by Mary Balogh
He knew nothing about the late earl’s papers. They had always been handled by his lordship’s secretary. He had left Barton Abbey ten years or more before and died soon after. He did remember the letter from France that was addressed to the dead viscount. He remembered that the butler at that time—he himself had been only a second footman—had not known whether he should risk upsetting his lordship by delivering the letter to him or whether he should destroy it. It must have been delivered because Master Clive had gone to France soon afterward and they had all assumed belowstairs that his departure had had something to do with that letter. No, he could not say what had happened to the letter.
Yes, the butler said, his brow furrowing with his effort to remember events from so long ago, he could remember Master Clive—his present lordship, that was—showing a marked interest in going through the viscount’s effects. He remembered because he as second footman had been sent with his lordship’s secretary to turn out Master Jonathan’s bedchamber and cabinet and set his clothes, papers, and personal possessions in order. But they had not had to do the job because Master Clive was there before them and insisted on doing it all himself.
He remembered that because it had struck him at the time that it must be painful for Master Clive to go through his cousin’s things like that when they had been as close as brothers. He did not even want help, though the secretary had volunteered the services of the second footman. Master Clive had spent days shut up in his cousin’s rooms.
The butler’s memories seemed to confirm Nicholas’ suspicions without providing him with any answers. But there were several more servants to question. Perhaps one of them would recall some trivial detail that would prove to be the key to solving the whole mystery.
In the meantime Nicholas had other, more pressing matters to attend to that day. He had to resist the temptation to pay a visit to the library again. The urge was strong. He had thoroughly enjoyed his encounter with Katherine Mannering the afternoon before, though he really had not meant to precipitate them into physical contact. That moving of the staircase really had been accidental. But its outcome had been achingly delightful. He was becoming almost obsessed by his desire for that very sprightly young lady. He ran his tongue over the still-painful torn flesh behind his upper lip and grinned. He had never had his face slapped before and could not say he craved a repetition of the experience, but it had been worth the pain just to see her vibrant with anger. He really should not take such delight in provoking her. Poor lady. She was trying to help him, in his other persona, of course.
His grin faded fast. He believed he had rescued her from a nasty situation the evening before. It had not taken a great deal of intelligence to notice from the start that Uppington was interested in her and Nicholas had had a good idea that that nobleman’s interest would not show itself in a desire to converse with her or even flirt with her. He looked at her as if she were a lower servant, his for the taking. In his mind Uppington had Katherine consigned to his bed already.
Nicholas had noticed Katherine leaving the drawing room. He knew, without even having to look, when she was present and when she was not. Fortunately he had also seen Uppington slip from the room not more than half an hour later. He had not been able to leave immediately himself without attracting attention, but fortunately, when he did leave, he guessed right the first time that he would find them in the library.
And he had not been wrong. Her face, which was toward him as he entered, was furiously angry. But there had been fright there too, the sort of fright that he had detected in her in his cottage that first evening when he had kidnapped her. But he knew this time that she had good reason to fear. He had had to exercise all his self-control to be Sir Harry Tate instead of Nicholas Seyton. Poor Katharine. With her fear of being bedded, it was a cruel fate to have an unprincipled rake like Uppington in the house.
However, Nicholas thought now, he must forgo her for this afternoon. He would have to postpone the pleasure of infuriating her until another day. And he did not have to fear for her safety. Uppington had gone off riding with three other people. He had other things to do. Dalrymple was coming with him. He had confided all his secrets—except those concerning Katherine Mannering—to his friend. It seemed the only sensible thing to do. Dalrymple did not approve, of course.
“Listen, Nick,” he said as they rode out of the stable-yard after Nicholas had had a brief talk with Barret, “luck cannot continue on your side the way it has so far. It is little short of a miracle that in three days your identity is still unknown to Barton. You cannot plan on staying much longer.”
“Nonsense!” Nicholas said, flashing his grin at his friend and then remembering that even when unobserved it was wise to remain Sir Harry Tate whenever possible.
“You have seen how remarkably loyal all the servants here are, Dalrymple. Not a slip from any of them yet.”
“This is all a great deal more serious than I thought, though,” his friend persisted. “Barton knows you are nearby, and he is not going to give up until he finds you. You are mad to stay. You should take to your heels today. I shall stay and keep my ears open for anything that might help you.”
“Very often the safest place to be when someone is looking for you is right under that someone’s nose,” Nicholas said, gazing languidly around him at the deserted lawn that formed a shortcut to the lodge. “My cousin would not even dream of looking for me among his guests, Dalrymple.”
“And then to add tonight’s business to the whole dangerous situation,” Charles Dalrymple said, gesticulating with the hand that did not hold his horse’s reins. “You are quite mad, Nick. You could hang. And I very strongly disapprove.”
Nicholas shrugged. “One cannot always control the timing of events,” he said. “It just happens to be tonight. And morality is not always a black-and-white thing, my friend. These are poor people who live here. I am not convinced that there is great morality in our present social situation. Why should some people be rich and others poor just because of the accident of birth? What I help these people do is no great sin. We really do not harm anyone. Quite the contrary. We please a great number of people.”
