The Gentleman s Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  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.”

  She might well be right, but what good was that realization? Kit could hardly raise Malet from the dead.

  “And you may never be able to face them,” Hero said, as though reading his thoughts. “But you might make do with those who are chasing us.”

  Kit’s lips curled at the thought of some measure of retribution. He would gladly dole it out if he could get his hands on them, especially since they might well be one and the same.

  As they approached Piketon, Hero watched for anything unusual. Although the town was on the way to London, she didn’t like veering from her goal, and she was leery of meeting up with anyone else. There were too many variables, too many chances for surprise.

  But Hero could hardly refuse to stop unless she was prepared to quit Kit’s company, which she was not yet ready to do. The roads presented too many threats to the solitary young man she appeared to be, and though she had many skills, she did not overestimate her abilities.

  Nor could she fool herself, Hero admitted bitterly. For no matter how many pragmatic excuses she might give, truth be told, she remained with Kit Marchant because she could not bear to part with him. He had proven to be just as dangerous as she first expected, wielding a power over her that Raven never had possessed.

  Hero flushed at the memory she had tried most to banish: the night in the dim library when Kit had leaned over her, pressing his mouth to hers. He had taken her unawares, but like someone under a spell, Hero had let him, overwhelmed by the unexpected sensations, her innate caution abandoned in the heat of the moment.

  If that was his sole effect upon her, Hero might have been able to dismiss the incident as a sudden weakness of her gender. But Kit Marchant was insidious, luring her with his gentle touch, his warmth, his humor…Everything about him.

  Nothing seemed to disconcert the man. He remained calm in every situation, keeping his head while he took appropriate action, all solid strength and reason. Indeed, he was so remarkable, that it was easy to see him as her rescuer, and not just from the storm. But Hero could not take shelter with him permanently.

  Raven would not allow it, of course. But more importantly, she could not allow it. Her circumstances were such that she could never form an attachment to anyone, for the risks were too great. For everyone.

  And when that knowledge threatened to overcome her, Hero told herself that Kit Marchant could not be what he claimed, that no one would help her unless they had their own motives for doing so. Even a gentleman.

  And yet…She thought of the tale he had told her last night in the closeness of the room they had shared. For a moment in the dark she glimpsed what she had seen at Oakfield, a man who was holding in anger and grief. And despite her best intentions, Hero had been affected.

  No doubt, that was what he intended. Hero frowned, uncertain, but unable to dismiss her suspicions. Perhaps someone else could accept Kit Marchant’s help and his explanations for it without question. But she had been raised differently, as a pawn on Raven’s chessboard. His machinations had so altered her outlook that, even now, she wondered what part he played in all of this.

  Hero shook her head. All she could do was move toward the goal and hope that she was on the right path. Nothing else mattered, she reminded herself. And yet, when Kit turned his head toward her, her pulse leapt, her gaze settling upon his handsome face with an eagerness she could not deny.

  “This is the place,” he said, nodding toward a tall brick building ahead. A large sign proclaimed it the site of the Crowned Head, and belatedly, Hero scanned the area for anything suspicious. The inn was a large one, which meant that they could blend in with the crowd, but others could do so, as well.

  Once inside the courtyard, they gave their horses over to a stable lad and walked among the bustle of grooms, postilions, coachmen and servants, all providing for the mail coaches and post chaises, horses and passengers.

  Hero looked from the hurrying throng to Kit. “Where would he be?”

  Kit shrugged in his usual casual manner, though Hero doubted he was as unconcerned as he appeared. “Let’s just look around.”

  Although Hero felt a measure of safety in her disguise, she still kept a wary eye out, for Kit was recognizable and anyone with him would garner scrutiny. “Perhaps we should separate,” she suggested, but he gave her a black look. Was he being protective or laying a trap? Hero slowed her steps, hanging back just enough to avoid any sudden entanglements.

  They had nearly completed a circle of the perimeter when Kit paused. “He’s here, all right, there by the door to the kitchens.”

  Hero glanced in that direction and saw a stocky fellow, his cap slung low, lounging against the brick wall.

