The Gentleman's Quest

by Deborah Simmons

  “No, Kit,” Hero said. At one time, she might have enjoyed the sight of someone toying with the great Raven as he had toyed with so many others. But Kit was too much the gentleman to employ Raven’s tactics. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “You already have it,” Raven said, his voice harsh with promise. “Trespassing, menacing, assault, at the very least. Mr Marchant will enjoy a long stay in jail.”

  Hero’s heart pounded at the threat, which Raven, with all his seeming resources, might well make good. And for once in her life, Hero felt faint. All the childhood terrors and horrors of this place were as nothing to the frightening power Raven now wielded: power over the man she loved.

  It was an admission she had failed to make, even to herself, but one that Hero could not deny, and she stood, trembling and uncertain. Such was her fear that she might have thrown herself at Raven’s feet, begging for a mercy she knew he would not grant. But Kit must have sensed she was wavering, for he put himself between them.

  “And what about imprisonment of a young woman not related to you?” he asked, no hint of his own courage faltering. “There are laws in this land against slavery.”

  Raven laughed, a chilling sound in the hollowness of the hall. “You can’t touch me. I’m above the law.”

  And then, as though to prove his claim, footsteps sounded from one of the passageways. Whirling, Hero was not sure what she expected, at the very least additional guards summoned from outside. But the lone figure that appeared made her loose a shaky breath of relief.

  “Erasmus, rid the hall of this intruder,” Raven said, lifting an arm to extend a bony finger toward Kit.

  Obviously startled by the directive, Erasmus stopped to gape at Kit, armed with the sword, but made no effort to evict him. He had tangled once with the gentleman farmer and had come out the worst for it.

  “He’s of no consequence to me,” Erasmus said dismissively. “All I want is the Mallory.”

  Raven laughed. “Ah, the Mallory. It seems to have been an ill chance that set me lusting after it.” He paused dramatically, as though to make certain he had the attention of his audience before continuing.

  “I admit to being ruled by my passion for the arcane, the unusual, the singular, so I could hardly resist the lure of a missing book, especially one with—what shall I call it?—a Gothic tone.”

  “Not Gothic. Druidic,” Kit said, his expression tense.

  “Yes, so I heard,” Raven said.

  Knowing Raven as she did, Hero was wary of his sudden desire for speech. She opened her mouth to warn Kit not to listen, but Raven was already talking again. “I found the scrap of letter as soon as I purchased the lot, of course. I knew the significance of such a find, so I sent out some discreet inquiries.”

  Raven paused to fix Kit with his hooded gaze. “I even wrote to the woman who owned Mallory’s old home, to no avail. Oakfield, I believe it is called? But then she must have been a relative of yours?”

  Raven’s words had their intended effect, and before Hero could intervene, he lifted his cane and knocked the sword from Kit’s hand to clatter upon the tiles. Although Raven’s cane had always seemed an unnecessary affection, now Hero wondered if it held a blade. And she slipped her hand into her reticule.

  It was Erasmus, however, who proved to be the greater threat, for he retrieved the sword before either Raven or Kit could move. “Now, if you will just hand over the Mallory,” he said, backing toward Hero.

  Raven laughed, and Erasmus swung toward him. Waving the blade wildly, he was all the more dangerous for his lack of skill. “I’ve wasted enough years toiling for no reward, kicking my heels at your beck and call,” he said, his pinched features twisted with anger. “It’s time I established my own reputation. And the Mallory will do it.”

  Hero swallowed a gasp of surprise at Erasmus’s unexpected defection. His previous plot having been thwarted, he was gambling everything, his present and his future, on a book that was not even genuine. But Hero was not about to enlighten him, and she held out the volume she had carefully rewrapped.

  Erasmus snatched it from her, his beady eyes alight with avarice, yet his triumph was short-lived.

  “Go ahead and take joy of it,” Raven said. “It’s a fraud.”

  The flush of victory faded from Erasmus’s pale face. “You lie.”

  Raven laughed. “This is why I put my faith in the girl, you fool. You were always too stupid to understand the intricacies that came so easily to her.”

  Wanting only to be left out of this, Hero took a step back, and she was relieved when Erasmus turned the sword toward Raven.

  “Put that thing down,” Raven ordered. “You don’t know how to use it, any more than you know how to use the information at your fingertips.” He paused to point his cane toward Hero, and she tightened her hold upon the pistol she kept hidden.

  “She was seen getting the book from Laytham’s,” Raven said. “Not from Oakfield or Cheswick or Featherstone or even Poynter. From Laytham.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Raven said, sneering, “if Laytham had such a rare book, he would be crowing to the skies like the rooster he is. Your precious edition is as authentic as one of his pamphlets, a fake, a forgery fit only to fool an idiot like you.”

