The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  Although Hero tried to follow the adult conversation, there was too much going on around her, too many voices raised in high spirits. She heard something about clothes not being entirely dry and the rain continuing. Was Kit agreeing to remain here?

  “We really need to reach our destination, brother,” Hero said, dodging a bit of food that flew from Ty’s mouth while he talked beside her.

  “Nonsense! You’ll not get far in this weather. Better to rest yourselves for a day,” Min said, and Hero shot her a suspicious glance. She did not trust these seemingly innocent people, though she could not figure out what possible connection they could have to the Mallory.

  “Sir? Sir? Sir!” Hero gasped as the boy on her left, Danny, tugged on her shirt sleeve. Unlike Kit, she had been given an old waistcoat that hid her breasts, though not as well as her usual costume. But she did not need anyone pulling on her clothes and revealing her secret.

  Detaching his grip, she leaned toward the boy’s dark head. “What?”

  “If you stay, you can meet Harold and George.”

  For an instant, Hero imagined liveried assailants hiding in the barn, waiting until she and Kit had been lulled into a false sense of security. “Who are Harold and George?”

  The boy mumbled an answer, his mouth full of food, and she was forced to duck her head closer to his own.

  “They’re my kittens.”

  Hero’s face was only inches from the boy’s, and instead of viewing him as a strange, vaguely threatening creature, she realized he looked more like an angel, his eyes shining brightly as he spoke. “Kittens,” Hero echoed.

  “Yes, they’re lovely,” he said. “You’ll love them, too.” He reached up to touch her cheek as if in reassurance, and Hero felt the now familiar pressure at the back of her eyes. And for the first time, it had nothing to do with Christopher Marchant.

  Maybe she was going mad. And yet, the sensation was not frightening. In fact, she lifted a hand to awkwardly pat the boy’s head. And when she glanced up, she found Kit watching her so avidly that she blinked.

  He raised a finger to point to his cheek. “Um, you’ve got a bit of jam…”

  Embarrassed, Hero swiped at her face with her napkin, removing a splotch of red.

  “You’ll do well when you have children of your own,” Min said approvingly, but Hero jerked in alarm. That could never happen. Must never happen.

  To cover her reaction, Hero finally resumed eating her breakfast, which tasted as good as Kit had predicted. And after the meal was finished, the youngest dragged her into the main room of the house, which was cluttered with a variety of clothes and toys and implements, none of them collectible, but all more important to these people than anything Raven possessed.

  Again, Hero was reminded of her duty, and she realized that she needed to talk to Kit about leaving. But he had promised to play with the children, and they were leaping around him as though he were the Pied Piper, shouting so happily that she could not be heard above the dim.

  While they played some kind of game involving marbles, Hero took the opportunity to watch her companion, noting his loose-limbed grace, the wide shoulders that filled out the simple shirt, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that proved how often he smiled. His laughter rang out repeatedly, as did that of the boys, until Hero felt as though she had stumbled into a fairy story, where all was warmth and ease.

  She knew that the lot of the farm family was not as appealing as it seemed, dependent as they were upon weather and hard work. But there were no harsh words spoken in this house, no machinations, no deceptions, no vying for power. What was treasured was character and goodness and willingness to complete chores, not some trinket whose value was set by greedy old men counting their coins.

  Strangers, instead of being judged upon their business acumen, were welcomed and dragged out to the barn to meet Harold and George. Part of a seemingly enormous population of felines, the two were Danny’s favorites, an orange tabby and a calico that were smaller than most of the others.

  Danny instructed her carefully on how to pick them up. “You mustn’t hurt them,” he said. “But if you are nice to them, they’ll be nice to you.”

  Such wisdom from such a little fellow, Hero thought, and advice that she should heed more often. Despite Raven’s claims otherwise, not everyone was out for their own gain. And Hero recognized that Kit just might be one of those who acted out of charity, not selfishness. Perhaps it was time to let her suspicions go and accept him for what he was, a gentleman.

  Lost in thought, Hero was surprised when Danny pressed one of the kittens to her face. The soft fur tickled her skin, as did the gentle purring, and she felt her heart lurch in her chest. Although there were cats on the property, Raven did not believe in pets, so Hero had never befriended them. And, no doubt, he would prevent her from doing so.

  That realization left Hero feeling pensive as they returned to the house. Once inside, Danny asked her what she would like to see now, and Hero automatically asked if the family owned any books. The boy excitedly led her to an area in the kitchen where there was a comfortable chair and a small cupboard that held a variety of titles.

  “Because of the heat and smoke and moisture, this isn’t the best place to keep them,” Hero warned.

  “Oh, we don’t keep them, we read them,” Danny explained, which made Hero smile. As well they should, she thought.

  Crouching before the cupboard, she had just begun to look through the volumes when Kit came to join her. He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Tell me you aren’t going to steal any rare editions from these people.”

  Startled by his words, Hero jerked her head up, nearly knocking into him. Surely he did not think so little of her? But his mouth was twisted into a wry grin, and she shook her head. Would she ever grow accustomed to his teasing?

