The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  The gamble was a risky one, of course, for Raven would soon hear of it and know of her presence in town. If he didn’t know already, Hero thought, the memory of the shifty-eyed fellow from William Strong’s shop still fresh in her mind. But with Featherstone dead, Hero was counting on Richard Poynter’s help, and he was far more likely to meet with Miss Ingram than Sid Marchant.

  Suddenly, Hero slanted a glance at her companion. “But how shall we introduce you? We can hardly pass you off as my brother.”

  “Perhaps I could be your cousin, Erasmus.”

  Hero laughed aloud at the thought of the handsome, dashing and kind Kit impersonating the stooped, balding and grasping Erasmus. She could only hope that Mr Poynter had never met Erasmus before—and that Erasmus would never discover the charade. If she obtained the Mallory, it would matter little, for Raven would handle his nephew, and then…

  Hero drew in a sharp breath. If she obtained the Mallory. But she refused to consider the possibility that she would not, and she marched up to the Institution, just as though Richard Poynter was expecting her to call.

  He wasn’t, but they were shown into the small salon, where Hero began to hope that he would see them. She perched nervously on the edge of a cabriolet armchair, while Kit roamed the room, looking at the books that were scattered about.

  Hero idly wondered if they had traded places, for she should be the one searching out some rare title in the hopes of bartering it from its owner. And then she wondered at the changes in herself, for not that long ago she would have suspected her gentleman farmer of searching among the volumes for his own gain.

  But Kit was no bibliomaniac, and when he spoke, it was not to marvel at some obscure edition, but to quote from it. In the original Greek. Hero glanced up at him in surprise. “You are a scholar.”

  Kit laughed. “Hardly. I just had a good teacher.”

  “But you are still a reader?”

  “Of course, though I’ve pretty much abandoned the ancient texts that so consumed my father. I’m more interested in the new fields of science, especially agriculture these days,” he said, flashing her a grin.

  “That doesn’t make you any less of a scholar,” Hero said, the need to defend him nearly sending her to her feet. Admiration for him swelled, then turned into something else so strong that it nearly frightened her. But she was never one to shrink in fear, and she would not do so now.

  “You are a gentleman and a scholar,” Hero said, her voice cracking with the force of her emotion.

  Kit must have noticed, for he shot her a speculative glance, but Hero was saved from any questions by the arrival of an elderly man. Slender and gray-haired, he introduced himself as Richard Poynter and greeted them graciously. But after a perfunctory glance at Kit, his attention settled upon Hero, his pale blue gaze lingering with interest.

  Hero did not flinch under the scrutiny, for she was accustomed to the curiosity of the antiquarian community. Women with aspirations to join the ranks were limited by their lack of education and their inability to travel freely, whether their destination be libraries or ruins. Exceptions, such as Dorothy Richardson and the notable book collector Richardson Currer, were rare, and Hero often had to deal with contemptuous and dismissive colleagues.

  But Richard Poynter was not one of those. Gesturing toward the chairs, he took a seat himself, setting aside a pile of papers. “Excuse my haphazard housing here, but I am only providing some aid to the current librarian.” He eyed Hero again. “A fact which is not well-known.”

  “Raven likes to keep well informed.”

  “I dare say,” Poynter said. “I have heard that you often act for him these days, Miss Ingram. Is he not well?”

  “He is fine, but perhaps more reclusive.”

  “Ah.” Poynter nodded, and the simple word implied that he knew far more about Raven than he might say.

  “Actually, I’m here on my own,” Hero explained. “I was hoping that you might clear up something for me.”

  Poynter appeared surprised, but he nodded in agreement.

  “We’ve been trying to track some lots from the Cheswick library and have met with a discrepancy. The current earl told us he directed that the volumes go only to certain individuals, yet it appears that Raven possesses at least one.”

  Hero assumed a suitably puzzled expression. Hopefully, Poynter did not know Raven well enough to suspect he might have obtained the book through questionable means.

