The Gentleman s Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  Kit’s main concern was Miss Ingram’s protection, and if he managed to spend more time with her in the process, that was simply an additional benefit. But once she was safely delivered, Kit did not see how he could further their acquaintance, for they did not move in the same circles.

  Miss Ingram was no country lass to be courted at local dances, flirted with during long walks with other young people or invited with relatives to visit. No doubt, her uncle would look askance at a barely landed gentleman such as Kit.

  The idea was sobering, and Kit might have dwelled upon it, if the sound of another vehicle had not dragged him from his thoughts. Abruptly, he realized that the fog was becoming thicker, threatening to obscure approaching riders. Although he had traveled this section of roadway many times without concern, now the trees on either side seemed too close. Putting his hand on the pistol he had thrust into his bag, he urged Bay past the carriage to get a good look at whatever was coming.

  At the sight of a horse and cart, Kit’s tension eased, yet he remained alert, for just such a farm cart had been part of his undoing before the fire. Studying the driver and his load carefully, Kit saw nothing more threatening than a couple of old sows, but when it had gone by, he heard the echo of its noisy passage.

  Too late, Kit realized that the sound was of something else. And by the time he looked behind him, the carriage had been stopped by riders who appeared out of the mist, kerchiefs obscuring their faces and guns in their hands.

  Still, Kit might have prevailed with the aid of Miss Ingram’s coachman and footman. But instead of presenting some kind of defence, the two cowered like frightened children, more frightened, in fact, than Miss Ingram, who was ordered to exit the carriage by one of the riders.

  No wailing or sobbing or screaming ensued. Indeed, she stepped out with a composure that awed Kit, but made charging the riders impossible. He did not want her caught upon the ground among rearing horses.

  “You stay in there,” the taller of the two men ordered Miss Ingram’s companion, who was more formidable than either of her male attendants. “We just want this one.”

  Kit tensed at the words that confirmed his worst fears. Highwaymen were mostly a thing of the past, and travelers were rarely robbed on today’s busy roads. Although this was a quiet stretch that might be more prone to such thievery, why hadn’t they taken Mrs Renshaw’s jewelry or looked through the baggage? More than likely, these two were responsible for the earlier accident, and they weren’t intent upon questioning or searching, but kidnapping.

  “Which one of those is yours?” the tall one asked, nodding toward the cases on top of the carriage. When Miss Ingram pointed to a valise, he told the footman to toss it down. Then he backed away, perhaps to avoid getting hit with the piece, an opportunity that the footman didn’t have the good sense to act upon.

  But Miss Ingram did. She glanced toward Kit, her gaze telling him everything before she dropped her head in seeming surrender. These men must know nothing of their victim, Kit thought, or they would have paid more attention to her, instead of training their pistols upon Kit and the men who cowered atop the carriage.

  When Miss Ingram leaned down to pick up the baggage, Kit was ready. As she swung it round toward the tall man’s mount, Kit kicked Bay forward. Reaching out an arm, he grabbed Miss Ingram and swung her up behind him as the tall man went down.

  In the shouting and confusion that followed, Kit set off toward the woods on the opposite side of the road, hoping that the fog that had hidden his enemies would cloak their escape. Hearing a ball whizz past his ear, he ducked, pulling Miss Ingram down with him.

  “Don’t shoot her, you fool!”

  The shout spurred Kit onward, with Miss Ingram clinging to his back and her valise flopping against them both. Kit nearly told her to drop it, but the way she hung on to it made him wonder whether there was something important inside that she didn’t want taken. Still, they were hampered in a way their pursuers were not, and Kit looked for some hiding place. Ahead, stones rose out of the mist that he soon recognized as an abandoned graveyard, its church looming beyond.

  Kit did not hesitate. Heading toward the tall doors that were now worn and cracked, he leaned to the side, pushed one open and rode into the old building. Miss Ingram did not protest, but slid to the stone floor swiftly, and when Kit dismounted, he saw her slipping her valise under one of the old box pews, weathered, but still standing.