  It was after he had turned away and Hero was left holding one of the Smallpeaces’ older volumes in her hand that the idea came to her. She nearly flinched at the audacity of the notion, but refused to dismiss it outright. After all, she knew how much Raven was willing to pay for the Mallory, so she could guess just how much the edition was worth.

  The question was whether she could use the book as a bargaining chip—and gain something for herself for the first time in her life.

  While the boys raced outside, Kit stood in the doorway of the stone farmhouse, lingering in order to slip Min a payment for her hospitality. Although she waved him away at first, he persisted, for no inn would have provided such good care.

  More importantly, the doubts that had nagged at him since his first glimpse of Hero Ingram had faded away in the midst of the farm family’s friendly embrace. Hero might have behaved awkwardly at first, but Kit watched her now as she reached down to hug the youngest, and he could envision his own dark-haired boy in her arms.

  “Tell me you’ll be marrying the lass.”

  The words that so mirrored his thoughts made Kit suck in a sharp breath. He turned to see Min’s shrewd gaze upon him, leaving him no opportunity to dissemble.

  “Of course,” he answered simply.

  “When?” Min demanded.

  “She’s a bit reluctant,” Kit said, though that was an understatement. Sometimes, he felt like one of those fellows who tamed wild horses, using lots of patience and a gentle hand in order to coax a ride from the most wary. But Kit’s recent experiences had taught him that the important things in life were worth the effort.

  “What? Why?” Min asked. “Surely you’re a prize to please even the most discerning.”

  Kit studied the unusual creature before him, dressed as a youth and knee-deep in little boys. Although she was out of her usual habitat here, Kit had never seen her behave more naturally. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Hero picked at the meat pie they had sneaked into their room, hoping to eat in silence. Lately, Kit had been asking her all sorts of probing questions about her childhood, her interests, what music she liked
, and what books she’d read. But with the exception of the last, she had little enough to share.

  Tonight, presumably their last before reaching their destination, Hero longed to just enjoy the company that she would not be keeping much longer. But, as had become his habit, Kit turned to her with a curious glance.

  “Have you ever been to Almack’s?”

  Hero nearly choked on her dry forkful at the question. The thought of Raven making an appearance at the exclusive assembly rooms was laughable. As was the idea of him sending her there. Unless she could complete a book transaction in some secluded alcove, while the ton danced around her, there would be no reason for Hero to venture into that world.

  “No,” she answered, without elaborating. “Have you?”

  Kit shook his head. “I understand that you have to be invited to attend, and I’ve only been to London a few times.”

  The thought of Kit among all the marriageable young ladies gave Hero a pang, but she pictured him looking dashing in his finest clothes and dancing with the skill he evidenced in everything else. “Since your sister is marrying a viscount, she should be able to gain you admittance.”

  Kit laughed. “I can’t quite picture Syd there, following their strict social rules. And she would have no need to go,” he said. “I thought the main purpose of the dancing there was for young ladies to make a good match. Isn’t that why it’s called the Marriage Mart?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “And why should you? You’ve no need of their services,” Kit said. “A beautiful, clever young woman like you could have your pick of suitors. They probably trail after you eating out of your hand, though perhaps not when you are dressed like this.”

  “No,” Hero said, smiling at his lifted brows. No one in society would approve of her disguise or her duties. But then, she didn’t aspire to such company.

  “No, what?” Kit asked, not to be diverted from his probing.

  “No, I don’t have any suitors,” Hero said. “Where would I make such conquests?” She hesitated to admit that Kit was the first eligible young man she had really met.

  “You’ve never been to balls, dances, country house visits?” Kit asked, his expression dumbfounded.

  Obviously, the gentleman farmer had an unrealistic view of her position. Even in the wealthiest of households, poor relations served as retainers, companions, nursemaids or other drudges. At least her occupation was a more interesting one, and in dealing with antiquarians, Hero had met far more unfortunate females—wives, sisters and aunts relegated to unpaid service.

  But Hero had no interest in discussing the plight of women. Suffice to say that Kit was wrong in his assessment of Raven as the sort of person who attended such activities or hosted them. “Raven doesn’t believe in purposeless socializing,” she explained. “He has no interest in others unless he can acquire something from them.”

  “So he only lets you out to do his bidding?” Kit asked, giving her a sharp look.

  Perhaps she had said too much. “You make it sound like I’m a prisoner,” Hero protested, her tone light.

  “Are you?” Kit’s usual careless demeanor was gone, and he suddenly looked dark and dangerous.

  Hero’s heart pounded, for she had no wish to entangle this man any further in her problems. Raven’s reach was long, his resources many, and she did not want his machinations to extend to Kit Marchant.

  “I am grateful for the home Raven’s given me,” Hero said. Rising to her feet, she signaled an end to the conversation.

  Kit looked as though he would like to say more, but, as usual, he respected her wishes, and Hero knew a measure of relief for that. But her uneasiness lingered, and suddenly, she hoped that Raven had no idea where she was or who she was with; a hope, like so many others, that was probably in vain.

  Chapter Ten

  Once they reached London, they were able to find Marcus Featherstone’s home without much trouble, blending into the bustle of town, crowded with conveyances and horses and people hurrying about their business.

