by Mary Balogh
The only guests Kate had not met when she retired to her room, having accompanied Lady Thelma to hers, were the guests of honor, the Marquess of Uppington and his sister, Lady Emma North, the son and daughter of the Duke of Oakleigh. No one except Lord Barton appeared to be at all well-acquainted with these two. The earl had cultivated the acquaintance of their father only in the few weeks that preceded his leaving for the country.
Nicholas Seyton closed the door of his room behind him and blew out from puffed cheeks. Dalrymple had been given his old room just next door. But he had always liked this one, its painted Chinese wallpaper and green bed hangings and curtains making him feel as if he were in a garden. He crossed to the mirror that hung in its heavy frame above the mantel and changed his expression again into that of Sir Harry Tate. Was it convincing? he wondered. He must be sure that he did not slip into his real self even for one moment beyond these four walls.
Dalrymple had reasoned with him yet again when they had met earlier that day at a distant inn, as arranged the week before. He would never get away with his deception, his friend had argued, when everyone and his dog for miles around knew him well. Surely there were at least a few people who would be only too glad to reveal his secret to the earl. And even more surely, someone who meant him no harm would forget the charade and call him by his real name.
But Nicholas had insisted on proceeding with the plan. He did not know of anyone who wished him harm. He had always been at pains to be friendly with the local folk even before the closer ties he had enjoyed with them over the last year. And how could people resent a young man whose birth had doomed him to an obscure and humble life? There was nothing in him that could draw anyone’s envy and therefore hatred and malice.
Even if all this had not been true, Nicholas doubted that he would have listened to his friend’s cautionary words. Life had been necessarily dull for him, except perhaps for those few years he had spent at Cambridge. He had acquired a taste for adventure and danger, especially in the last year. What could be more adventurous than to masquerade so openly before his father’s cousin at Barton Abbey, surrounded by servants who had known him all his life? The challenge was quite irresistible.
And the first hour had proceeded without a flaw. The footman who had opened the door to Dalrymple’s knock; the butler, who had made his dignified way across the hall to bow before them and offer to conduct them to the drawing room; the housekeeper, who had conducted them to their rooms: all three had performed their tasks without the merest flicker of recognition.
Truth to tell, Nicholas admitted as he unknotted his neckcloth and removed his high collar with a sigh of relief, he had enjoyed his hour in the house enormously. He had not yet had a chance to enjoy the sheer pleasure of being at home again. But he found that playacting was to his liking. He had not intended to make himself quite so obnoxiously toplofty, but he rather thought that the image was a good one. It would give him the chance to ask all sorts of impudent questions and to wander into places that a well-bred guest would avoid without invitation.
He grinned suddenly as he tried to shake his arms free of the skintight coat and wished that he could have brought Parkin with him. The disguise appeared to have worked quite effectively on Katherine Mannering. He had been a little afraid of her. The woman had a sharp mind. It would not have altogether surprised him if she had recognized him immediately. But she had not. And she had thoroughly disapproved of him. He had enjoyed looking at her rather insolently when he knew she was aware of him and watching her bristle with indignation.
He had come to Barton Abbey determined to steer well clear of her. And he must still persuade himself to ignore her, forget her presence. But he realized now that the task was going to be far more difficult than he had thought. The sight of her had quickened his pulse as soon as he entered the drawing room. She seemed drab at first glance, her brown, unadorned dress dull in comparison with the bright and expensive silks and muslins of the other ladies, her hairstyle very severe and plain. But if Barton had hoped to disguise the woman’s charms by insisting that she dress thus, he was doomed to disappointment. Somehow the other ladies had looked gaudy, overdressed, and overfrizzed in comparison with her.
He had not been able to resist looking at her several times. And he had not been able to resist provoking her to indignation. The trouble with Katherine was that her behavior was always so stimulating. He had never lost a staring match with a female before. Not nearly. Most females blushed hotly and lowered their lashes as soon as they saw themselves observed, whether in genuine embarrassment or from coquetry. Not so Katherine Mannering. She had stared boldly back, hostility flashing from unwavering eyes. He had been forced to look away eventually before he either grinned or winked. And neither reaction would have suited the character he had set himself to play.
He must leave her alone. He must not respond to the challenge of causing her anger to explode or-even more tempting—of bringing her to respond to the advances of such a bored snob as Sir Harry Tate. No, he really must not.
How was he to proceed now? Nicholas wondered. It was exhilarating, of course, to be accepted as a guest in a house from which he had been banished only a few weeks before. But this episode was not just an adventurous escapade. He was here to find out anything he could about himself. The conversation in the drawing room earlier was all very well, and such a topic was worth pursuing. But of course he must not expect the earl to let anything of value slip. The man had had nearly five-and-twenty years in which to perfect his story. He was not likely to say anything careless or foolish at this late date.
He must discover if it were true that the earl was searching the library and perhaps elsewhere too. Then perhaps he would be more sure of whether his own conjectures about that letter from his mother or marriage papers his father had brought home had any basis in fact. If so, then he too must put his knowledge of the Abbey and the park to use and make sure he found the hidden document first. Though the task seemed formidable, if not downright absurd. He had had the freedom of the Abbey since he was a child. If there really were anything lying around that was of such importance to his own destiny, he would surely have found it long ago. There were no secret hiding places at Barton Abbey.