“You are mad,” Charles Dalrymple repeated.
“Here we are,” Nicholas said in the languid voice of Sir Harry Tate. “Lead the horses around to the back, Dalrymple. I shall go and see if Josh is at home.”
A couple of minutes later he appeared in the small yard behind the house with a grinning Josh, who bobbed his head in half a dozen bows when he saw the other gentleman.
“Right, Josh,” Nicholas said, “tonight is the night. Are you ready for it?”
Josh giggled. “I am that, Master Nick,” he said, bobbing his head again. “I am that.”
“Your task will be the same as usual,” Nicholas continued. “You know that you are the only one capable of doing it properly, don’t you, Josh, and that your part is vital to the whole operation?”
Josh giggled again. “Josh won’t let Master Nick down,” he said. “Josh won’t let Master Nick get caught.”
“Remember, you must not show yourself unless you have to,” Nicholas said. “Otherwise we will not be able to use you for the task again, Josh. Just watch the barracks of the coast guard carefully to make sure there is no unusual activity there. Only if there is must you show yourself. And then what must you do?”
“Josh go to them and say some nasty men set upon him and steal his money and beat him,” Josh said. “Josh point toward the rising sun. Master Nick will be toward the setting sun.”
“Right, Josh,” Nicholas said, patting him on the shoulder. “Your father will tell you when it is time to leave. We will all be safe if you do your job right. I shall see you tomorrow.”
“Josh see that Master Nick not get caught,” Josh said. “He see Master Nick tomorrow. Master Jonathan not come no more.” He sounded sad.
“Well, Dalrymple.” Nicholas became Sir Harry Tate again after one broad grin at his friend. “With luck on his side, your
friend might see the light of another day. Josh here will be an invaluable help. All I have to do is slip from this house tonight and take myself off to Evans’ cottage. The stage is all carefully set for the rest. And if I am to have such a busy night, my friend, I do believe I should return to the house and rest.” He raised his quizzing glass to his eye, surveyed his friend through it, and grinned again.
“I still don’t like it,” Charles Dalrymple said, troubled. “I am not convinced of the morality of what you plan to do.”
Nicholas swung himself into the saddle, winked at a grinning and bobbing Josh, and turned his horse into the park again.
Kate, standing very still at the front of the house, where she had arrived but a minute before, had paled. They had found him already. They knew exactly where he was. And Sir Harry Tate was going to catch him that very night. It was not even an innocent piece of work. Sir Harry must realize that Nicholas was a wanted man. Mr. Dalrymple’s words suggested that he realize that there was something wrong in what they were doing. And Sir Harry had chosen that night for his Judas act.
And he had done it again. Nicholas Seyton had miscalculated the loyalty of his friends. Josh Pickering, probably not realizing what he was doing, was going to help Sir Harry.
Oh, that stupid Nicholas Seyton, she thought in a gust of anger. How had he ever survived until now without her to look after him? It was perfectly clear that he was in great danger, and equally clear that she could not rely on his “friends” to warn him. She would just have to do it herself. She would have to swallow her pride and go to him again.
But when? It was dangerous to wait until the night. Sir Harry might reach the cottage before she did. Now? But even as the thought occurred to her, she became aware of the approach of a gig to the gates. Lady Lacey and her daughter were inside, and the former was leaning over the side graciously offering Kate a ride back to the Abbey.
Well, tonight it would have to be, Kate decided, climbing into the gig with a smile and agreeing that, yes, it must be almost teatime.
Chapter 10
It was almost eleven o’clock at night again before Kate could leave Barton Abbey. It was indeed teatime when she and the other two ladies arrived in the gig, and immediately after that the riders returned and Kate was required to sit with Lady Thelma in her dressing room until it was time to dress for dinner. After dinner Kate was hoping to plead a headache and retire early, but the Marquess of Uppington wished to take Thelma walking in the formal gardens and Kate was called upon to accompany them. Lord Barton seemed to consider such chaperonage unnecessary, but Thelma insisted. And despite her eagerness to be gone, Kate could not resent that particular task.
But when they returned to the drawing room, she found that Sir Harry Tate was absent. When Thelma asked about him, Mr. Dalrymple explained that his friend had retired just a short while before, as he suffered frequently from insomnia and was very tired. Kate was in an agony. She forced herself to wait five whole minutes before asking her employer if she might be excused, then speeding to her room for cloak and bonnet.
Perhaps she would be too late, she thought. Probably she would be too late. She must go to the cottage on foot, while Sir Harry would undoubtedly ride. Her only hope was that he would not go directly to the cottage. If he knew of the earl’s suspicions and intended purpose to have Nicholas Seyton arrested-why else would he be going after him at night in this furtive manner?-then surely he would take help along with him. Some of the soldiers attached to the coast guard, perhaps?
