Unlike Strawberry Hill, it was shrouded in mystery, as was its owner. Augustus Raven was a collector, that much was known, and apparently, he had no compunction about having his niece acquire for him. And now he had put her in danger.
Kit frowned. At one time he wouldn’t have given Hob’s report a second thought, but he had learned the hard way not to ignore warning signs. The fact that someone had deliberately caused Miss Ingram’s coach to break down so close to Oakfield was not a likely coincidence. And he could come to only one conclusion.
The wretched book had to be responsible.
It had drawn her here, as it had others before her, most notably a man named Malet, a latter-day Druid who had sought the text for some arcane ritual involving the maze behind the house. Both had been built by Ambrose Mallory, a mystic responsible for the writings that were wreaking havoc more than a hundred years after his death.
Had someone survived the conflagration? Or were there others out there who had not been caught in the blaze? Barto had the wealth and connections to investigate, but so far he had discovered nothing more than what they already knew, and Kit had begun to believe the whole business was over.
Until now. But why Miss Ingram? Kit shook his head. Whether someone thought she had the book in her possession or had information that would lead to it didn’t matter. There were people who would stop at nothing to get their hands on that deadly nonsense.
Kit ought to know. They’d killed his father.
And after what Sydony had gone through, Kit wasn’t about to let Miss Ingram meet a similar fate. Although he had pressing matters that required his attention at Oakfield and wanted nothing less than to be thrust back into the dark doings that haunted his new home, Kit had no choice.
He had been asleep on his watch once before, but he did not intend to let it happen again.
When Kit went down to breakfast, he found that his guests had already eaten and were waiting in the library. Although Mrs Osgood would have shown them there as a matter of course, Kit couldn’t help wondering if Miss Ingram had been rifling through his father’s books.
The thought sent anticipation buzzing in his veins, an antidote to the brooding melancholy that was his daily companion. But Kit was not willing to give it up easily, and he told himself that in the light of the new day, he would find his visitor wanting. Surely, no woman could be as beautiful and interesting as he had made her.
And yet, when he entered the library, Kit felt the same pleasure he had the day before. The pale light seemed to cast a glow upon her, just as when he had first seen her standing in the drive. And something about her pose, seated demurely by a window, hands folded in her lap, made his lips curve, for it did not seem a natural one.
Had she already rifled through the books or had she guessed at his suspicions? Kit wondered, not for the first time, what went on behind those eyes. They were a caramel color, as unusual as the woman herself, but told him nothing of their owner. Did she feel what he felt when he looked at her? Her impassive features argued otherwise and reminded Kit of the seriousness of the discussion ahead.
He looked around the room for Mrs Renshaw, only to find her seated at a distance that would make conversation difficult. But the stout female seemed to be nodding off anyway, so he did not bother to include her.
Turning his attention back to Miss Ingram, Kit spoke before she could begin reciting the usual pleasantries expected in such a social situation. “Show me what you have,” he said, as he took a seat near her. “About the Mallory.”
Kit saw a flicker of surprise, quickly masked, and he wondered how this woman had come to be so self-possessed. Sydony’s feelings were always apparent, even if she wasn’t voicing them, but Miss Ingram said little unless it related to her errand, and revealed even less. Showing no expression, she handed him a torn piece of paper.
“It is part of a letter from Mallory to one of his disciples,” she said.
The paper obviously was old, and Kit handled it carefully. Although the hand was strong, the ink had faded and was difficult to read. Still, he could make out most of what remained.
I write to entrust you with this copy of my life’s work to hold for safekeeping. Speak not of it to anyone, but secrete it well away from all prying eyes, so that the historical truths therein might be preserved. I have hidden a copy here, but, as you may have learned, the rest have been seized and destroyed. I blame the cursed printer who—
“Historical truths,” Kit muttered in contempt.