Nicholas wandered to the window of his room, rested his palms on the sill, and leaned forward to look across the lawns and flowerbeds below to the wooded hills that rose eventually to the stone wall and the road beyond. The view was almost identical to the one he had seen from the room next door almost every day of his life. He leaned his forehand against the glass and closed his eyes. Home! Oh, God, he was home again. He would do anything, he felt at that moment, anything, no matter how apparently pointless or even dangerous, to make his stay permanent again. He could not bear to think of it all belonging to that man, his father’s cousin, the stranger earl he had met in the drawing room this afternoon.
“My lord. My lady.” Kate curtsied deeply as she was presented to the Marquess of Uppington and his sister, the newest and last arrivals at Barton Abbey. They had arrived an hour before and had just now made an appearance in the drawing room, dressed for dinner. The evening meal had been held back all of twenty minutes on their account.
Kate again had not expected to be amongst the house guests for dinner. But of course she must dress and come down, Lady Thelma had assured her. Without Kate there would be unequal numbers at table, and how would they cope with that disaster? So Kate had donned her best gray silk gown, the one with the scoop neckline that actually bared the whole of her throat, dressed her hair again into the smooth bun at the back of her neck, and came down early to the drawing room so that she might stand unnoticed in the shadows. But her employer was indeed treating her more like a friend than a servant. She had brought the newest arrivals to Kate as to everyone else to make introductions.
“Is your husband one of the Norfolk Mannerings?” Lady Emma Worth asked Kate. “I did not know any of them were untitled.”
“No,” Kate replied. "My husband
was from Sussex, and as far as I know, none of his relatives were ever titled.” She smiled.
“I see,” the girl said, ice dripping from both words. She opened her fan and turned to stare about the room, clearly having decided that Mrs. Mannering was beneath her notice.
The marquess did not turn away. “Do I take it from the tense of the verb you chose that your husband is deceased?” he asked.
Kate inclined her head.
“My sympathies, ma’am,” Uppington said, looking directly into her eyes.
Kate felt an inner shudder. She knew this man very well indeed. She had never seen him before, of course, and never heard of him until a few days before, when Lord Barton had announced that he would grace their house party. But she knew him very well nonetheless. The early signs of dissipation and self-indulgence and the boldness of manner were all too familiar to Kate. Just so her husband had been.
She had never been in love with Giles and had never been really keen to marry him. But at the age of seventeen she had not been averse to the match either. There had been something rather exciting about the prospect of marrying a man who had something of a reputation as a drinker and gambler. Not a very bad reputation. Kate did not believe her father would have favored the match if Giles had been obviously depraved. He had seemed very masculine. Kate had been rather proud of the fact that such a man of the world had chosen her for a bride. She had been the envy of her friends.
But over the following five years she had discovered just how difficult life with such a man could he. She never knew from one hour to the next what his mood would be. If he was sober, or if he had won at cards, he could be charming at best, heartily cheerful at worst. If he was charming, he might kiss her hand, buy her some bauble, or take her visiting. If he was cheerful, he might kiss her or slap her playfully on the rump or take her to bed. If he had been drinking heavily, or if he had lost at cards, he could be morose at best, vicious and abusive at worst. She had learned to dread him in those moods. Only once, in bed, had he given her a sustained and severe beating. But he had abused her verbally, accusing her of every wifely failing, from coldness to ugliness to disobedience.
His behavior outside his home had never been bad enough for anyone to suspect the full truth, Kate guessed. And she supposed that she could have done a great deal worse. Only that one beating, and that had been with his bare hand, not with belt or whip. But she had hated him by the time he died. She had never been able to mourn his death or to feel sorry that it had happened, though she had been present to witness the full horror of his choking, and she had genuinely tried to help him.
And she would always recognize his type. The surface charm, the earthy sort of attractiveness, the apparently flattering attention on a woman’s person: none of those qualities could hide from her opened eyes the self-centered focus of such a man. And such a man was the Marquess of Uppington, she knew. She would stake her reputation on the fact. And his desires were focused on her. She knew that too as surely as she knew that the Earl of Barton had brought him there as a suitor for Lady Thelma.
As she bowed her head in acknowledgment of his words of sympathy, Kate was mentally assuring the Marquess of Uppington that he would have either her or Lady Thelma when hell froze, if she had any say in the matter.
Dinner was announced without further ado, and Kate felt all the awkwardness of her situation as Uppington bowed over Thelma’s hand and led her toward the dining room, in the wake of her father and aunt. Viscount Stoughton and Lady Emma followed. Who would lead her in? Kate wondered. Perhaps she should not wait and put some poor gentleman into the awkward position of having to offer his arm to a servant. Perhaps she should quietly follow her employer. Oh, bother, she thought, feeling herself flush, she did not really know a great deal about correct protocol, especially that which applied to ladies’ companions.
“Mrs. Mannering, since I am more or less a self-invited guest and you are not a guest at all, perhaps we would do well to combine forces.”
