The Gentleman's Quest (12 page)

For an instant, Hero imagined liveried assailants hiding in the barn, waiting until she and Kit had been lulled into a false sense of security. “Who are Harold and George?”

The boy mumbled an answer, his mouth full of food, and she was forced to duck her head closer to his own.

“They’re my kittens.”

Hero’s face was only inches from the boy’s, and instead of viewing him as a strange, vaguely threatening creature, she realized he looked more like an angel, his eyes shining brightly as he spoke. “Kittens,” Hero echoed.

“Yes, they’re lovely,” he said. “You’ll love them, too.” He reached up to touch her cheek as if in reassurance, and Hero felt the now familiar pressure at the back of her eyes. And for the first time, it had nothing to do with Christopher Marchant.

Maybe she
was
going mad. And yet, the sensation was not frightening. In fact, she lifted a hand to awkwardly pat the boy’s head. And when she glanced up, she found Kit watching her so avidly that she blinked.

He raised a finger to point to his cheek. “Um, you’ve got a bit of jam…”

Embarrassed, Hero swiped at her face with her napkin, removing a splotch of red.

“You’ll do well when you have children of your own,” Min said approvingly, but Hero jerked in alarm. That could never happen.
Must never happen.

To cover her reaction, Hero finally resumed eating her breakfast, which tasted as good as Kit had predicted. And after the meal was finished, the youngest dragged her into the main room of the house, which was cluttered with a variety of clothes and toys and implements, none of them collectible, but all more important to these people than anything Raven possessed.

Again, Hero was reminded of her duty, and she realized that she needed to talk to Kit about leaving. But he had promised to play with the children, and
they were leaping around him as though he were the Pied Piper, shouting so happily that she could not be heard above the dim.

While they played some kind of game involving marbles, Hero took the opportunity to watch her companion, noting his loose-limbed grace, the wide shoulders that filled out the simple shirt, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that proved how often he smiled. His laughter rang out repeatedly, as did that of the boys, until Hero felt as though she had stumbled into a fairy story, where all was warmth and ease.

She knew that the lot of the farm family was not as appealing as it seemed, dependent as they were upon weather and hard work. But there were no harsh words spoken in this house, no machinations, no deceptions, no vying for power. What was treasured was character and goodness and willingness to complete chores, not some trinket whose value was set by greedy old men counting their coins.

Strangers, instead of being judged upon their business acumen, were welcomed and dragged out to the barn to meet Harold and George. Part of a seemingly enormous population of felines, the two were Danny’s favorites, an orange tabby and a calico that were smaller than most of the others.

Danny instructed her carefully on how to pick them up. “You mustn’t hurt them,” he said. “But if you are nice to them, they’ll be nice to you.”

Such wisdom from such a little fellow, Hero thought, and advice that she should heed more often. Despite Raven’s claims otherwise, not everyone was out for their own gain. And Hero recognized that Kit
just might be one of those who acted out of charity, not selfishness. Perhaps it was time to let her suspicions go and accept him for what he was, a gentleman.

Lost in thought, Hero was surprised when Danny pressed one of the kittens to her face. The soft fur tickled her skin, as did the gentle purring, and she felt her heart lurch in her chest. Although there were cats on the property, Raven did not believe in pets, so Hero had never befriended them. And, no doubt, he would prevent her from doing so.

That realization left Hero feeling pensive as they returned to the house. Once inside, Danny asked her what she would like to see now, and Hero automatically asked if the family owned any books. The boy excitedly led her to an area in the kitchen where there was a comfortable chair and a small cupboard that held a variety of titles.

“Because of the heat and smoke and moisture, this isn’t the best place to keep them,” Hero warned.

“Oh, we don’t keep them, we read them,” Danny explained, which made Hero smile.
As well they should
, she thought.

Crouching before the cupboard, she had just begun to look through the volumes when Kit came to join her. He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Tell me you aren’t going to steal any rare editions from these people.”

Startled by his words, Hero jerked her head up, nearly knocking into him. Surely he did not think so little of her? But his mouth was twisted into a wry grin, and she shook her head. Would she ever grow accustomed to his teasing?