“Apparently, all other editions were destroyed because they were deemed sacrilegious, and Mallory was labeled a heretic,” Miss Ingram explained. “He died shortly afterward, purportedly poisoned by one of his own.”
Kit frowned at the thought of the murder, hopefully not done under this roof, although most likely deserved. “And who did he send this to?” Kit asked, trying to decipher the name.
Miss Ingram leaned toward him, an intent look upon her face. “Martin Cheswick, an ancestor of the Earl of Cheswick. Raven acquired some books, including the one in which this fragment was found, after the current earl’s father died.”
Kit nearly whistled at the idea of such a personage being connected with Mallory. Then again, every family had black sheep in their histories, including the Prince Regent himself. “But that’s where you should be looking, not here,” Kit said, returning the paper to her.
Miss Ingram frowned. “It speaks of two copies.”
“But the one that was hidden here burned,” Kit said. And that would be that, if not for the broken wheel. He could shout out to the skies that the volume was gone, but someone obviously thought Miss Ingram knew better. Were they looking for the piece of correspondence or the book itself?
“Who knew that you were coming here?” Kit asked.
Again, there was but a brief flicker of surprise before Miss Ingram spoke. “Raven, obviously.”
“Perhaps some of his friends or associates, as well?”
To her credit, Miss Ingram did not balk at his questions, but answered with a trace of irony. “Mr Marchant, I assure you that Raven does not discuss uncompleted transactions with anyone. That is why I alone am here, without a host of others clamouring to outbid me.”
“But you were lucky to reach Oakfield at all,” Kit said, “considering that the wheel on your coach was carefully sawed so as to cause it to break.”
This time there was no mistaking her startlement. And even the distant companion roused herself from her slumberous slouch. Perhaps she was not as uninterested as she appeared.
“What are you saying?”
“My coachman replaced the wheel, but there’s no mistaking that the old one was cut.”
Kit was so used to talking to Syd that he realized not every gently born female would take well to such news, and he braced himself for some kind of fainting spell or hysteria. But Miss Ingram again proved she was not typical of her gender. Evincing no fear or horror, she eyed him evenly.
“But why would anyone want to cause such an accident?”
“I would guess for the same reason you are here,” Kit said. “Perhaps they’ve heard of your uncle’s interest in the Mallory and think that you might acquire it or might know something that would lead them to it, such as what you just showed me.”
Miss Ingram frowned. “I don’t see how anyone could know about it when it has been hidden for years.”
Kit shrugged. “Perhaps your uncle had occasion to mention it to someone, or the former owner of the book in which this was found might have spoken of it.”
“Mr Marchant, Raven does not easily share his secrets,” Miss Ingram said, yet there was a certain hesitation in her speech that made Kit wonder, especially when she refused to meet his probing gaze. Augustus Raven might be a man of mystery, but he was not particularly quiet about his possessions. Kit could well imagine a boast falling on the wrong ears.
“The fact remains that someone has gone to great lengths to stop you, and if you had not nearly reached Oakfield, y
ou might have had unwelcome company.”
That made her blanch, and Kit pressed his point. “Miss Ingram, it has been my experience that the kind of people who seek this text do not take well to disappointment. If they think you have something they want, they will kill you to get it.”
Miss Ingram paled, but did not falter. “That seems a bit extreme, even for a bibliomaniac.”
“For your protection, I insist upon escorting you home.”
Miss Ingram cocked her head, as though considering the suggestion. “That is very kind of you, Mr Marchant, but if someone is seeking this paper or the book it mentions, they will not be satisfied until they get it.”
Undoubtedly. “But you’ll be safe once returned to Raven Hill,” Kit assured her, even as he felt a twinge of uncertainty. Hadn’t his own property been invaded? His own sister attacked? But what else could he do, especially for a woman who was no relation? By all accounts, Augustus Raven was wealthier and more powerful, his famous house practically a fortress.
