The Gentleman's Quest (15 page)

“Thank you,” Kit said, when Hero did not comment. “Obviously, you harbor no ill feelings toward him.”

Poynter’s mouth twisted again. “Life is too short, and collecting too cutthroat a passion to carry grudges. Indeed, my path has crossed many times over the years with both Raven and Montford.”

He paused to shake his head, his expression sad. “Indeed, I was most grieved to find out that his Grace is gravely ill.”

“What?” Again, it was Kit who had the presence of mind to speak, while Hero sat still, stunned.

“Yes, one of the great antiquarians of the age is near death, from what I hear, though I pray God will spare him yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Kit said. “We had not heard these bad tidings. In fact, when we were at Cheswick, I thought I saw the duke’s men or those dressed in his livery.”

Poynter shook his head, apparently as puzzled as they by the sighting. “Perhaps they are on some final mission at his behest,” the older gentleman finally said with a wistful smile. “I’d like to think his Grace still pursues his final prize, that most rare of volumes, a collector to the end.”

H
ero was so dazed, she let Kit lead her from the London Institution without thought to who might see them. Her mind was in a whirl, trying to take in all the information that Richard Poynter had imparted and make sense of it.

“Shall we find a place to sit?” Kit asked, ever solicitous.

Hero shook her head. “No, I’d rather walk.”

Taking her gloved hand, Kit placed it in the crook of his arm and patted it, as though to comfort her. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “Obviously, the book was never part of the old earl’s library. Martin Cheswick buried it or burned it or somehow disposed of it. The Mallory is lost, and I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Maybe,” Hero said. “Maybe not.”

Kit slanted her a speculative glance. “The only other possibility is that your uncle already possesses the book. And he sent you off on a mission to fetch it from himself?”

Although Hero had considered that possibility, she did not share her thoughts with Kit. But when she did not reply, he eyed her sharply.

“Perhaps you’d like to break into Raven Hill and look for it,” he suggested. “That’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”

“You can’t break into Raven Hill,” Hero said.

“Why not?” Kit asked. “I thought it was possible to tour all the great homes, especially one patterned after Strawberry Hill.”

Hero smiled, though not in amusement. “Unlike Walpole, who wrote a guidebook and gave out tickets to view his home, Raven does not open his house to visitors. But his secretive behavior seems to incite more curiosity about the place, causing him to employ several footmen to chase gawkers away from his property.” And because of Raven’s Gothic fancies, those footmen were armed with swords.

Hero shook her head. “Despite Raven’s determination to outdo Walpole, there are few similarities between the two houses. Strawberry Hill is full of innovative designs and wallpapers and original use of colors and light. But Raven is no visionary.” He was not interested in creating a showplace, only in feeding his own twisted fantasy.

“While both buildings have vaulted archways and hidden passages, Strawberry Hill is like a fairy castle, with pinnacles, quatrefoil windows and intricately carved staircases. Raven Hill is more an actual castle with battlements and dungeons. It’s made of real stone and filigree, not wallpapers that cleverly depict such materials.”

Hero never spoke of her household, but once begun, she could not seem to stop herself. “It’s like a tomb, cold and dark and uncomfortable. And deliberately frightening,” she muttered.

“What?”

Hero nodded. She couldn’t begin to count the times she had come across some faux horror, even as a child, that Raven had added for his amusement. “I learned long ago not to scream at the sight of a falling axe or start at some ghoulish sound emanating from nowhere, but to keep on eating my soup in silence.”

“What?”
Kit halted his steps.

“There is not one comfortable chair, not one warm spot in which to read a book, just presses full of protected volumes or cases stocked with medals or other antiquarian follies.” Hero drew a breath, intending to go on, only to realize that Kit was standing in front of her, a look of shock upon his face.

“The devil ought to be horsewhipped,” he said, making Hero rue her words. She did not want to set Kit against Raven, now or ever. The knowledge that the man had been born an unassuming Tovell did not lessen his power. A Raven by any other name…

Hero shook her head, as though to make light of Kit’s charge. “No doubt he deserves such punishment, but for crimes against others far more serious than the lack of desirable furnishings.”

“I’m serious,” Kit said, with such ferocity that Hero drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t want you to go back there. It sounds like you are little more than an unpaid servant at the whim of a madman.”