It was after he had turned away and Hero was left holding one of the Smallpeaces’ older volumes in her hand that the idea came to her. She nearly flinched at the audacity of the notion, but refused to dismiss it outright. After all, she knew how much Raven was willing to pay for the Mallory, so she could guess just how much the edition was worth.

The question was whether she could use the book as a bargaining chip—and gain something for herself for the first time in her life.

While the boys raced outside, Kit stood in the doorway of the stone farmhouse, lingering in order to slip Min a payment for her hospitality. Although she waved him away at first, he persisted, for no inn would have provided such good care.

More importantly, the doubts that had nagged at him since his first glimpse of Hero Ingram had faded away in the midst of the farm family’s friendly embrace. Hero might have behaved awkwardly at first, but Kit watched her now as she reached down to hug the youngest, and he could envision his own dark-haired boy in her arms.

“Tell me you’ll be marrying the lass.”

The words that so mirrored his thoughts made Kit suck in a sharp breath. He turned to see Min’s shrewd gaze upon him, leaving him no opportunity to dissemble.

“Of course,” he answered simply.

“When?” Min demanded.

“She’s a bit reluctant,” Kit said, though that was an understatement. Sometimes, he felt like one of those
fellows who tamed wild horses, using lots of patience and a gentle hand in order to coax a ride from the most wary. But Kit’s recent experiences had taught him that the important things in life were worth the effort.

“What? Why?” Min asked. “Surely you’re a prize to please even the most discerning.”

Kit studied the unusual creature before him, dressed as a youth and knee-deep in little boys. Although she was out of her usual habitat here, Kit had never seen her behave more naturally. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But I’m going to find out.”

Hero picked at the meat pie they had sneaked into their room, hoping to eat in silence. Lately, Kit had been asking her all sorts of probing questions about her childhood, her interests, what music she liked, and what books she’d read. But with the exception of the last, she had little enough to share.

Tonight, presumably their last before reaching their destination, Hero longed to just enjoy the company that she would not be keeping much longer. But, as had become his habit, Kit turned to her with a curious glance.

“Have you ever been to Almack’s?”

Hero nearly choked on her dry forkful at the question. The thought of Raven making an appearance at the exclusive assembly rooms was laughable. As was the idea of him sending her there. Unless she could complete a book transaction in some secluded alcove, while the
ton
danced around her, there would be no reason for Hero to venture into that world.

“No,” she answered, without elaborating. “Have you?”

Kit shook his head. “I understand that you have to be invited to attend, and I’ve only been to London a few times.”

The thought of Kit among all the marriageable young ladies gave Hero a pang, but she pictured him looking dashing in his finest clothes and dancing with the skill he evidenced in everything else. “Since your sister is marrying a viscount, she should be able to gain you admittance.”

Kit laughed. “I can’t quite picture Syd there, following their strict social rules. And she would have no need to go,” he said. “I thought the main purpose of the dancing there was for young ladies to make a good match. Isn’t that why it’s called the Marriage Mart?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And why should you? You’ve no need of their services,” Kit said. “A beautiful, clever young woman like you could have your pick of suitors. They probably trail after you eating out of your hand, though perhaps not when you are dressed like this.”

“No,” Hero said, smiling at his lifted brows. No one in society would approve of her disguise or her duties. But then, she didn’t aspire to such company.

“No, what?” Kit asked, not to be diverted from his probing.

“No, I don’t have any suitors,” Hero said. “Where would I make such conquests?” She hesitated to admit that Kit was the first eligible young man she had really met.

“You’ve never been to balls, dances, country house visits?” Kit asked, his expression dumbfounded.

Obviously, the gentleman farmer had an unrealis
tic view of her position. Even in the wealthiest of households, poor relations served as retainers, companions, nursemaids or other drudges. At least her occupation was a more interesting one, and in dealing with antiquarians, Hero had met far more unfortunate females—wives, sisters and aunts relegated to unpaid service.

But Hero had no interest in discussing the plight of women. Suffice to say that Kit was wrong in his assessment of Raven as the sort of person who attended such activities or hosted them. “Raven doesn’t believe in purposeless socializing,” she explained. “He has no interest in others unless he can acquire something from them.”

“So he only lets you out to do his bidding?” Kit asked, giving her a sharp look.

