by Anne Gracie
Rose exchanged a glance with Lady Marsden and then said quietly to Kit, "It is not famous in the least—only to our family. It was the house I was born in. All the Singletons were born there. Except you."
"Oh!" Kit realised she had blundered. Rose was supposed to be her aunt. She ought to know the name of her ancestral family home. "Sorry, Papa never mentioned the name of his home before. Is it far from here?"
"No, only a short drive. We shall leave after breakfast, and that will give us time to show you everything before luncheon," said Rose. "Our guests will not be arriving until at least four o'clock, and if we leave Gelliford at half past three, it will give us plenty of time to get home."
"We?"
"Oh, we are all invited," said Lady Marsden.
Kit's eyes went to Mr Devenish, who was addressing himself to a slice of ham. He glanced up, saw the question in her eyes and smiled faintly. “I have never been to Gelliford. It shall be most interesting to see your old family home. Did you spend your whole childhood there, Miss Rose?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, though it passed to a cousin when my father died. Papa was the second son, you know, so he was living there at his brother's grace. My cousin still lives there—I suppose if you called him Cousin George, it would be all right, Kit, dear."
Gelliford House was not as beautiful as the Marsdens' home of Woodsden Lodge, but it was much bigger. It was set in a deer park, with a drive leading up to it, lined with ancient oaks.
Cousin George proved to be a spindly, earnest man in his late fifties, with a very strong sense of his own worth and lineage. He greeted Kit a little stiffly, as if he was doing her a great favour in receiving her at all. Kit wondered what Rose had told him to make him accept her as a relative.
He turned to Rose. "Ah, Rose, I suppose that fellow found you, all right?"
Rose looked puzzled. "Fellow? What fellow, Cousin George?"
"Fellow came looking for you, couple of weeks back.
Thought you lived here, for some reason. Sent him off to London."
"But who was he?''
Cousin George frowned, then shook his head. "Can't think of it for the moment. Thin dark fellow. Brown skin. Shouldn't be surprised if he was a foreigner. What have you to do with foreigners, eh, Rose?"
Rose looked bewildered. "I cannot imagine."
Kit felt anxious. She was the only connection with any foreigners. Was it some man who had known her father? Someone who had somehow made the connection with Kit Smith, vagabond adventuress and Miss Rose Singleton, respectable spinster of the ton?
"Forgotten his name, hang it," said Cousin George. "Never mind, it'll come back to me."
He showed them over the grounds first, then the rest of the house. The library was his pride and joy; he was something of a scholar, Kit surmised, and he would have lingered there all day, pulling out this volume or that to show them. However Rose was most anxious for them all to visit the portrait gallery before lunch.
"The paintings are the most interesting, I think," she said. "They date from the earliest times and the whole family is there."
"Yes," agreed Cousin George. "It is really a very comprehensive collection. Any student of physiognomy will find it a source of fascination to trace the development and inheritance of the family features. You, for instance, Cousin Kit, have your grandmother's eyes."
"Oh, really?" she said. "How astonishing." It was more than astonishing, since she was no relative at all to this family. And her father had remarked more than once that she had her mother's blue eyes.
"Yes, I thought so too. And the dresses and jewellery are very interesting too," added Rose. "It was the custom for the ladies—for everyone, really—to be painted in their finest dresses and jewels, displaying the family wealth, you know."
"Yes?" said Kit politely, not terribly interested in jewels or dresses.
She felt, rather than saw Mr Devenish give her a sharp look. She glanced across and found herself on the receiving end of a very stern minatory look. Why would he look at her in that way? she wondered. As if she was a naughty child about to do mischief. But she'd been on her best behaviour, a little bored perhaps, but no one could appear fascinated with Cousin George's tedious lectures.
Then it hit her in a flash and she wanted to giggle. He couldn't, surely, think she was planning to rob Gelliford House? ,
"These jewels, Aunt Rose, are they still in the family?" she asked innocently.
