The Gentleman's Quest

by Camille Elliot

  "I don't remember that."

  "You have likely conveniently erased the moment from your memory."

  He sputtered, but he couldn't seem to think of anything to say except, "I have not."

  "Oh, I'm sure it is because you had your manly dignity to maintain. I've heard that seventeen-year-old boys are very sensitive."

  He wished he had the ability to tease back or say clever things, but as usual, his mind was clouded and prevented from thinking of all the witticisms that he'd probably contrive an hour from now. "Well, fifteen-year-old girls are annoying."

  "No, fifteen-year-old girls are determined to conquer the world."

  It reminded him how her girlhood plans had been cut short. "I am sorry you were never able to go to London for your come-out."

  She looked away from him. "My life might have been different. Or it might have been the same, if I had not 'taken' and had returned home without a brilliant marriage."

  "I would have liked to dance with you at your come-out ball." He didn't know how, but the unguarded words flew from his lips. He felt his ears becoming hot.

  She gave him a startled look, and yet there was warmth behind her eyes. And then she blinked and looked away again. "I should only have trod on your toes, Christopher. Or have you forgotten my poor dance master?"

  "I rather thought the mincing man was trying to fix your attentions," he said grimly.

  "I think not. He would often compare me to the girl he was courting in the next village. It quite irritated me. A time or two when he was in the midst of imploring me to 'glide like a feather,' which his lovely Julia did so very well, I am afraid I rather deliberately kicked his ankle."

  Christopher snorted in laughter. "That I can fully believe of you."

  "Christopher Creager, are you implying I am of a violent temperament?"

  "You never allow anyone to bully you into doing what you do not wish to do."

  His words, intended to bring her joy, made her smile fade. "I have learnt to be more temperate in my reactions," she said in a more subdued voice.

  He did not want her to be temperate. He wanted her to once again be the exuberant girl of his childhood. And yet he could not adequately explain to himself why that was important to him.

  There were a few minutes of silence between them, then she said with renewed cheerfulness, "Tell me more about your sister. She must have grown up into a beautiful young woman."

  "She's … a seventeen-year-old girl."

  She gave a disgusted sound. "Is that all you can say?"

  "I have plenty of unflattering stories about her."

  "Brothers are all alike. Do you remember …?"

  They fell back into reminiscing again, but he did not forget that sadness in Honoria's expression. It tugged at him, as if he could have prevented it from being there. Perhaps he could have.

  No. No, he would have only added to her pain.

  As darkness fell, they stopped for the night at a respectable inn Christopher frequented, The Laughing Boar. Christopher was unsure what Honoria would think of the simple dinner they were served in the inn's private parlour, but she ate heartily of the roast goose, fresh bread, and dense yellow cheese. She went into delighted raptures over the apple pie that finished off the meal.

  "I stop at this inn whenever I travel between my farm and Heathcliffe Manor, and I always order whatever pie is available. The innkeeper's wife makes them." Christopher drank deeply of the innkeeper's home-brew, allowing Honoria to claim the entire teapot for herself.

  "Do you travel often to Heathcliffe?"

  Christopher stared darkly into his tankard. "No."

  Honoria poured herself another cup of tea. "Things have not improved between you and your father?"

  "Did you truly think they would?"

  "I suppose not." She sipped her tea. "He was always so insistent on duty above all that I'm surprised he allowed you to move away rather than staying to help run Heathcliffe."

  "In the months before I left, I disagreed too often over his management decisions. When I inherited the farm, he made a show of wanting me to stay, but it was obvious he was relieved I was leaving." Despite his clashes with his father, perversely he had felt rejected that his father had wished him gone.

  Honoria hesitated, then said, "He may not be capable of love or deeper affections. At least, my father was not."

  Christopher's mother had often tried to tell him that his father loved him deeply but simply did not know how to show it. In contrast, Honoria had not tried to spin a comforting yarn for him, yet her words comforted him somehow, in a small way.

  "I am sure your mother and sister missed you," she said.

  "I saw them more often before my sister's come-out. Now she is forever gadding about with her friends at one house party or another."

  She finished her tea. "We should leave early tomorrow morning. It is still half a day's journey to Merritton, and if we arrive later in the day, Aubrey will most certainly be home and dressing for dinner. However, if we arrive earlier in the morning, he may be out of the house. I think you can agree it would be best if he were not at home when we arrive. His mother will allow us access to the library." She rose to her feet.

  "Before I forget." Christopher passed her the wooden puzzle box. "You should have this."

  She looked at the box, then back at him. "Do you have anything of Stephen's?"

  Something twisted painfully around his heart. He wanted to lie, because he didn't deserve to have anything of her brother's, but he answered truthfully. "No."

  "Then you keep it." She handed it to him.

  He set the box on the table and traced the flower on the front of the box with his finger. "Thank you."

  She nodded. "Good night." She turned toward the door.

  "Who is Mr. Criddle?" He spoke the words as the thought appeared in his head.

  She hesitated at the door, her hand on the latch, not looking at him.

  He added, "You mentioned him to your mother—'It is this map or Mr. Criddle.'"

  When she glanced at him, he noticed how pale her face was. "He is a … suitor."

