The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Hightham was learning not to waste his breath protesting their decisions; he endeavored to accept Wayland’s offer with as much humility as he could muster.

  Kit left him to it and went into the office, unhooked his hammock, and rolled it up in the blanket. With the roll tucked under his arm, he walked out to join Wayland and Hightham in heading out of the doors.

  Once all was shut and relocked, the three of them strode around the corner into Princes Street. Wayland’s lodgings were halfway along. Kit saw a hackney idling a little farther on. He was about to hail it when he remembered a question he needed to ask. “Hightham?” When the younger man looked at him, Kit caught his eyes. “Have you, by any chance, been watching me as I’ve been going around town? For instance, when I’ve been squiring a lady about?”

  Hightham looked thoroughly confused. “No.” He added, “I’ve only been in Bristol since Sunday, and I’ve been keeping watch on the warehouse since then. I don’t even know where in King Street your office is.”

  Every word rang true. Kit waved the odd question aside. “It was just a thought.” He met Wayland’s eyes. “I’ll leave you both here—I’m for that hackney and my bed.”

  They exchanged quick farewells, and Kit strode for the hackney.

  He slumped onto the seat, and the jarvey turned his horse and set out for Queen’s Parade.

  Kit felt tiredness dragging at his wits, but forced himself to review what he now knew about Sylvia’s elusive watcher. Hightham had been totally at sea at Kit’s mention of a lady. Ergo, his hadn’t been the stare Sylvia had sensed.

  No matter how Kit rearranged the facts, he kept coming up with the same highly disturbing result.

  Someone else was watching Sylvia, and that someone was focused on her, not Kit.

  A ridiculous compulsion to tell the jarvey to turn around and make for Mrs. Macintyre’s house reared its head. Kit considered it for several minutes, but after spending two nights in the workshop, he needed at least a few hours’ solid sleep.

  “And she’s a clergyman’s daughter,” he assured himself. “She’ll go to church in the morning.”

  He’d already arranged to see her in the afternoon, and fortuitously, he hadn’t stated a time.

  “So I’ll be unfashionably early.”

  Sylvia would be safe enough until then.

  As the horse clopped on, its hooves ringing on the cobbles, his mind swung back to Hightham and the second chance he and Wayland had handed the younger man.

  Second chances were all very well, but seizing a chance the first time around was infinitely wiser.

  Kit wasn’t going to let his chance to secure love and happiness with Sylvia Buckleberry slip through his fingers.

  “Which means I definitely need some sleep.”

  He wanted to be at his best when next he saw her—the embodiment of his future happiness and, he hoped, his bride-to-be.

  CHAPTER 14

  After church, the Dean of Christ Church drew Sylvia aside to inquire as to how the school was settling into its new premises. On being assured that all was well, he commended—again—Kit’s offer to attach his name and title to the school. “Quite a coup, to get Cavanaugh’s open support, and, indeed, it’s heartening to see a scion of a noble house so willing to be involved in parish affairs. Mark my words, my dear, his lordship’s declared support will mean more and more as his presence in the city becomes more widely known.”

  Sylvia smiled and agreed.

  The Dean continued, “I was speaking with the mayor only yesterday—he has high hopes that his lordship’s new enterprise will reinvigorate interest in ship building in the city.” The Dean’s eyes twinkled. “I understand you and Cavanaugh ran into the mayor at the concert on Friday evening.”

  Sylvia acquiesced with a murmur and endeavored not to blush.

  She chatted with the Dean for several more minutes, then slipped away from the groups milling on the pavement, crossed the street, and set off down High Street. By the time she reached Mrs. Macintyre’s door, her landlady would have a roast ready and waiting. Then after luncheon... Kit hadn’t specified a time, but surely, with autumn deepening and daylight fading earlier each day, he would call before three o’clock. Possibly by two.