  Poynter sighed. “Well, you have found me out.”

  Since Hero had expected him to suggest that Featherstone had sold or gambled away his lots, she tried not to appear shocked at his admission.

  “The current earl had some eccentric notions of how to handle the distribution,” Poynter said. Though the elderly gentleman maintained his gentle demeanor, Hero suspected he was putting a polite gloss on the experience. However likable the current earl was, he had no respect for books, and a devotee such as Poynter would be appalled, not only by the breaking up of the collection, but by the cavalier instructions.

  Pausing, Poynter glanced toward them both. “I assume you heard of the unfortunate passing of Mr Featherstone.”

  Hero nodded, as did Kit.

  Poynter shook his head. “The earl wanted only those few collectors he liked personally to buy the lots, but I soon came to realize that Featherstone was not in a position to make such a large purchase. Not wanting to go against his lordship’s wishes, I suggested to Mr Featherstone that he act as an intermediary, accepting the lot on the behalf of someone else, while taking a small payment for himself to do so.”

  Poynter paused then, as if assessing his audience. “Naturally, I would not wish to earn the earl’s ill will, should he hear of this.”

  When Hero and Kit both nodded in confirmation of their silence, Poynter eyed Hero with that same look of curiosity she had seen earlier. “Mr Featherstone gladly accepted the commission, handling receipt of the lot that then went to Augustus Raven.”

  Hero drew in a sharp breath. Did Raven already own the Mallory? She knew that it took time for some buyers to organize and catalogue their purchases, but not Raven, who was meticulous enough to have found the torn scrap of paper that had sent her on this quest.

  Was it all some bizarre jest or test, yet another piece of drama orchestrated by Raven? Or had the man finally gone mad, putting her through the paces of a Gothic novel only he envisioned?

  “I see you appear baffled,” Poynter said. “Isn’t that the mystery you were trying to solve? How Raven ended up with the lot that was to go to Featherstone?”

  Numbly, Hero nodded.

  “Is it possible that someone else might have bought some of the titles?” Kit asked.

  Poynter shook his head. “I had dealings with Raven, only, and he is unlikely to have shared his spoils.” Poynter then paused as if in thought. “At the time, I was also approached by the Duke of Montford, but too late. The arrangement had already been made with Raven.”

  Ignoring Kit’s startled glance at the mention of the man she so often claimed was pursuing them, Hero kept her attention focused on Poynter, in the hopes that he might reveal something else of interest.

  Although Hero had come to think of Montford as a threat, Poynter’s expression left no doubt that he would rather have dealt with the duke. He frowned, a look of disapprobation on his face. “I thought perhaps Raven would be willing to concede out of loyalty to his old employer, but he was not.”

  “Old employer?” Kit echoed, while Hero sat in stunned silence.

  “Why, yes,” Poynter said, eyeing them curiously. “Your uncle and I once both worked for the duke, years ago when his Grace was first in the thrall of bibliomania. Of course, that was before your uncle was known as Raven.”

  “What?” Kit blurted out.

  Hero was just as stunned, but she was more aware of their roles as niece and nephew to the man and schooled her features accordingly.

  “Why, yes,” Poynter said, with the faintest of smiles. “He
was born Augustus Tovell, or at least that is how I knew him. That was before he became enamored of all things Gothic, changed his name and acquired his castle.”

  “And when did that happen?” Kit asked. Hero wanted to stop him, to stop her ears, but her own raging curiosity kept her silent and immobile.

  Poynter frowned, as though considering dates, then shook his head. “I am not sure when, for it was after I had left the duke’s employ myself.”

  The wry twist of his mouth told Hero that his move probably had not been voluntary. More likely, his fellow staff member had forced him out. Had Raven got his first taste of power and abused it, or was he already orchestrating the fates of others so long ago?

  “But it would have been several years later, after he parted ways with the duke, as well,” Poynter said.

