The Gentleman's Quest (6 page)

“You’ll find a pack to use in my sister’s room to the left at the top of the stairs, and feel free to take anything in there,” Kit called after her. His own bag remained with Bay, so he took a moment to alert Mrs Osgood to the situation.

That stolid personage was more horrified than Miss Ingram, but agreed to tell any callers that no one had returned since setting out with the carriage earlier in the day. Exhorting the maid to clear all evidence of a meal from the dining hall, she went into the kitchen, returning to slip a package into Kit’s hand before aiding the flustered maid.

Heading toward the stairs to hurry his guest, Kit had to look twice at the figure on the landing before realizing it was Miss Ingram. A vastly different Miss Ingram.

Instead of her cloak, she wore a heavy greatcoat that was a fitting garment for traveling, but not often worn by women. And beneath the hem, Kit could see a pair of scuffed boots, not dainty slippers, while her lovely locks were pulled tight and tucked up under a boy’s cap that cast a shadow across her features. At first glance, she would seem a youth. Had she even dirtied her face?

Acknowledging Kit with a nod, she moved down the steps toward him. “It will throw off any who search for a missing woman—or the man alleged to have kidnapped her,” she explained.

Yet she didn’t meet his eye, which was understandable. Most men would have recoiled in shock, but Kit
could only admire her cleverness, while trying not to imagine just what she wore beneath the coat.

“Let’s try to avoid the servants,” he said. “It’s better if no one else knows of your new appearance.” With that in mind, he led her to the parlor, where they slipped out the tall doors into the darkness outside.

The fog still lingered, casting a disorienting veil over the landscape, and the burned garden was rough going, with clumps of stubble looming up to trip the wariest of walkers. But Kit told himself that whatever hindered them would work even more upon their enemies, though he doubted any locals would willingly be out at this hour searching the grounds of Oakfield, a property steeped in legend and dread.

Kit set a good pace, and Miss Ingram kept up without her skirts to encumber her. She didn’t harry him with questions, but silently followed his lead until they reached the barn that was being used as a temporary stable.

Jack had their mounts ready, and Kit set the boy to keep watch while he helped Miss Ingram onto Sydony’s horse. Having not seen her disguise, Jack could not report it to anyone, should he be questioned after their departure.

Kit had no time to ponder the whys and whos of their predicament. Right now, his only concern was to put more distance between them and the party Jack had heard approaching the house, so he urged Bay into the night as quietly as possible. He had a lantern, but he was loathe to use it, at least until they were away from the barn. Oakfield’s eerie history would keep the locals at bay, but any others might not be so easily frightened.

When he and Syd had first arrived at their new home, Kit hadn’t seen a pressing need to map the countryside. But after the fire, he had ridden out daily until he knew these lands like the back of his hand, and that knowledge served him well as he found the small path that led toward the arable fields.

By the time he reached an abandoned tenant cottage, Kit was eager for a respite. They could not ride indefinitely in such darkness, and although the Druids had once used this building, no one had been near it since the fire. Kit and Hob had made sure of that.

Dismounting, Kit led the horses into a small barn. After tethering them, he turned to help Miss Ingram, only to freeze as his hands brushed against a solid human form. His normally even heartbeat skipped in its rhythm as he wondered whether to reach for his pistol or slam the figure against the wall.

“It’s me.” The familiar sound of Miss Ingram’s throaty voice made him loose a sigh. She had dismounted without his aid, and there was no one else in the barn with them. No Druids, no authorities, no bibliomaniacs. Realizing that his gloved fingers still pressed against her, Kit dropped his hand away, but a noise outside made him stiffen.

They both remained still while an owl hooted and then fell silent. But as the sound faded away, Kit became aware of a more immediate and more personal danger. He was alone with Miss Ingram, standing only inches from her, in the dark. The lack of light seemed to heighten his senses, and Kit caught a whiff of her scent, delicate and intoxicating.