  A smile of anticipation had taken up residence on her lips. All in all, she was exceedingly pleased with how the various aspects of her life were evolving; she couldn’t think of anything she wished to change. Smiling to herself, she replayed the Dean’s words in her mind; she was looking forward to reporting them to Kit and, most likely, watching him squirm. She’d noticed that he didn’t like his good deeds being lauded; he certainly didn’t crave the attention said deeds drew his way.

  The image of Kit her thoughts had conjured remained front and center in her mind. After Friday night and their kiss on the porch, she was trying not to let her expectations race ahead...but that was proving difficult.

  In just two short weeks, he’d resurrected the hopes and dreams she’d thought she’d left behind in moving to Bristol. More than being a declaration to others, she’d viewed her coming to the city and devoting herself to the school as a personal statement of intent. An unequivocal demonstration that she’d laid aside all hope of marriage and a family and had elected to devote her life to good works.

  That was the decision she’d made then. It wasn’t how she felt now.

  Now...

  Just thinking of what might be—what might evolve from what was already there between her and Kit—set butterflies flitting joyfully inside her and made her heart skip.

  “Miss Buckleberry?”

  Looking up and seeing an older gentleman hurrying toward her from the other side of the street, she halted. His tone had been urgent, and he appeared out of breath. She immediately thought of the school—the teachers or the boys. “Yes?”

  The man reached the pavement and halted before her. “Oh, thank heavens I’ve found you!”

  He appeared to be in his later middle years and was neatly dressed in a dark suit.

  Before she could speak, the man gushed, “I’m Mr. Hillary, my dear. I’ve just called at your lodgings, and your good landlady told me you would be on your way home from church, and as time is of the essence, I put my faith in God and came on in the hope of reaching you as soon as may be.” Hillary’s face creased in concern. “There really isn’t a moment to lose.”

  “Why?” Hillary’s urgency was so compelling, Sylvia only just restrained herself from clutching his arm. “What’s happened?”

  There were others on the pavement. Noticing them, Hillary gently took her arm and solicitously steered her closer to the building, out of the flow of traffic. She didn’t resist. In increasing alarm, she searched his face. “What is it? Please tell me.”

  His expression grave, Hillary met her gaze. “I’m afraid it’s your father, my dear. He’s very poorly and is asking for you. I drove as fast as I could from Saltford, hoping to fetch you to his side.”

  Sylvia’s world spun; her stomach lurched and fell. She was glad Hillary had kept hold of her elbow, but then she pushed aside the faintness. “My father?” She heard the shock in her voice. “I hadn’t thought...” She blinked. “He hasn’t mentioned any illness in his letters.”

  She’d always seen her father as hale and hearty and had imagined he would continue in good health for many years yet.

  Hillary looked at her with compassion. “I gather it came on very quickly. I’m afraid I have no details to share. I’m a visitor to the village—I’ve been staying with the Mathers, next door to the vicarage, for several weeks, and when Doctor Moreton asked if someone could drive to Bristol and fetch you home...well, I was there and had a fast horse and gig. Your father’s housekeeper gave me your direction, and Moreton urged me to fetch you as soon as I might, so I leapt into my gig and came straightaway.”

  Sylvia was struggling to take it in. Her
father! She hadn’t expected any such disaster—not at all.

  She felt Hillary’s gaze on her face, then in a quieter tone, he said, “I regret to say, Miss Buckleberry, but I believe your father is only just clinging to life.”

  The words struck like an iced dagger to her heart. She nodded. “Yes. I understand.” She blinked and refocused on Hillary. “If you’re willing to drive me, I can come with you now.”

  Hillary smiled, but she saw the gesture through a film of tears. She blinked them away, and his earnest expression came into focus. He patted her arm. “Good. Good. We can be on our way in moments. My carriage is just this way.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hillary.” Sylvia heard the words, but distantly. She allowed Hillary to lead her down the street and around the first corner to where a gig waited in a side yard, the reins held by an urchin.

  Hillary paid off the boy, then gave her his hand and helped her into the gig. She sat. She felt numb inside. Her mind wasn’t functioning with its usual precision. An image of Mrs. Macintyre looking at her roast and waiting swam into her mind, but her landlady would understand. So would Kit—and she’d be able to send a message once she saw her father. Saltford was, after all, only ten miles away.