Miss Ingram shook her head. “If these people are as dangerous as you suggest, there is only one real option.” She leaned forward, her caramel-colored eyes glinting as she looked at him intently. “We must find the remaining edition. Once Raven has it in his possession, no one will have cause to pursue me.”
Kit was taken aback both by the suggestion and Miss Ingram’s apparent determination. What she proposed was the kind of wild escapade that he and Syd and Barto might have planned in their youth, but not something that reasonable adults would undertake, especially strangers.
Kit had never followed the strictest codes of propriety, but traveling around the country with a woman who was no relation to him, even with a sleepy chaperone accompanying them, did not seem like appropriate behavior.
“I don’t think your uncle would approve,” he said.
But Miss Ingram showed no sign of demurring. She straightened in her seat and gazed at him directly. “Raven approves of any means that gets him what he wants.”
It was the challenge glinting in her eyes that made Kit waver. Instead of hiding away, sunk in the dismals, he could do something, maybe even hunt down those connected with the bastards who murdered his father, threatened his sister and now stalked Miss Ingram. But as tempting as that notion was, Kit knew he could hardly chase suspected killers while protecting her. And he would not use a woman as bait to draw them out.
“It wouldn’t take long,” she said. “Cheswick isn’t that far from Raven Hill.”
“Cheswick?” Kit echoed. The ancestral home of the earls?
“Yes, just as you said.”
“I said?” Kit was used to being confounded by his sister, but Miss Ingram was taking the practice to new extremes.
“You said we should look to the recipient of the letter for the Mallory.”
Kit groaned at that logic. “I simply meant that the book wasn’t here, but had been sent away. You can’t hare off to Cheswick based on a hundred-year-old scrap of paper sent to a long-dead relative of the earl.”
“Why not? Where else should we start?”
She was so serious that Kit could only stare in amazement. “Do you realize how many times that book could have changed hands?”
“If it had surfaced, the collecting world would know of it,” she insisted.
Kit shook his head. “The fellow who received that missive might have hidden it or sent it away. Had he any sense, he would have destroyed it. Or it could have been confiscated with all the others.”
“Maybe,” Miss Ingram said. “But maybe not. The only way to find out is to look.”
Again, Kit felt a leap of excitement at the dare, at the opportunity to move against the dark threat that clung to his home. But he did not see how banging on the Earl of Cheswick’s door would solve anything.
Perhaps once he got Miss Ingram safely home, Kit would ask Barto for an introduction to the earl. As Viscount Hawthorne, Kit’s old friend moved among the ton and might even know the fellow nobleman. A few discreet inquiries could be made, though Kit doubted the book would ever be found. And as far as he was concerned, it could stay lost for ever.
Kit shook his head. “I’m just a gentleman farmer, not one of the desperate characters you described, driven by book madness.” Or worse.
“But you must know more about the Mallory than anyone,” Miss Ingram protested.
“I can’t even tell you what the book looks like because I never saw it—none of us did,” Kit said. “Which makes going after it a fool’s errand and perilous, as well. You can pursue the letter’s history through the proper channels, if you wish, once you are home, where your uncle can watch over it—and you.”
For someone who had argued so passionately for her preferred course, Miss Ingram seemed to accept his decision with equanimity. Straightening in her seat, she gave him a slow nod of resignation, and Kit was too glad she had seen reason to question her response. Instead, he leaned forward.
“Now, here’s my plan.”
Since Mr Marchant’s scheme required some time to organize, Hero took the opportunity to look through the house once more. Although Gothic, it was small enough to be made into a cozy home without much work. And as she walked through the rooms, Hero began imagining improvements, not the sort that Raven undertook, but the kind that would make it comfortable, inviting…
Hero shook her head at such fancies. What Mr Marchant did or did not choose to do with his property was none of her concern. Her only concern was acquiring the Mallory, and that was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Hero conveniently ignored the small voice that told her she should have fled, broken wheel or not, refusing Mr Marchant’s offer to escort her.