Perhaps she had said too much. “You make it sound like I’m a prisoner,” Hero protested, her tone light.

“Are you?” Kit’s usual careless demeanor was gone, and he suddenly looked dark and dangerous.

Hero’s heart pounded, for she had no wish to entangle this man any further in her problems. Raven’s reach was long, his resources many, and she did not want his machinations to extend to Kit Marchant.

“I am grateful for the home Raven’s given me,” Hero said. Rising to her feet, she signaled an end to the conversation.

Kit looked as though he would like to say more, but, as usual, he respected her wishes, and Hero knew a measure of relief for that. But her uneasiness lingered, and suddenly, she hoped that Raven had no idea where she was or who she was with; a hope, like so many others, that was probably in vain.

O
nce they reached London, they were able to find Marcus Featherstone’s home without much trouble, blending into the bustle of town, crowded with conveyances and horses and people hurrying about their business.

“This is it,” Kit said, inclining his head toward a tall brick facade in one of the less fashionable squares.

His words seemed sadly prophetic, for this
was
it, perhaps the end of their search and of so much else, Hero realized. Swallowing hard against the sudden thickness in her throat, she knew she must focus on the task at hand, for she would need all her wits about her if she were to carry out her plan.

And that plan meant she was loath to contact Raven, as she once might have, for information about Marcus Featherstone. But without Raven’s supply of facts, secrets and rumours that might be used to her advantage, Hero would be going in blind. So she remained leaning against the wrought-iron railings,
hesitant to take the next step, for she suspected that Featherstone was not as careless as Cheswick.

“Once we speak to him, word will get out we are looking for something,” Hero said to Kit. “And then we’ll not only have the duke’s men, but every collector in the city in pursuit.”

Kit appeared dubious, for he was not convinced of the power of book madness, but he said nothing. And with a frown, Hero finally pushed away from the fence and headed toward the steps to seek out the owner of the Mallory.

A rather worn-looking butler answered their knock, only to inform them that Mr Featherstone was not at home.

“But we’ve come from Cheswick,” Hero said, inching inside before the door could be closed against them. “The earl himself sent us upon an errand.”

The butler looked them up and down and shook his head. “You may come in, if you insist, but he is not here.”

Featherstone didn’t appear to be all that was missing, Hero noted as she looked around. The foyer was empty of furniture, paintings and other decoration, and a glance through doorways into other rooms revealed little else. Was Featherstone moving? Hero felt a stab of panic.

“Is there a man of business we can speak to?” Kit asked.

“All creditors should present a detailed account,” the butler said. “If you have one, I can take it.”

“We aren’t creditors,” Hero protested. “We’re here on an important errand, referred by Cheswick himself.”

The world-weary butler did not appear impressed.

“It concerns a book from the earl’s collection,” Kit said. “If you would show us into the library—”

The butler shook his head. “The library is empty, sir.”

“Empty? But what happened to all the books?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

Hero had an inkling.
Creditors.
Perhaps the collection had been sold to pay them off, she thought with a sinking feeling. But she drew herself up and donned her most businesslike expression. “Then it is even more vital that we speak to Mr Featherstone at once, for the offer I have for this edition could go a good deal toward paying off any debts he may have incurred recently.”

The butler appeared skeptical, but shrugged. Perhaps he had gone without his own wages for some time and was long past caring. “You might look for him at the Three Aces,” the fellow said.

“The Three Aces?”

The butler pursed his lips. “I believe it is a gaming establishment located on St James’s Street.”

“Thank you,” Hero said. “We will seek him out there.”

“No, we won’t,” Kit whispered as they made their exit. “It must be a gambling hell,” he added, once outside. “A wretched establishment designed to part the green or desperate from their money. More often than not, the poor devils can’t even win fairly, and if they do, hired thugs are on hand to dispute it.”

When they reached the railings, Hero halted. “You are probably right, and normally I wouldn’t choose to
visit. But this could be our only chance to talk to Featherstone.”

“We can wait here until he comes back,” Kit suggested.

“
If
he comes back,” Hero said, turning to face Kit. “We could kick our heels here indefinitely while Featherstone disappears to the Continent or elsewhere, fleeing one step ahead of his creditors.”