  “I’ll keep my distance,” Hero said. “I’d rather he not see me dressed as I am.” At Kit’s nod, she sauntered toward a farm cart that was rolling to a stop nearby. “I’ll take care of this for you, sir,” she said to the driver, ducking her head.

  “Molly usually doesn’t need tethering, lad. Just make sure no one steals my goods,” the farmer said. Dropping to the ground, he unloaded a large crate of apples, passing by Kit on his way into the kitchens.

  Standing silently at the horse’s head, Hero kept her face turned away even as she inched closer to the man Kit had pointed out. Although loath to be recognized, she wanted to be privy to the conversation. And as long as the two didn’t whisper, she was in a good position to listen.

  “Are you all right?” the man called Hob asked.

  “Yes, and you?”

  From the corner of her eye, Hero could see the fellow nod. “I left the coach in Burrell. Didn’t see a sign of the two men, sir, and began to think perhaps they were just a pair of thieves looking for something to steal.” He paused. “Then I went back to Oakfield. It appears they raised the stakes.”

  “Are the authorities still looking to arrest me?”

  “I don’t know. When I found out about the warrant, I didn’t stay around to be questioned. I sent word off to the viscount and decided to come here. I didn’t know where else to catch up with you.”

  “Obviously, they were not fooled by the switch in vehicles.”

  “No, and they seem to mean business, sir. What of the young lady? Is she all right?”

  “She’s safe,” Kit said.

  “Really? And just where might that be?”

  At the sound of the new voice, Hero did not turn, but kept her eyes resolutely fixed upon the ground.

  “Here, now, put that away before someone gets hurt,” Hob said.

  Only then did Hero glance surreptitiously toward Kit. He and Hob were pinned against the wall, facing a third man whose back was to her. Obviously, he had some weapon, a pistol or a knife that kept them at his mercy, and Hero’s heart hammered violently at the sight.

  They had been threatened earlier, but that was before she had come to know Kit Marchant. In fact, the assault on the carriage seemed a lifetime ago, so far in the past that Hero could not believe she had once thought he played some part in it. Now, his life was in danger because of her, and Hero felt a horror that even the worst of Raven Hill’s frights had never induced. For an instant, she could d
o nothing except stare, stricken numb.

  “Tell me where the girl is and no one will get hurt,” the man said, and his words finally roused Hero to action. Although she could not see his face, she heard the sneer in his voice, the falseness of his promise, and she knew that no one would come out of this unharmed by co-operating with him.

  “And just in case you’re hesitating, my friend is across the courtyard, ready to join us,” he said. “He’s still smarting from the tumble off his horse, so if I were you, I wouldn’t annoy him.”

  Tugging on her cap, Hero glanced up and saw that a tall man, hat shadowing his face, was approaching. She had no time to draw her own weapon, and the horse and cart stood between her and Kit. So she gave Molly a smack, sending the animal charging toward the doorway.

  Kit and Hob moved out of the way, but the other fellow, obviously counting on his cohort to watch his back, was taken unawares. Knocked aside, he was soon being pummeled by Kit, who exhibited the kind of boxing men paid to witness. Hero had only a startled moment to admire his skill before she maneuvered the horse and its load backward, putting them between the kitchen and the approaching man, who had broken into a run. A quick shove to the cart sent it careening into him.

  “Here, now, what’s going on?” The farmer, emerging from the kitchens, shouted in annoyance.

  “He ran into your cart,” Hero called.

  The farmer might have been more forgiving if the fallen man had apologized. Instead, the villain lurched to his feet and shoved the approaching farmer out of the way, intent upon reaching his companion. Not taking well to such treatment, the farmer tackled the tall man and an brawl ensued.

  By the time Hero reached Kit, he had his assailant shoved against the wall, trying to get some answers. But even as Kit pressed him, the fellow sank to the ground, unconscious. Seizing her opportunity, Hero darted forward and grabbed Kit’s arm. He swung round, ready to strike her, before recognition flashed in his dark eyes. Then he shouted for Hob, but a stream of men and boys were pouring from the stables to watch the fight, and they had pushed the coachman into the doorway.