  He should not have been surprised. She was lovely, more lovely now than she had been at nineteen, and probably desiring her own establishment. But he was unprepared for the rush of jealousy that filled him like vinegar in a sponge.

  "I don't understand," he said. "The map, or …?"

  When she spoke, it was almost in a whisper. "Do you really think the map might lead to some sort of treasure?" They had discussed it during the carriage ride today, but the way she asked him now revealed a hint of desperation.

  "I don't know. I think it must lead to something valuable."

  And then he understood. It was vulgar to speak of money, and yet he knew full well that she and her mother were penniless, living off of the forbearance of her uncle. And the most obvious way a proper lady could remove herself from the protection of one man was to enter the protection of another. But if she came into a fortune, she and her mother could establish their own home without the benefit of a husband.

  "Is he …?" He didn't know how to ask if this Mr. Criddle was worthy of her, if she loved him, if he loved her, if she would be happy with him. And yet he somehow knew the answer, or she would not be here with Christopher, chasing an elusive treasure that may not be there.

  "Good night, Christopher." As she left the parlour, he heard her say, "Oh, there you are, Sally, I was heading up to my room." Then the door closed behind her.

  He turned the puzzle box over in his hands, automatically moving the small wooden pieces in the correct order. He slid the top open and peered inside to the empty space.

  He missed Stephen. But he was also discovering that he had missed Honoria as much. He had been happy during his years up north, but she unsettled him and reminded him of who he had once been—a man who had been happier still.

  Which perhaps explained why the thought of her belonging to another man brought up feelings of possessiveness he had never kn
own before.

  He shut the box. This type of thinking was pointless.

  Then a piercing scream—Honoria's scream—sounded from upstairs.

  Chapter 4

  At Honoria's scream, the man in her room darted to the window. He had it open in a moment and then was gone into the night.

  She rushed to the window and looked down. The ground floor lay below her, and a drop from this height in the darkness was dangerous. Squares of hazy light from the room windows and the kitchen below dotted the back yard of the inn, allowing her to see a figure limping and running away.

  Only then did she realize how fast her heart was beating, and how her throat seemed to be preventing her from drawing breath.

  "Miss." It was Sally at her elbow. "Come sit down, miss. Right here."

  Just as Honoria sank onto the bed, she heard pounding feet, and then Christopher appeared in the open doorway.

  "Honoria! What happened?"

  She gulped in air. "When we opened the door, there was a man." She gestured to the room in disarray, her portmanteau upended and the bedclothes strewn across the floor.

  "Did he harm you?" Christopher's hands were on her shoulders, his dark eyes wide.

  She shook her head. "He jumped out the window."

  "From this height?" His black brows drew low over his eyes. "I hope he broke his leg."

  "He was limping as he ran away."

  With his concerned face very close to hers, he said nothing for a long moment. He looked away. "I should not have allowed you to come with me."

  She bristled. "You did not allow me to do anything. I chose to come with you."

  "I knew of the danger. I should have protected you rather than setting you directly in its path."

  It took her a moment to realize he was angry at himself, not at her. He was angry that he had not protected her enough.

  It made her feel … significant.

  The way her uncle had been treating her had made her slowly start to feel like spider gauze—thin, easily seen through, almost as if she were not even there. She had not noticed it was happening, not until this moment. Not until Christopher.

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back, and she wrapped her arms around herself. "I think I recognized him," she said. "Winarc."

  "How do you know him?"

  "He was hired by my uncle's gardener last year, but a few days later, he was found sneaking around in the house, so he was sacked. That's the reason I remember his name." She added, "He could have been the person to look through Stephen's trunk in the attic."

  "Is anything missing here? Can you tell?" he asked.

  "I don't know." Honoria looked around the room. "Sally?"

  "It's hard to say, miss," Sally said, "but you brought so little with you, I don't think so."

  "Why would he be searching your …?" Christopher's eyes widened, and he abruptly turned and strode from the room, pushing past the crowd that had gathered in response to her scream.

  Honoria completed his question in her mind a moment later. She followed him out of her room. Behind her, Sally's voice rose, demanding to know what the crowd was looking at.

  Christopher's room was next to hers, and she found him just inside the door. Like hers, the bedclothes had been tossed about and his things rummaged through. The sight caused another feeling of violation, less acute than when she'd seen her own room, but still, she winced.

  "There can be no doubt." Christopher's voice was low and hard. "This was not a thief simply after money or valuables." He picked up his pocket watch, which he'd left next to the washbasin. The man had searched Christopher's room and yet not taken it.

  Even in an inn, it seemed improper for her to enter a gentleman's room, and she hesitated. But then she overcame her scruples and stepped close to his shoulder, asking in a low voice, "Where is the map?"

  He turned toward her and bent his head low. "In my pocket."

  A tightness in her chest released. In her room earlier, she had been too upset to notice, but now, this close to him, she could smell sandalwood, and a deeper scent that was … Christopher. Their eyes met and held.

  And then he straightened. "We cannot stay here tonight."

  His abrupt, businesslike manner was like a dash of water to her face. But it was also a good reminder to her why she had kept herself aloof from him in her later teenage years. In moments like these, he was too uncomfortably like her own father.

