The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  Chapter Eleven

  Mr Laytham was not in the habit of working behind the counter in his shop, so Hero spoke to one of the men in his employ. Since her clothing hardly marked her as the sort of wealthy client with whom Laytham normally dealt, she had to convey that it was a matter of urgency and importance, involving one of the hundred-year-old pamphlets he so prized.

  The ploy worked. Hero was immediately shown into an office where Laytham conducted his more mundane business. He was an older man, his middle grown thick, with a shock of white hair and the air of a scholar about him. At the sight of his solemn demeanor, Hero felt her resolve weakening and took a deep breath.

  “And what is so important, pray tell, Mr…?” Laytham looked askance at her obvious youth and ill-fitting clothes.

  “Sidney Marchant,” Hero answered automatically. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

  By all appearances, Mr Laytham was just what he professed to be, a gentleman, a collector and a purveyor of books, and yet Raven was rarely wrong in his assessment of people. And despite Laytham’s studied air of annoyance as he looked down his nose at her, Hero thought she detected a bead of sweat upon his brow. Either way, there was only one way to play this.

  “I’m here for a favor, actually,” Hero said in her most businesslike manner. “I’m looking for a book by Ambrose Mallory.”

  Laytham grunted in surprise. “Aren’t we all?”

  Hero smiled. Leaning forward, she steepled her hands in front of her. “Yes, but all I need is a facsimile.”

  Did the man twitch? Hero saw a flash of something in his eyes before the white brows lifted, and she was grateful for the years of experience that kept her own face impassive.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “It’s a prank,” Hero said, falling back against the elegant cushion of her chair. “Nothing that will be sold, of course, but it must be able to pass initial scrutiny.”

  Laytham’s brows fairly leaped off his face, which was growing ruddy in color. “You are asking me to…find you an edition of a book that is not authentic? A…hoax?”

  Hero nodded. “It shouldn’t be difficult.” Indeed, she could do it herself, if she had access to an antiquarian library, except for printing the title page and the cover. After all, no one knew the contents except for some dead Druids. “Since there are no reliable sources as to the contents, any old occult text would do.”

  Laytham’s skin turned beet-red. “And why on earth should I agree to this preposterous request?”

  Hero met his angry stare without wavering. “I think you know why.”

  Laytham held her gaze for a long moment before looking away. “If you mean to tell me that you have chosen Laytham’s for its ability to acquire the unusual and meet its customers’ expectations, I will not disagree. However, what you are asking for is hardly within our purview.”

  Hero said nothing, while Laytham fiddled with his watch fob, then grunted, as though coming to a decision. “If it is to be used only for amusement, I suppose I could ask one of my contacts within the book business to prepare something for you.” He paused to eye her directly. “No money would change hands, of course.”

  “Of course,” Hero said, though she had not foreseen this development. She had been prepared to use some of Raven’s funds in order to deceive him, an irony that was not lost upon her. But obviously, Laytham was more concerned with whom she might be working for, and it was not Raven or any other collector who had him worried. Someone in authority or a wealthy patron could well have put her up to this game in order to catch Laytham at it.

  “I’ll need the volume as soon as possible,” Hero added.

  Laytham winced, but nodded. “And where shall I have the parcel delivered?”

  “I’ll come to pick it up,” Hero said, unwilling to give out an address, even that of the inn. “Tomorrow.”

  “That’s absurd,” Laytham sputtered. “It might take weeks—or months—to find an appropriate text.”

  I don’t have months or weeks or perhaps even days, Hero wanted to scream. But she schooled her features to reveal none of her panic. “The day after.”

  “The ink will hardly have time to dry upon the page!” Laytham protested.

  “Then let it smear,” Hero said. “I’m sure you don’t want long, drawn-out dealings in this matter.”

  Gaping at her, Laytham shook his head in honest reaction. Then he rose to his feet and ushered her from the room, displaying only the barest civility, his relief at her departure obvious.

