The Gentleman's Quest (14 page)

“Here, let me do that,” Kit said. Kneeling before her, he brushed away her protests and unrolled her sock. Her foot was pale and smooth, delicately formed, and cold to the touch. He rubbed it briskly with both hands, then began to gently knead.

“Y-you prove your skills yet again,” Hero said softly. She cleared her throat. “For a gentleman farmer you handled the velocipede very well.”

“I assume that you didn’t see my ignominious dismount,” Kit said. “And where did you learn to ride such a beast?”

“One of the antiquarians,” she said with a faint smile. “A member of the society gave one to Raven, who had no use for it, of course.”

“And you quickly mastered the technique.”

“I don’t think there is much technique involved,” Hero said.

She groaned at his touch, and Kit had to remind himself that the massage he was giving her was therapeutic, not erotic. Removing her second boot, he set to work on the other foot. “Though I imagine one would have an even more difficult time trying to ride side saddle.”

Hero made a low sound of amusement that turned into another groan. “I don’t care to know how you acquired this skill, gentleman farmer,” she said. “But is there nothing you can’t do?”

Yes
, Kit thought.
I can’t seem to capture the one thing I want.
But he didn’t voice his thoughts aloud.

Hero leaned back her head and sighed. “Kit…”

“Hmm?”

“You’ll remember that you are a…gentleman.”

“Yes,” Kit assured her, despite his ministrations.

He’d forgotten that for a while, earlier this evening. But it was a momentary lapse in judgement, a mistake that he would not make again.

It felt good to take off the breeches.

Although there was a certain freedom to be had in wearing boy’s clothing, Hero was happy to don her feminine garb. And Kit’s surprised delight in her transformation only added to her contentment. For a moment, Hero felt nearly normal—until she had to sneak out of their room, which was supposed to be occupied by two brothers from rural environs.

Once they were outside, Hero relaxed into her role and Kit gave her his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, miss?” he asked.

Hero tucked her gloved hand over his sleeve, and she was surprised to feel her cheeks grow pink at the gallant gesture. Although they had spent a lot of time together, little of it was in her current guise, and even less engaged in the typical pursuits of a young man and a young woman.

“And where shall we go today, to see the sights of London?” Kit asked, inclining his head toward her.

Hero laughed, though she suspected he might be serious. She was reminded again that her quest was not his, and she was grateful for his continued company. “I live on the outskirts of town, so I am no visitor.”

“Well, then, perhaps you would show me the city?”

Hero shook her head, but could not stop her smile. She was glad to see the return of the careless charmer that was Kit. Last night, he had been moody and sulky, unusual behavior for which she felt accountable. Hero didn’t know much about what went on between men and women, but she knew that they should not have kissed as they had.

Warmth flooded Hero’s cheeks at the memory, a wild, wonderful interlude in which she had thrown caution to the wind, along with most of her wits. But she could not afford to do so again. And walking about the streets of town, where anyone might mark her steps, would not be wise. As she had discovered, Raven’s contacts were everywhere.

“I’ll be happy to show you the Institution, which is in the house that once belonged to Sir William Clayton,” Hero said, focusing upon her goal. “And it is to Richard Poynter that you owe the return of Miss Ingram, for I hope to trade upon my connection to Raven.”

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 fam
ily 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?