The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two

by Louise Allen

  ‘It was not local, I believe. Not close to Lord Northam’s Dorset estate.’

  ‘No. It was in the North.’ The money had not lasted long enough to get them very far south of the Border.

  ‘It is unlikely then that the marriage is at all relevant to your present situation.’ Mr Hunt made another brief note. She was not certain whether that was a statement or a question. It was like having a hawk in the room, a falcon, sleek of feather, sharp of beak and talon. His hair was drawn back tightly at the nape of his neck and braided into a tail, and she found herself wondering how long it was when he released it. It was an unfashionable style, yet his brutally plain clothing was of the finest quality.

  That dark golden-brown hair was attractive. So were those amber hawk-eyes and the strong, lean face. Guin realised that she was frightened of him, of the aura of tightly controlled force about him, the awareness that he would be very good at violence, skilled at it. Francis had not been skilled, only angry at life, at her, at everything that had not showered the bounty on him that he thought he was entitled to.

  ‘Your own family?’

  How foolish not to have expected this, not to have armoured herself against just this interrogation. She had been expecting a Bow Street Runner, a reassuring, stolid, middle aged man, wise in the ways of the streets from which he had risen himself. Avuncular perhaps, in his blunt way. This was a gentleman, as intelligent as a lawyer, she suspected. As precise as a surgeon. It had been fear she had felt when he had entered her room. Fear and a treacherous shiver of attraction.

  Chapter Three

  Guin tried charm, smiled at Mr Hunt a little, head tilted to one side, invited him to share her rueful regrets. ‘My own family? Alas, no. My father disowned me when I eloped. My mother was dead by then. I have a brother and two sisters in Lancashire. They too cut me off.’

  ‘Even now you are married to a viscount?’ No, he was not in the least bit charmed. The man had probably never flirted in his life. Perhaps he was some kind of monk.

  ‘Even now,’ she agreed, her voice dry as she abandoned feminine wiles. ‘I was desperate enough to write to them for aid immediately Francis died. When I received back my letter torn into shreds I allowed my distress to turn to anger. What I wrote in response was, apparently, both unforgivable and unforgiven. None of them come to Town. My father has died now, although I had to find that out from the newspapers, and my brother inherited the baronetcy. He is not a wealthy man, not one given to visiting London or fashionable watering places. My sisters are married to Northern gentleman who prefer to remain on their own acres.’

  ‘So, who have you offended or threatened, Lady Northam? Who hates you or fears you? Who covets what you have enough to want you dead?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said with perfect honesty. ‘That is the truth. I have not quarrelled with anyone, Augustus was not courting any lady who had expectations when he married me. I have racked my brains for any memory of saying or doing something that might have hurt or upset anyone and cannot. I have no money of my own to leave, no expectation of inheritances. No secrets. Nothing.’

  His eyes narrowed and she wondered if he thought that she was lying to him. ‘There is nothing that you know of or suspect, nothing that you put sufficient weight on,’ her new bodyguard corrected her. ‘Unless you are imagining these incidents, or they are the most improbable coincidences, then someone is trying to harm you, Lady Northam, and there has to be a reason behind it. Their motives must seem good to them, however trivial or obscure, or even insane, they will seem to us when we know them.’

  Guin closed her eyes for a moment, almost breathless with the confidence in that deep, quiet voice. When we know, not if. When. We. There might be safety from this fear after all. But she could not give way now. Staying calm, doing nothing to worry Augustus – more than he was already worried, poor man – was essential. When she was calm, he was calm also, his entire focus bent on supporting her.

  ‘Lord Northam has a large family, I gather. Two daughters, one son-in-law, three granddaughters and two grandsons, in addition to his brother and his son and some distant cousins.’ He did not consult his book for that, she noted.

