Kit swallowed a grunt of surprise. He could understand her wish to get out of boy’s clothing, but how? He only hoped that she did not intend to march into Cheswick, demanding the use of a dressing room.
Thankfully, she did not. Nor did she attempt to use any of the numerous outbuildings. “Too many servants. Too many eyes,” she told him, turning away from the house. Instead, she rode into a copse of trees and dismounted.
Kit followed, dismounting, as well, though he was unsure of her intention until she shook out the blanket and flung it over some branches. The next thing he knew, her hat and coat were perched upon a limb, too.
Kit found himself staring at the sight of her head and shoulders visible above the makeshift curtain. Then he blew out a breath and promptly turned around. He had slept a few feet from her the past two nights, but he was not prepared to watch while she removed her clothing with only a thin piece of material standing between them.
His back to her, Kit could not see what was happening, yet he could hear well enough. And he tried not to picture what else was being removed. Her shirt? The breeches? Did she wear a shift beneath? She had to be cold, and the inevitable reaction of certain parts of her anatomy had certain parts of Kit’s anatomy reacting, as well.
Drawing in a harsh breath, Kit concentrated on keeping a lookout, rather than taking a look behind. Just because the two fellows they saw at the Long Man were liveried servants in the employ of a duke, did not mean he could lapse into inattention. And the thought of anyone coming upon Miss Ingram in a state of undress kept him alert.
“I’m ready.”
Although Kit was surprised to hear Miss Ingram speak so soon, he swung round only to gape in wonder. Surely no female had ever dressed herself so quickly—or transformed herself so completely.
The boy with the cap was gone, replaced by a prim young woman, her gloved hands clasped in front of her, her eyes downcast. Having acquired a taste for the sight of those long legs clad in breeches, Kit was prepared for disappointment. But a glimpse of a revealing bodice, visible below the ties of her cloak, banished all such concerns. In fact, he could have spent some time savoring the view, but Hero was already turning away from the trees.
Abruptly, Kit was reminded of their whereabouts, and he realized that they still faced the problem of gaining access to Cheswick, no matter what Miss Ingram’s guise. He shot her a speculative glance. “Now what?” And he didn’t know whether to be encouraged or disappointed when she answered without hesitation.
“We take the tour.”
Chapter Five
As Hero had hoped, Cheswick’s housekeeper was authorized to give tours of the great house, and who could refuse Mr Marchant and his sister, two genteel tourists visiting the countryside?
Although Mr Marchant accompanied her without protest, he said little, and Hero was forced to comment admiringly on the elegant furnishings and works of art, while keeping her eye out for books. Yet as they moved from one spacious room to another, she didn’t see any. Had she made a misjudgment? Although she knew the current earl was no collector, she didn’t think he had sold off the family’s library. But if not here, where?
Hero tried to recall what she knew of the man, including his other properties. Perhaps Cheswick was too new and had never housed the Mallory. When had the family gained the earldom, and where had they lived before? Hero wondered frantically. If the volume was not here, she would have to look elsewhere, for whether Raven had orchestrated this little jaunt or not, he would expect her to return with the prize in hand.
Despite her growing unease, Hero kept up a constant stream of chatter for the benefit of the housekeeper. But she must have given something away, for Mr Marchant shot her a speculative glance. Even as she ignored it, Hero felt suspicion roil through her again. Did he know something she did not? Is that why he hadn’t wanted to come here?
Just when Hero was trying to work out what she might do next, Mrs Spratling stopped before a closed door, opened it and ushered them through, with a curt explanation. “His lordship doesn’t often use this room, so it is usually kept shut, but it’s a fine library.”
Indeed it was. All four walls were lined with shelves, and all of those shelves were lined with books. Yet the room was open and airy, as was all of Cheswick, a relatively new house with none of the quirks of Raven Hill. Breathing in the scents of bindings, paper and beeswax, Hero felt her tension ease. She could have spent weeks browsing, but she knew they didn’t have that sort of time.