Although Kit was not far from the truth, Hero was
not about to confirm his suspicions. And she certainly did not want his pity, especially if it prompted another proposal.
Because this time she might not have the strength to refuse.

“Perhaps I won’t,” Hero simply said. But she couldn’t meet his probing gaze. And she did not share with him the desperate scheme she had devised to win her freedom.

Aware of the attention they might be drawing with their public argument, Hero began walking once more, forcing Kit to join her. And she forced a change of topic in the conversation, as well.

“If the Mallory truly is lost, why is Montford searching for it—and us?” she asked.

Kit groaned. “The Mallory
is
lost. And we don’t know that the men were Montford’s, and we only saw them once.”

Hero sent him a questioning look.

“All right, twice, but that’s no indication they were chasing us.”

“Perhaps Montford heard rumours of the Mallory surfacing,” Hero said. “Because of their past connection, the duke might be aware of Raven’s interest and had his men follow me as a matter of course.”

Kit shook his head. “I still can’t imagine a duke’s servants trying to kidnap you, and the fellows who did weren’t wearing any livery.”

“They might have changed their clothes, so we wouldn’t be able to identify them,” Hero said drily.

Kit snorted. “So what do you suggest we do, march up to Montford’s family seat, demanding to see a dying man so we can accuse him of assault?”

Hero frowned at Kit’s tone. When he put it that way, the idea did sound absurd, but Poynter understood. He knew that bibliomaniacs were consumed with the madness, whether down to their last coin, last thought, or even last breath.

“If Montford thinks we are on track, perhaps we should continue the search. We could talk to Featherstone’s servants and friends and try to discover what happened to his books.”

“But the lots went to Raven,” Kit said.

Hero paused, struck by a sudden thought. “Yes, but how?” she said, glancing intently at Kit. “Were they delivered directly to Raven or did they pass through Featherstone first? If so, Featherstone might have lifted a few choice gems for himself.”

“By cracking open a couple crates and going through every volume?”

“And picking the best for himself? I know I would have,” Hero said.

“But Featherstone was sunk too deep in dissipation by then,” Kit argued. “He probably was more interested in the money than any of the books.”

“Book collecting is as great an addiction as gambling.”

Kit shook his head. “You’re assuming that Featherstone took delivery of the lots, which more than likely went directly to the purchaser, meaning your uncle.”

Hero almost snapped at him not to refer to Raven as any relative of hers, but she caught herself. Instead, she said, “There’s only one way to find out.”

This time Kit did not groan, and Hero held her breath, for the ties that bound them were tenuous, at
best. He had no good reason to continue to help her, and yet…

Finally, he halted again, turning to look at her directly. “You can’t give it up, can you?” he asked.

Hero couldn’t tell if his expression held dismay or pity, but she shook her head. “No,” she answered.

There was too much at stake.

By the time they had returned to the London Institution, Poynter had gone, so they were left with little to do the rest of the day. And Kit refused to return to the inn, which might be for the best, considering what had last happened there. The thought of this man massaging her feet or any other part of her made Hero’s face heat and her heart pound.

As long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves, she was willing to go along as he dragged her to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum and Week’s Mechanical Museum. Steering clear of stationers, booksellers and circulating libraries, they wandered through a variety of shops, looking at toys and prints and elegant silks. They visited a clockmaker’s and a perfumery. And they enjoyed delicate pastries purchased in a bake shop, as well as gingerbread from a street vendor.

For Hero, it was like a dream. After a lifetime of cold duty and a week of masquerading as a young man, the afternoon spent as Miss Marchant, about in London with her attentive brother, was a holiday. But Kit was not her sibling, and though he conducted himself as such, sometimes Hero caught glimpses of a dark glint in his gaze, a sign that his feelings for her
were not brotherly. And she felt an answering shift inside, a hot surge of yearning that threatened to rob her of breath, before it faded into the less dangerous manner of easy companionship.

But when they finally approached the inn, the sparkle of the day began to fade into twilight, and Hero’s buoyant mood with it. Recalled to reality, she was reminded that she was not Kit’s sister. Nor could she ever be anything else to this man whose time with her was rapidly coming to an end.

To add to her distress, Hero was forced to wait in a shadowed corner of the hall while Kit got her greatcoat, bundling her up so she would be unrecognizable before hurrying to her room. The reason for the ruse remained unspoken: she did not want to be taken for a prostitute or sent to jail because of some such misunderstanding.