  ‘Yes. The daughters are pleasant enough to me – they think their father a doting old fool to marry so young a wife, but they just manage not to say it. Possibly reassurances about his will have helped with that.’ She hoped that did not sound acid, that had not been her intention. Of course her daughters-in-law would have been worried about the marriage, it was only natural. They had really been very decent about it all. Distant but decent. She wanted to get up, fidget about the room, move from under that cool, assessing scrutiny. Guin folded her hands in her lap and made herself sit still.

  ‘The granddaughters are my age, more or less, and perfectly civil, as are the grandsons. The boys descend in the female line and it is not as though any of them have expectations of inheriting the title, not with heirs in the male line. Lord Northam made it quite clear to them all that their positions in his will are unaffected by this marriage. I cannot see that they are threatened by my existence.’

  ‘Lord Northam’s brother and his heir might, however, have cause for concern as heirs presumptive if they believe they may be displaced.’

  Was that a question? Was he asking if she had intimate relations with her elderly husband? Well, he could ask straight out if he was wondering about that. If he had the gall.

  ‘I have no idea whether they feel concerned or not. They have always been pleasant to me. Amiable, in fact.’

  ‘You are not with child?’

  It seemed he did have the gall to be very blunt indeed. ‘No,’ Guin said.

  ‘May I?’ Mr Hunt waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the room.

  ‘Yes, certainly. What are you looking for?’

  He got up as she spoke and moved slowly about her sitting room, head slightly tilted as he studied the hangings, the pictures, the furniture. He bent to read the book titles on the shelves, glanced at her embroidery tossed carelessly on a side table. He touched nothing, but his gaze skimmed over surfaces, noted details. Then he turned to her and stripped her to the skin with his eyes. She fixed a faint smile on her lips. He was not getting to her soul.

  ‘What am I looking for? Why, for you, Lady Northam.’

  ‘I am here,’ Guin pointed out, perhaps rather more tartly than good manners dictated.

  Mr Hunt turned to resume his study of the curios on a side table. She caught herself admiring the way he moved, the breadth of his shoulders, the ease with which he hunkered down to look at the lowest shelf then rose effortlessly again. It was enough to make any woman irritable, to find herself doing such a thing.

  ‘And you are here.’ This time the sweep of his hand encompassed the pictures she had chosen and the books she read, the way the furniture was arranged, the colours she favoured. He had long fingers, she noticed, unadorned by any rings. ‘At the moment you are tense, fearful and mistrustful. You are keeping secrets from me and I do not blame you. I need to understand Guinevere Quenten, née Holroyd, lately Willoughby – the real woman, not Lady Northam on display – before I can help her.’

  ‘I am not fearful.’ It was a lie, of course, one she kept telling herself. She was not very convincing, apparently.

  ‘Then, as an intelligent woman, you should be.’ For the first time Jared Hunt sounded less than calm and neutral. He sounded irritated. ‘Unless this is all your fantasy or a device to get your husband’s close attention?’

  ‘It most certainly is not. And if you must have it, yes I am afraid and yes, I am afraid of showing fear,’ Guin said flatly, insulted into truthfulness.

  ‘Good.’ He smiled and she caught her breath. ‘Now we have honesty we can work.’ He smile was gone so fast she thought she might have imagined it.

  ‘Work? I thought you would guard me, that is all.’ Yes, the smile was gone, but with it, the cold assessment. Somehow they had reached an understanding. Did his fencing pupils feel like
this when he accepted that they had mastered a thrust or a parry?

  ‘And wait until someone blunders into view with a gun or a phial of poison? Yes, I will guard you outside this house and advise your husband on precautions for securing it. But it would be better to catch whoever this is sooner rather than later, do you not think?’ When she nodded he sat down again and picked up the notebook. ‘So, why Guinevere? Are all your family equally Arthurian?’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Humour me, please.’

  I have nothing else to do all afternoon but fret and practice looking calm for Augustus. I may as well indulge this man. He was, after all, both good to look at and refreshingly astringent.

  ‘My mother thought it a charming idea. At my christening she realised that all her family were sniggering at her, so she reverted to solidly conventional names for my younger siblings. I, however, am stuck with Guinevere. And you, Mr Hunt, what were you baptised?’