As Cousin George explained that some indeed were still in the family and in fact were stored in a secret vault in the house, Kit watched Mr Devenish out of the corner of her eye. She managed to keep a straight face as his frown grew blacker and blacker.
He did. He thought she was going to rob Gelliford House. What enchanting sport!
"Let us all go into the Great Hall," said Cousin George. "That is where the portrait gallery is situated."
Everybody moved forward, and Mr Devenish reached to take Kit's arm in what he no doubt thought of as protective custody, but she skipped sideways and attached herself to a surprised Cousin George.
With a Watchdog bristling a pace behind her, Kit saun-tered towards the Great Hall, arm in arm with Cousin George. “Tell me, Cousin George, these family jewels, are there any diamonds? I have a particular interest in diamonds, you see."
Behind her, she could feel Mr Devenish stiffen.
"And how much do you think these old family pieces would be worth today, Cousin George? As much as that, you think? Really?"
Mr Devenish came abreast of them and scowled blackly across at her. Kit smiled serenely back and returned to her questioning of Cousin George.
"I hope they are securely locked away. I don't suppose you'd care to show a long-lost cousin the secret vault, would you, dear Cousin George?"
She made sure that each question wafted to the ears of her glowering one-man audience, though she was fairly certain he could not hear her cousin's responses, uttered as they were in a dry and dusty voice. She fanned the flames of the Watchdog's suspicions all the way to the Great Hall.
Cousin George naturally began with the oldest paintings, many of which were rather gloomy and stiff, in Kit's opinion. She was very glad she wasn't related to these people— they were a dreary lot for the most part, she thought, though some of the women struck a chord in her.
Grim-faced men abounded, looking important, or self-con-sequential, or simply dull. She disliked the hunting scenes most, where a gentleman and his son or sons, bristling with weaponry, would be posed with hunting dogs at their feet, horses behind, and a variety of slaughtered beasts scattered around—hares, pheasants, perhaps a boar, sometimes even a stag.
Posed with the adults were stiff little children from every age, dressed as miniature adults and looking solemn and uncomfortable. Some of the little girls were in tightly laced corsets and looked as if they could barely move, poor little creatures.
The ladies certainly exhibited a variety of fashion, making Kit realise how transient a thing beauty was; in some periods, it seemed that the ladies needed high foreheads to
be thought beautiful; some had their hairline plucked so high, it looked to Kit's eyes as if they were almost bald.
"Admiring the jewellery?" grated a deep voice behind her. "I am watching every move you make, don't forget."
Kit giggled. "Yes," she said in a melodramatic whisper.
"I have winkled the secret of the hidden vault from poor, unsuspecting Cousin George and will be back here at dead of night to plunder the place and loot its ancient treasures.
Then I will depart on my midnight steed."
"Oh," he said stiffly. He stared at her a moment, as if trying to decide whether she was truly teasing, or whether she was playing a double game and pretending to tease, to put him off the scent.
Kit winked cheekily.
The hard grey gaze softened slightly. “You are a baggage, miss," he said severely, but his lips twitched. Then his face hardened again. “You have no idea of the danger y
ou court. But know I am watching you. You have clearly not taken to heart what I said to you the other night—''
Not taken to heart? How could she not have taken it to heart—his words were enshrined there forever. Kit would never forget him saying it, in that ragged, tender, gruff, matter-of-fact voice. Marry me.
"You will hang, if they catch you!"
Kit flushed. "Oh, that."
"Yes, that, miss! And I will not allow you to risk yourself any further. Your neck is too pretty to stretch."
She shrugged lightly and strolled towards the next painting. Of course she was worried about being caught. She was not stupid. She'd known from the start that the keeping of her promise to her father entailed the risk of her life. But she'd made the promise and the rest followed. And she had learned young that if you lived a life of risk and danger, with an axe poised to fall on your neck any moment, you
had two choices: live in fear, or take each moment of joy as it came. She, like her father, had chosen the latter.
