The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  “Everyone knows you’re no relation, that you were bought, just like one of his acquisitions, though far more cheaply, I’ll warrant.”

  Hero kept her expression impassive, as though he was discussing the weather, not the most hurtful of truths. But he could not know it all, she told herself. He could not know the worst.

  “Where did he get you?” Erasmus said, stepping closer, his pinched face twisted by years of disappointment and jealousy and ill usage. “I’ve searched through his books, his private correspondence and found nothing,” Erasmus spat. “Which proves just how little you are worth.”

  Erasmus took another step, standing so close now that Hero could see the spittle on his lips. “Did he find you on the streets, a beggar, a thief?” Erasmus demanded. He smiled then. “I don’t think so. There’s only one place where he could have bought a girl child like you, for the meanest coin. And that was a brothel, where your mother was the lowliest of whores.”

  Erasmus was staring so fixedly at Hero that he paid no heed to Kit or his hired men, who were gaping wide-eyed at the conversation. And at the word “whore” Kit launched himself. Taking Erasmus unawares, he knocked the smaller man to the ground, while Hero elbowed the fellow who held the pistol at her back. The third man swung his weapon toward them, and a shot rang out, sending Hero dropping to the floor.

  “Stop, you idiot! Are you trying to kill me?” The man who had held Hero shouted at his compatriot, whose shot had gone wide, but was sure to draw attention. Hero took advantage of his panic by leaping to the window and pushing up the sash, thankful they had chosen their location for its easy access to a low roof. Whirling, she pulled her own weapon, ready to stop her assailant from following.

  But he was busy trying to help his fellow, who was struggling with Kit, while Erasmus lay on the floor, abandoned, his rage replaced by fear. Ignoring him, Hero seized a wooden chair and brought it down hard on the back of the shorter man. With a grunt, he fell, and she retrieved the pistol he dropped.

  “Ahhh!” A pained wail rose up from the taller of the two brutes as his pistol, too, dropped to the floor, and he clutched at his sleeve, where a bright spot of red gave evidence of his injury.

  In an instant, Kit hurried her to the window, wiping a bloody knife upon the curtain.

  “Where did you get that?” Hero demanded.

  “My boot.”

  Hero sent him a startled glance. “And to think you’re just a gentleman farmer.”

  The sound of footsteps alerted them to the imminent arrival of others who had heard the shot, so they clambered over the sill. There was no time to gather their things, only for one last glance at the room, where the two villains lay groaning and the door stood open.

  Erasmus was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Crouching, they slid, more than walked, along the slippery roof that covered an overhang near the kitchens. Kit dropped to the ground easily, then turned to catch her. Again, Hero was grateful for his quiet strength. But she didn’t even have time to savor his touch as he quickly pulled her through the stables and out into the street.

  Once among others, Kit slowed his pace to avoid notice, but Hero still had to hurry to keep up. Her mind in a whirl, she could not think where to go, for it seemed that she was watched even more than she suspected. She felt an urgency to get to Raven, but she did not want to appear before him in her current guise. And all her other clothes were gone.

  Suddenly, Hero felt as if she had come out the loser in the fight, bruised and battered by the implications of Erasmus’s actions. If she could not use the Mallory to her advantage, then her already difficult position would be made worse by Erasmus’s enmity. It would be just like Raven to pit them against each other in an endless struggle for his favour.

  So caught up was she in these bleak thoughts that Hero barely blinked when Kit hustled her into a hackney coach. He leaned toward the driver to give directions without shouting, then slid in beside her.

  “Where are we going?” Hero asked.

  “Somewhere safe,” Kit said, patting her arm in an automatic gesture of comfort.

  At one time, Hero would have viewed his words with suspicion or doubt. But now she simply leaned back her head and closed her eyes, too weary to protest. Her thoughts went round and round, but her lack of sleep and the closeness of Kit’s warm body had her nearly nodding off until the coach stopped and he helped her out.