  “Did they have a falling-out?” Kit asked.

  “I don’t know, but he did not seek another position when he left. It might well have been around that time that his elder brother died. Augustus took over the family fortunes, sold the home in Surrey, bought Raven Hill, and began his retreat from the world at large.”

  Poynter smiled apologetically. “But you must know all of this. Indeed, you must have changed your name to Raven,” he said to Kit.

  “He did,” Hero answered, before Kit could speak. “We are both distant relatives, and Raven has been kind enough to help establish our futures.”

  “Ah,” Poynter said. “I had wondered at your connections, for I knew of no other siblings besides his brother, and yet here you are.” He nodded in approval, for it was not unusual for wealthier members of a family to provide for those less fortunate. Those without heirs might even adopt those they favoured, whether relations or friends.

  That was certainly what had driven the real Erasmus to change his name and curry Raven’s favor. He wanted Raven Hill and all that went with it. But unless Hero was mistaken, Erasmus had no more love for his uncle than she did. And his position was not secured, which explained his increasingly desperate offers to do Raven’s bidding without question.

  “Well, Augustus should take great pride in such a fine pair of young people as yourselves,” Poynter said with a smile. Hero was hard pressed not to snort a disclaimer, for Raven took no pride in anything except himself and his acquisitions. But then, weren’t she and Erasmus little more than puppets, human additions to his growing collection?

  “Thank you,” Kit said, when Hero did not comment. “Obviously, you harbor no ill feelings toward him.”

  Poynter’s mouth twisted again. “Life is too short, and collecting too cutthroat a passion to carry grudges. Indeed, my path has crossed many times over the years with both Raven and Montford.”

  He paused to shake his head, his expression sad. “Indeed, I was most grieved to find out that his Grace is gravely ill.”

  “What?” Again, it was Kit who had the presence of mind to speak, while Hero sat still, stunned.

  “Yes, one of the great antiquarians of the age is near death, from what I hear, though I pray God will spare him yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said. “We had not heard these bad tidings. In fact, when we were at Cheswick, I thought I saw the duke’s men or those dressed in his livery.”

  Poynter shook his head, apparently as puzzled as they by the sighting. “Perhaps they are on some final mission at his behest,” the older gentleman finally said with a wistful smile. “I’d like to think his Grace still pursues his final prize, that most rare of volumes, a collector to the end.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hero was so dazed, she let Kit lead her from the London Institution without thought to who might see them. Her mind was in a whirl, trying to take in all the information that Richard Poynter had imparted and make sense of it.

  “Shall we find a place to sit?” Kit asked, ever solicitous.

  Hero shook her head. “No, I’d rather walk.”

  Taking her gloved hand, Kit placed it in the crook of his arm and patted it, as though to comfort her. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “Obviously, the book was never part of the old earl’s library. Martin Cheswick buried it or burned it or somehow disposed of it. The Mallory is lost, and I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe,” Hero said. “Maybe not.”

  Kit slanted her a speculative glance. “The only other possibility is that your uncle already possesses the book. And he sent you off on a mission to fetch it from himself?”

  Although Hero had considered that possibility, she did not share her thoughts with Kit. But when she did not reply, he eyed her sharply.

  “Perhaps you’d like to break into Raven Hill and look for it,” he suggested. “That’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”

  “You can’t break into Raven Hill,” Hero said.

  “Why not?” Kit asked. “I thought it was possible to tour all the great homes, especially one patterned after Strawberry Hill.”

  Hero smiled, though not in amusement. “Unlike Walpole, who wrote a guidebook and gave out tickets to view his home, Raven does not open his house to visitors. But his secretive behavior seems to incite more curiosity about the place, causing him to employ several footmen to chase gawkers away from his property.” And because of Raven’s Gothic fancies, those footmen were armed with swords.