  After leading Bay behind the fretwork at the rear of the small building, Kit stepped back to scan the dim interior. At first glance, the church still appeared empty, though anyone investigating thoroughly would come across the horse quickly enough.

  But Kit had no intention of them getting that far.

  He took up a spot at one of the narrow windows, his pistol in hand. The fog was growing thicker, which might work in their favor—or not, Kit mused as he squinted into the vapor. The heavy air blanketed the area, muffling sounds as he listened for movement outside, but all he heard was Miss Ingram’s breathing, loud in the stillness.

  Turning toward her, Kit braced himself for a delayed reaction to what she had just been through. But she did not swoon. Instead, her delicate brows lowered over caramel eyes that stared at him intently, her voice a whisper as she spoke a question.

  “Where the deuce did you learn that?”

  “What?” For a moment, Kit had no idea what she was talking about, then he shrugged. “My sister and I once saw some trick riding at a fair, and we practised until we could master some of what we’d seen. That was a long time ago, of course.”

  “Yet you managed to snatch up a grown woman, with baggage, and toss me up behind you with one arm.”

  “Well, not every woman would have the wherewithal to follow my lead,” Kit said, his lips curving in appreciation. In fact, most females would have fainted dead away at the sight of the masked men, instead of attacking one of them with her luggage. But Kit had the feeling that Miss Ingram had more than a few tricks of her own up her sleeve.

  The crack of a twig outside drew Kit’s attention back to the window as one of the riders came into view. The villain made a good target and Kit was tempted to shoot him through one of the broken panes. Better yet, he’d like to take the man down and beat some answers out of him, but he couldn’t leave Miss Ingram alone and unprotected. And a shot would draw the other rider. But his choices were limited, and Kit lifted his hand as the man turn toward the church.

  “Hey, you, get away from there!”

  Kit jerked at the shout, which came from another direction, and as he peered through the mist, he saw a grizzled old man step out from behind one of the tilting gravestones. Kit was tempted to shout out a warning to the old man until he saw the fellow was armed with a rifle and appeared prepared to use it.

  “This is a burial ground, not parklands! Off with you now, or I’ll put a bullet in you,” the old man shouted.

  The rider paused, as though undecided, then kicked his horse and disappeared into the trees. When the sound of his passage faded away, Kit felt a measure of relief—until he heard the soft footfalls of the old man, heading toward the church. Perhaps the fellow was only securing the entrance, Kit thought, but he sank as low in the shadows as he could.

  The creak of the door was ominous in the stillness, and Kit raised his pistol as the figure shuffled in. Dressed in worn and dirty clothes, his hair an untamed halo around his head, the old man had a wild look that made him appear not only dangerous, but possibly mad. No wonder the rider had been chased off.

  Although Kit hoped the old man was making only a desultory check of the church, he turned unerringly toward the window where Kit and Miss Ingram crouched. Leaning close, Kit was ready to dive in front of her, should the fellow lift his rifle. But he only squinted and cleared his throat.

  “Mr Marchant, is that you?”

  Chapter Three

  S ince Kit could not remember seeing the old man before, he remained wary until the fellow lowered his rifle and grinned, reveal
ing some missing teeth.

  “I’m John Sixpenny, sir,” he said. “I look after the chapel. It’s been on Oakfield land as long as I can remember. So I guess it’s yours now.”

  “John Sixpenny, I could not be more happy to make your acquaintance,” Kit said, rising to his feet. He didn’t know if the old man survived on donations or some other source of income, but he planned to provide a hefty bonus for this day’s work.

  “I’ve got a little place over there,” Sixpenny said, with a jerk of his head. “I’d be honored if you’d come have a bite to eat or a bit to drink.”

  Kit nodded in thanks. A visit would gain them some time away from the riders who were searching for them. And another man, especially one armed with a rifle, was all to the good. Still, he glanced toward Miss Ingram, but she was already retrieving her valise, and he hurried to lead Bay out of the church.

