The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Sylvia followed his gaze, taking in the blistered paintwork on the door and the soot streaks on the solid stone walls.

  Glancing around, she saw that the neighbors were watching Kit with interest. She doubted he realized just how definite was the aura of not just status and wealth but also command that hung from his shoulders, an invisible mantle a large portion of the populace instinctively recognized.

  She watched as he stepped back from the now-damp stack of wood and walked over to join her before Cross and Jellicoe, who were still slumped against the privy.

  Kit extended his hand to Jellicoe.

  Jellicoe looked faintly startled, but then took the proffered hand and let Kit haul him to his feet.

  “Good work, you two.” Kit lightly thumped Jellicoe’s shoulder, then reached down and helped Cross up as well.

  As soon as he was on his feet, Cross, now frowning, went to stare at the smoking pile. After a moment, he grunted. “Now I can see how this was laid, I’m having trouble believing there was ever much of a threat.”

  Jellicoe coughed and went to look, too, then nodded. “I see what you mean. Whoever set this had no idea what they were doing.”

  His hands sunk in his greatcoat pockets, Kit joined the teachers.

  Sylvia followed and halted on Cross’s other side. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Kit pointed at the rags. “If you wanted that pile to burn, any sensible person would have put the rags beneath the wood—at least in the center of the pile.”

  Jellicoe snorted. “And why try to set fire to a thick oak door set in a stone wall anyway? Even if the door had caught”—he directed his gaze up, above the door—“the wall is so high, the rafters would almost certainly be out of reach of any flames.”

  “The hall wouldn’t have burned,” Kit concluded. “Which leaves us with the question of whether whoever set the fire intended it merely as a warning, or if they truly were so inept that they had no notion of how to set an effective blaze. Regardless, I believe we can be certain that no expert arsonist was involved.”

  Jellicoe snorted a laugh and ended up coughing.

  Cross thumped him on the back. “Wait until your lungs clear before you try that again.”

  Sylvia saw Kit glance at their still-watching audience. Then he turned back to Cross and Jellicoe and, in a voice slightly raised to reach the onlookers, said, “Incidentally, I’m having a sign made for the front of the hall. ‘Lord Cavanaugh’s School.’ Seeing you’re here, you could help me take the measurements.”

  Both Jellicoe and Cross looked thoroughly pleased.

  From the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw the neighbors exchange duly impressed looks. None of them would protest about the school now. Indeed, more than likely they would brag about the fire and seeing a real lord and having his school next door.

  “Right-ho.” His usual ebullient manner re-emerging, Cross waved down the alley. “Let’s leave this mess to finish smoldering. We’ll get it cleared away tomorrow.”

  The three men stood back to allow Sylvia to go first. She emerged onto the pavement before the school steps. Eddie and his mother and siblings had gone.

  Sylvia stood back and watched as the three men worked out the optimal dimensions for a sign to fit above the hall door.

  She’d noted that Kit had added his title to his proposed name for the school and was grateful he’d done so. His name would help, but when combined with his title, the result was a far stronger shield. Being labeled “Lord Cavanaugh’s School” would protect the school as nothing short of a royal warrant could.

  Listening to Cross, Jellicoe, and Kit discuss the positioning of the sign, she felt the last of her fire-induced tension drain away. Most of the onlookers had retreated into their homes, doubtless to share what they’d seen and heard.

  The day was slowly sliding toward evening.

  With the placement and size of the sign decided, Cross and Jellicoe, both now understandably weary, took their leave. Sylvia thanked them effusively, then let them go. She watched them walk slowly up the street—and noticed the disapproving lady in black standing, once more, at her gate, glaring in Sylvia’s direction, then, as before, the woman turned and stumped back into her house. Considering the sight, Sylvia asked, “Who do you think did it?”

  She felt certain Kit would at least have a theory.

  Kit halted beside Sylvia, his gaze resting on the hackney, still loitering farther up the street. He waved to the driver, who acknowledged the hail with a salute. Kit gently grasped Sylvia’s elbow and steered her toward the carriage; this time, she didn’t seem to react to his touch. “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I believe I need to pay Councilor Peabody a visit.”

