by Mary Balogh
He really did miss the old man, Nicholas reflected, and genuinely grieved his loss. Perhaps he should have gone away completely when he was ordered to leave the Abbey. He had another home. His grandfather had left him a small estate in Shropshire that had been his personal property, to dispose of as he wished. He had also left his grandson a small income. Nicholas was by no means a wealthy man, but he had the means with which to live the life of a gentleman. And what more could he ask? He was unable to take a place in society anyway. Perhaps he should have gone. There he could have observed a decent period of mourning. And everyone deserved to have at least one person mourn him and miss him after his death, he believed. Who would wish to feel that his passing made no difference to any living soul?
Unfortunately Nicholas had not gone away. He had put his own selfish concerns first. His illegitimacy had never particularly bothered him. He had known from infancy that he was somehow different from other children of his social class. He had accepted the fact that no one of high rank except his grandfather would find his company socially acceptable. He had never felt particularly bitter over the fact that he would never be Earl of Barton or owner of the fortune and properties that went along with the title, despite the fact that he was the earl’s only direct descendant. Children easily accept such harsh realities when they have never known anything different.
But one afternoon spent at his grandfather’s bedside had changed all that. Suddenly his world was a different place, a place in which it was possible to dream and to look beyond horizons. At first his excitement had all focused on the possibility that his mother was still alive and that perhaps she was not a woman of the streets. He had not thought too much about the possibility of his legitimacy. But after Clive Seyton’s two replies to his queries, his life had begun to throb with hope. And his grief for his grandfather’s death had been pushed somewhat into the background.
Was he wrong to pursue the issue? What if his father’s cousin genuinely could not remember his mother’s name or the place where she had lived? It had all happened five-and-twenty years before. If his mother really had been a dancer and an adventuress, it was possible that the episode would have seemed unimportant enough to Clive Seyton that he had allowed the memories to slip from his mind. And surely the only really satisfactory explanation of his mother’s silence all these years was that she was dead.
What about the new earl’s dismissal of him? That too could have a perfectly reasonable explanation. He was intending to take up residence at the Abbey and to bring his son and daughter with him. The presence there of a bastard cousin would be understandably embarrassing. And even Nicholas’ presence in the neighborhood could be awkward. Hence the command to leave the vicinity of Barton Abbey entirely. There was no reason to expect the new earl to be charitable. He had not known Nicholas beyond babyhood. He had not visited or sent any member of his family to visit the uncle who had brought him up like a son. It was quite possibly the presence of Nicholas that had kept him away, in fact.
It could well be that he was upsetting his own peace of mind over nothing, Nicholas thought. But the possibility was depressing. There had to be something more to the story of his birth. There had to be some way of finding his mother or at least of finding out who she was. And he still could not rid himself of the notion that the new earl’s hasty dismissal of him had something to do with his past. The earl knew something about him that he did not want to reveal. No matter how much he was aware of the reasonable explanation of what had happened in the last few weeks, Nicholas could not let the matter drop.
And so he had stayed in Dorset, a mere three miles from the boundaries of Barton Abbey in fact. Of course, there were other reasons for staying. His life had been spent here. It was home. And there were activities and companions here that he was loath to give up. But he had to admit that his real reason for staying was his determination to find out more from the only man who seemed able to help him. Able but unwilling.
Nicholas had moved to a stone cottage owned by Russ Evans, a former groom at Barton Abbey, who had bought the house and turned fisherman when he married the daughter of another fisherman. Nicholas had always been friendly with the man and now he paid for rooms in their cottage. In fact, though, they treated him as if he were the owner and they the servants, despite his protests. The parlor where he now sat had become exclusively his domain, the kitchen theirs.
He was fortunate to have the affection of all the servants at the Abbey and of almost all the villagers and fishermen for miles around. He supposed that they had always been more inclined to like him because of his status. They always treated him as if he were above them in rank, but his illegitimacy brought him closer to their level. They were not as aloof and suspicious as they might have been of the heir to an earldom.
The friendship of all these people certainly worked to his advantage now. Everyone seemed to know that he had been told to leave Dorset. He knew for certain that he had told only one person—Parkin, his grandfather’s elderly valet, who was now his and living in the cottage with him, lording it over the Evanses in a manner Nicholas himself would not have dreamed of doing. But news traveled fast in a rural community. And only three people had been told that he did not wish the new earl to know he was still there—the same valet and the Evanses.
But he was well aware, without anyone having to tell him so, that servants, fisherfolk, and villagers were all joined in a conspiracy of silence. If the Earl of Barton discovered his presence, it would not be because of anything any of the local people said to him. In fact, there was only one group of people who were not part of the conspiracy. Even the neighboring gentry, Nicholas believed, knew of his whereabouts but would keep their peace for reasons of their own. Only the coast guard would not know. But then, the soldiers who made up its numbers were mostly strangers to this part of the country, and their very profession set them beyond the circles of friendship and loyalty formed by the local folk of all classes.