  At the sight of the horse, the old man frowned, so Kit slipped him a coin for any damage to the floor. Following behind Sixpenny, they moved as quietly as possible along a barely discernible path, Kit carrying Miss Ingram’s baggage, while she clung tightly to her reticule.

  They had not gone far when they came across a small structure overgrown with vines and plants. The crumbling remains of other buildings could be seen, but the forest had reclaimed whatever settlement that had once been here, except for the church and the home John Sixpenny had made for himself.

  The house was an odd one, its stone base having been built up with timber and thatch. At some point, a lean-to for animals had been added onto one side, but it was empty now, and Kit tied Bay there, away from prying eyes. The inside of the home was odd, as well. For despite his wild appearance, Sixpenny kept it neater than a pin, and the fire burning in the hearth was welcome.

  There were several simple wooden chairs, but Miss Ingram took a stance at the small window, as though to keep watch. She did not appear to trust their host, and her reticence made Kit refuse food and drink as politely as possible. Although he did not suspect Sixpenny of planning any mischief, his own bout with doctored cider made him leery of any offerings, no matter how innocent.

  “Well, then, sir, is there anything else I can do for you?” Sixpenny asked, his blue eyes shrewd as he glanced up from poking at the fire. “I can’t help but notice that you were hiding in my church, just when I chased a ruffian away from my graveyard.”

  “Our carriage was attacked,” Kit said.

  “The villains. A man isn’t safe in his own home any more, let alone on the roads,” the old man said, muttering a low string of imprecations. “Do you want to stay here?”

  The question was one Kit had been mulling over himself. Sixpenny’s home was well hidden, but if the riders decided to search the area carefully, they would stumble across it, and Kit didn’t like the idea of being cornered—or putting the old man in danger.

  The most expedient course would be to go back to the carriage, but one or more of their pursuers might be waiting there or watching for them. These riders were no ordinary footpads, who would scatter at the first sign of other travelers. They had not been fooled by the switched conveyances, and Kit could not count on the cowardly coachman to do anything, even wait for their return.

  There was a third choice, and Kit looked toward Miss Ingram, wondering whether she would agree. John Sixpenny’s introduction had reminded him that they weren’t that far from Oakfield. Heading across open country, they could reach the manor without returning to the road. But they would have to ride together on Bay.

  As if reading his thoughts, Miss Ingram glanced his way, and her calm gaze assured him that she could do whatever he asked. So while Kit thanked the old man, he refused the offer of sanctuary.

  “I think we’d better keep moving,” he said, though he did not mention their destination. And Miss Ingram’s nearly imperceptible nod of approval told him he had made the right decision—for now.

  Raven liked to claim he had trained her well, but nothing had prepared Hero for her current situation: riding behind Christopher Marchant, her arms wrapped around his torso. Given his startling effect upon her, it did not seem to be a wise position to be in. But she had refused to dangle sideways and insisted upon riding astride, her cloak tucked around her legs. And if Mr Marchant was shocked, he did not show it. In fact, the man seemed undisturbed by anything, from gun-wielding robbers to wild-eyed hermits.

  His capability was appealing, and Hero had to fight the urge to lay her head upon his strong back and lean upon him, in more ways than one. She could feel his warmth even through their cloaks, and for someone who was perpetually cold, it was like cozying up to an oven, only better.

  Yet she could just as easily be burned.

  Despite her scattered wits, Hero realized that Mr Marchant was not what he seemed. At first glance, he appeared to be a simple rural resident whose every thought was visible upon his face, but he had surprised her too many times for her to believe that. And Hero did not like surprises. They were too dangerous.

  Just who was this man? The shabby gentry did not own enough land to include an abandoned churchyard. Nor did they have the skills to snatch a women off her feet with one arm while riding on the back of a horse. Nor did they hide beneath their simple clothes and relaxed demeanor a body that was hard with muscle.