  Startled, she glanced at him. “You think Peabody was involved?”

  Kit considered that, then shook his head. “No. But it occurs to me that the good councilor arrived, breathing fire, on the school’s doorstep within hours of it opening its doors.” Briefly, he met her gaze. “How did he know?”

  He watched her face as she worked it out.

  Then her eyes widened, and she looked up at him. “Someone complained.”

  Jaw firming, he nodded. “And I suspect whoever did will have more of an idea of who set the fire than Peabody.”

  He ushered her on.

  When they reached the carriage’s side, she swung to face him. “I’m coming with you.” Dogged determination flared in her eyes, violet deepening the periwinkle-blue.

  He’d anticipated her resolve and inclined his head. “If you wish.” He’d long ago learned that, when dealing with ladies, it paid to give way on the smaller issues, and visiting Peabody in Kit’s company held no danger at all. “I expect we’ll find him at his home. Do you know where he lives—No, wait. He gave me his card.” He hunted in his jacket pocket and found the card.

  As Sylvia turned and climbed into the carriage, Kit looked at the driver. “Park Street. No need for any heroics this time.”

  The driver grinned and saluted with his whip. “Right, guv’nor. Climb aboard.”

  Kit did. He sat beside Sylvia, the driver flicked the reins, and they rattled off.

  * * *

  On presenting themselves at Councilor Peabody’s door, Kit gave his name, and they were immediately shown into the councilor’s drawing room.

  Peabody didn’t keep them waiting, but arrived on his butler’s heels in what appeared to be a distinctly conciliatory mood. He bowed to them both, then waved them to the chaise. Taking in their serious expressions, he took the armchair opposite and, faintly trepidatiously, asked, “What brings you here?”

  Succinctly, Kit outlined the facts of the fire.

  As he’d expected, Peabody looked genuinely shocked. “Dear me—how appalling! Why, the entire neighborhood might have gone up.”

  “A point made by one of the neighbors who helped douse the flames,” Sylvia said. “They were not at all impressed that some miscreant had tried to set alight what is to be known as Lord Cavanaugh’s School.”

  Peabody blinked. “Indeed...” His gaze flicked from Sylvia to Kit and back again, then Peabody straightened. “I assure you I had absolutely nothing to do with this fire—or with the miscreant who laid it.”

  “We hadn’t imagined you did,” Kit stated. His matter-of-fact tone calmed Peabody. “However, the fact remains that someone attempted to set fire to the school, thereby threatening the entire neighborhood. Whoever it was demonstrably had no thought or care for the neighbors, either.”

  Peabody nodded. “I agree. Although nothing terrible happened, the intention and the risk were there.”

  “Quite,” Kit said. “Which is why we feel we need to get to the bottom of this, even though no lasting damage was done. To that end, we wondered which of your constituents had complained about the school—it’s possible they may have some idea of who was responsible for setting the
fire.”

  Peabody frowned.

  Kit caught Sylvia’s gaze and willed her to patience; he was rather surprised she’d left so much of the talking to him.

  Eventually, Peabody conceded, “I take your point, but I can’t see how it could be so.” He met their gazes. “The complaint—and yes, it was only one—came from Mrs. Stenshaw, a widow of more than middle years who lives on Trinity Street.”

  The image of the lady in black sprang to Sylvia’s mind. “A lady of average height who always dresses in black and lives in a house on the opposite side of the street to the school, several doors closer to the river?”

  Peabody nodded. “That’s Mrs. Stenshaw, and if you’ve seen her, you’ll realize why I seriously doubt she could have had anything to do with the fire.”

  “But it was she who complained?” Kit asked.

  “Yes—vociferously. She was deeply put out over the school moving into her street and, as she put it, lowering the tone of the neighborhood. Well, you can imagine the sort of things she said, but that’s really all her complaint boiled down to.”

  “Have you informed her that you won’t be taking the matter further?” Kit asked.