  Glancing around, Hero had no idea where they were as they slipped through a shop, exited onto another street, and walked another street before heading up to a neat town house. After a few words from Kit, they were ushered into a cozy parlor, where they were soon greeted by a handsome young man Kit introduced as Charles Armstrong.

  “Kit, it’s a pleasure to see you!” Armstrong said. He was as fair as Kit was dark, yet he seemed to possess the same friendly nature. “How many times have I invited you to town? But you’re a gentleman farmer now, I suppose, with little interest in our doings?”

  Hero nearly laughed aloud at that, for among his other skills surely Kit was the only such fellow who kept a knife in his boot and was able to subdue two villains at once. And yet, looking at him, he seemed little different from Armstrong, if a bit disheveled.

  He still had that easy grace and untroubled countenance that belied the measure of the man, whose inner strength and abilities made him more formidable than just about anyone. In fact, the juxtaposition of his demeanor and his capability made Christopher Marchant all the more…dangerous.

  Swamped by a sudden surge of emotion, Hero swallowed hard and tried to focus on the conversation between the two men.

  “And how is that lovely sister of yours?” Armstrong asked, his tone showing more than idle interest.

  “She is to be married soon, to our old neighbor, now Viscount Hawthorne.”

  “Oh, that is…good news, of course. I hope you will tender my heartiest congratulations when you see her.”

  “Actually, I was hoping that I could post a brief letter to her while here. Pardon our appearance, but we’ve run into a bit of trouble here in town,” Kit said.

  He drew his host aside, and they held a whispered conversation punctuated by Armstrong’s exclamations and furtive looks her way. At one time, Hero might have distrusted anything she couldn’t hear, but Kit appeared to have it all well in hand, while her own mind and body seemed to have reached their limits.

  Once they were finished talking, a genial housekeeper led them upstairs, showing Hero to a lovely room before taking Kit on to his. For a long moment, Hero simply stood and stared at the cheery surroundings, decorated with bright chintzes and soft chairs. Gauzy curtains were drawn back from wide windows, and Hero knew she ought to shut them, but she didn’t have the heart.

  A low knock heralded Kit’s entry, and Hero’s weariness was replaced by dread. She had hoped to be gone from his life, without him ever knowing, but Erasmus’s accusations made that unlikely. Now it would all come out, Hero thought, her head pounding along with her heart. Although she wanted nothing more than to flee, she could not, and so she walked around the room, admiring the ewer and basin and small comforts that a stranger freely offered her.

  “I’ve explained that you are in disguise,” Kit said. Without standing upon ceremony, he sank into one of the upholstered chairs. “He’s going to have a maid bring you some of his sisters’ clothes. In case you’d like to change,” Kit added.

  Hero choked back a laugh. Now that they were in Kit’s world, she felt her own lack. A strange female who dressed in boy’s garb, she did not fit in here. It was just as well…

  “Shall we have a look at it?” he asked.

  For a moment, Hero had no idea what he was talking about. And she nearly laughed again when she realized how far her thoughts were from her singular purpose. It didn’t seemed possible that she had forgotten the Mallory, the most important thing in her life. Or so she told herself.

  Unbuttoning the heavy greatcoat, Hero reached inside and pulled the par
cel from her pocket. “It’s not real,” she said. “I had it made up.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a forgery,” Hero explained as she walked across the room. “Raven always hinted at the authenticity of Laytham’s pamphlets, so I gambled on him being right.” She did not mince words, for what could it matter now? “I blackmailed Laytham into creating an edition that might fool Raven, at first glance, at least.”

  “Clever,” Kit said. Startled, Hero glanced toward him, but his expression held no hint of the disapproval she’d expected. A bit dumbfounded, she set the parcel upon a drum table that stood near his chair.

  “We’ll see,” Hero said, for her success remained to be seen. Raven was far more clever, and she was still uncertain what she would find beneath the wrappings. Putting shaking fingers to the string, she was confounded until Kit reached into his boot for the knife, slicing clean through it. And suddenly, her whole body seemed to shake as she moved the paper aside to reveal what was nestled inside.