“But you can’t just walk into such a place and talk to him,” Kit said with more vehemence than usual. “These sorts of dens frown on idle chatter.”

“Then we’ll have to join in the play, if that’s the only way to speak to Featherstone.”

Kit looked pained. “And what are you going to use for a stake? Those with empty pockets aren’t welcome.”

“I have some money from Raven to use for expenses, if necessary, in order to procure the Mallory.”

Kit frowned. “Fine. I’ll go,” he said. “We’ll find somewhere safe for you to wait since genteel young ladies don’t frequent St James’s, and I’ll talk to Featherstone.”

Hero was touched, as always, by his protectiveness. The fact that he still saw her as a genteel young lady after all they had been through said more about Kit than herself. But she shook her head. They were too close, and this was too important for her to take any chances.

For a moment, Hero thought Kit might argue, but he groaned, a sure sign of his capitulation, and she took comfort in the knowledge that he would be with her a little bit longer.

“It could be worse, you know,” she said as they headed for St James’s.

“What could be worse than marching into a gambling hell with you dressed like that?” Kit asked.

She flashed him a smile, eager to prove that he wasn’t the only one with a sense of humor. “At least it isn’t a brothel.”

Kit stood in front of the Three Aces, eyeing the facade with a jaundiced eye. Although not as elegant as some of the other establishments, such as Crock-ford’s, it gave an appearance of gentility, which probably was why it drew the likes of Marcus Featherstone.

The two massive “gentlemen” at the door looked them up and down with such disrespect that Kit moved closer to Hero, wary that her disguise had been penetrated. It was one thing for her to ride upon the roads dressed as she was, quite another to travel about the city, where all manner of villains were ready to prey upon women and young men alike.

“Are you members?” one of the giants asked, and Kit choked back a snort. Surely, they weren’t required to join in order to lose their fortunes at the shady tables inside?

“Marcus Featherstone wanted us to meet him here,” Hero said.

“We don’t allow creditors to bother our patrons,” the other fellow said, studying them through narrowed eyes.

“We’re here to recoup our losses…or perhaps not,” Kit said, adopting a bored tone.

“He must have a private game going on upstairs,” the one fellow said to the other as he ushered them inside.

The interior of the Three Aces was spacious, boasting several salons with high ceilings, chandeliers and mirrors that reflected the scene. Men crowded around the green baize tables of hazard, faro and the decidedly illegal E.O., while servers provided tea or stronger brews. The more serious players wore odd coats or leather protectors upon their sleeves and bizarrely decorated hats in order to conceal their eyes from the light and their thoughts from each other.

When a loud bang erupted from above, Kit wondered what kind of “private games” were to be had there. Some of these places were supposed to be run by famous abbesses, who dealt not only in cards, but in female flesh. The thought that he might have brought Hero into a brothel after all made him wince, and he was all the more eager to complete their business.

“Do you have any idea what Featherstone looks like?” Kit whispered.

“No, but didn’t the man say he might be having a private game upstairs?” she asked, glancing in the direction of the curved staircase.

Kit shook his head. “Oh, no, you’re not going up there.”

But Hero was already moving away from him, toward a drunk stumbling down the steps. “Is Marcus Featherstone up there?” she asked.

“Just blew his head off,” the man said. Then he proceeded to cast up his accounts.

Pulling Hero out of the way, Kit wondered if the fellow’s words were some kind of gaming cant. A servant came to clean up the mess, but most of the players were too sunk in their own dissipation to even notice the disturbance. The turn of a card, the roll of the dice or the spin of the wheel held them enthralled. Surely, this really was a madness, Kit thought as he surveyed the room.

When he glanced back at Hero, she was again moving toward the stairs, where a couple of white-faced fellows were stumbling down. Whatever the Three Aces was serving up there, it must be strong. Or perhaps the party had been imbibing all night, for when questioned by Hero, they simple shook their heads, hurrying for the exit.

Catching up with her, Kit managed to catch her arm before she could bolt upward. And he was grateful for his hold upon her, for the next two men who appeared were not foxed, but sharp-eyed, shifty-looking fellows. At the sound of Hero’s query, they headed straight toward her, frowning and intent.