Catching Mr Marchant’s eye, she inclined her head toward the opposite wall, so that they might each search a section. As he had since their first acquaintance, Mr Marchant seemed to understand her direction without any speech passing between them. And when he casually strolled away, Hero turned to face the shelves. She paused, her hands behind her back, as though gazing in wonder at their contents. However, she was more interested in discovering their order, and she had to bite back a cry of dismay at what was soon evident.
The books in Cheswick’s library were carefully arranged, but not by a system that would do Hero any good. As she stared at the great blocks of hues, Hero cursed the earl or his decorator or whoever had decided it would be stylish to order the library according to the color of the covers.
Since Hero had no idea what the Mallory looked like, her only option was to seek out older volumes. However, a book’s condition depended upon a number of variables besides its age. If secreted safely away for a number of those years, it would bear few marks of usage, but if tossed in the cellar or worse, it could be damaged beyond repair.
Hero’s heart sank as she eyed the shelves. While this collection was not vast, there were far too many books to search quickly. And the housekeeper already was making noises about returning to her work.
“Oh, but the books are all so pretty,” Hero said. She turned to smile at the woman, then walked to where Mr Marchant was pondering the editions along the opposite wall.
“See how cleverly those are grouped,” she said aloud. But her whispered message was far different. “We need more time.”
“And how do you propose we arrange that?” Mr Marchant asked.
“Bribe the housekeeper?” It was no secret that most of the staff of these large homes were underpaid and overworked, but this one didn’t have the slack-jawed look of desperation. Still, it was worth an effort.
Turning away from Mr Marchant, Hero walked the perimeter of the room, checking the rows for a volume that appeared old or pushed behind another. And all the while, she chattered away about her love of novels with the hope of distracting the servant.
Since Mr Marchant continued his inspection in silence, Hero could only deduce that he was unwilling to offer money to the woman or that he was waiting for the right moment. But it soon became clear that they could delay no longer.
With a loud harrumph, Mrs Spratling planted her formidable form directly in front of Mr Marchant. “I’m afraid I must insist that we move on.”
“Oh, please don’t say so,” Hero said, with an expression of dismay. “Couldn’t we just look around a bit longer? Christopher, give this wonderful woman a little something to let us linger. This is the most beautiful library we’ve seen yet.”
But Mrs Spratling would have none of it. “His lordship doesn’t allow for lingering,” she said, her lips pursed. “He’s having a ball tonight, and his party will be arriving soon.”
“A ball!” Hero clapped her hands with feigned delight. “Did you hear that, Christopher?”
Behind the housekeeper’s back, Mr Marchant shot her a pained look, which she promptly ignored.
“What kind of ball is it?”
“A masquerade,” Mrs Spratling said, unbending a bit. “His lordship does love the theatricals and such.”
“Oh, I can only imagine what sort of things they wear,” Hero said. She donned her most ingratiating expression as she turned to the housekeeper. “I suppose you have a hand in arranging them all.”
Mrs Spratling shook her head, but she smiled
, obviously flattered. “His lordship does keep costumes on hand for those who aren’t prepared, but I just have to lay them out, keep them all in good condition. It’s the ball itself that I—”
Hero cut her off. “Oh, please, you must let us see! Just a peek,” Hero wheedled. “I’ll bet you have your favorites.”
“Well, I…” Mrs Spratling smiled. “I do have a couple that I recommend, only if the ladies or gentlemen ask for my assistance, of course.”
“Oh, you must show us, just for a moment, and they’ll we’ll be off, straight out the door,” Hero said. She squealed with glee when Mrs Spratling nodded her agreement and hurried to the woman’s side. Thankfully, Mr Marchant had the sense not to say anything, and as soon as the housekeeper marched ahead, Hero fell back, grabbing his arm to pull him close.
“We’re going to the ball,” she whispered.
When he turned to her with a dubious expression and a protest upon his lips, she shook her head to silence him. “You distract her while I get some costumes for us.”