The problem now was what to do. Ever since the arrival of the earl at Barton Abbey and the news filtering out via the servants that his son and daughter were to follow him this very day, Nicholas’ mind had been caught up in the kidnapping plan. It had seemed the surest way of forcing some answers from Clive Seyton. He had deliberately blanked from his mind all the arguments against such a plan. There was all the danger of being caught during the several hours during which he would probably have to lurk close to the road waiting for the carriage to come. There was the danger of being shot if someone inside the carriage had both courage and a gun. There was the more obvious danger of being arrested after the release of Thelma, since the earl would necessarily know who her captor had been. And—worst of all—there was the whole moral question of kidnapping an innocent girl to use as a pawn in an ugly game.
He was glad now that his plan had gone awry. It would not have been worthy of him or his upbringing to behave in such a way. If the earl had acted dishonorably, then Nicholas was merely bringing himself down to his level by resorting to kidnapping.
But what else was there? Visit Barton Abbey, grab his cousin by the throat, and shake answers from him? Spend his inheritance on a journey through France in search of a mother whose full name he did not even know? If only there were some way of returning to the Abbey. Somehow he felt helpless being three miles away, not knowing what was happening, not knowing if his cousin was restless or complacent, if he believed Katherine’s story or suspected the identity and motive of the highwayman who had tried to kidnap his daughter.
Mrs. Mannering had said there was to be a house party at the Abbey. Who were the guests to be? he wondered. Was there any chance that he knew any of them? He doubted it. His grandfather had not entertained a great deal. And Nicholas had not ventured far beyond Dorset except for the three years he had spent at Cambridge. The former earl had not sent him away to school, preferring to hire an expensive tutor to teach him at home. But he had encouraged his grandson to go to university, arguing that there the stigma of il
legitimacy would be less regarded than at school. But it was unlikely that anyone he had met there would be part of the house party. Unless Dalrymple . . . Unlikely.
But he wished he could be at the Abbey. Even apart from his desire to observe and listen to the new earl, he was missing the place. He had always loved it quite consciously. He could not imagine a building more magnificent than the house, which bore little resemblance now to the monastery it had been until the sixteenth century, when King Henry VIII had confiscated the property and given it to an ancestor of his grandfather. Successive earls had added to the building and its contents over the years so that now it was rich with architectural detail and decorations and with treasures of painting and sculpture. He had always known that the house and the equally splendid park and acres of farmland would never be his. But even so, it was home, and it was torture to be three miles away and yet unable to ride or stroll up the elm-lined driveway that was so familiar to him.
Now there was another reason for his wish to go to the Abbey. He had a very strong desire to see Mrs. Katherine Mannering again. He had never met a more fascinating creature. In fact, he was glad after all that he had carried out his mad kidnapping plan. If he had not, he might never have met her. She had been terrified, as well she might. Being carried off blindfold into the darkness by a masked highwayman would be enough to give most females a quite genuine fit of the vapors. He knew she was frightened. Her body had shivered against his all the way back to the cottage, and her face when he entered the parlor with the tea tray had been as white as parchment. Yet she had not once begged or groveled or shed tears. She had put her chin in the air and thrown insult and defiance in his face.
And she had believed his story. She had even shown sympathy and the desire to help him. She seemed to bear no grudge for the rough treatment she had received at his hands. He should have removed his disguise when she asked. He should have trusted her that much. But truth to tell, he had been feeling rather pleased with its success. He had worn it before, of course, but had never been quite sure that it looked convincing. She had sworn she would know his blond hair anywhere. It really was not glaringly obvious, then, that it was a wig? Nicholas reached up a hand and ran his fingers through his short and very dark hair.
He should not wish to see her again. She could gain nothing from an association with him. It was true that she was in an unenviable position, forced as she was to earn her own living as a lady’s companion. No, not forced. She could have lived with her aunt, she had said, and looked for another husband. How had she phrased it? She could have become another man’s chattel. The late Mr. Mannering must have been quite a husband! However it was, it would not be good for Katherine Mannering to become in any way involved with him. He had some property and some money, it was true, but he was also a viscount’s by-blow. And his one experience as a highwayman was by no means his only experience with the wrong side of the law. She might yet see him swing.
He should not wish to see her again. He had said quite a firm good-bye to her outside the walls of Barton earlier. But he did wish to see her. He had meant that kiss to be teasing. It certainly had not turned out that way. She might have turned her back on marriage out of a dislike of her late husband, but she certainly possessed a great deal of latent passion. He could almost have lost his powers of reason when her mouth had responded to his teasing lips and tongue and when her body had fitted itself to his. He felt little doubt that making love to Katherine Mannering would be a more than gratifying experience. The very thought was enough to make him feel uncomfortably warm.
However, he must not indulge such imaginings. It was unlikely that he would see her again except perhaps from a distance. And it would not be in her interest anyway to become involved in a flirtation. His problem was merely that he had been too long without a woman. Living in a close and friendly neighborhood had its advantages, but it had one distinct disadvantage. Although several of the local girls had signaled in that way girls had, without the medium of words, that they would not be averse to his attentions, he had never availed himself of the offers. How would he be able to look one of his friendly acquaintances in the eye if he had secretly tumbled his daughter for the satisfaction of a physical craving? At Cambridge it had been different.