Hugo clenched his fists. He had rarely been so frustrated in all his adult life. He had become accustomed to ordering things—and people—how he liked them. It was his instinct to protect what was his. He protected his home, his belongings, his employees—even, in his own way, his less-than-appreciative relatives. But there was never anyone he wanted—no, needed to protect more than Miss Kit Singleton.
He'd never met anyone more in need of protection in his life.
He'd never met anyone so determined to court the most horrifying of dangers.
And all for a set of baubles. What could drive her so hard that she would continue to risk her life over and over, in such a daring, bold, mad masquerade?
Hugo clenched his fists harder and glared at a Singleton ancestor.
It was so unnecessary. He'd offered to buy her whatever baubles she wanted. She hadn't considered it for a moment, confound it! What good was money when it could not protect the people you lo—! He caught himself up on the thought.
The trouble was that Miss Kit Singleton was very emphatically not his. She had said so time and time again. He never thought he would ever offer marriage to a woman, and when he had she hadn't even considered it for a moment.
It was more than frustrating, it was...
She didn't want his money. She didn't want his protection. She didn't want his name. / am not for the likes of you.
She didn't have to marry him. She didn't have to have
anything to do with him if she didn't want to—just as long as she let him make sure she was safe. And happy.
He needed most desperately to see her safe and happy. He would give anything, do anything to have it so.
But she had made it more than clear that there was nothing she needed or wanted from someone like Hugo Devenish.
It was a very bitter pill to swallow.
Cousin George presided over the viewing; to Kit's dismay, he appeared to have an exceedingly lengthy and rather dry lecture to accompany each painting. Discreetly, she detached herself from the group and drifted ahead. The so-called Great Hall was, in fact, a long, narrow room, a little dusty, rarely visited. Sun shone through high, narrow windows, setting golden motes of dust dancing in the air. Having departed the group somewhere in the reign of Henry VIII, Kit steadily worked her way towards the present day.
Behind her the drone of Cousin George's voice faded. Footsteps echoed on the oaken floor.
Kit wandered along the line of paintings, inspecting the portraits with polite interest. Who were these people? It was really quite interesting, comparing their dresses, their clothes, the heavy and elaborate wigs. She was interested to see the things they considered important—the possessions they had painted with them: the gold watch so carefully and lovingly rendered; the jewels first displayed on a stiff, proud young bride; then, a hundred years later, the same jewels adorning her great-great-grandson's new young wife. And, as Cousin George had promised, there was some discernible continuity in the family features...
She saw the children first. A young boy, aged about eleven, and a girl, about five years younger, a King Charles spaniel at their feet. They boy looked a little like... Kit faltered. No, it was coincidence. All young children looked a little alike. It was the chubby face of childhood.
Nevertheless, she looked hard at the painting, taking in the facial features. The little girl had blue eyes and long golden ringlets, the boy's hair was darker and his eyes were that indistinguishable colour between brown and green. Kit was haunted by a feeling that she knew these children...
The golden ringlets could have become the wispy flyaway hair of the adult Rose Singleton, but if so...
She moved on to the next picture. It was the same two children, only grown up; she could see that at a glance. The girl was seventeen or eighteen, and so very lovely. Her hair was a richer gold, her eyes just as blue, her features delicate and fine. It was a youthful Rose, before she'd had the vibrancy of youth and high spirits drained from her. But it was the young man with Rose who drew all of Kit's attention. A young man who looked uncannily like...
Papa! He looked just like Papa. But...
It could not be.
She felt suddenly light-headed. In silence, as if quite alone in the room, she delicately touched one finger to the painted face of the young man. And then moved across to that of the young woman, the young Rose.
Papa and Rose? But how?
She moved back to the previous painting, her heart racing. The faces were chubbier, less finally formed, but the people were unmistakable. Papa and Rose.
Papa and Rose. Brother and sister in truth? It could not be.