How all this longish sentence could be delivered on one languid sigh, Kate did not stop to analyze. She knew only that at the moment at least she was grateful to Sir Harry Tate, who was standing before her, his arm outstretched for hers. She smiled and placed her hand on it.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I am sure Lord Barton would not wish you to feel unwelcome merely because you were not part of his original guest list. He is, I know, quite delighted to receive you as Mr. Dalrymple’s friend.”
“Quite so,” he said. “And you really do not need to exert yourself to do the honors of the house, Mrs. Mannering. Invited or not, Sir Harry Tate invariably makes himself welcome wherever he goes.”
Kate’s gratitude evaporated. The conceited . . . fop! she thought, bursting with indignation, and glancing with some contempt at the lavender silk sleeve on which her hand rested. He had offered her his arm, doubtless with the conviction that she would swoon quite away at the honor he was doing her. All the dislike she had felt that afternoon returned in a rush.
“That is a very sensible attitude to take, sir,” she said sweetly. “That way you may be sure there is always at least one person to welcome you.”
He drew breath as if to reply, but did not do so. Kate, gazing candidly up into his face, was favored with a sidelong look from those lazy, cynical eyes and mentally scored one point for herself. She waited for Sir Harry to draw back her chair, and seated herself regally. She turned to smile at Sir Peregrine Lacey at her other side. Kate was surprised during dinner to find that despite her quite unmannerly snub, Sir Harry was prepared to engage her in conversation. She had expected that she would be quite beneath the notice of such a self-important gentleman when he had Christine Barr-Smythe on his right and Lady Toucher across the table.
“And what sort of arduous activities does a . . . companion have to engage in, Mrs. Mannering?” he asked. “I must confess I am all admiration for you females, who are willing to work for your living rather than live on credit, as we males are more inclined to do.” His voice was so heavy with boredom that Kate wondered why he even bothered to ask the question.
“The work is not arduous at all, sir,” she said. “And the task is just what it says. I am a companion. I provide company and friendship for Lady Thelma.”
“Is she so lacking in the resources for self-employment, then?” he asked.
“Ladies do not have the freedom that you men enjoy,” Kate reminded him.“We may not travel around without chaperonage. There are countless hours when we must be alone at some quiet activity, while you men can be out riding or attending races or boxing mills or any number of other activities. Being quite alone can be burdensome to a lady.”
“And what happens if the companion is livelier than the lady?” he asked. “Does she not find the shared activities irksome?”
Kate give him a sharp look. He had shown unexpected insight into the boredom of her position. “I suppose it could happen,” she said. “But at least such a woman can keep her self-respect. I believe the type of man you spoke of could not.”
His eyes moved slowly and rather insolently over her severe hairstyle and the very conservative neckline of her dress. “I would disagree, ma’am,” he said. “A man can be in debt to his ears and no one the wiser except his creditors. A woman in service on the other hand, is immediately recognizable. Which has the more self-respect?”
She would dearly love to slap his face, Kate thought, schooling her features to blandness so that he would not know how his words had infuriated and humiliated her.
“We are talking about self-respect, not the respect of others, are we not, sir?” she asked. “Is it not more dignified and honest to admit the truth before the world than to hide it in lies and deceit?”
“There is a certain sort of argument that can proceed in circles, ma’am,” Sir Harry said, his mouth curled into the sneer that Kate guessed to be habitual with him. “This is one of them, I believe. Shall we change the subject? I have been hearing that you experience
d all the excitement of being kidnapped by a highwayman a week ago.”
“You speak as if you think it to have been an enviable experience, sir,” Kate said.
“I imagine that every female in the room envies you,” he said, “whether she will admit it or not. Highwaymen are perceived by females to be unutterably romantic figures, are they not? And this one was masked? Entirely irresistible, I would guess.”
“I think your opinion of women must be very low, sir,” Kate said, not even trying to hide her indignation. “Do you think we welcome having our persons, our honor, and our very lives at the mercy of men?”
He chewed a mouthful of food with studied slowness before answering. “In a word, yes,” he said. “Come, ma’am, will you not admit to having felt even a small thrill of delight at being so forcefully abducted?”
“I certainly will not, sir,” Kate said, her own food completely forgotten for the moment. “And I find your attitude toward women quite insufferable. Do you think us quite without self-respect? No, I will not phrase that as a question and give you another opportunity to express your contempt for my gender. Any man who uses the superiority of his physical strength to subject a woman to his will deserves to hang. That is my opinion, sir, and my answer to your impertinent suggestion that I must have felt some kind of erotic thrill to be carried off by a highwayman.”
He patted her hand lightly, and she looked down in some contempt at the shower of lace that half-covered his hand. She was rather disappointed to note that the hand itself was not the white, effete aristocrat’s hand that she expected, but one that looked as if it might have done its fair share of work. She pulled her hand away.
“Pick up your knife and fork, Mrs. Mannering,” his hateful, bored voice said quietly for her ear only. “You indignation is becoming marked enough to attract attention. You would find that situation insufferably embarrassing, I would guess. You might even find your employment in jeopardy.”