“We can spend the night here and ride out again at dawn,” he whispered, expecting her to move. But she remained where she was, and in the ensuing quiet, Kit thought he heard her breath catch. Did she feel it, too?

Just as Kit was tempted to take the single step that would bring them together, a snort from Bay broke them apart. It probably was as succinct a comment as any on his folly, a rebuke for behavior that would hardly be welcome at the best of times, let alone now, when they were in jeopardy. And Kit took the message to heart:
Remember that you are a gentleman.

With that in mind, Kit peered outside before leading Miss Ingram to the cottage, where they were met by the smell of dust and disuse. But Kit knew the place was sturdy and would keep out the worst of the night chill. There was a lantern by the door, and he lit it, turning the wick low, though the windows were tightly shuttered.

“I’ll tend to the horses,” he said, trying to ignore the sight of Miss Ingram’s greatcoat falling open to reveal her slim legs, clad in breeches. “Will you be all right?” It was a foolish question, and, of course, Miss Ingram nodded.

Still, Kit did not dally. Returning with their packs and some wood, he shut the door behind him, only to find that his companion had already started a fire. For a long moment, he simply stood still, transfixed by her costume, which boldly delineated her long legs, while hiding her breasts under a boy’s coat. It was a paradox that kicked Kit to life.

Thankfully, Miss Ingram showed no signs of succumbing to a similar passion. “I found some cut logs
and thought we’d need the fire for warmth,” she said. “Unless you think we’ll be seen.”

Kit shook his head as he put down the baggage. “I doubt the locals will search for us at this hour, and no one else should know of this place.” In truth, he was grateful to be out of the darkness, with its inherent temptations, especially now that he suspected he had conjured their earlier intimacy out of whole cloth.

Jack had given him a blanket from the barn, and Kit spread it in front of the fire for Miss Ingram. With a gesture toward it, he took his own place, seated on the floor, his back against the door. The hard wood and the cold floor did much to help him gather himself—and his thoughts. Since they were safe for the time being, Kit took the opportunity to consider the events that had led him here.

And when next he gazed at his companion, he looked beyond the enticing form to the person inside. Up until an hour ago, Kit had thought Miss Ingram an independent and daring female in the mold of his sister. But during the course of the evening, she had proven herself to be far more unusual than Syd. Obviously, Miss Ingram was no ordinary young lady. But what, exactly, was she?

“So why does Augustus Raven’s niece carry boy’s garments with her while traveling?” Kit asked without preamble.

If Miss Ingram was startled by the question, she didn’t show it. She glanced toward him, but her face was in shadow, making it difficult for Kit to gauge her expression. “I like to be prepared for anything.”

“And just what sort of ‘anything’ were you expecting?”

She shrugged. “It’s not what I was expecting—it’s the unexpected that concerns me, Mr Marchant.”

“And that includes having to masquerade as a male?”

She nodded, but told him nothing, as usual. And, as if the conversation were over, she spread her hands toward the hearth and turned her back to him.

But Kit was not prepared to be dismissed this time. “I’m a simple man,” he said. “A gentleman farmer who wants nothing more than a quiet life in the country. Yet over the past months, I’ve been treated to my fill of deception and threats from everyone from cloaked intruders to my oldest friend.”

She swung round then, perhaps shaken by the raw tone to his voice, but he was not adept at dissembling. And his gut twisted at the thought that this woman might be a thief or some kind of Captain Sharp, out to hoax him for reasons he could not fathom. Although she might deny it, Kit had to put the question to her.

“So you’ll understand if I won’t be played for a fool, Miss Ingram,” Kit said. He paused to fix her with a probing gaze. “Are you even who you say you are?”

The light was behind her, so Kit could not see her eyes. Still, she did not look away, and he felt a measure of relief. She did not launch into any outraged protests or weeping admissions, but simply nodded. Then she cocked her head to the side, as though studying him.

“But if you doubt me, why are you here?” she asked.

Kit could have given her a number of different answers, but in the end, he chose the simplest one.

“Because, Miss Ingram, I am a gentleman.”