  Once outside the bookshop, Hero felt her knees shake, and she leaned against a nearby fence in order to right herself. She was playing a dangerous game—one that could cost her everything, for she shuddered to think of what would happen if Raven found her out. But when fright threatened to overcome her, Hero told herself that she would use what Laytham provided only if absolutely necessary.

  Meanwhile, she could still try to track down Featherstone’s books. With that in mind, Hero went over all that had led her to this point, considering any pieces of the puzzle that she might have missed. But she came up with nothing, except the oddity of Raven having the scrap of paper that referred to the Mallory, but not the book itself.

  Perhaps Raven alone knew the answer to that mystery. And yet…there might be another who could help. Straightening with new determination, Hero pushed away from the fence and began looking for another hackney coach. By now it was full dark, and she had no intention of walking the streets of London alone, even in boy’s garb. Besides the various men who had trailed her since Oakfield, she wanted to escape anyone who might have followed her out of Laytham’s.

  For Hero was not so witless as to savor her triumph over the bookseller. A lifetime of wariness told her that despite the seeming ease of her transaction, she might have made a powerful enemy—to add to those already in pursuit.

  Kit was pacing. It was something Barto might have done while Kit watched askance, sprawled in comfort, with no real worries of his own. But now he understood the need for movement, the urge to do something to alleviate the fear that pressed down on him like a weight. Fear for Hero.

  Looking back, Kit wished that he had not left St James’s, but had combed the area for her. He had thought the Dandy Horse proof of her escape, but anyone could have retrieved it and propped it there for its owner—even the two men from the Three Aces.

  The thought of Hero being manhandled by those thugs and discovering that they had a young woman, not a boy, in their clutches was enough to make Kit’s blood run cold. They were after money, he told himself, not anything else, yet that sort could easily turn from bad to worse.

  And here he was, useless and helpless, just as he’d been at Oakfield. Swearing under his breath, Kit swung a fist in the air, nearly punching a hole in the wall. At the thud of a knock, he looked at his own hand, as though it was responsible. Then he turned toward the door, where a chambermaid probably waited to light the fire.

  But when he thrust open the worn wood, Hero stood before him, and without conscious thought, Kit snatched her up in his arms, hugging her to him with bone-crushing zeal. He might have kissed her, too, if not for the sound of a throat loudly clearing itself down the hall. A glance revealed a large man with expansive mustaches eyeing them with disfavor.

  “It’s been a long time, brother!” Kit cried, before dragging Hero inside.

  And then he did kiss her.

  Slamming the door shut, he pushed her up against the smooth surface and lowered his head, taking her mouth for the first time since those brief moments in the library at Cheswick. And this was no tentative exploration, but a white-hot possession, an exultation that she was here and unharmed.

  When his lips touched hers, Kit felt her startlement, yet she was soon clinging to him, returning his greeting in kind. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her body, dressed in boy’s clothes, strained against his own. He kissed her until they were both breathless, his blood running loud and fast in his ears, and still
he did not stop. The cold room, bereft of light and fire, dropped away, leaving only heat and scent and sensation.

  The darkness had always been his downfall where Hero was concerned, for it was easier to ignore the promptings of his conscience when nothing existed except the two of them. Running a hand up the back of her neck, he knocked aside her cap and loosed her hair, wrapping his fingers in the smooth silkiness, just as he tried to wrap himself around every bit of her.

  In fact, he might have tried to take her to the bed, stumbling across the unfamiliar floor to grope for its soft surface, if not for the knock that soon sounded. Kit was of a mind to ignore it, but he felt Hero stiffen in his arms, and then her palm came up to cover his mouth, a silent warning not to forget their situation.

  Kit stepped back, prepared to tackle anyone who would gain entry, all his unspent passion now changed to fury. But it was only the chambermaid, coming to light the fire. Mumbling uneasily, she cast an odd glance at the darkened room seemingly occupied by two men, for Hero stood behind Kit, her hair and cap restored.

