long enough to find out.

“Of course I’m all right,” the earl said, waving his scepter. “Behold my new subjects.”

But Hero had already exited, and Kit was quick to follow. He hurried after her, hoping they could escape into the crowd before a hue and cry was raised against them. But no shouts erupted from behind, and they slowed their pace so as to draw no attention.

Yet they did not pause until they reached the tall
doors that led outside, and there only long enough to make sure they were not marked before they slipped into the night air. Kit blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a welcome cloak after the brightly lit, perfumed rooms. There was no one to note their movements on the lawn, and they veered away from the stables and any signs of activity.

Although the small shed seemed a veritable haven, Kit approached it carefully and nudged at the door, lest someone be waiting for them inside. But all was dark and silent, just as they had left it. Still, he did not intend to linger, and, once inside, he put his garments on over the Harlequin costume. He gave no thought to the closeness of his companion and didn’t even care if his trousers were on backward, so eager was he to quit Cheswick.

Hero, who had only to remove her domino, was already finished and silent in the darkness, and Kit was struggling into his coat when he heard voices outside. He didn’t need Hero’s sudden grip upon his arm to stay his hand; he froze where he was, one sleeve on, the other off.

“They aren’t here, I tell you.”

It was not the man’s voice, but his words, that chilled Kit, and he strained to listen.

“And how would you know when everyone’s wearing costumes?” a second voice asked. The two must have been walking, for Kit heard the crunch of gravel growing closer, and he tensed. If men were searching the outbuildings for their unnamed quarry, he would be of little use, trussed halfway up in his coat.

“Because I talked to the servants, that’s how, and there aren’t any guests that aren’t accounted for, with maids and valets all.”

“What of those who aren’t staying at the house?” the second voice asked. Were their steps slowing? Kit curled the fingers of his free hand into a fist.

“I’ve talked to every coachman here. You don’t think they drove themselves, did you?” The tone was mocking, and Kit heard the other man curse as the footsteps resumed.

“Maybe,” the other man said. “I wouldn’t put anything past them. Didn’t they ride—?”

Although Kit held his breath, he could not make out what else the fellow said, and he dared not lean toward the side of the shed, lest he blindly knock into something, calling attention to their presence. He waited, poised for trouble, but eventually, both the voices and the footsteps faded as the two men passed out of earshot.

When Hero finally loosed his arm, Kit tugged on the rest of his coat and stepped to the door, easing it open slightly. In the surrounding night, all was silent, and he saw no sign of a presence nearby.

“There! Look toward the stables,” Hero whispered beside him.

Kit glanced in that direction and saw two men approaching the structure, but others milled about as well, coachmen, stable hands and the like. There was no telling if the two men Hero noticed were the same they had heard talking. But Kit could see why she had pointed them out.

Even in the pale lantern light, there was no mistak
ing the fact that the men wore livery, and Kit recognized the now familiar insignia of the Duke of Montford.

T
he exhilaration Kit had felt after their escape from the library was short-lived, deflated by the odd conversation they had overheard and Hero’s concern over it. She hadn’t even wanted to return to the inn, but Kit convinced her that they needed to get their things and rest the horses.

It was too late to set out upon the road to London and too cold to sleep in the open. And despite her insistence otherwise, Kit did not want Hero falling from her mount along some dark road. A fire, some food and some rest were what they both needed.

The hour was such that Kit was fairly certain they had not been followed back to their small lodgings. He had even been forced to wake a sleepy boy in the inn yard to tend the horses. And a quick exploration of the area revealed no one lingering suspiciously in the courtyard or beyond.

Even the common room was quiet, with only a few travelers or locals drinking ale before seeking their
beds. Yet once ensconced in their room, Hero took up a stance at the window, as though she intended to keep watch all night.

“We don’t know that those men were after us,” Kit said.

She turned, her face in shadow. “Then who is?”

Although Kit wasn’t sure himself, he doubted the Duke of Montford was responsible. Yet Hero seemed so convinced, he slanted her a speculative glance.

“You think I know?” she asked, as though taken aback.

Kit shrugged. Although he hadn’t accused her of anything, even the most oblivious dolt would have wondered about his companion, who had proven herself adept at all manners of deception.

“You think this is all part of some elaborate scheme of
mine
?” she asked him sharply.

But Kit was not cowed by her anger, if that’s what it was. “Let’s put it this way—if you know anything that would be helpful, now’s the time to tell me.”

“I could ask the same of you,” she said.

Kit bit back a laugh. “You don’t trust me?”

“Should I?”

Kit snorted. “Then I’d say we are at an impasse.” Yet suddenly, it didn’t feel like one. In fact, their parrying had only seemed to heighten the tension between them, and Kit was struck with a want so powerful he didn’t know whether he could contain it. He stood still, unwilling to move, lest he march across the room, take her in his arms and continue where he had left off in the library.

As if Hero could see his intent, she drew in a sharp
breath and turned to look out the window. When she spoke again, it was over her shoulder, her tone so distant that she appeared to put more than her back between them. “You cannot deny that the duke’s men were there, just as they were at the first inn where we stayed,” she said.