What he should do, Nicholas thought, realizing in something of a daze that the fire in the hearth before him had burned itself completely out while he had stared, unseeing, into its heart, was go to his property in Shropshire, look around him for a wife of humble background who would not care for the stigma on his name, and raise himself a large family.
He had never seen hair quite that shade of silver-blond. And yet the lashes around her large gray eyes were thick and dark.
Nicholas Seyton passed one hand over his eyes and shook his head vigorously.
The Earl of Barton had somehow managed to live with himself during the nearly five-and-twenty years since his great deception. He had almost persuaded himself that what he had done had been honestly justifiable. All his latent doubts had been ruthlessly put to rest after he married and left the Abbey. He remained in touch with his uncle by letter, writing to him twice a year. And in the meantime he concentrated on living a blameless life, almost as if he felt he could earn the right to be his uncle’s heir.
He had been a good husband right up to the time of his wife’s death. He had never once been unfaithful to her, and he had indulged her love of society by taking her to London three times for the Season and to Tunbridge Wells once and Harrogate twice. It did not signify that he too liked to mix with the fashionable set. He would have taken her, he convinced himself, even if he had not. And he would have taken her away more often if his income had only been higher.
He had always been a good father. He had sacrificed a great deal in order to engage a governess for Thelma and in order to send Adam to school and to university. More recently he had made his son a generous allowance to enable him to take rooms in London and become a fashionable young man-about-town. And finally he had taken Thelma to London so that she might be presented at court as befitted her rank. His sister, Alice, Lady Toucher, had offered to sponsor the girl. She had been quite delighted to do so, in fact, being childless herself. His uncle had decided to take himself off at a fortunate time. Viscount Stoughton had been finding the expenses of bringing a daughter out quite exorbitantly high. Not that he had wished for the demise of his relative, he hastened to assure himself. The old earl had treated him with great kindness before he married and left the Abbey of his own free will.
The new earl had lived well, he felt. He had never been so far in debt that he could not extricate himself. He had always been friendly and hospitable to his neighbors, charitable to the church and the poor, just and even perhaps generous in his treatment of servants and laborers.
His guilt over what he had done after his cousin Jonathan’s death had all but disappeared over the years. When news reached him in London that he was now Earl of Barton and owner of a vast fortune, as well as being Viscount Stoughton, he did not lose even one night’s sleep over the knowledge that a young man, then living at Barton Abbey, was now indeed being defrauded of his rightful inheritance.
But already the signs were there that the past was not going to leave him in peace. Even before his uncle’s death he had received a letter from Nicholas Seyton that had given him a nasty jolt. On first reading the letter, indeed, he had felt that his most secret nightmare was going to be realized. The boy—young man, rather; he must be almost five-and-twenty already—had found out that his mother was French and still alive as far as his grandfather knew. He wished to know her name and that of the place where she had lived when Clive had visited her. The letter seemed distinctly threatening until its recipient calmed down and studied it a few more times. It was really just an open and civil request. The boy clearly knew nothing, and his grandfather obviously did not remember the pertinent details. It would be very easy for Clive to write back pretending that he too had forgotten.
The answer seemed realistic enough. After all, the events he was being asked to recall had happened a quarter of a century before. He added the lie about the profession of Nicholas’ mother, believing that the boy would be less likely to wish to pursue his interest if he thought she was no lady. Viscount Stoughton wrote the reply in his own hand and put the matter from his mind.
Nicholas Seyton was not so easily pacified, however. When the new Earl of Barton was already basking in his new title and prestige and already making plans for a glorious future, he was unpleasantly shocked one day to receive another, longer missive from his cousin’s son. The young man was not prepared to accept the answers he had been given, though nowhere did his letter accuse the earl of deliberately lying to him. The letter was filled with searching questions. At which port in France had the new earl landed? How many days’ journey had he made before meeting Annette? Was it north of Paris or south? West or east? Had he met her at a town or village? Was it on a main highway or somewhere off the beaten track? Did his mother have any other family? What were their names? Or friends. What were theirs? And so on.
The new earl had found himself in a serious dilemma. If he answered the letter, he must address each of the questions. But how would he answer? If he pretended to have forgotten everything, he would never be believed. He felt it far too dangerous to give out any of the truth, even if he chose to reveal a few seemingly unimportant details. The safest course, he had thought at first, was to make up a whole parcel of lies. But Barton was not a stupid man. He had discovered as a child, often painfully as the recipient of one of his uncle’s thrashings, that being a successful liar was not easy. One lie led to more lies, and soon it was impossible to remember one’s own story or to avoid inconsistencies. He had learned that telling the truth was always best unless lying was unavoidable. He guessed that if he lied to Nicholas, the young man would pester him for more and more information until the whole nasty truth was somehow revealed.