And before he could argue, Hero moved toward Mrs Spratling, more flattery upon her lips. It had been her experience that most people loved to show off what meant the most to them. Obviously, the housekeeper was proud of the grand home in her charge, but she also had a soft spot for fripperies, the creative bent of her master and her own opinion, all of which Hero used to gain entrance to the dressing room, where the masquerades were kept.
Mrs Spratling swung open the door, and Hero stepped inside just as a loud thump echoed behind them. Hero did not pause, but hurried forward, scanning the room for what she could slip inside her cloak. Unfortunately, most of the garments appeared to be housed in matching wardrobes, and she did not know how much time she had. Mr Marchant was quick-witted, but the housekeeper would not be diverted for long.
A domino with an odd mask that could be folded lay upon the arm of an Egyptian couch, perhaps in need of mending, but it would serve her purpose. Rolling it as quickly and tightly as possible, Hero tucked it inside her cloak. On a nearby table was a set of brightly colored garments. Hero snatched up the top items, then spread another on the couch in place of the domino, just as she heard Mrs Spratling’s loud step behind her.
“Look at these,” Hero said. “Did you make them yourself?”
But Mrs Spratling’s mood had been ruined by Mr Marchant’s stumble and subsequent complaints about the slickness of the floors.
“Certainly not. His lordship employs seamstresses for such tasks,” she said. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room with the look of a general inspecting his troops. Hero inched in front of the couch, hoping that the missing domino would not be marked. She held her breath, heart pounding, until Mr Marchant provided another distraction.
“Are the costumes in here?” he asked loudly, limping to one of the wardrobes.
“Don’t touch that,” the housekeeper said. Barreling past Mr Marchant, she opened the doors to display a variety of hanging items, as well as numerous masques and headdresses.
“There. As you can see, his lordship likes to keep a good supply on hand, especially for those he favors,” she said with a sweep of a beefy hand. Obviously, she no longer intended to show them any contents of the wardrobes, Mr Marchant having fallen out of her graces literally. “Now, I have work to do, so you must be off.”
Hero nodded, but waited for the woman to lead the way before moving from her position. Mrs Spratling’s small eyes narrowed as she glanced behind her, as if looking for something. And Hero held her breath.
“I thought we were going,” Mr Marchant said, coming to the rescue again. “I dare say I think I might need your help, ma’am, for I can hardly walk. If you could just let me take your arm until we reach one of the carpets. Sister, if you would assist me, as well?”
Hero would have smiled at Mr Marchant’s posturing, if her heart hadn’t been pounding so fiercely. Pulling her cloak close around her, she loosed a low sigh of relief at escaping the dressing room. She had maintained her composure in worse situations, with no one to count on except herself. But she wasn’t sure that she could have managed this time, and she suspected that Mr Marchant had saved her from discovery.
As she took his arm, Hero was hard pressed to maintain her charade, for his effect on her was anything but brotherly. Fighting off the urge to press herself closer, she reminded herself that Mr Marchant was not what he seemed.
Nothing appeared to disturb him, not highwaymen, nor arresting authorities, nor difficult travels or accommodations. Not even a sudden need for posing and deception. On the contrary, he appeared to take everything in his stride, perhaps even thriving on their adventures.
Glancing surreptitiously in his direction, Hero noted that the dark circles under his eyes were gone. Had the grief and anger she had once seen been real, or had it all been a pose? And was Mr Marchant simply an actor playing a part?
As Sydony often said, there was very little that rattled Kit, but skulking around the Earl of Cheswick’s property was one of them. After practically being thrown out of the home by the housekeeper, Kit was anxious to make their escape. But Miss Ingram insisted upon looking over the outbuildings and admiring the grounds, though nothing was blooming this late in the year.
“Haven’t you seen enough, sister?” Kit asked, when a stable boy eyed them quizzically. He’d begun to wonder if she was like Lady Caroline Lamb, who was rumored to dress as a man, courting danger and pushing the boundaries of society. But Miss Ingram claimed she was checking out all available structures for later use.