Once inside the darkened room, Hero shivered while Kit lit a lamp. Her boots were damp, but before they called for a fire, she needed to change. Reaching for her pack, Hero put a hand inside for her shirt, only to realize that it was not on top of the clothing she had placed there, folded and ready for rapid donning.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Hero turned to survey the room. There were few enough of their own belongings about, but her boy’s boots were not where she had left them. Although in the same general area, their position was subtly altered, a discovery that made her heart hammer.

“Someone’s been in here,” Hero said softly.

“What?”

“Someone has searched our room.”

Kit looked around at the spare, neat space and sent her a startled glance. “Perhaps the chambermaid…”

Hero shook her head. “She might have moved my boots, but she would not have been inside my pack.”

“Unless she’s a thief,” Kit muttered.

“Try to remember exactly where you put everything and see if it is not slightly changed,” Hero said.

Kit must have seen that she hadn’t the energy to argue with him, for he turned to look through his own things, then swung round with a grim expression.

“She’s not a thief, for I left some money hidden in an old sock. It is still there, but has been shoved farther down into the toe.” He paused to shake his head. “Who would go through them only to put them back?”

“Someone looking for the Mallory,” Hero said, and, for once, Kit did not argue.

They discussed what to do, then called for the maid to light the fire, conducting themselves as usual. Whoever had been in their room had gone to great lengths to avoid notice, and for now, they would play along. But Kit slept in a chair in front of the door, and Hero tossed and turned in the bed.

The bright, shiny day that she had spent with Kit in carefree excursions had been tarnished. With the coming of the night, Hero’s thoughts grew dark, and she wondered at what price she had bought those precious hours.

The next morning Hero was back in her boy’s clothing and so quiet that Kit cursed the circumstances that conspired against him. Yesterday she had been de
lightful company—warm and witty and beautiful in her feminine guise. A strong and independent woman, Hero also possessed a deep well of tenderness just waiting to be tapped. Their silences were comfortable, while their discussions were far ranging, going beyond books to houses, politics and even agriculture. And Kit knew her passion matched his own.

In short, she was everything he might want in a partner.
A wife.
Kit shook his head. He had all but given up hope until yesterday when everything between them was so easy and natural. But it had all gone awry. Hero had turned cold and distant, while they faced unknown threats yet again.

Now, Kit could spare no thoughts for anything except her protection, and he kept his pistol close as he packed his few belongings. Wary of watchers, they were going to slip away before first light, and they spoke in hurried whispers. Kit suggested they look for a place to lease, where they could disappear into the mass of London residents. But Hero shook her head.

“Time is running out,” she said in a way that made Kit balk. “Another inn would be better, perhaps a larger one closer to the heart of the city.”

Although in the past few days Hero had revealed more of herself, there still was too much missing for Kit to solve the puzzle. “People have been chasing us since we left Oakfield, so why is time running out?” he asked.

Hero hefted her pack. “Because we’re on Raven’s ground, in his neighborhood, and he will grow impatient for his prize.”

“What? Surely you don’t think your uncle is the one who searched our rooms?”

“Not Raven himself, but he may well have ordered it,” she said.

Despite Hero’s earlier revelations about her uncle, Kit was dumbfounded. “Why?”

Hero opened her mouth, then closed it again. Finally, she drew a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she said. “One never ever knows with Raven.”

This was madness. It was an insane way to conduct business, and even more lunatic manner in which to live. There was very little that roused Kit to anger, but his rage toward Augustus Raven had been building for some time.

“Perhaps we should stop haring around town on this fruitless errand and go directly to Raven Hill,” he said, giving Hero a hard stare. “I’d like to have a word with your uncle.”

Ducking, she shook her head, but Kit was not prepared to let it go. Thus far, he had ceded to Hero’s wishes, to her greater knowledge of the situation, but he could be stubborn, too. And he had no intention of letting her return to her uncle’s control.

Even if he had misconstrued her interest, even if she would not accept his proposal, he could find somewhere else for her to go. Barto had connections. A post as a companion to a decent gentlewoman had to be preferable. Surely, when Syd met her, she would…

Suddenly, Kit realized just how long it had been since he had been in contact with his sister. Vaguely, he recalled some mention of a Christmas wedding, and he felt a different sort of alarm. Startling as it might seem, the holiday was not that far away, and he had no idea of what the arrangements might be.