  It was a book, and Hero let out a low sound of relief. The bindings were old, a hundred years at least, and the title barely legible. Whether accidental or deliberate, that was a nice touch, Hero thought as she gently tipped open the cover with one finger. Inside, the title page looked just as old, and Kit rose to his feet to stand behind her.

  “It looks real enough,” he said.

  “Believe me, it isn’t,” Hero said. “Or else Laytham would never have parted with it.”

  A knock on the door made Hero start, and she quickly rewrapped the volume as a pert little maid entered the room, carrying several garments.

  “Mr Armstrong said you’d be needing these, uh, sirs,” the girl said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Kit said.

  She laid the items on the bed. “And I’ll be bringing up a tray for you. Will there be anything else?”

  “A bath?” Kit suggested.

  “Of course, sir,” she said, with a nod, and was soon shutting the door behind her.

  A bath. And clean clothes. And some good food, not purchased at an inn. Thinking of the pleasures that Kit so valued allowed Hero to avoid the inevitable.

  But she knew it could not be staved off for long. Wrapping the book as neatly as possible, she slipped it into the bottom of a heavy wardrobe, beneath a chamber pot, which she would never have cause to use, just as she would never use the pretty bed with its thick coverings.

  “Will your uncle be fooled?” Kit asked.

  “Don’t call him my uncle.” The words were out before Hero could call them back.

  For a long moment, Kit was silent. “Surely you don’t believe any of that rot your cousin was spouting, vitriol that was born of jealousy?”

  “No,” Hero said softly. “It’s worse than that.” She turned to face him. He was seated again in the upholstered chair, looking so at home in such surroundings that she felt an interloper. She was an interloper.

  “Raven bought me at an asylum. My mother was a madwoman.”

  Although Hero braced herself, the horror and judgement that she knew Kit would be unable to hide did not appear. In fact, he simply shook his head. “I don’t believe it. From what you’ve told me, that’s just the sort of tale he would concoct to frighten you and keep you tethered to him.”

  Kit paused to eye her directly. “Maybe he’s your father.”

  Hero shuddered at the possibility, which would still make her the offspring of a lunatic. Perhaps two lunatics. But the idea that Raven had engaged in intimacy of any sort with anyone seemed highly unlikely.

  Hero shook her head. “I can’t imagine him having a child with anyone. Ever.”

  “Even in a fit of passion?”

  “Raven’s fits of passion aren’t the kind that would result in childbirth.”

  “Have you ever asked him about it?”

  Hero laughed humorlessly. “Question his word? You don’t understand. Conversation with him devolves into hints and mysterious intrigues, while disputes are met with stony silence.”

  Kit lifted his dark brows as if she had just proven his point for him. “If he talks in riddles and is known for his intrigues, why would you take his word about this?”

  Because Raven appeared to revel in her origins, subtly hinting that her own eventual madness was a foregone conclusion.

  When Hero didn’t answer, Kit pressed her. “Why would he go to an asylum to shop for children to adopt?” Kit asked. “That makes no sense.”

  “I assumed he wanted someone no one else knew about, with no connections, who would be grateful…”

  “He could do that anywhere on any street, without the possibility of spending his time and money on someone who might not be grateful or useful.”

  “Maybe the idea appealed to him,” Hero said. “It would certainly fit into his sense of Gothic melodrama. He could use me until I went mad, then lock me in the tower, where my shrieking and wailing would only add to the atmosphere of Raven Hill,” Hero said, shivering at the very real possibility.

  “The idea might appeal to him, but would a recluse actually visit such a place, inviting into his private home someone who might not be as easily governed as he might wish?” Kit shook his head. “I think he’s concocted the tale out of whole cloth.”

  Hero opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again as she stared at Kit’s open expression. He spoke with such absolute certainty that for the first time in her life, doubt crept into her mind.

