The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  But he was getting ahead of himself. There was business to be taken care of first, and one of the matters that most required his attention was Syd. Taking the place that Charlie had vacated, he wrote her and Barto a brief assurance that he was safe and would like to introduce someone to them. Unwilling to get ahead of himself again, Kit did not explain why, but promised to head to Hawthorne Park as soon as he tied up a few loose ends in London. That one of those consisted of Augustus Raven, Kit kept to himself.

  He had barely given the missive to a footman when Charlie’s aunt arrived. Short, pudgy and wearing a variety of shawls and fur muffs, she was ushered into the parlour in an endless stream of chatter, involving her conveyance from her own town house to Charlie’s. As the butler helped her from her heavy cloak and various fur pieces, Charlie shot Kit a glance that spoke volumes.

  Kit realized he was even more beholden to his friend, for he suspected that Charlie’s aunt was not a frequent visitor, for reasons that were rapidly becoming obvious. Once relieved of her heaviest garments, she snatched back a brightly colored shawl.

  “And then, it began a cold drizzle, which at my age is the very worst of conditions,” she was saying. “I admit, Charles, that I would only have ventured out for you and the most urgent summons.”

  Having finally situated her garments to her apparent satisfaction, the stout female turned to survey the room. “Ah, there are you are, Charles,” she said, acknowledging her nephew with the fluttering handkerchief.

  Squinting in Kit’s direction, she paused to pat her enormous bosom, from which general area she produced a pair of spectacles. “And who is this?”

  “This is Mr Marchant,” Charles said, throwing Kit another glance of apology. “He’s a friend of mine, a former neighbor of William and Elizabeth’s.”

  “William and Elizabeth! That brood,” she said, heaving herself on to a chaise longue. “I’ve told her time and time again of the need to rein in those children. And how often has that youngest scamp of theirs gotten into trouble, I ask you?”

  Although Kit knew the family well, it wasn’t long before he had lost all track of the conversation, if one could call it that. Charlie tried to look attentive, while Mrs Armstrong kept up her ceaseless prattle. She didn’t seem mean-spirited, simply eager for a chance to give her opinions on all and sundry.

  Kit realized that she would probably drive Hero to distraction, but he had often been trapped with his father and his father’s scholarly friends, so he had developed the skill of judicious nodding when listening to long-winded discourse. In fact, he had practically nodded off when a sharp change in the pitch of Mrs Armstrong’s voice had him jerking to attention.

  “Mr Marchant! I say, this young woman you wish me to accompany, where is she?”

  “She’s resting, Aunt,” Charlie said. “She requested not to be disturbed.”

  The combination of Charlie’s last words and the lengthening shadows outside made Kit surge to his feet, abruptly alert. “I’ll go check on her.”

  At Mrs Armstrong’s horrified gasp, Charlie stood and summoned a maid for the task, but it was all Kit could do to remain where he was.

  “Really, young man, you cannot expect me to act as a chaperone when you make such outrageous remarks. Why are you looking so pale?” the older woman demanded, lifting her spectacles, the better to peer at Kit. “She isn’t ill, is she?”

  Having discovered a new topic for discussion, she launched into a long, detailed account of a young lady who had suffered most violently from what they claimed was gout. “But that hardly seems likely, now, does it?” she asked no one in particular.

  The maid, who had been urged to hurry by Charlie, soon reappeared, shaking her head. “No one’s in the room, sir,” she reported.

  “But I don’t understand,” Charlie said. “Did anyone see her go out?”

  “No, sir,” the maid said. “I can ask the kitchen staff, but I’m sure they would have told the housekeeper, if the young lady had gone that way.”

  “But then, how?” Charlie asked to the room at large. Swinging toward Kit, he sputtered a protest. “You don’t think someone managed to gain entrance to the house and…make off with her, do you?”

  At Charlie’s horrified expression, Kit shook his head. “She probably climbed out the window.”

  “Climbed out the window? In winter?” Mrs Armstrong’s voice rang out as she looked from her nephew to Kit, her eyes wide behind her spectacles and her jaw slack with astonishment.