  If only Kit could regain his senses so easily. As soon as the maid left, he turned on Hero. “Where the devil have you been?” He lifted a hand to run through his hair. “I nearly went mad with worry!”

  “I was trying to find out what happened to Featherstone.”

  “Featherstone!” Kit wanted to throttle her. “Don’t tell me you went back to the hell.”

  She shook her head. “I paid a boy to nose around and report back.”

  Kit felt a tumult of anger and relief. “You should have come directly here,” he said, even though he knew remonstrance was useless. Hero would always follow her own course, risking her life over what seemed senseless to him. With the taste of her still on his lips, Kit wondered whether she would ever be content to sit back, out of harm’s way, with no dealings to make, no mystery to unravel, no treasures to search out.

  The thought sent his mood deflating like one of Montgolfier’s balloons, all his emotions spent. Perhaps the answer he’d been seeking had been before him all along, a realization that left him stunned and gaping, while Hero prattled on about Featherstone.

  “What?” Kit asked, his voice strained, as he tried to marshal his wits.

  “They’re saying Featherstone shot himself, supposedly despondent over losing his fortune.”

  “I imagine his fellows think ill of him for dirtying up their table,” Kit muttered. He had not known Featherstone, but lost fortunes and even deaths were little regarded in a world where gaming was encouraged without thought for the consequences.

  “Probably,” Hero admitted. She wore an expression Kit had come to know too well, and he stifled a groan.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m sure the boy faithfully reported what people were saying, but what if Featherstone didn’t shoot himself?” Hero asked. “Perhaps those men who started chasing us killed him over the Mallory.”

  “In a roomful of gamesters?” Kit asked. “I doubt it.”

  “We don’t know who else was in there.”

  “I’m guessing the fellow who cast up his accounts at our feet,” Kit said drily.

  Hero frowned. “But if Featherstone shot himself, why were those two men chasing us?”

  “We have a sign over our heads asking two men, not one or three, mind you, to chase us at all times?”

  Hero was not amused, and Kit sighed. Sometimes, her logic was more convoluted than sensible, for he could not imagine how two thugs from a gambling hell could be connected to an old book that probably did not exist.

  Kit shrugged. “They heard us asking about Featherstone and thought we might be friends or relatives from whom they could squeeze the money he owed them.”

  “What?”

  “Some of these cent-per-centers are quite capable of ungentlemanly actions,” Kit explained. “Murder would do them little good, but seeing their hopes of repayment dashed, they might look to their victim’s heir. Some hells provide their own unscrupulous lenders in order to better fleece their clients.”

  Hero appeared unconvinced. “Why would such fellows give chase?”

  “To get a name, an address, a payment, a promise. If Featherstone has nothing, they have little chance of recouping their losses, but they might press his acquaintances to make good his name. The entire world doesn’t revolve around your quest,” Kit said, more sharply than he intended.

  “No, but sometimes I think the entire world revolves around Raven,” Hero muttered.

  “So now what?” Kit asked, before realizing that his words could be interpreted in many different ways.

  Hero sat down in the room’s only chair, and Kit realized just how tired she must be. He had been so consumed with his own fears and frustrations that he had forgotten that Hero, despite her often stoic bearing, was not invincible. She leaned forward wearily to stare into the fire.

  “Obviously, Featherstone cannot tell us the fate of his books,” she said. “And we could spend weeks trying to hunt them down, interviewing his servants, his friends, his family.”

  Was she giving up? The suspicion startled Kit, but her features soon took on the cast he well recognized.

  “But I was thinking that there’s someone else who might be able to verify where those lots went, someone we might approach first.” She glanced up, her gaze intent. “Only the people who arrange the sales can really account for the whereabouts of the volumes under their care.”

  “You think Featherstone had someone in charge of his collection?” Kit asked, dubious.