  "You wish to leave now?" Honoria looked toward the window and out at the darkness.

  "If Winarc was searching for the box, he will try again. If we remain here, he may try to sneak into our rooms."

  "Yes, of course," Honoria said.

  "We'll drive through the night. We will arrive at Merritton a trifle early, but it will be the best way to distance ourselves from that man. He may not realize until too late that we have gone from the inn."

  "But your coachman must be exhausted."

  "I will drive."

  "Oh, Christopher." There were no inns near her uncle's home that could accommodate his horses and carriage, so he must have spent the previous night at an establishment several miles away, and left there early this morning to arrive when he did at her home. And now he would remain awake several hours more.

  But she recognised the stubborn set of his mouth and the way he dipped his chin in determination. It would be useless to argue with him.

  "I will gather my things." She walked toward the door.

  "Honoria."

  She turned and saw indecision, concern, and a thread of guilt in his face.

  "Perhaps you should remain at Merritton in the care of your aunt and cousin for a little while."

  Anger flashed through her like a streak of lightning across an indigo sky. She knew it was irrational, a response to his coldness, but she lashed out anyway. "You would not say that if you knew why Aubrey forced us to leave Merritton so quickly."

  She whirled and stalked from the room.

  Chapter 5

  Christopher was exhausted, and yet he had only stayed up part of the night on the urgent drive. They'd changed horses at The Laughing Boar and left with a fresh pair, with Christopher driving on the box next to the protesting coachman and the women sleeping inside the carriage. After three or four hours, his servant, who had taught him how to drive as a lad and reminded him repeatedly, bullied him into giving up the reins and moving inside the vehicle.

  He wanted to speak to Honoria but couldn't in the presence of the maid, and they were both sleeping. Or at least appeared to be. While soft snores came from Sally, Honoria sat with her face averted from him.

  The sight of her in repose was soothing to him, as if her relaxation indicated all was right in the world, and there was naught to cause him distress. In the light of the half-moon, he studied what he could see of the smooth line of her cheek, the slender column of her neck. And with her face both in front of him and in his mind's eye, he fell asleep.

  Christopher started awake around daybreak to find Honoria studying him. The maid had tilted over to lean against her mistress but Honoria had not pushed her away and instead wrapped an arm around the girl.

  But Honoria's rosewood eyes were upon Christopher. He thought he could feel tenderness reaching out to him from her gaze, and maybe a longing tinged with regret.

  Then she blinked and gave a small smile, although the smile was polite rather than warm, and the moment was gone.

  "Honoria," he said in a low voice, "About Aubrey …"

  She gave a quick shake of her head, glancing down at Sally's sleeping face.

  "You will have to tell me eventually."

  Her expression hardened. "No, I don't, Christopher."

  He had never thought of himself as a willful or spoilt child, but her refusal roused a desire to stamp his feet and pout. "Why not?"

  "Because you don't have the right to know."

  No. He was not a kinsman. He could not even call himself a friend any longer, for he had not sought her out in
the intervening years. At best, he was a former friend.

  But he realized he wanted the right to know everything about her.

  He knew why he had kept himself from her, but now, his guilt seemed a paltry thing. At the time, it had been a fire-breathing dragon that kept him pinned inside himself, cut off from her or anything he thought he no longer deserved.

  And yet, it was not paltry. Was it?

  He couldn't answer that. Instead, he rapped to stop the coach and took over driving, even though his coachman sat beside to him staunchly—or rather, stubbornly—awake.

  They arrived at Merritton not long after the breakfast time of a gentleman who kept country hours. Christopher stopped the carriage at the entrance to the front gates and jumped down to speak to Honoria through the open window. "Will your aunt be awake?"

  "Yes. In the country, she rises early to work in her gardens."

  He wouldn't have expected to see many flowers this late in the year, but the driveway was lined with lavender bushes, several different types that formed a pattern of varying shades of purple. Honoria's mother had employed an excellent gardener, but he had to admit that it seemed Mrs. Dunbar, Aubrey's mother, had improved the beauty of Merritton's grounds considerably.

  In contrast, the house looked to be in need of proper upkeep. The front steps had not been swept, and the paint on the front door was beginning to peel. The butler who answered the door was not James, the longtime retainer who had served both Stephen and his father.

  "Miss Dunbar and Mr. Creager for Mrs. Dunbar," Christopher said.

  "Of course, sir." The butler led the way into the entrance foyer. The foyer showed signs of neglect, including dust over the surfaces and in corners, and threads hanging from the seat cushions of the chairs against the wall.

  The butler was dressed respectably enough, but there was something about his speech, the movements of his hands and feet as he removed Christopher's great coat, that wasn't quite as precise and polished as James had been.

  Sally disappeared into the bowels of the house with their coats, and the butler led them upstairs. He left them in the drawing room, which had been re-furnished since Christopher saw it last, but these new pieces had not been as carefully preserved as Lady Merritt's antiques. Honoria had been about to seat herself at the sofa when she stopped and grimaced down at the cushion. Christopher walked over and saw the grease stain at the edge.