  Without answering, Kit rushed past her, but he heard her speak to Charlie in a scolding tone. “My dear boy, I can see that this charge is going to be more difficult than you let on.”

  Bounding up the stairs, Kit headed to Hero’s room, where a quick check confirmed that she had made her escape in her borrowed female clothing. But why? Kit threw open the doors of the wardrobe, searching for the book she had hidden there, only to find it gone, as well.

  The doubts that Kit had once entertained came surging back, fuelled by the memory of his poor judgement at Oakfield. That experience had made him distrust his own instincts, and now he wondered whether he had been wrong about Hero, as well. Perhaps she had been playing him all along, and, having found the real Mallory, was off to collect the huge price it would bring.

  But even as such thoughts flashed through his mind, Kit dismissed them. Whether right or wrong, his heart held sway over his head, and he was not about to let Hero go until things were settled between them, once and for all.

  Swearing under his breath, Kit realized he should never have left her alone. In the future, he might consider tethering her to him with a chain. With a lock. If there was a future.

  The thought spurred Kit to action. He needed to borrow a horse from Charlie and head…where? Kit could only guess that she had gone home, which meant he would have to do the impossible: break into Raven Hill.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The cold drizzle Mrs Armstrong complained about had stopped, leaving only a few slick patches in its wake. But as twilight descended, a mist appeared, making Kit’s first sight of Raven Hill enough to give anyone pause.

  He had barely turned onto the long lane when he saw Hero’s home ahead, an old castle rising out of the fog as night gathered around it like a cloak. The size of the place was not imposing, for it looked to be a keep that had been added to in an odd fashion. But a high stone wall surrounded it, culminating in a massive iron gate and a gatehouse whose window blinked in the coming darkness.

  At least there wasn’t a moat.

  But the gatehouse light might indicate a presence, and just in case Raven’s defences included keeping a lookout atop the battlements, Kit veered off the lane, though he was still far away. Tall trees added further gloom to the setting, and Kit headed toward them, hoping to avoid being seen.

  Too late, he wished that he had pressed Hero for more information about the home she claimed no one could breach, patrolled by guards and perhaps even filled with traps for the unwary. Hadn’t she said something about falling axes?

  Tethering Charlie’s horse to a tall sycamore, Kit stood at the edge of the stand of trees and studied his target. As he surveyed the daunting stone structure looming before him, he took a good, long look past the obvious. And he realized that Raven’s fortress was designed to intimidate, to convey a Gothic atmosphere, a melodramatic mystique nurtured by its owner and intended to keep the curious at bay.

  Like the facade that Augustus Tovell had assumed, it was based more upon perception than reality. For no matter how wealthy Raven was, he could not afford an army to patrol the grounds or workmen to repair the ancient structure. Raven Hill was showing its age, and while that might add to its eerie impression, the cracks in the walls and crumbling stone would provide Kit the footholds he needed to gain entry to the grounds.

  What he would find inside was anyone’s guess.

  It was better this way.

  That’s what Hero had told herself all the way from the Armstrong town house to the
massive great room of Raven Hill. Although she hadn’t wanted to leave Kit without a word, she needed to face Raven alone, to try to bargain for her future with the book she carried with her. She did not need the distraction Kit would bring to herself—or to Raven.

  The owner of Raven Hill would have been outraged by the presence of an outsider in his sanctum, hardly a good beginning to any dealings, let alone the most important of Hero’s life. And he would have been in no mood to give her what she wanted.

  Although that consideration had been the deciding factor, Hero had another, more selfish reason for coming here without Kit. He was from a different world, where there were such things as gentlemen and kind strangers and welcome refuges, a world that Hero wanted to keep separate from the one ruled by Raven.

  And here, Hero did not need the protection Kit had so ably provided. Raven would easily handle Erasmus, should he arrive to make trouble for her. In fact, her only fear lay in the chance that she would not succeed in buying her way out of this place for ever. But she kept that concern well hidden behind an impassive countenance, lest it be marked.

