The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  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 t
hat 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.

  Kit was glad he had not gone down to confront them since he was already plagued by one arrest warrant. “These two may be similar in height, but that’s not the way our pursuers were dressed.”

  Miss Ingram turned her head, as if to argue, but a knock came at the door, and she moved quickly away. She slid into a shadowed corner, as though expecting the two men to burst in. Kit knew that was highly unlikely, but reached for his pistol nonetheless just as the door opened to admit a harried-looking chambermaid.

  After handing them a tray of food, she lit the fire and was on her way, leaving them to their supper. Kit let Miss Ingram have the chair and pushed the bed stairs between them, so that she could place her plate on the top step while he sat on the floor and used the bottom.

  The room was dark but for the fire, and for a while they ate in silence, broken only by the crack of the logs. Kit told himself that the only difference between this night and the last was that their room was smaller and better appointed. Yet somehow this evening seemed more intimate. Perhaps it was the earlier hour or the fact that they were sharing a meal.

  Last night Kit had leaned against a door, staring at a dark shape that was hardly recognizable. But tonight, the firelight danced across Miss Ingram’s face, highlighting the line of her cheek, the curve of her lips. Her skin glowed golden, and Kit wished she would take off that wretched cap, so he could see her hair…

  “What?”

  It wasn’t until she spoke that Kit realized he was staring, and he looked down at his plate. He was tempted to tell her that she need not wear the cap in here, with only the two of them to see, but perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Nothing,” Kit muttered. He needed to gain more control over his thoughts, especially since his companion appeared completely unmoved by their nearness, the firelight and the night outside. Yet when she reached for her wine, Kit could have sworn her hand was shaking. Perhaps Miss Ingram was not unmoved, after all.

  “How can you be sure those weren’t our two men?” she asked.

  Kit barked out a low laugh. Now he was assured that Miss Ingram was not as entranced as he by their intimate supper. She was all business, a reminder that he would do well to heed. “Because they wore the livery of the Duke of Montford,” he said.

  “So?”

  “So, I doubt that the duke’s men are out searching for a book on Druid lore,” he said, spearing a forkful of beef.

  “And why not?” she countered. “The Prince Regent himself is a great collector, as is the Duke of Devonshire. The book madness strikes any and all, regardless of station. No less an authority than Reverend Thomas Dibin claims that it lasts year-round and through all of human existence.”

  “Perhaps,” Kit acknowledged, “but I can’t see a nobleman hiring thugs or arranging a kidnapping.”

  “Even to acquire such a rare book?”

  “Even to acquire such a rare book,” Kit said. He suspected that greed did not drive their pursuers, but something darker and twisted.

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard tales that you would not countenance,” Miss Ingram said. “Stories of thievery and forgery, of collectors who have bought back their own books after having sold them or given them away, of despondent souls who killed themselves over lost libraries. One antiquarian actually bought a property that had been owned by the astrologer John Dee in the hopes that valuable books might be buried there.”

  Kit would have laughed at that example, if it hadn’t hit too close to home—his home. Although the Mallory hadn’t been buried at Oakfield, that hadn’t stopped people from digging up the grounds for it.

  “The most avid formed their own society, the Roxburghe Club, after the Duke of Roxburghe’s collection went up for sale. And you must have heard of Richard Heber, who is filling several homes with books to the very ceilings, purportedly over a hundred thousand and counting.”

  “And I thought my father was devoted to them,” Kit said with a shake of his head.

  Miss Ingram paused to study him anew. “I’m surprised you did not catch his mania,” she said, as though she suspected Kit of hiding his expertise.

  “I never shared my father’s singular fascination with study. I loved him, and I’m very grateful for his tutoring and his gentle wisdom, but he seemed to prefer the inside of his books to the world itself. And that wasn’t for me—or Syd,” he said with a grin.

  “Syd?”

  “My sister Sydony.”

  “An unusual name.”

  “She’s an unusual woman,” Kit said. He slanted her a glance. “Actually, you remind me a lot of her.”

  Miss Ingram ducked her head. “And your mother? Was she fond of books?”

  Kit drew a deep breath. “She died when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps that is why your father sought to escape into his work.”

  The romantic suggestion coming from the pragmatic Miss Ingram made Kit look at her in surprise. But as always, her face, bent over her plate, revealed nothing.

  “Perhaps,” Kit said. He barely remembered his mother, so he could not recall if his father had behaved differently, and yet he’d always felt the loss. It might well be that Miss Ingram was right, and his father, always a scholar, had simply retreated further into his pages.

  “What of your parents?” Kit asked. “Are they collectors?”

  “They, too, are dead,” Miss Ingram said briskly. Putting down her fork, she set aside her plate.

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said. “Have you been long without them?”

  “Long enough,” she said. “Now, before we head to Cheswick tomorrow, let’s go over a few things.”

  The sudden change of subject took Kit by surprise. Had the conversation become too personal, or was Miss Ingram loath to reveal anything of herself?

  “As you probably know, libraries are often arranged according to the owner’s specifications,” she said, and from her tone, Kit realized that the earlier intimacy would not return.

  “A collector may group his prizes together by subject, date of publication, date of acquisition, or any other method that strikes his fancy or the fancy of whoever handles the purchase and cataloging of the books,” she said.

  “Well, that’s helpful,” Kit noted drily.

  Miss Ingram’s mouth quirked at that, and Kit realized just how rarely she smiled. Here in the glow of the firelight, even that gentle curve of her lips was delightful and alluring—and all too fleeting. What had made her so serious, and how could he coax more smiles from her when their situation was not exactly humorous?

  “One famous collector housed his volumes in presses decorated with Roman personages, so there would be no way of knowing where to find something without looking through his ‘emperor system’,” she said. “And Samuel Pepys shelved according to size.”

  Her descriptions only confirmed Kit’s opinion that their search was futile. But he knew that she would not be satisfied until she realized the truth: that they weren’t going to find a copy of the Mallory. If he didn’t know how dangerous the book was, he might even wish for her to obtain it, if only as reward for her dogged persistence.

  “So how do you expect to find anything, let alone a volume that
’s been missing for a century?” he asked.

  “I’ll see when we get there.”

  Kit did not bother to ask how they were going to gain access to the Earl of Cheswick’s library. Perhaps tomorrow, Miss Ingram would see for herself that her quest was impossible. And then…like the gentleman that he was, Kit would have to deliver her safely into the hands of her uncle. Unharmed. And untouched.

  Kit might rue his earlier claim, but it was not something he could deny. Although honor was not much discussed in the Marchant home, his father had made his expectations clear, and his children did their utmost to live up to them. It had not required much effort on Kit’s part. He had never been tempted by the dissipations that once had threatened Barto’s future, and his most difficult challenge had been holding the Mar-chants together after the death of their parent.

  But now, alone in a shadowed bedroom with a woman like no other, Kit began to sweat. Somehow, he didn’t believe that this was the sort of test his father could ever have imagined.

  Bringing Bay to a halt at the edge of the hill, Kit looked down at the house that lay nestled below. The afternoon sun lent a golden glow to the front of the neat stone structure and glittered off three stories of windows. Cheswick wasn’t one of the grandest homes in the land, but it was grand enough to make Kit think twice about breaking into it.

  “Well, here we are,” he said, turning to his companion. “What do you suggest we do?”

  Kit had expected that Miss Ingram might veer from her course when confronted with the sight of the ancestral home of the Earls of Cheswick. But she evinced no doubt or confusion, simply eyeing the estate with her usual calm deliberation.

  Then, glancing around her, she frowned. “First, we need to find a place where I can change.”