W
rapping herself in her heavy coat, Hero lay down upon the blanket Mr Marchant had so graciously put in front of the fire. Perhaps he knew she was always cold, she thought, before rejecting such a notion. The real reason for his behavior was more straightforward and required no personal knowledge of her.

It was the act of a gentleman.

The word was a common one, used to describe nearly all males except the poor, servants and those with money, but no lineage. And yet, Hero wondered if she’d ever met a gentleman in the strictest sense of the word—one who was decent, kind, thoughtful…
I’m a simple man
, he’d said. But Christopher Marchant was anything but.

Her back to the flames, Hero looked from under lowered lashes to where he was seated against the door. Presumably he had taken that position so that any attempt at entry would waken him, if he nodded off. But he couldn’t be comfortable, arms across his chest, long legs stretched out before him. Although not
normally bothered by such things, Hero found herself wondering about draughts, the hard surface of the door, the awkward position.

She could invite him to join her here by the fire.

The wild thought was born of drowsy warmth and set Hero’s heart to pounding with both anticipation and alarm. Fully awake now, she knew she could not relax into a false sense of security just because her companion treated her far better than anyone else ever had. Manners made for a fine show, but what did she really know of Christopher Marchant?

Although the urge to accept this near stranger as a protector was strong, Hero knew better than to rely on anyone except herself. And hadn’t he already proven many times that he was not what he seemed? That might include being the gentleman he claimed.

Roused to alertness, Hero was determined to keep one eye open through the night. She was a poor sleeper, at best, and vowed not let down her guard when alone with this man, no matter how tempting it might be.

Yet the heat of the fire relaxed her, making her lids heavy, and soon Hero had closed them. The tension in her body eased, reminding her of her ride earlier in the day, when she had held on to Mr Marchant’s warm and solid form. Even as she tried to banish the memory, Hero’s thoughts returned to the moments when she had rested her head against his strong back, leaning upon him.

And she slept.

A cock crowed in the distance, and Hero awoke with a start. She heard a thud and opened her eyes to
see Mr Marchant jerk away from the door, rubbing the back of his head. The sight of him made her pulse quicken and not just because she had slept the night away alone with a man she barely knew.

It was the length of his fingers threading through the strands of silky dark hair that held her interest, the tilt of his head, the full line of his mouth as he frowned, and the way his brows lowered in annoyance. If Hero’s heart hadn’t been pounding so painfully, she would have smiled at his reaction. Simple. Natural.
Endearing.

As if aware of her study, he suddenly looked at her from under impossibly long lashes, pinning her with one of his probing gazes. And all that Hero felt for him—and more—was reflected right back at her. Startled, Hero sucked in a deep breath as she realized that she was sprawled before the fire, her cap long gone, her hair falling in thick tendrils from where she had secured it.

In short, she was in deshabille, warm and languid and witless from sleep, and she hurried to rectify the situation. She would not expect her boy’s costume to incite passion in any man, let alone one who looked like Mr Marchant, but she had seen something in his eyes that made her both wary and exhilarated. Glancing away, she rose to her feet as she pulled her coat close.

“It’s light,” she muttered. “We’d better go.”

Turning her back to him, Hero heard his grunt of assent as he stood, yet the hairs on her neck tingled at his very presence. She waited, tense, until she heard him step outside. Then, and only then, did she release the breath she had been holding and reach for her cap.

She straightened and saw, to her dismay, that her hand was trembling. What next? Would she start stuttering? Hero cursed this man’s ability to discompose her, senses running riot, wits scattered when she needed them most.

Kneeling before the hearth, Hero doused the lingering embers there, and shivered. Better to be cold, she thought, than so warm that she couldn’t think properly. By the time she had finished, Mr Marchant had returned, and Hero turned to face him with a chillier greeting on her lips.

He didn’t seem to notice, and they made a quick meal of bread and cheese from the packet he had got from his housekeeper. Then he went out to ready the horses while Hero tried to remove all evidence of their presence. After sweeping away their tracks on the floor, she stood at the doorway, giving the place one last look.