  * * *

  Kit strode along the pavement that bordered the small park, his gaze locked on Mrs. Macintyre’s door at the far end of the street.

  He’d arranged with Sylvia to call on her on Sunday afternoon, and it was after noon, even if a touch past one o’clock was rather early for a social call.

  He just wanted to see her again—to prove to his inner self that she was perfectly all right. To put paid to the fanciful imaginings that had taken over his brain and hijacked all rationality.

  After reaching home in the early hours, he’d fallen into bed, only to toss and turn, plagued by thoughts of the unknown person watching Sylvia and, even more worrisomely, their intentions. Now he knew that whoever it was had nothing to do with him or his business, he was running out of possible motives—he felt as if he didn’t know which way to face to protect her.

  He supposed it might still be something to do with the school, yet although it had been he who had saved the school, throughout, the watcher had focused on her.

  No. It wasn’t anything to do with the school. To his mind—churning with supposition and imaginings—that cast the continuing attentions of the watcher in a much more sinister light.

  Yet it was difficult—well-nigh impossible—to imagine that Sylvia, a clergyman’s daughter, had any enemies. As far as he knew, she’d lived a blameless life.

  He couldn’t see his way through the maze, and since he’d awoken, his inner self had been pacing relentlessly, pushing him to go and see her and assure himself that she was all right, that she was in no immediate danger.

  He reached the end of the pavement, crossed the street, and made for Mrs. Macintyre’s gate.

  Jaw clenching, he opened the gate, strode up the path, and leapt up the steps. He grasped the brass knocker and beat briskly on the door.

  Then he drew in a deep breath, stepped back, and told himself he would soon see with his own eyes that Sylvia was perfectly fine.

  Mrs. Macintyre opened the door as if she’d snatched at it. Her face was creased in an anxious frown that took on overtones of dismay as she looked at Kit. Then she bobbed and nodded. “My lord.”

  He managed to find his voice. “Miss Buckleberry?” He felt as if his heart was in his throat.

  Mrs. Macintyre’s anxiety deepened. “I’d hoped she was with you.”

  A chill clutched Kit’s gut. “Where—when did you last see her?”

  Mrs. Macintyre crossed her arms as if she was cold. “She went to church as she usually does every Sunday morning, right on a quarter to eleven o’clock. She’s always back by half past twelve for luncheon, and she said she’d be here, only she hasn’t come back.” Mrs. Macintyre gripped her arms tightly. “She hasn’t come in and gone out again—that I do know. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since she left this morning.”

  Kit battled his rioting impulses, forcing them down enough to think. “No message or anything like that?”

  Mrs. Macintyre shook her head. “And that’s another thing—always very considerate, she is. It’s not like her to just...not come home.”

  She’d been taken—seized. Kit knew it. That was what all the watching had been about. “I’ll start at the church. I’ll check that she attended”—she was well-known in the parish; there would be somebody there who could tell him—“and try to track where she went.”

  He needed to act—to do something, something to get her back. He seriously doubted she’d be at the church, but he had to start somewhere.

  With an emotion perilously close to panic flaying him, he swung around and leapt to the path.

  Just as a carriage came racing wildly down the street.

  Kit recognized his horses. He ran out of the gate and reached the curb as Smiggs, on the box of Kit’s curricle, drew the bays to a plunging halt. Kit put up a hand to calm the nearer horse as Ollie tumbled from his perch at the carriage’s rear and came rushing up.

  “Your lordship!” Ollie grabbed Kit’s sleeve with both hands. “You’ve got to come quick! It’s Miss Buckleberry, my lord—she’s been ’napped!”

  Ollie’s face was full of urgent entreaty. Kit glanced at Smiggs, grimly managing the skittish horses. “Who? How?” Those seemed the most pertinent questions.

  But Ollie mistook his meaning. “It was Jack the Lad, m’lord. He overheard you telling Mr. Cobworth as how someone was watching Miss Buckleberry nasty-like, and so we—Jack, Ned, and me—thought as perhaps we could help keep her safe by keeping an eye on her and spotting who was following her.”