  Her suspicions aroused, Hero wondered whether Mr Marchant was spiriting her away for his own purposes. But pressed so close to him, she could not muster any panic. For protection, she had her pistol, though she did not know whether she would be able to fire at him. And what else was she to do? Hero could only follow instincts honed through years of doing Raven’s bidding.

  Was that what he had planned? Surely, even Raven could not have anticipated her reaction to the attractive Mr Marchant. And yet, it was just the sort of thing he would find amusing, toying with her or testing her, safe in the knowledge that nothing could come of it.

  “I’m going to ride right up to the house,” Mr Marchant said. His low voice dragged Hero from her thoughts and sent shivers dancing up her spine. “So we can get you inside as quickly as possible.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll have someone go for the carriage, but you should be safe at Oakfield. I’ll send word to your uncle and hire some extra men to make sure we get you home as soon as can be arranged.”

  He turned his head toward her, and the nearness of his face made Hero’s heart hammer. His skin was not pasty and pale like the antiquarians she usually met, but a deeper hue that bespoke time spent out of doors. His lashes were long and thick, his hair as dark as his eyes, and Hero wanted to reach up and push a stray lock from his forehead.

  Instead, she shook her head. “What we need to do is find what they’re after. The book.”

  Mr Marchant groaned. “Not that again! What of your coach, your footman, your chaperone?”

  “I think we both know that we can’t go back there, and they provided little in the way of protection,” Hero said. “We’re better off by ourselves.”

  Mr Marchant slanted her a dark look of speculation. “We can’t travel, just the two of us, unrelated and unmarried.”

  “If you refuse to help me, I will have to go alone.”

  “You’re not going anywhere alone,” Mr Marchant said with sudden ferocity, and Hero had to suppress a shiver.

  “I assure you that I won’t accuse you of compromising me,” Hero offered.

  “I’m not worried about myself!”

  “Well, there is no need to worry about me,” Hero insisted. “I am a nobody with nothing to ruin.”

  “Except your good name and your future,” Mr Marchant said. “Your uncle would hardly approve.”

  “Raven couldn’t care less about my reputation,” Hero said. And neither her name or her future were of any consequence. To anyone.

  “But you’re his niece,” Mr Marchant protested.

  “Of sorts,” Hero said, though she did not elaborate. What was between her and Augustus Raven stayed between them. “He’s more c
oncerned with his collections than people, which is why we should go to Cheswick.”

  Mr Marchant sent her another speculative glance. “Let me make sure that I understand you correctly. On the basis of a fragment of an old letter that might never have even been sent, you want to go searching for a book that could have been lost, destroyed or hidden beyond reach more than a century ago?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kit sat facing his guest, unsure what to make of her as he watched her pick at her supper. She didn’t look addled and had proposed her mad scheme without batting an eyelash. But how else could he explain such a proposal?

  And yet, Kit had been tempted to agree, to bow to an urge to take action against the unseen foe, rather than kick his heels at Oakfield as he had been, brooding and impotent. But recent events had made him vow to become more responsible, not less so. And chasing after a snippet of torn paper with Augustus Raven’s niece was not exactly sensible behavior, especially after the ride to Oakfield had left him feeling a bit too close to the young woman for comfort.

  Kit reached for his glass of wine, flush with the memory of Miss Ingram leaning close, her slender form pressed against his back, her thighs bumping against his own, and her throaty voice whispering in his ear.

  He had ridden double with Sydony many a time in their younger days, but that, he had discovered, was not the same. During the quick trip to the abandoned church, they had been in too much danger for him to think about it, but on the longer jaunt to Oakfield, the difference became very apparent. And it was one more reason not to travel unaccompanied with Miss Ingram, her assurances notwithstanding.

  Of course, in the eyes of society, the damage was already done. They had been alone together for some time, enough to ruin any proper female. In fact, most young women would be having hysterics or fainting dead away at the very thought, yet Miss Ingram, as always, remained composed. Kit shot a glance at her, but her color wasn’t even high. Throughout the meal, she had said little, affirming what he already knew: Miss Ingram played her cards very close to her chest.