This time her coolness prevailed, and Kit was grateful for it, even though all of his senses screamed a protest. Running a hand through his hair, he ignored the clamoring of his body and tried to engage his brain.

“We cannot know that those two men we heard talking were discussing us,” he said. “Or that they were the fellows dressed in the duke’s livery. Or that those two were even the duke’s men. They could have been wearing costumes.”

“The earl’s guests wouldn’t be traipsing about the stables,” Hero said. “And those were the same men we saw before. I recognized the livery.”

“Perhaps,” Kit conceded. “But the duke could be traveling, as we are, and attending the earl’s ball.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Hero said.

Kit didn’t, either, anymore, but he was not sure what to make of the sightings. “All right. Let’s say those two are the ones pursuing us. Why would the Duke of Montford send a couple of thugs to kidnap you? Do you know him?”

“I know of him. He is a respected collector, so I can only assume he’s infected with book madness and willing to do anything to get his prize.” Turning her head, she eyed Kit directly. “Which makes it all the more imperative that we find the Mallory.”

Kit shook his head at her stubborn certainty. It was
one thing to stop at Cheswick on their way to London, quite another to go elsewhere, continuing a lunatic search for something that might not even exist.

As if judging his mood, Hero continued. “I’ve found needles in haystacks before,” she claimed.

Kit did not doubt her. “But this is different, unless you regularly tear around the country with a man who is no relation,” he said, fixing her with an inquiring gaze.

“Of course not.”

“Well, then, the longer we dally, the more hue and cry will be raised over your disappearance.”

“Perhaps,” Hero acknowledged, looking away. “Perhaps not.”

“Your chaperone has gone missing, there’s a warrant for my arrest, and you don’t think your uncle will be concerned and alert the authorities?”

“He was not expecting me back for some time, so unless someone informs him of recent events, Raven will spare no thoughts for me,” Hero said. “And even if he should become aware of the change in my circumstances, he would hardly raise a hue and cry. Raven’s main concern always is the acquisition, and he will not question where I am or what I am doing until he is certain that I have not been successful.”

Kit tried to absorb that bald statement and all it implied. He knew that not everyone shared his genteel upbringing. In a world where poor children were bought and sold and even royal progeny bartered away in marriage with no consideration of their wishes, Hero’s situation was not that startling. And yet Kit was shocked and outraged. And if her uncle cared so little for her, where did that leave Kit?

Although he tried to mask his reaction, Hero must have seen it, for she returned her attention to the window. And when she spoke, she made it clear that the subject was closed. “What we must do is seek out the lot of English language books that went to Marcus Featherstone.”

Kit groaned. “Do you even know the man?”

“I have heard of him, since he collects. He has a town house in London.”

“But if all the English books were sold to him, then how did your uncle get the scrap of letter?”

Hero shrugged, but would not face him. “Perhaps Featherstone later parted with that volume or lost it in a game of chance. I understand he’s an inveterate gambler.”

Or, considering Kit’s rapidly dropping opinion of Augustus Raven, there were other possibilities. A man who did not take care of his own niece might be unscrupulous in his dealings with others. Had he stolen the paper? Suddenly, the idea of continuing their quest didn’t seem so insane. At least, Kit could continue to protect Hero from any who would do her harm—even her uncle.

“All right,” Kit said. “Let’s get some sleep so we can head to Featherstone’s town house. But no more costumes, please.”

Hero’s lips curved slightly, whether in amusement or relief at his assent Kit wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I’m not used to working with anyone.”

Kit did not comment on her use of the word
working
, which only confirmed his earlier opinion of Augustus Raven. “Well, let’s forge an alliance then.”

Her delicate brows lowered, as though she was studying him with more than her usual care. “I can see how you would be of help to me, but what possible reason would you have for this alliance?”

Kit grinned. “I told you before. I’m a gentleman.”

She did not seem well satisfied with that explanation, but Kit didn’t know what else to tell her. Obviously, she thought he had his own reasons for staying with her, and he did, but they were not any he wanted to share at this point. And if he had not convinced her thus far of his honesty, he did not know how else to do so.

Instead, he turned his thoughts toward the morrow as he climbed into one of the two beds available, grateful for a soft berth after the last few nights. Trying not to listen to the sounds of Hero seeking her own rest, he focused on which roads would be best to take to London without alerting their enemies, whoever they might be.

The uncertainty was frustrating, and Kit felt as if he were groping blindly in the dark, unsure of what lay ahead or behind. Cut off from any source of information, he didn’t know whether word had spread of the warrant for his arrest or if it had been quietly withdrawn, remaining a local matter. Despite what Hero said, had some hue and cry been raised about her disappearance? Kit had seen no broadsheets with his picture on them, but he did not fancy being carted off to prison by some sharp-eyed fellow on the lookout for felons.