By ceding to him, hadn’t she proven her fears were valid, that she couldn’t refuse him? Hero shook her head, unwilling to consider any such possibility. She was only doing what she had to, and if he insisted on coming along, why not make good use of him?
Stepping into a parlor at the back of the house, Hero realized it was probably a later addition to the original structure, for tall doors led onto a terrace. Although it had been raining yesterday, she could see the rear of the property more clearly now through wisps of fog.
The sight was not heartening. The blackened stubble that stretched behind the house gave credence to Mr Marchant’s story of a recent fire. Although Hero had questioned the servants about it, they claimed to be newly hired and ignorant of the facts. But something had burned back there. Had the book been destroyed, as well? Hero had only Mr Marchant’s word on that, and she had learned long ago not to trust anyone.
And that included a man who could trip her pulse with one look. No matter how straightforward he might seem, Hero knew that his casual air could be deceiving. Christopher Marchant was smarter than he looked and far more observant. Despite his often heavy-lidded gaze, he was awake on every suit, and no matter how appealing he was, Hero could not afford to let down her guard.
As if to prove her point, Hero felt, rather than heard, him move behind her, and her heart pounded in response. Such quiet steps might be those of practiced stealth, she reminded herself as she tried to calm her clamoring senses.
“What do you think of the house?” he asked.
The question was not what she expected, and Hero turned to face him, an automatic response upon her lips. “It’s very nice.”
He sent her one of those probing looks that usually made her uncomfortable, but this time Hero did not dissemble. “Perhaps it could use a little work,” she admitted. “Some paint, wallpaper and bright fabrics to lighten the atmosphere wouldn’t be amiss. I’m sure whatever your sister has planned will be lovely.”
Mr Marchant glanced about him, as if at a loss. “I don’t know whether she got that far, and now she’s gone. She’ll be getting married soon.”
“Oh,” Hero murmured. “Congratulations.”
Mr Marchant did not comment, for he was still studying the room, with its heavy curtains and even heavier furniture. “It needs a feminine touch,�
� he said, and for some reason Hero’s heart skipped a beat. He did not mean her touch, she told herself. She was definitely not the feminine ideal, for she could not watercolor or sketch or play the pianoforte. And a gentleman would have little use for whatever skills she did possess.
“You don’t think the place gloomy beyond redemption, do you? Haunted by the history of its original owner? Far too eerie to ever be livable?”
Hero choked back a laugh. “Eerie? You can’t know the meaning of the word,” she said. “I live at Raven Hill.”
“Oh, sorry,” Mr Marchant said. “Your uncle does have a reputation for being eccentric.”
That was putting it mildly. However, Hero had no intention of discussing Raven or his home, and she hurried to change the subject. “Shall we be leaving soon?”
Mr Marchant nodded, but his expression grew rueful, as though he were disappointed by the turn of the conversation. Had he hoped for more personal information? Hero had never met a man who evinced interest in something other than himself and his acquisitions. Indeed, such behavior was so unusual that she couldn’t help wondering what had prompted that interest.
Was it curiosity for curiosity’s sake or something more sinister?
Now that his plan was implemented and they were on the road, Kit felt a bit easier. If things went as he hoped, whoever was interested in Miss Ingram would be far away by now, traveling in the opposite direction behind Augustus Raven’s old-fashioned coach.
Hob had agreed to drive it, taking a circuitous route along the moors and on to Burrell, where he could leave it with a fellow who owned an inn. Hob had wanted to continue on, making his roundabout way to Piketon, where they could exchange vehicles, but Kit was leery of dropping the charade too soon.
There was no reason why Miss Ingram and her companion couldn’t ride in his more comfortable carriage all the way to Raven Hill, their driver and footman at the reins. Augustus Raven could easily send someone to fetch his coach, and should he not be willing, Kit would hire someone to do so.
The Gentleman's Quest Page 3