  For Raven was here. Hero could feel it. He was probably in one of the upper galleries, spying upon her during the long wait that was intended to shake her composure. But Hero did not bother looking for him. She could see little in the perpetual gloom, for only one torch had been lit, and its feeble glow did not reach far beyond its placement at the rear of the hall, near the dais where Raven liked to hold court.

  Even though she could see little of her surroundings, Hero knew them well. The tiles stretched out on all sides to walls hung with threadbare tapestries and ancient hauberks. Swords, axes and other weapons were displayed, although Raven did not keep any valuable collections here. Too public, he said, though he rarely allowed anyone to enter, let alone members of the general population.

  Alongside the armaments stood the trappings of war, whole suits of armour assembled to stand freely upon unseen frames. They were placed in the shadows, so that at first glance, they might be mistaken for menacing figures. Long ago, when Hero had become inured to their presence, Raven had arranged for someone to don the old metal and step toward her from the darkness.

  Hero had been hard pressed not to react. But after that, she came to expect most anything, including the rising of the dead from Raven’s prized effigies, which occupied an alcove added for their presentation. That had never happened, and Raven claimed that the tombs were empty, probably because trading in the dead might be illegal.

  Although the effigy alcove was the largest, there were many smaller ones that the odd piece of furniture or marble statue occupied. And some dark recesses contained a curtain or a hidden door that Raven had added over the years. Even Hero didn’t know all of the castle’s secrets.

  Above, there were hiding places, as well, where Raven could look down, unobserved, upon all he had wrought. A wooden panel, carved in an open pattern, rose from the floor behind his dais nearly to the ceiling and could easily obscure him, while allowing him to see the pool of light below. And there were other spots behind cleverly designed walls, along galleries, or under decorative bays.

  Waiting below, Hero expected him to send some wisp of silk flying down or sound a boom of cannon-like proportions by way of twisted welcome. And to see her reaction. But nothing fell from the darkness or broke the silence except for the ticking of the massive old-fashioned clock that marked the time.

  And just when she wondered when he would show himself, Raven suddenly appeared, stepping from the shadows as if a part of them. He certainly did his best to be indistinguishable, his tall, thin figure cloaked in black, his eyes and cheeks unseen hollows, his ebony cane ever present. “You’ve taken your time,” he said, by way of greeting.

  Hello to you, too. “I ran into some difficulty,” Hero said.

  “I take it Marchant did not have the book?”

  “That copy was destroyed.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “But the letter spoke of another, and that’s the one I found,” Hero said, evenly.

  “Did you, now? Clever girl.”

  Was there some inflection in his voice that hinted otherwise? Hero’s pulse picked up its pace at the thought. She did not trust herself to speak, but she had to take her chance. “I-i-it was a treacherous errand, and since the book is worth so much, I would like something in return.”

  Now that she was here before him, eyeing his pale, gaunt face, Hero felt her determination weaken.

  “And what would that be?” His back was to the light, so Hero could not discern his expression, and his tone gave nothing away, not anger or annoyance or amusement. “A new hair ribbon? A gown? Perhaps a new boy’s costume?”

  Hero winced at that, but she could hardly have conducted all of his business the way she was dressed, especially after what had happened to her coach. The memory of that, and the circumstances that had thrown her upon the mercy of a stranger, made her stand up straighter.

  “I want more than that,” Hero said. “Not only did I have to hunt down the missing volume myself, but I was delayed and threatened throughout by Erasmus.”

  “An annoyance,” Raven said, in dismissal.

  “He hired men to shoot at me, more than once,” Hero said, her voice rising. “I could have been killed. And for that I should have my freedom.”

  The word hung in the air like some kind of obscenity. But before Raven could react, Hero went on. “I ask only for a small stipend, a settlement that would allow me to live elsewhere while troubling you little,” she added, lifting her arm to take in Raven Hill and the valuable collections he had amassed, often with her aid.