  For a moment his lips tightened, but it was so rapid she thought perhaps she had imagined it. ‘My name is Jared. One of my hellfire Parliamentarian ancestors at the time of the Civil War was a great believer in Biblical names for his offspring. Fortunately the son I am descended from was not called Hezekiah, although as a boy I always rather favoured Zelophehad. I liked the rhythm.’

  He said it so seriously that Guin was caught unawares by her own laughter when she saw the twitch of his lips. So, the fierce hawk had a sense of humour, had he? ‘What does it mean? Zelophe– whatever it was?’ she asked, serious again, but now she had a smile inside.

  ‘Shadow from terror, which is apt for a bodyguard, although I only found that out later.’

  ‘And Jared?’

  ‘One who rules.’

  Yes, that suited him. She could not imagine Jared Hunt taking orders, however respectfully he presented himself as an agent for hire. But shadow from terror, that suited too – a darkness, but one that protected.

  ‘Perhaps we can begin by you telling me about the attacks,’ he said, reverting to business as though that intimate joking moment had never happened. ‘Was the first the shot through the carriage when it was moving or – What was that?’ He was on his feet, staring at the cold fireplace. A curl of soot swirled down and settled on the polished marble of the hearth like a black feather on snow.

  ‘Just soot falling. No, wait, I hear it too, up the chimney.’ There was a faint scrabbling sound that echoed down to them as though from a great distance. ‘We have the sweep in, I think,’ Guin said as Hunt turned. ‘I certainly told our butler Twite to organise it because the chimney in my husband’s study has been smoking. They must have sent a climbing boy into the stacks from the room above this. Oh!’

  There was a loud rattle, a cloud of falling soot and Guin found herself dragged from her seat, thrown, falling, landing with a thud with something heavy on top of her. She struck out, hit a very solid body and then there was a bang and the room shook.

  She was under Jared Hunt, she realised. She tried to shake her head to clear it and found he had curled one hand around the left side of her face and they were pressed together cheek to cheek. The full length of his body was over her. Heavily.

  Confused, Guin tried to push him away, then realised that he had pulled her forcefully from her chair, thrown her behind the sofa and flung himself on top of her before the bomb –

  ‘That was a bomb!’ she said, more furious than fearful, her cheek moving against his as she spoke. His skin was slightly rough and he smelt of warm man, coffee and spice. Furious she might be, but it felt safe here. It felt very…

  As the echoes died away Hunt hauled her to her feet and dragged her towards the door. The room was full of smoke and soot and small flames were licking the charred area in the centre of the hearth rug.

  ‘It was an explosive, certainly,’ he said as he turned from a rapid study of the mess.

  He had a knife in his hand – Where has that come from? – and when they reached the door he pushed her behind him before he opened it and looked out. Through her ringing ears Guin could hear shouts and the sound of running feet and then they were outside and he was still keeping her behind his body as Augustus and Twite arrived, both wheezing with effort and alarm.

  ‘Guinnie!’

  ‘I am here, dear, please do not agitate yourself.’ Augustus looked in danger of a seizure at any moment. ‘Mr Hunt, will you please let me go?’

  ‘Not until I am certain that whoever it was who sent those explosives down the chimney is not still in the house. Twite, you need footmen and water in there, the rug is smouldering. Where are your armed gamekeepers?’

  ‘In the kitchen, below stairs.’ Augustus said. ‘No, here they are.’

  ‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ Hunt demanded. ‘Who has come in or got out while you have been away from your post?’ The men stood looking sheepish. ‘Make yourselves useful now you are here – cover us while I bring Lady Northam downstairs. Yes, like that, one in front, one behind. My lord, stay close.’

  He guided them downstairs in a tight huddle, checking around corners, one of the keepers backing along behind, shotgun raised, then bundled Guin into the scullery. ‘Stay here.’ He took the key from the outside and handed it to her. ‘Lock the door and open it only to me.’ He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘And only when I call you by your given name. Do you understand? No one else, not even your husband. I do not care who it is.’