  Peabody met his gaze, then slowly nodded. “Yes. I called on her later on Friday afternoon. I thought it best to get that unhappy task over with sooner rather than later.”

  “And how did she take the news?”

  Peabody wrinkled his nose. “She was furious. She accused me of... Well, again, I’m sure you can guess the sort of tirade she indulged in. She’s a most...difficult woman.”

  Sylvia had no trouble believing him; she was actually starting to feel sympathy for the councilor.

  Kit was still pondering. “A widow, so no husband, but what about some other male relative—a brother or a cousin, someone she might turn to?”

  But Peabody was already shaking his head, then he stopped and frowned. “There’s no one of her generation, but she does have two layabout sons.” He paused, then more slowly added, “I’ve heard...less than edifying tales of her sons, yet I understand Mrs. Stenshaw believes they’re angels and springs like a lioness to their defense.”

  Peabody met Kit’s gaze and arched a brow.

  Kit held the councilor’s gaze for a moment, then nodded. “The sons are a possibility. If we learn anything definite, we’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.” Peabody rose as they did and solicitously ushered them out. On the doorstep, he met Kit’s gaze. “As I said before, if there’s anything I can do to ease your path, my lord, please feel free to call.”

  Kit inclined his head, and they parted in significantly better accord than before.

  * * *

  Although the light had faded and evening was drawing in, Sylvia insisted on returning to Trinity Street with Kit.

  When they arrived, he tried to convince her to take the hackney to her lodgings or at least remain in the carriage while he questioned the difficult Mrs. Stenshaw on the grounds the woman might turn nasty, but Sylvia was having none of it. Her blood was up, and she was determined to learn who had been responsible for such a thoughtless and cowardly act and, at the very least, give them a piece of her mind.

  After she said as much in a distinctly incensed tone, Kit raised his hands in defeat, stepped back from the hackney, then offered his hand to assist her down.

  Lips set, she gripped his fingers and descended. Courtesy of the unavoidable instances of contact the dramas of the day had forced on her, her senses were growing more accustomed to the riot his touch invariably caused.

  Apparently, familiarity could breed acceptance instead of contempt.

  Once on the pavement, she shook her skirts straight, then allowed Kit to usher her through Mrs. Stenshaw’s gate and up the short path to the porch. Head high, she stood beside him as he lifted the knocker and rapped.

  Light footsteps rapidly approached the door, and it opened to reveal a harassed-looking maid. Her eyes widened as she took them in. “Yes, sir? Ma’am?”

  Kit handed over one of his cards. “We’re here to see Mrs. Stenshaw.”

  The maid took the thick ivory card. Her eyes widened as she read the words inscribed upon it, then she looked up, bobbed, and said, “If you’ll wait here, sir—my lord—I’ll see if the mistress is receiving.”

  With that, the maid stepped back and closed the door.

  Kit arched a cynical brow at Sylvia.

  She met his eyes, then her gaze shifted past his shoulder. He followed it, turning his head in time to catch the lace curtain in the front room’s bow window settling back into place.

  Then the maid was back. She bobbed twice and said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but Mrs. Stenshaw is indisposed.”

  Kit smiled reassuringly at the maid. Raising his voice, he said, “Please inform your mistress that Miss Buckleberry and I are investigating the fire that was deliberately set at the rear of the hall on the other side of the street, and if Mrs. Stenshaw prefers, I’m perfectly willing to place the matter in the hands of the local constabulary and return with them later—”

  Something moved in the dimness of the hall. The maid swung around, then stepped back, and Mrs. Stenshaw, gloomy and forbidding in black bombazine, stumped forward, planted her cane on the threshold, and, her expression carved from stone, faced them.

  Before Kit could part his lips, Mrs. Stenshaw declared, “I know nothing about any fire. But as I warned Councilor Peabody, such disruptive occurrences are guaranteed to happen now that a school for dockside brats has moved into our street.” She snorted inelegantly and brought her dark gaze to bear on Sylvia. “Bringing such uncouth elements into our peaceful streets—what did you expect would happen? It was doubtless some of those ungrateful brats unhappy about being sent to school.”