  “No,” Hero said, waving a hand in dismissal. She eyed him intently. “I’m talking about Richard Poynter.”

  “The man who handled Cheswick’s library?”

  Hero nodded.

  “Do you know where to find him?”

  “The world of books is an insular one. And more often than not, the only place one leaves it for is the grave.” Leaning over to tug off one of her boots, Hero rubbed the sole of her foot. “These days Mr Poynter works with the London Institution.”

  Kit shook his head at her determination. There was no stopping her, ever, which meant if she really wanted something, she would surely go after it with the same single-mindedness she exhibited in her search for the Mallory. The thought was a discouraging one.

  “Here, let me do that,” Kit said. Kneeling before her, he brushed away her protests and unrolled her sock. Her foot was pale and smooth, delicately formed, and cold to the touch. He rubbed it briskly with both hands, then began to gently knead.

  “Y-you prove your skills yet again,” Hero said softly. She cleared her throat. “For a gentleman farmer you handled the velocipede very well.”

  “I assume that you didn’t see my ignominious dismount,” Kit said. “And where did you learn to ride such a beast?”

  “One of the antiquarians,” she said with a faint smile. “A member of the society gave one to Raven, who had no use for it, of course.”

  “And you quickly mastered the technique.”

  “I don’t think there is much technique involved,” Hero said.

  She groaned at his touch, and Kit had to remind himself that the massage he was giving her was therapeutic, not erotic. Removing her second boot, he set to work on the other foot. “Though I imagine one would have an even more difficult time trying to ride side saddle.”

  Hero made a low sound of amusement that turned into another groan. “I don’t care to know how you acquired this skill, gentleman farmer,” she said. “But is there nothing you can’t do?”

  Yes, Kit thought. I can’t seem to capture the one thing I want. But he didn’t voice his thoughts aloud.

  Hero leaned back her head and sighed. “Kit…”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’ll remember that you are a…gentleman.”

  “Yes,” Kit assured her, despite his ministrations.

  He’d forgotten that for a while, earlier this evening. But it was a momentary lapse in judgement, a mistake that he would not make ag
ain.

  It felt good to take off the breeches.

  Although there was a certain freedom to be had in wearing boy’s clothing, Hero was happy to don her feminine garb. And Kit’s surprised delight in her transformation only added to her contentment. For a moment, Hero felt nearly normal—until she had to sneak out of their room, which was supposed to be occupied by two brothers from rural environs.

  Once they were outside, Hero relaxed into her role and Kit gave her his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, miss?” he asked.

  Hero tucked her gloved hand over his sleeve, and she was surprised to feel her cheeks grow pink at the gallant gesture. Although they had spent a lot of time together, little of it was in her current guise, and even less engaged in the typical pursuits of a young man and a young woman.

  “And where shall we go today, to see the sights of London?” Kit asked, inclining his head toward her.

  Hero laughed, though she suspected he might be serious. She was reminded again that her quest was not his, and she was grateful for his continued company. “I live on the outskirts of town, so I am no visitor.”

  “Well, then, perhaps you would show me the city?”

  Hero shook her head, but could not stop her smile. She was glad to see the return of the careless charmer that was Kit. Last night, he had been moody and sulky, unusual behavior for which she felt accountable. Hero didn’t know much about what went on between men and women, but she knew that they should not have kissed as they had.

  Warmth flooded Hero’s cheeks at the memory, a wild, wonderful interlude in which she had thrown caution to the wind, along with most of her wits. But she could not afford to do so again. And walking about the streets of town, where anyone might mark her steps, would not be wise. As she had discovered, Raven’s contacts were everywhere.

  “I’ll be happy to show you the Institution, which is in the house that once belonged to Sir William Clayton,” Hero said, focusing upon her goal. “And it is to Richard Poynter that you owe the return of Miss Ingram, for I hope to trade upon my connection to Raven.”