  Kit freed his arm and grasped Ollie’s, trying to keep the boy from jigging up and down. “Did you see who it was?”

  “Aye—but we didn’t think he was dangerous. Not then.”

  Kit held on to his patience. “He who?”

  “The man with the boards front and back.” Ollie stared into Kit’s face, willing him to understand. “You know—one of those who paces back and forth on the Butts and the quays and blathers on about God and damnation and redeeming people if only they’ll come to his chapel. Well, we thought he was a man of God, didn’t we? That he was harmless, just a nuisance, only it turns out he’s a blackguard, after all. We saw him take her!”

  “This morning?” Kit was battling to piece events together.

  Ollie nodded. “We was watching outside the church, all three of us, and she came out and talked with some church people, then she started off home, and we followed—hanging back a-ways so she wouldn’t see us. That’s when the man came up and stopped her. He was dressed better than usual, but we recognized him. Jack and I hung back, but Ned—he’s the sneakiest of us—he sidled really close, and he heard the man say as he’d been staying next door to Miss Buckleberry’s father and that her father’s doing poorly and the doctor had sent him to fetch her home straightaway.” Ollie added, “The man wasn’t wearing his boards, but it seemed Miss Buckleberry knew him...or at least, she believed him, ’cause she went off with him.”

  “To where?” Kit realized he was holding his breath and forced air into his lungs.

  “He led her around the corner into St. Maryport Street. He had a gig waiting in a yard along there.” Ollie rushed on, “Well, we didn’t know what to do, did we? We didn’t want to let Miss Buckleberry go off with the man because we thought he might be a bad’un. We knew he hadn’t been staying near some vicarage—his room is off the Butts—and if he’d lied about that, perhaps all the rest was made up, too. But with the man right there, we didn’t think we could explain and talk her out of going—not when she thought her father was dying. So Jack waited until the man handed Miss Buckleberry into the gig to dart up behind it, then when the man—he was holding the reins by then—went aroun
d to climb in himself, Jack slipped into the gig’s boot. Because the man was rocking the gig himself, he didn’t notice.”

  “You sure of that?” Smiggs rumbled.

  Ollie nodded earnestly. “And they didn’t see me and Ned, either.”

  “Mercy me!” Mrs. Macintyre had come to the gate and had been listening to Ollie’s outpourings.

  Kit knew just how she felt. He was still floundering, trying to make sense of it all. “So Jack’s gone with them to wherever the man is taking Miss Buckleberry.”

  “And me and Ned followed the gig to see which road the man took. It wasn’t so hard in the city, what with all the other carriages. We ran behind all the way across the bridge, down St. Thomas Street, and into Portwall Lane. We saw the man turn the gig onto the Bath Road. Ned’s faster’n me, so I came running back to fetch you while Ned followed the gig to see which way the man went—to Bath or to Wells.” Ollie caught Kit’s coat and tugged. “We’ve got to go and help. Ned’ll be waiting at the junction to tell us which way to go.”

  Kit was astounded and also trying to think ahead.

  Ollie tugged again. “So can we go? I had to run all the way to Queen’s Parade, and Mr. Smiggs has brought your carriage with the fast horses. Ned’ll be wondering what’s become of us by now, and then there’s Jack and Miss Buckleberry, driving on with that man...”

  “Yes.” Kit met Ollie’s eyes, then gripped the boy’s shoulder, glanced at Mrs. Macintyre, and nodded. “Let’s go and get Jack and Miss Buckleberry back.”

  Mrs. Macintyre gripped her gate. “You’ll bring her home safe and sound?”

  Kit’s jaw clenched as he marched Ollie to the rear of the curricle. “Count on it,” he replied.

  He tossed Ollie up to his perch, then climbed to the box, exchanged a swift glance with Smiggs, and sat.

  Then Kit took up the reins and, ignoring all other traffic, drove hell for leather for the Bath Road.