She would not think of that, Kate thought as she half-ran across the darkened park and out into the countryside beyond. She would not think of being too late. She must reach Nicholas in time. The foolish man. Perhaps this time she would convince him that he was in great danger. Perhaps this time she could persuade him to go away. And why the possibility should depress her, she did not know. Perhaps this time she would see him without his mask. If he had still not retired to bed, he might not have time to don the mask before she was admitted.
A lamp was burning in a downstairs window, Kate saw with some relief as she approached the cottage. At least this time she would not face the embarrassment of having to wake the household after they had all retired. Unless they had already been wakened, of course, by Sir Harry and the coast guard. Kate felt her heart begin to thump, and she moved more cautiously. It would not do at all to allow herself to be seen by those people.
And even as she crept closer, she became aware of two figures standing against the hedge of bushes to one side of the gateway. Two men. Sir Harry and someone else? Kate opened her mouth and deliberately took a few deep, silent breaths. Her thumping heart was making it impossible for her to breathe normally.
Fortunately, she was close to some bushes and had a chance to creep nearer unseen. She must find out who they were and why they were standing there. And she must think of some way to get to Nicholas inside the house before they did and without their seeing her.
It took Kate several minutes to creep along the edge of the bushes until she was almost within hearing distance of the two men, who still stood where they had before. One of them, she could see now despite the darkness, was the man who had opened the door to her the last time she was here. Mr. Evans, the owner. And with him was Sir Harry Tate himself. Her eyes grew wide. How should she interpret this scene? Was Evans too in league with Sir Harry? Or was he trying to turn back a man he recognized as an enemy of his lodger? Impossible to say. Although Kate could hear the murmur of voices, she could not quite make out what they were saying. And where were the coast guard? In ambush all around the house? Kate could feel the flesh of her back creep.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but no one was there ready to march her off into custody. If only Evans could keep Sir Harry talking at the gate for a while longer, perhaps she would still have time to warn Nicholas, assuming that he did not know what was going on outside the house. Was there a back entrance? Could she reach it without being seen? Even if there was no back door, there would surely be a window she could tap on. Kate was very aware of the danger to herself, but she must try.
The hedge surrounded the house. Kate kept close to it, moving as fast as she dared, watching where she set her feet so that she did not give away her presence with the snapping of a twig. Fortunately the night was not particularly dark despite a cloud cover that completely hid any sign of moon or stars. She believed it was the time of a new moon, anyway.
There was an opening in the hedge at the back of the house, and Kate, peering cautiously around one end of it, was relieved to see that indeed there was a back door. She would have to cross a patch of open garden to reach it, and the garden might already be filled with soldiers lying in wait. But she was not going to turn craven now. She took a deep breath and stepped into the opening of the hedge.
But before she could take even one step forward, she felt herself grabbed roughly from behind, one iron-hard arm completely enclosing her upper body and arms, and one large hand clamped over her mouth. Struggling was useless, as she discovered within a very few seconds. How could one struggle when one had no arms with which to do so and when one’s kick did not even cause one’s captor to wince? Trying to scream was equally useless. Nothing but a pathetic little “Mmmmm!” could get past the clamped hand.
A head covered with a woolen cap, the face blackened with some substance, appeared in front of her and looked into her face. Kate glared back. He was the strangest-looking coast guardsman she had ever seen.
“She’s not a wench from these parts,” he said to her captor. “A pity. We could ’ave just turned ’er over to ’er pa or ’usband for thrashing. She must be from the ’ouse.”
Kate’s captor grunted. “If she be a lady,” he said, “I can’t think what she would be doing so far from the ’ouse and snooping around ’ere.”
“What are we to do with ’er?” the first man asked. “Take ’er inside?”
“Na,” the captor said. “ ‘E’ll be just getting everythin
g ready now. ’E won’t want to be troubled with no wench. We’ll ’ave to take ’er down with us an’ keep an eye on ’er. ’E’ll deal with ’er later. Yer’ll find that it don’t pay to try to meddle with Dorest smugglers, my fine lady.”
Dorset smugglers! Kate’s eyes widened if that were possible. Had the world gone mad? She had risked her own safety to come to the cottage of a highwayman and kidnapper to save him from the imminent arrival of a Judas and the coast guard, and she had had the misfortune to run into a band of smugglers? She was suddenly seriously alarmed. These rogues were going to take her with them until they had completed their night’s work, and then they were going to have their leader deal with her. Deal with her? That could mean only one thing, could it not? They would not be able to release her now that she knew so much. And she was likely to learn more within the next few hours.
These thoughts did not have a chance to formulate themselves clearly in her mind. Kate was too absorbed with a consuming terror as the hand over her mouth was removed, only to be replaced immediately by a foulsmelling handkerchief that the blackened man pulled so tight at the back of her head that it forced her mouth open painfully. She still could not scream past it, she discovered when she tried. Her captor meanwhile had grabbed one of her wrists in each large hand, twisted them behind her back, and tied them with something, tightly enough to cut off the circulation of blood. While her mind was still in a whirl of bewilderment and terror, she was spun around to face her captor, who stooped and slung her over his shoulder. She saw in that one brief instant that he was disguised in the same way as his companion.