  Raven had never talked of her antecedents outright, but in a cryptic manner that left Hero to divine the truth. Not even Erasmus had guessed the real story, and Hero had kept it hidden, dark and festering, from everyone until this very moment. Yet, now she wondered if, in his own twisted way, Raven hadn’t dropped the hints purposefully so that she might draw the wrong conclusions.

  But if her entire history was a lie, then where had she come from? And who were her parents?

  As Kit dressed in fresh clothes, he silently thanked Charlie for his generosity. A cousin of the Armstrongs who had once been Kit’s neighbors, Charlie wasn’t a close friend, but he had provided the two who had showed up on his doorstep with good food and the luxury of an enormous copper tub, in which Kit had enjoyed a good long soak.

  He also provided them with a safe haven, for Kit couldn’t envision Erasmus and his hired thugs venturing into this genteel neighborhood. Kit loosed a low sigh, relieved that the villain harrying them had turned out to be nothing more than a disgruntled relative, not deadly followers of Mallory’s writings.

  Kit had no doubt that Hero’s cousin was dangerous, for his ranting smacked of someone with a tenuous hold on his wits. And the men he’d hired had brandished their pistols alarmingly. But once Hero was removed from Erasmus’s orbit, he would have no further reason to threaten her.

  And Kit had all intention of removing Hero from his reach, as well as from Raven’s. He’d had no chance to say as much when the maid had appeared with her bath water, but he hoped to receive a different answer when next he tendered his proposal. For, at last, the final piece of the puzzle that was Hero had fallen into place. And the deep, dark secret she had so zealously guarded seemed nothing more than a Gothic tale from the master of Raven Hill.

  Although Kit was fairly certain Hero had not come from an asylum, he was just as certain that Raven had wanted her to think so. What better way to keep her tied to him? He permitted her no friends, no social life, no interaction with other women or potential suitors. And if, by chance, she should form an attachment, his ugly lie would keep her from pursuing it.

  Kit shook his head as he closed the door behind him. Although many women had few choices in life, this man had made sure that Hero had none. With a combination of threats and lies and virtual imprisonment, he had maintained a stranglehold upon her, body and mind. It was a measure of Hero’s strength that he had not broken her spirit, as well.

  As he walked toward Hero’s room, Kit’s steps slowed, but the sight of a passing maid spurred him onward. Now that they were at Charlie�
�s, it wasn’t prudent to make himself a frequent visitor to a bedroom occupied by a young, unmarried miss. Ruefully, Kit realized that circumstances had forced them into behavior that had become habit, but that society would not condone.

  Although, by necessity, Charlie had been apprised of Hero’s disguise, he had been told little else. Kit had kept to himself the fact that the two had been traveling alone together. The servants might suspect something odd, but they had all been told that a woman was to occupy that room.

  Charlie had even contacted his dowager aunt to come serve as chaperone, a gesture Kit much appreciated. For Hero’s sake, he did not want her reputation tarnished in any way in the eyes of the world. Barto and Syd wouldn’t put stock in gossip, but it had a way of following one, even to the farthest corners of the countryside, and preventing acceptance into genteel society.

  In fact, Charlie’s aunt might already have arrived and be meeting with Hero, so Kit hurried down the curving stair to the floor below, where he found Charlie seated at a writing desk in the parlor.

  “Oh, hello! You said you wanted to post a letter to your sister,” Charlie said, rising to his feet.

  “So I did,” Kit answered. “Thank you for the reminder, as well as all else you’ve done for us.”

  Charlie waved away the gratitude. “Next time I need rustication in the country, you shall simply have to open your new home to me.”

  Kit laughed. “I’m afraid you won’t find the place as entertaining as your cousins’.”

  “I’m sure it would be less taxing than London,” Charlie said. “Rest and relaxation amongst nature, eh?”

  Kit smiled in reply, and for the first time since the fire, he began to think about the landscape that had been denuded behind the house. He certainly did not want to revive the hedge maze that had burned down, but he would like a garden, the kind of area that would be a welcome refuge, such as Charlie mentioned. With walkways and trees and plantings bright with flowers. Perhaps he could call in a designer…