“I don’t think that’s him,” she managed to say before Kit dragged her away. By the time they reached the exit, Featherstone’s name had traveled from one end of the club to the other, voices rising above the usual din of conversation and gambling. And the men who were following them had stepped up their pace.

The burly fellows at the entrance had abandoned their post, perhaps called to more important duties, so Kit and Hero threw open the doors and began to run, trying to disappear into the throng on the street.

“You there, stop!”

The shout that rang out only fueled Kit’s steps, and he cursed his height, which made him easier to spot. Ducking, he sought a cart that he and Hero could jump on in order to make their escape. But before he found a likely candidate, Hero surged ahead to where a couple of young men stood with Dandy Horses, or whatever such apparatuses were being called. Knocking one of the fellows aside, Hero climbed on the thing and took off.

Kit could do little else but follow her lead, pushing aside the youth who protested the loss of his fellow’s contraption, only to watch himself fall victim. “Excuse me, but I need to borrow this for just a moment,” Kit said, as he hopped into the saddle and pushed off as hard as he could. The wheels sent him careening away from his pursuers, and soon he had left both them and the owner of the machine behind.

Kit had seen such things the last time he was in London and knew that young men liked to race them along the thoroughfares, adding to the congestion and crashing into anything and everything. But viewing the contraptions and propelling one were two entirely different things. Without reins, there was no way to change directions, and the two wheels did not respond to nudges, as did a living, breathing animal.

Keeping his balance as best he could, Kit tried to remain upright and propel himself forward, but eventually, he hit a bump in the road and tilted sideways. Although he managed to stop himself by using one leg, he ended up on his side on the ground, his body bruised and battered. Rising to his feet, Kit counted himself lucky not to have caused worse damage.

Kit had been too busy hanging on for dear life to notice what was going on about him, but now he looked frantically for Hero. Although he saw no sign of her, the other Dandy Horse was propped against a shopfront up ahead. Kit put his own beside it, for retrieval by the owner, and looked inside the small shop, but Hero was not there. Stepping outside again, he scanned the crowd to no avail, his worst fears realized at last.

She was gone.

Kit hurried to the inn, afraid of what he might—or might not—find there. Just in case their meeting with Featherstone could not be conducted at once, they had taken a room on the outskirts of the city. It was genteel enough to pass as long-term accommodations for visitors, but out of the way in order to avoid any acquaintances.
Although it didn’t sound like Hero had many.

Kit amended that thought. Hero didn’t have the experiences of a typical young woman in society, so she could not count upon such friends for help. But such friends probably would be of little help anyway, especially if she made an afternoon call while wearing boy’s clothing.

But Hero might well have contacts throughout town, collectors, book dealers and even seamier sorts that might serve her better. Kit only hoped she was somewhere safe and hadn’t been snatched off the streets. No matter how capable she seemed, she was still a woman alone in a dangerous city, harried by at least two villains.

Kit went up the stairs of the inn as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself. Upon reaching the door, caution made him knock softly before opening it. But there was no answer to his summons, and the room, when he entered, was empty.

Cursing under his breath, Kit walked the length and breadth of the space, as though Hero might be hidden behind the curtains or beneath the bed. Unable to face the emptiness, he left as quickly as he had come, hurrying out to check the common room and the courtyard for signs of her low-slung cap. But soon it became evident that Hero was not skulking anywhere around the inn under any guise, male or female.

Kit considered returning to the area where he’d last seen her, but he guessed she hadn’t stayed around there any longer than he had. He could go looking for her at Raven Hill, but she appeared extremely wary of returning home, and Kit had no desire to explain to Augustus Raven how he had allowed her to go missing.

The inn was the only meeting place that they had agreed upon, and there was little sense in heading back out to comb the city. Finally, Kit was forced to accept that he had only one choice.

So he sat down to wait.

Hero didn’t pause to look behind her. When her velocipede crashed into the rear of a moving cart, she dropped it to the ground and clambered into the load of hay in front of her. Hoping someone would retrieve the abandoned apparatus, she burrowed deep and leaned against the rear panel. It was only after she’d
finally caught her breath that she realized Kit had not joined her.

Frantically pushing aside some of the hay that cushioned her, Hero peeked through a crack in the wood, but she could not see him. Even the buildings looked different, and she realized the cart must have turned, its different route taking her farther away from Kit.