Still laden with dust, it was nothing more than a small farmhouse, but the single room was cozier than her bedchamber at Raven Hill. Hero’s gaze lingered before the hearth, where she had slept so effortlessly for the first time in long memory. A surge of unfamiliar feelings kept her where she stood until a draught rattled the shutters. The noise finally spurred her to step outside and shut the door behind her.

The early morning light was filtered by the mist, which seemed ever present. Although the atmosphere would have suited Raven’s sensibilities, Hero was more concerned with making her way as rapidly as possible. In this fog, Mr Marchant could lead her anywhere, and it would be difficult to keep her bearings.

“We’ll stay off the main roads as long as possible,” he said, as he helped her mount. “Then head east.”

“To Cheswick.”

“To Raven Hill,” Mr Marchant said.

“Cheswick is closer,” Hero pointed out. He groaned, and Hero suppressed a smile, for he made the sound whenever she pressed him. She was beginning to find his groans even more endearing than his grins.
And all the more dangerous.

Hero could not afford to be distracted, and she forced herself to pay more attention to her surroundings than her companion. But there was little to notice. And the routes Mr Marchant took were hardly more than paths, where she saw no signs of life, only barren moors.

The fog did not unnerve her, for Hero was not the fanciful sort. One did not stay long at Raven Hill and give in to whimsy—not if one wanted to retain one’s sanity. Still, when they traveled into a dell, the haze settled around them, making their movements echo strangely. And Hero began to wonder if what she heard was their own progress or something else, perhaps even the sound of pursuers.

Then suddenly, something loomed out of the mist, a tall silhouette, dark and ominous. Hero stifled a gasp and grasped the pistol in her coat, while Mr Marchant continued on his way in front of her. Suspicion roiled through her, chilling her to the bone and closing her throat. Yet, as she faced it the shape took form, mocking her fears.

How amused Raven would have been to see her start at a rock, but it was large and unnaturally shaped,
making Hero wonder at its placement here in the middle of nowhere. Urging her mount forward, she called to Mr Marchant, “What is that, a road marker?”

“A standing stone,” he said. “I’ve discovered that there are many of them in the area. Sometimes they are alone, like that one, or they can be grouped in circles, rows and by cairns. All are thought to be the work of the Druids who once lived here. Maybe that’s why Mallory built his home in this land, with its references to sacred oaks and waters.”

Hero glanced toward him, but could see little of his expression. She hadn’t known what to make of his earlier remarks about Druids and had long since dismissed them. The resumption of the subject, here and now, did little to cheer her.

“And you think that they want his book back?” Hero asked.

“The ones who left these stones are long gone, their true histories forgotten,” he said. “And most who call themselves Druids now gather for social or philanthropic purposes. But there were some others who embraced a more violent view of their forebears.”

Hero did not find his explanation comforting, especially when he lapsed into a brooding silence that brooked no further questions. And as she followed blindly, she couldn’t help the thought that returned to mind.
He could lead her anywhere.
And for any purpose.

She was not a timid creature, but the possibility of being caught alone on foggy moors with a powerful man obsessed with Druids was something even Hero found unsettling. She remembered his mention of
death and debauchery based on the Mallory, and she shivered.

Yet she kept following, for what else could she do? And even uneasy as she was, Hero realized that the whole situation felt like something Raven would orchestrate. Although he had never written a Gothic novel, he enjoyed living like a character in one, with all the attendant terrors and dramas.

Had he arranged for the seemingly gallant Mr Marchant to accompany her? Or worse, had he arranged for a mad Mr Marchant to abduct her? Her companion’s admission of a warrant for his arrest took on new meaning when considered under such circumstances. Was Mr Marchant the gentleman he claimed to be, or something else entirely?

Hero had made a life hunting and fetching and bargaining for Raven and ignoring all else, but now she felt her purpose faltering. Just what was she getting herself into?