  Sylvia drew in a sharp breath.

  Kit felt his expression harden. “Having met each and every one of the school’s pupils, I’ve seen nothing of any such negative feelings about the school.” He caught Mrs. Stenshaw’s gaze. “But perhaps you know more about the boys than we do?”

  Mrs. Stenshaw looked horrified—much as if he’d accused her of dealing with the devil. “I know nothing of those boys—or any dockside brats. The very idea!”

  Appeared to have almost given her palpitations.

  “I see,” Kit said. “So you have no knowledge or evidence to link any of the students to the fire, and furthermore, your opposition to the school and your opinion of the students are based solely on prejudice and nothing more.”

  Mrs. Stenshaw’s expression remained truculent.

  Sylvia, by the sound of her voice barely containing her ire, sternly said, “It might interest you to know that the fire was set against the rear door of the school. If the teachers hadn’t arrived unexpectedly and, assisted by neighbors, acted quickly to put out the flames, it’s possible the entire neighborhood might have burned.”

  Mrs. Stenshaw paled, but snapped back, “That’s precisely the sort of danger I warned those boys would bring to this neighborhood!”

  “Yet neither the boys nor anyone else associated with the school had any reason to set the fire. Indeed, all involved worked extremely hard to relocate the school. On the other hand”—Kit trapped Mrs. Stenshaw’s gaze—“we’ve been informed that you—and only you—have taken against the school to the extent of lodging an immediate protest with your councilor.” Kit paused, his gaze on Mrs. Stenshaw’s dark eyes. His tone unrelenting, he added, “I’m sure you can see how that looks.”

  Mrs. Stenshaw’s complexion turned an even more ghastly shade, but she trenchantly declared, “Yes, I lodged a protest—a strong protest—with Councilor Peabody, and I am well within my rights to do so. But I had absolutely nothing to do with that fire, and you won’t prove otherwise.”

  There was something in her attitude—her certainty—that convinced Kit she was telling the truth. He exchanged a quick
glance with Sylvia; she’d come to the same conclusion. Then he looked again at Mrs. Stenshaw. “Perhaps we might speak with your sons. Are they at home?”

  Fleetingly, Mrs. Stenshaw’s eyes widened, then her expression snapped into a stony mask. Yet by the way her eyes flicked back and forth, Kit’s words had suggested a possibility she didn’t like. After too many seconds had passed, she replied, “They aren’t here. They went out after luncheon.”

  “Indeed?” Sylvia said. “So they could have set the fire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs. Stenshaw attempted to look down her nose at Sylvia—difficult as Sylvia was several inches taller. “My sons wouldn’t have had anything to do with that. I’m sure that, as usual, they went straight into the city.”

  “Where in the city might we find them?” Kit asked.

  Mrs. Stenshaw bridled. “I’m sure I don’t know.” Then she drew in a breath and said, “I daresay they went to the museum or the library or some similar, civilized place.”

  Kit’s smile was edged. “So for all any of us know, influenced by your stance, your sons might have set the fire that could have threatened the entire neighborhood—perhaps because they share your views or perhaps to ingratiate themselves with you.”

  It was the latter Mrs. Stenshaw feared; Kit saw it in her eyes.

  But inevitably, she drew herself up and glared—first at him, then at Sylvia. “How dare you come to my door and accuse my sons—who are well on the way to becoming staunch, upright citizens just like their late father—of acting in such a manner! It’s outrageous!” As if, in her panic, her mind had searched for and found a solid defense, she swung her glare fully on Kit and all but spat, “You said I had no proof that the students set the fire. Well, do you have any proof that my sons were involved?” When Kit didn’t reply, the intensity of her glare increased. “Well?”

  Kit inclined his head. “As yet, we’ve nothing beyond your attitude and their opportunity—”

  “There you are, then!” Mrs. Stenshaw flung out a dismissive hand. “You have no grounds on which to persecute me and my sons over that fire.” She waved curtly at the gate. “Now kindly take yourselves off.”