  Hero shook her head. “Despite Raven’s determination to outdo Walpole, there are few similarities between the two houses. Strawberry Hill is full of innovative designs and wallpapers and original use of colors and light. But Raven is no visionary.” He was not interested in creating a showplace, only in feeding his own twisted fantasy.

  “While both buildings have vaulted archways and hidden passages, Strawberry Hill is like a fairy castle, with pinnacles, quatrefoil windows and intricately carved staircases. Raven Hill is more an actual castle with battlements and dungeons. It’s made of real stone and filigree, not wallpapers that cleverly depict such materials.”

  Hero never spoke of her household, but once begun, she could not seem to stop herself. “It’s like a tomb, cold and dark and uncomfortable. And deliberately frightening,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  Hero nodded. She couldn’t begin to count the times she had come across some faux horror, even as a child, that Raven had added for his amusement. “I learned long ago not to scream at the sight of a falling axe or start at some ghoulish sound emanating from nowhere, but to keep on eating my soup in silence.”

  “What?” Kit halted his steps.

  “There is not one comfortable chair, not one warm spot in which to read a book, just presses full of protected volumes or cases stocked with medals or other antiquarian follies.” Hero drew a breath, intending to go on, only to realize that Kit was standing in front of her, a look of shock upon his face.

  “The devil ought to be horsewhipped,” he said, making Hero rue her words. She did not want to set Kit against Raven, now or ever. The knowledge that the man had been born an unassuming Tovell did not lessen his power. A Raven by any other name…

  Hero shook her head, as though to make light of Kit’s charge. “No doubt he deserves such punishment, but for crimes against others far more serious than the lack of desirable furnishings.”

  “I’m serious,” Kit said, with such ferocity that Hero drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t want you to go back there. It sounds like you are little more than an unpaid servant at the whim of a madman.”

  Although Kit was not far from the truth, Hero was not about to confirm his suspicions. And she certainly did not want his pity, especially if it prompted another proposal. Because this time she might not have the strength to refuse.

  “Perhaps I won’t,” Hero simply said. But she couldn’t meet his probing gaze. And she did not share with him the desperate scheme she had devised to win her freedom.

  Aware of the attention they might be drawing with their public argument, Hero began walking once more, forcing Kit to join her. And she forced a change of topic in the conversation, as well.

 
“If the Mallory truly is lost, why is Montford searching for it—and us?” she asked.

  Kit groaned. “The Mallory is lost. And we don’t know that the men were Montford’s, and we only saw them once.”

  Hero sent him a questioning look.

  “All right, twice, but that’s no indication they were chasing us.”

  “Perhaps Montford heard rumours of the Mallory surfacing,” Hero said. “Because of their past connection, the duke might be aware of Raven’s interest and had his men follow me as a matter of course.”

  Kit shook his head. “I still can’t imagine a duke’s servants trying to kidnap you, and the fellows who did weren’t wearing any livery.”

  “They might have changed their clothes, so we wouldn’t be able to identify them,” Hero said drily.

  Kit snorted. “So what do you suggest we do, march up to Montford’s family seat, demanding to see a dying man so we can accuse him of assault?”

  Hero frowned at Kit’s tone. When he put it that way, the idea did sound absurd, but Poynter understood. He knew that bibliomaniacs were consumed with the madness, whether down to their last coin, last thought, or even last breath.

  “If Montford thinks we are on track, perhaps we should continue the search. We could talk to Featherstone’s servants and friends and try to discover what happened to his books.”

  “But the lots went to Raven,” Kit said.

  Hero paused, struck by a sudden thought. “Yes, but how?” she said, glancing intently at Kit. “Were they delivered directly to Raven or did they pass through Featherstone first? If so, Featherstone might have lifted a few choice gems for himself.”

  “By cracking open a couple crates and going through every volume?”

  “And picking the best for himself? I know I would have,” Hero said.

  “But Featherstone was sunk too deep in dissipation by then,” Kit argued. “He probably was more interested in the money than any of the books.”

  “Book collecting is as great an addiction as gambling.”