  “This is it,” Kit said, inclining his head toward a tall brick facade in one of the less fashionable squares.

  His words seemed sadly prophetic, for this was it, perhaps the end of their search and of so much else, Hero realized. Swallowing hard against the sudden thickness in her throat, she knew she must focus on the task at hand, for she would need all her wits about her if she were to carry out her plan.

  And that plan meant she was loath to contact Raven, as she once might have, for information about Marcus Featherstone. But without Raven’s supply of facts, secrets and rumours that might be used to her advantage, Hero would be going in blind. So she remained leaning against the wrought-iron railings, hesitant to take the next step, for she suspected that Featherstone was not as careless as Cheswick.

  “Once we speak to him, word will get out we are looking for something,” Hero said to Kit. “And then we’ll not only have the duke’s men, but every collector in the city in pursuit.”

  Kit appeared dubious, for he was not convinced of the power of book madness, but he said nothing. And with a frown, Hero finally pushed away from the fence and headed toward the steps to seek out the owner of the Mallory.

  A rather worn-looking butler answered their knock, only to inform them that Mr Featherstone was not at home.

  “But we’ve come from Cheswick,” Hero said, inching inside before the door could be closed against them. “The earl himself sent us upon an errand.”

  The butler looked them up and down and shook his head. “You may come in, if you insist, but he is not here.”

  Featherstone didn’t appear to be all that was missing, Hero noted as she looked around. The foyer was empty of furniture, paintings and other decoration, and a glance through doorways into other rooms revealed little else. Was Featherstone moving? Hero felt a stab of panic.

  “Is there a man of business we can speak to?” Kit asked.

  “All creditors should present a detailed account,” the butler said. “If you have one, I can take it.”

  “We aren’t creditors,” Hero protested. “We’re here on an important errand, referred by Cheswick himself.”

  The world-weary butler did not appear impressed.

  “It concerns a book from the earl’s collection,” Kit said. “If you would show us into the library—”

  The butler shook his head. “The library is empty, sir.”

  “Empty? But what happened to all the books?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  Hero had an inkling. Creditors. Perhaps the collection had been sold to pay them off, she thought with a sinking feeling. But she drew herself up and donned her most businesslike expression. “Then it is even more vital that we speak to Mr Featherstone at once, for the offer I have for this edition could go a good deal toward paying off any debts he may have incurred recently.”

  The butler appeared skeptical, but shrugged. Perhaps he had gone without his own wages for some time and was long past caring. “You might look for him at the Three Aces,” the fellow said.

  “The Three Aces?”

  The butler pursed his lips. “I believe it is a gaming establishment located on St James’s Street.”

  “Thank you,” Hero said. “We will seek him out there.”

  “No, we won’t,” Kit whispered as they made their exit. “It must be a gambling hell,” he added, once outside. “A wretched establishment designed to part the green or desperate from their money. More often than not, the poor devils can’t even win fairly, and if they do, hired thugs are on hand to dispute it.”

  When they reached the railings, Hero halted. “You are probably right, and normally I wouldn’t choose to visit. But this could be our only chance to talk to Featherstone.”

  “We can wait here until he comes back,” Kit suggested.

  “If he comes back,” Hero said, turning to face Kit. “We could kick our heels here indefinitely while Featherstone disappears to the Continent or elsewher
e, fleeing one step ahead of his creditors.”

  “But you can’t just walk into such a place and talk to him,” Kit said with more vehemence than usual. “These sorts of dens frown on idle chatter.”

  “Then we’ll have to join in the play, if that’s the only way to speak to Featherstone.”

  Kit looked pained. “And what are you going to use for a stake? Those with empty pockets aren’t welcome.”

  “I have some money from Raven to use for expenses, if necessary, in order to procure the Mallory.”

  Kit frowned. “Fine. I’ll go,” he said. “We’ll find somewhere safe for you to wait since genteel young ladies don’t frequent St James’s, and I’ll talk to Featherstone.”

  Hero was touched, as always, by his protectiveness. The fact that he still saw her as a genteel young lady after all they had been through said more about Kit than herself. But she shook her head. They were too close, and this was too important for her to take any chances.

  For a moment, Hero thought Kit might argue, but he groaned, a sure sign of his capitulation, and she took comfort in the knowledge that he would be with her a little bit longer.

  “It could be worse, you know,” she said as they headed for St James’s.

  “What could be worse than marching into a gambling hell with you dressed like that?” Kit asked.

  She flashed him a smile, eager to prove that he wasn’t the only one with a sense of humor. “At least it isn’t a brothel.”

  Kit stood in front of the Three Aces, eyeing the facade with a jaundiced eye. Although not as elegant as some of the other establishments, such as Crock-ford’s, it gave an appearance of gentility, which probably was why it drew the likes of Marcus Featherstone.

  The two massive “gentlemen” at the door looked them up and down with such disrespect that Kit moved closer to Hero, wary that her disguise had been penetrated. It was one thing for her to ride upon the roads dressed as she was, quite another to travel about the city, where all manner of villains were ready to prey upon women and young men alike.