But in order to get news, he would have to make contact with someone he trusted, a dangerous prospect at best. Still, Kit was tempted to appeal to his old
friend Barto, a nobleman with the wealth and resources to provide aid. Kit and Hero could rusticate at Hawthorne Park while everything was sorted out. But how could he convince Hero, who already distrusted him, to abandon the search that drove her?

And as much as Kit would like to call a meeting of the knights of the round table of his youth, what would he tell his old friend, especially of Hero? Both Barto and Syd would have questions for him that he couldn’t answer. And even feeling the way he did, Kit wasn’t sure whether Hero was involved up to her pretty neck in some deeper deception. Was that really the kind of introduction he wanted to give to his sister and future brother-in-law?

No matter what the truth was, Kit did not want them to think ill of Hero. It was a petty reason, and so he added to it the fact that Syd and Barto would be deep in planning their wedding, and he did not want to disturb a happy time that had been so long in coming.

So, if not Hawthorne Park, where? Kit had few relatives, and his friends were clustered around where Barto lived. Frowning in the darkness, Kit knew they couldn’t return to Oakfield, but there was another stop on the way to London that might yield up some answers.

“Hero?” Kit whispered, lest she already be asleep.

“What?” Her tone was one of caution, perhaps even tinged with alarm. And who could blame her after what had happened in the earl’s library? Before, their dealings had been all business, but now a certain awareness seemed to have seeped into their every encounter.

Kit hurried to explain himself. “I’m thinking of stopping in Piketon.”

“What?”

“That’s where my coachman originally wanted to meet us.”

“But I thought he was to leave the coach at Burrell?”

“He urged me to meet him at Piketon, where we could exchange carriages, but I didn’t like the idea of dropping the ruse so soon. Not that it mattered,” Kit added wryly. “But if something went awry with his plans or he returned to find chaos at Oakfield, he might go there, in the hopes of contacting us.”

Kit paused to glance toward the other bed, but could see little in the darkness. “He’s more than a simple coachman.”

“Just as you are more than a gentleman farmer.”

Hero’s statement sounded like an accusation, and Kit snorted. “Hardly. Or I would have prevented my sister’s abduction.”

“What happened?” Hero asked softly.

During the ensuing silence, Kit heard a creak in the room next door, and lifted his head. But it was nothing, only an excuse for him to remain silent. For once, he was the one who did not want to conduct such a personal discussion, and yet somehow the words came spilling forth.

“It began, for us, with my father’s death. He and our neighbor Viscount Hawthorne were killed in a carriage accident. We found out later that he had received a shipment of books from the household of my great-aunt, and among them was the Mallory.”

Kit heard Hero’s indrawn breath, but she said nothing, so he continued. “Father had no idea of its rarity or its significance, but he knew the viscount belonged to some latter-day Druid society. The group was nothing more than an excuse for wealthy landed gentleman to socialize, but at least one other, led by a man named Malet, was not so innocuous. Malet had been searching for the Mallory at Oakfield, driving my great-aunt mad with his efforts to find it and his midnight trips through the maze there. Of course, we knew nothing of that. She died before Father, and I then received the legacy of Oakfield.”

Kit winced at the memory of his delight in the inheritance. “From the moment of our arrival, there were strange happenings, but I ignored Syd’s concerns. Thankfully, Barto was not so blind, and it is due to him that Syd lives.”

“I don’t believe that you were that stubborn or heedless,” Hero said.

“Oh, I finally believed her when Barto told us of his own suspicions,” Kit said, taking no pride in the fact.

“And then?”

“Then Malet picked us off, one by one. He knew that none of the locals would remain at Oakfield on Samhain, and I did little to hold them there. He arranged for some tainted cider to knock out the rest of us. Barto found me along the road.”

“If your friend Barto was so clever, why didn’t he stop everyone from drinking the cider?”

Kit paused, for he had never really questioned Barto’s whereabouts at the time. “He wasn’t there.”

“Perhaps he was simply luckier than you.”

“Perhaps.” But Kit couldn’t see Barto downing the home-brewed drink even had he been at Oakfield.
Because he was smarter than that. More cautious. Less oblivious.
Kit felt his anger and frustration return.

“Or perhaps his own suspicions made him more wary, and you could hardly be privy to his information or thoughts,” Hero said.

That was true, but still, Kit should have paid more attention to what was going on around him.

“So Barto saved your sister?”

“No. Yes,” Kit said. “We both rode back to Oakfield, but Syd managed to set fire to the great oak in the centre of the maze, and it spread.”

“She sounds like a resourceful woman—who saved herself,” Hero said.

“But if I had just believed her from the beginning, she wouldn’t have been there, scared to death by hooded Druids intending to murder her.” Kit’s regret threatened to choke him.

“What happened to them?”

“We assumed they were all killed in the fire, but now I’m not so sure.” The admission was a harsh reminder that he needed to stay alert, to protect Hero from such madmen, perhaps even to redeem himself, at least in his own eyes.

“You’re taking the blame that should be directed at those responsible,” Hero said, absolving him in her usual brisk tone. “Your anger is festering, probably because you never faced the men who did this to your family.”