  Then she was alone in the windowless little room with one tallow candle and the terrified pot boy, up to his elbows in a sink full of dirty dishes. ‘Goodness, what an adventure,’ Guin said brightly as she locked the door. She found a smile for the boy. ‘No need to worry, Sammy, Mr Hunt has it all under control.’ I hope. And then she began to shake.

  Jared left one of the keepers in front of the scullery door with Lord Northam. ‘Stay there, my lord. You will slow us down.’ Ignoring the furious exclamation from his employer he swept through the house with the other keeper, a footman and Twite with his keys, locking each door as they checked the rooms.

  They found the chimney sweep and his boy on the leads, the man stunned from a blow to the back of the head, the lad stuffed headfirst into a sack and too terrified to try and free himself. The man recovered quickly enough, although the blow had been both real and hard: Jared checked the lump, not prepared to take anything for granted. They had seen no-one, they said, heard no-one until they were attacked from behind as they were lashing their rods together ready to fix the brushes. Two men, they thought, or perhaps only one, but they were unsure even of that much.

  Jared scanned the surrounding rooftops. There was nothing to be seen now, of course, and the adjoining houses offered an escape route any cracksman or hoist artist could use as easily as his own back stairs. He went back down leaving the footman on the roof with the promise of relief in an hour or so.

  Lord Northam had a chair next to the scullery door and was mopping his face with what looked like a dishcloth as he talked in a loud voice to his wife through the door. ‘Anything?’ he barked at Jared.

  ‘No. They knocked out the sweep and he and the boy saw nothing. My regrets for my curtness just now, my lord.’ The old man grunted an acceptance of the apology. ‘We need a rota of watchmen on the roof,’ Jared said. ‘I doubt they will try the same trick again, but I cannot rely on them not attempting something even more dangerous next time.’ He moved past the red-faced Viscount and tapped on the door. ‘Guinevere? This is Jared Hunt. Unlock the door please.’

  She emerged, soot-smudged, dishevelled and with one arm round the shoulders of a snivelling boy. ‘Run along to Cook, Sammy, and tell her I said you were to have milk and plum cake. My dear, are you all right? The shock and the exertion – ’

  ‘It is not I who sustained the shock, Guinnie, my love. Are you certain you are not hurt?’ The Viscount was patting his wife’s hand as he studied her face.

  ‘Quite certain. That is entirely thanks to
Mr Hunt who threw me very neatly behind the sofa.’

  Jared left them to their mutual reassurance and climbed back to the sitting room to survey the damage, dragging his mind away from the all-too vivid memory of just how Lady Northam had felt under him after that neat throw. There had been a faint question in his mind right from the moment the explosion occurred, but securing the house had not allowed him to ponder it. Now he stood in the middle of the room and studied the charred hole in the hearthrug. Strange. Very strange indeed.

  He crouched and lifted the rug to his nose, sniffed and dropped it again as he stood up. Behind him the door opened and he turned slowly, recognising the laboured breathing of his employer, still out of wind from the recent alarm.

  ‘My lord, these incidents have occurred both here in London and at one of your country estates?’

  ‘Yes. Come back to my study. I feel the need for my comfortable chair and a glass of brandy.’ The Viscount led the way and sat down stiffly, looking all of his years. ‘My wife has gone to her chamber to lie down. Her maid is with her. The decanters are over there.’ He flapped a hand in the general direction and closed his eyes.

  ‘Which attack happened where?’ Jared asked when they were settled either side of the desk, brandy glowing warmly in the glasses in front of them.

  ‘We were at Allerton Grange, the house I bought at the funeral I told you about. It was mid-March but the weather was exceedingly fine and I thought it was time we stayed there for a while, decided what needed doing to it. The order was the handrail, the adder and the horse. Naturally I brought my wife back here – I assumed there was some local lunatic at large. Then there was the shot in Hyde Park and now this.’