“Later when?” Kit asked. “And use by whom?”
She only shook her head, smiled at the stable boy, and continued on her way. When, at last, she had seen her fill, Kit coaxed her back to the horses, eager to leave before the earl and his party arrived—or Miss Ingram’s theft was discovered.
After they exited the graveled drive that led to Cheswick, Kit breathed a sigh of relief, for no shouts rose from behind them, and there were no signs of pursuing footmen. “Don’t we have enough people chasing us without you stealing from the Earl of Cheswick?” he asked, slanting her a glance.
“How else were we going to get into the ball?”
Kit groaned.
“We need more time to find the book.”
As if posing as brother and sister, conning Cheswick’s housekeeper and outright theft weren’t enough, Miss Ingram wanted to return? Kit shook his head. Her facility for deception made him leery, for a woman who fooled everyone else might be fooling him, too. If she were playing some sort of game, it could have deadly consequences that she didn’t anticipate. And it made Kit’s task even more difficult, for how could he protect Miss Ingram from herself?
Once Hero was back in her disguise, it was easier to get a room without dealing with maids—or separating. As difficult as it was to spend the night with her, Kit was not about to leave her alone. And he insisted they take time to eat a meal.
But as soon as the sun set, they headed back to Cheswick. The terrain was familiar now, and they tethered their horses in a stand of trees well enough away to avoid the footmen and grooms and arriving guests. Under the cover of darkness, they hurried closer to the house, Miss Ingram steering him toward a small shed.
Apparently, this is what she had meant by later use, for she opened the door and slipped inside, motioning for Kit to follow. He swallowed a protest, for this trespass probably would be the least of his worries before the night was over. Still, Kit balked when he saw the shadowy shapes of a large table and various gardening implements.
“A potting shed?” he muttered. Were they going to take a turn at impersonating the earl’s outdoor staff, as well?
“I was hoping there would be more room,” Miss Ingram said, moving over so that he could join her inside.
“For what?” Kit asked. Stepping into the dark and dusty interior, he was assailed by the smell of soil and manure. His eyes were still adjusting to the lack of light when Miss Ingram shut the door, plunging them into pitc
h blackness.
“For dressing,” she said. “We can change in here and walk to the house.”
Kit blinked blindly. “What?”
“Here’s your costume.” She pushed something into his gut, and Kit grunted. Although he grabbed the bundle, he was still reeling from the idea that they should change clothes here. In the dark. Alone. Together.
“I should wait outside,” Kit said, clearing his suddenly dry throat. “It’s too cramped in here.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Ingram said briskly. “And we can’t have someone seeing you lounging about.”
Her apparent indifference was annoying, but if she didn’t see anything untoward, then why should he? Kit vowed to pretend she was his sister and get on with it. The quicker the better.
Kit’s disgruntlement only grew when he shook out what she had given him and realized it was not a domino, the traditional hooded cloak worn with a half-mask that was the simplest of costumes.
“What the devil did you get me?” he asked, wishing now that he had taken a look in the light. Back at the inn. By himself.
“It’s a Harlequin,” she said. “And it was the only thing at hand. There were a pile of them, matching shirts and trousers, and I took the top set.”
“I can’t put this on,” Kit said. Just from fingering the material, he could tell it would not fit over his clothes. And he had no intention of stripping down to his drawers in the cold shed, with or without Miss Ingram’s company.
“Fine,” she muttered. “You can have the domino, and I’ll wear the Harlequin.”
“No, you won’t,” Kit said. The thought of Miss Ingram traipsing around in nothing but the masque was even more repugnant than donning the outfit himself. At least in her current incarnation, her breeches were loose, and she was covered in layers of shirt and vest and coat. Harlequins, as a rule, were notoriously snug, making them a favorite of preening dandies who wished to show off their figures.
“Why don’t you let me have the domino, and you can simply wear your boy’s clothing?” Kit asked. “Women often masquerade as men, and vice versa, at these things.”
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