  “If I wanted to be robbed, I could have Erasmus handle it with more delicacy—and venality,” Raven said. His voice was low, his anger obvious. “At least he is not an ingrate. Do you remember where you came from? Or perhaps you would care to go back there.”

  “Back where?” Hero asked. “You’ve lied about so much, why should I believe your innuendos about my origins?”

  The stillness that followed vibrated with his rage, and he took a step forward. “Make no mistake about my power,” he said. “I can arrange to have you put away in such a place, and no one will ever find you again.”

  “I don’t think so.” The sound of that familiar voice, calling down from above, bolstered Hero’s wavering strength and made Raven start in surprise.

  Against all odds, her gentleman farmer had managed what no one else had ever accomplished. He had made his way unchallenged—and unnoticed—into the heart of Raven’s realm. Although she had spent a lifetime cowed by Raven’s seemingly otherworldly powers, they faded in comparison to Kit’s very real skills. And at the moment, Hero was convinced there was nothing the man couldn’t do.

  But before she could gloat, Raven called to his guards, and one soon appeared in costume, complete with sword and helm. “We have an intruder. See to him,” Raven said.

  “That’s not an intruder. He’s my guest,” Hero said. But the guard did not obey her, and Raven told the other who appeared to light the torches in the upper gallery, where Kit was hiding. Hero called out a warning, and she heard Kit’s footsteps running lightly above, followed by a thud.

  Hero cursed the darkness as she craned her neck. Then light blazed forth from one of the torches set into the wall, illuminating two silhouettes armed with swords, one of which Hero easily recognized. It appeared that Raven’s personal protectors were more decorative than effective, for Kit must have got his weapon by overpowering the first guard.

  And now he harried the other. As Hero watched in awe, Kit thrust and parried, driving the second guard back along the gallery and up against the wall. It was no surprise to Hero that, in addition to all his other skills, Christopher Marchant was an excellent swordsman.

  Since Kit obviously had the upper hand, Raven needed no prescience to predict the outcome. “Close him off,” Raven shouted to his startled butler. “Shut him up there!” While the elderly servant hurried to do
Raven’s bidding, there was a grunt and a clatter from above, as Kit disarmed the guard.

  Kicking the fellow’s weapon aside, Kit knocked him to the floor, where he disappeared from view. Then, rather than find the exits bolted against him, Kit leapt on to the carved railing, tugged at one of the fading tapestries, and swung from the gallery to the floor in one fell swoop.

  Hero squeaked out a protest, for fear the old material would crumble in his hands, dropping him to the hard tiles below, but he landed on his feet, ever graceful, like some latter-day Robin Hood. Hero didn’t know whether to laugh in delight or swoon at the arrival of her champion, who turned to Raven, weapon in hand.

  But Raven ignored him, as though he were no more than a pesky gnat, and fixed Hero with his hooded gaze. “You are mine, and I won’t be handing you over, now or ever.”

  Hero shuddered at the statement, but it was too late and the taste of freedom too strong. “I’m not part of your collection, Raven,” she murmured.

  “I acquired you, didn’t I?”

  Hero flinched, but Kit stepped forward. “If you did, she has repaid your investment many times over. Now, she’s of age and marrying me, so you will just have to find someone else to handle your dealings for you.”

  Hero didn’t dispute Kit’s claim of betrothal, though she had no more desire for his pity than she ever had. She simply could spare no thought for the future when the present was so precarious.

  “She’s not going anywhere with anyone, least of all a penniless, upstart intruder,” Raven snapped, visibly angered.

  But the lapse was a brief one, and when he spoke again, it was to Hero, his tone low and derisive. “Perhaps this young man, Mr Marchant, I presume, is unaware of your family…legacy.”

  Before Hero could respond, Kit stepped forward. “I don’t care where Hero came from, and I’m certainly not going to believe your version of events, Mr Tovell.” Swinging the sword in the air, he spoke over his shoulder to Hero. “He never struck you, did he? Because if he did, I’ll run him through right now.”