The sun was setting when they rode into the courtyard of the Long Man. The inn was a simple one set in the middle of Longdown, a community large enough that their arrival would not be marked. Or at least that’s what Kit hoped when he looked for a place to stop for the night.

Inside the common room was busy, and Kit’s request for a room for himself and his brother drew little attention. He was not dressed in the sort of finery that would demand special service; nor was he the kind who might be refused admittance. His coin was good, and the horses would be tended to.

“Will you eat, sir?” the burly landlord inquired.

“Yes, but can you have it sent to the room? My brother is bone weary, and I’m for rest myself.”

The landlord looked like he might make Kit pay for a private parlour, but then he nodded, perhaps fearful of losing the business entirely, for Kit’s “brother” was slumped in the shadows near the door, as though waiting to see whether they would remain. With the meal settled, Kit motioned for Miss Ingram to join him, and the landlord led them to the staircase.

The room was decent enough, clean and neat, with a narrow window and a large bed not far from the fireplace, where logs were set. “I’ll have that lit for you, sirs,” the landlord said before disappearing back into the hall.

Kit nodded absently as he glanced around. He could have got two rooms, but he was loathe to leave Miss Ingram alone and unprotected, even if she was dressed as a boy. His own desire to stay in her company had nothing to do with his decision. Or at least that’s what Kit told himself as he eyed the single bed.

While no one would think it odd for a couple of brothers to bed down together, Kit would have to look elsewhere for his berth. Unfortunately, the only chair was stiff and straight-backed, so Kit looked to the expanse of hard floor and told himself it was no worse than where he had slept the night before.

Miss Ingram was already drawing the curtains, and Kit reached for the candle, lest they be plunged into blackness until the chambermaid came to light the fire. It was one thing to share a room with Miss
Ingram, another to be alone with her in complete darkness, as he had learned last evening.

But a low word from her stayed Kit’s hand. He lifted his head in surprise to see her silently motioning him toward the window, where something had drawn her attention. He stepped behind her, looking over her shoulder into the courtyard below. The Long Man was not a posting stop, so the cobbled area was relatively quiet, making it easy to spy the two men leaning against one wall in the deepening shadows.

Kit felt the tension in Miss Ingram’s body and had to stop himself from drawing her back against him in comfort. “I don’t see how anyone could have tracked us here,” he assured her. “They would have had to follow us from the cottage, and we saw no signs of that.”

“They could have been waiting on the road.”

“For how long? And which roads?”

“Any road that leads to London,” Miss Ingram said. She turned her head slightly. “If we go to Cheswick instead, perhaps we can lose them.”

Kit stifled a groan at the familiar refrain, but he was not surprised to hear it. Someone as determined as Miss Ingram did not give up easily. And hadn’t she told him earlier that she would go by herself, if necessary? The memory of that threat, coupled with her impassive features and the presence of the two men below, however innocent they might be, made Kit distinctly uneasy.

He might have been blind before, heedless of the signs of approaching trouble, but he was more observant now, and his observations told him that Miss Ingram might very well slip from the room the minute
his back was turned, going from danger into danger. Alone.

And that’s when the truth hit him. It didn’t matter whether her chase was a foolish one, leading nowhere, and it didn’t matter what his own feelings about the possible existence of a Mallory might be. It didn’t even matter whether Miss Ingram was being completely honest with him. The only thing that mattered was keeping her safe. And since he could not force her to go home, the only way to protect her was to go with her.

Kit admitted there were other, less admirable reasons to remain in Miss Ingram’s company, his own selfish desires among them. But first and foremost in his mind was the task he had undertaken when her coach had broken down on its way to Oakfield. He’d failed his sister, but he wasn’t going to fail this woman.

“All right, we’ll go to Cheswick,” he said. If Miss Ingram was startled by his sudden capitulation, Kit did not see it, for his attention was fixed on the men below. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to see what they were up to, he thought. But as he watched, the taller fellow pushed away from the wall, revealing not the nondescript clothing of their attackers, but livery. And very fine livery, at that.