Kit's mind reeled. She had assumed her imposture as Rose's long-lost niece was simply another of Papa's schemes, but if these pictures were genuine, and she could see no reason why they would not be...
But if that was the cast... What if Rose was—her aunt?
Kit struggled to absorb the notion. The two paintings
called into question everything she had ever believed about herself, everything her father had ever told her.
If she was not an impostor...
If Rose was truly her aunt...
She'd thought she was alone in the world—except for Maggie. If she was not...
Oh Lord, this changed everything!
"Kit, my love, do come here," called Rose. "This is your paternal grandmother, Matilda, the lady George mentioned. A particularly good portrait of her by Hogarth. See how alike your eyes are? What do you think, Mr Devenish? Are they not identical?"
Hugo glanced at Rose, then to Kit. To his surprise she didn't move. She stood in front of two paintings, staring as if transfixed, first at one, then the other.
"Kit, dear?" repeated Rose.
She didn't so much as blink. Whatever was in those pictures had completely and utterly gripped her attention, to the exclusion of all else, Hugo thought. He moved closer.
Good God! She'd turned as pale as paper. Her body was rigid and even as he watched, she started swaying on her feet. He leapt to her side and caught her under the elbow, just as her legs started to buckle beneath her.
He snatched her against him and swung her into his arms.
"Put me down," she muttered feebly, "I'm perfectly all right. Just—"
"You were about to faint!"
"Oh, pooh, nonsense," she grumbled, in a pale imitation of her usual lightheartedness.
He looked down at her and his arms tightened around her, holding her hard against his chest.
"Be quiet," he said softly. "You will accept nothing else from me. At least allow me this one small thing."
She must indeed be feeling faint, he thought wryly, for she subsided with uncharacteristic meekness and laid her
head against him, in the hollow between his neck and his jaw. The weight of her hung heavy and right in his arms. Her tumbled curls tickled the skin of his neck. The scent of her clouded his senses...vanilla and rose...and essence of Kit. His brave
, bold, mad little Kit. His woman in his arms...for one fleeting moment...
He longed to bring his cheek down to rest on her head, but Rose and the others had come running and were even now fluttering around with vinaigrettes and discussing burnt feathers.
"No, no, I am perfectly all right," Kit said, sneezing as a vinaigrette was thrust under her nose. "Oh, ptchaw! Take that vile thing away, please, Aun—" She broke off and stared at Rose as if for the first time. “Oh Lord, yes—Aunt Rose."
Rose thrust the tiny crystal bottle back under Kit's nose. She shuddered violently and drew back, turning her face away from the gathering, her face against his chest. "No more, I beg you, Aunt," she said in a muffled voice and then added in a whisper, "Get me out of here, Hugo."
It was the first time she'd asked him for anything, the first time she'd used his name.
A crust to a starving man, but who was going to quibble?
"I think she just needs a little fresh air. I shall take her outside and she'll be right as a trivet in no time," he said firmly and strode towards the door.
"Are you sure we shouldn't send for the doctor?" said Cousin George anxiously.
"No!" said Kit against his neck.
"No, no. She has not eaten anything this morning, and is just a little faint," said the man who'd watched her devour three slices of bacon and two pieces of toast at breakfast. "Fresh air is what she needs at the moment. If she does not recover in five or ten minutes, then we shall send for the doctor."
"But I don't need—" Kit began.
"Be quiet," he said to her softly. "You can argue the point as soon as you can stand on your feet and the colour has returned to your cheeks. Until then, you will do as I say."
She lifted a hand to her cheek. It was shaking.
"You're as pale as paper, you know. Now just be quiet and let me take you into the garden and you can tell me about what gave you such a shock in there."
Her eyes darted to his apprehensively. "How did you—?"
"Oh, don't be silly. I notice everything about you," he said simply. "Those two paintings looked ordinary enough to me, but something in them has knocked you all on end, hasn't it?"