  At Raven’s words, Erasmus whirled toward Hero, the sword slicing violently through the air. “Is this true?” he demanded, turning the full force of his hatred upon her.

  If he hadn’t been so dangerously volatile, Hero might have found amusement in the reversal of their roles. For right now, Erasmus seemed far more likely to carry the taint of madness. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kit move closer, and she was not about to lose him.

  “Stop right there,” Hero said, raising her hand inside its silken covering. “Don’t make me ruin a perfectly good reticule.”

  Erasmus halted, as if frozen, and in the ensuing silence, Hero noticed an odd crackling noise. She cocked her head to listen, but it was soon drowned out by Erasmus’s shouts.

  “This is all your doing! You played with me, toyed with me,” he screamed, lunging at Raven. Hero sucked in a sharp breath, certain he would draw blood, but Raven lifted his cane to ward off the blow.

  “Stop! Look!” Kit called. At first Hero thought he was trying to put an end to the struggle, but he was pointing to the corner of the vast room, and what Hero saw there made her blanch.

  The tapestry that Kit had used to swing from the gallery had fallen against the lighted torch, and fire chased up the old material, catching the other tapestries ablaze, as well as the carved wooden screen that covered most of the rear of great hall. The smoke that drifted upward in the huge space, now could be seen—and smelled.

  It took a couple more shouts to capture the attention of both Erasmus and Raven, who were grappling upon the tiles. But when they fell apart, they both gaped at the blaze that was racing through the furnishings.

  “My books!” Raven screamed, rising to his feet. “We must save my collections!” He turned to run toward one of the alcoves, Erasmus not far behind.

  “No! Save yourselves!” Kit called.

  But they paid him no heed, and Hero had one last look at the two men who had so ill used her before they disappeared into a shadowy passage, fire at their heels. Hero knew that their mania and greed would surely be their death, but she took no joy in it. When she lifted her hand to her mouth, she wasn’t certain whether she was stifling a cough or a sob.

  “Hurry!” Having given up on the others, Kit grasped her arm and pulled her toward the entrance. The heavy bolt was slid home, and as he wrestled with it, Hero wondered what other exit they might seek among the maze of passages, for already the smoke hung thick in the air, and she heard something crash to the floor behind them.

  “Kit, through the back,” Hero said, trying to judge how swiftly the blaze was traveling and in what directions. But at that moment, Kit managed to push the massive wood aside and to fling open the door.

  They raced throug
h the opening, gulping in great breaths of the chilly air that met them. Outside in the foggy darkness, Hero caught a glimpse of eerie figures dashing into the night, and for an instant, she wondered whether Raven had made his escape, after all. But she realized that, like rats abandoning a sinking ship, his meagre staff were fleeing their master and his Gothic nightmare.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kit dragged Hero away from Raven Hill, but the eerie landscape that met them firmly reflected its owner. The rising moon lent a pale glow to the expanse of open ground ahead, illuminating tendrils of fog that veiled any path—or trap—that might be there. Kit could only hope that Hero would alert him to pitfalls.

  But they made their way without incident to the gatehouse, which stood unmanned, its door hanging open. Either the guard had hurried to aid Raven or he had fled at the first sign of trouble. Kit halted to catch his breath, and as though she could go no further, Hero stepped inside, sinking wearily on to the heavy wooden bench.

  She probably was in a state of shock, for despite everything, Raven Hill had been her home, and the people inside the closest she had to a family. Glancing back at the castle, Kit saw the tall windows gleaming brightly, like some kind of leering pumpkin, consumed from the inside out. And he was struck with a sense of the past repeating itself.

  Kit didn’t know whether Raven’s interest in the Mallory had roused the attention of Malet and his followers or simply coincided with their own search. But the end was the same. Just as the maze went up in flames, taking those who would kill with it, now Raven Hill was burning, claiming its victims.

  Kit shook his head, unwilling to believe in some kind of curse that could follow even a forgery, but his surroundings did not lend themselves to coherent thought. The sooner they left here the better, he realized, but Hero had reached the end of her resources, and the empty building was as good a landmark as any in the mist.

  Kit knelt before her. “I’ve got to fetch Charlie’s horse, so I want you to stay here until I come back.”

  Hero lifted her head. “Where would I go? I have n-n-nothing.”

  “You’ve got me,” Kit said. He took her face in his hands, forcing her wide eyes to focus on his own. “I love you, and I think you love me, too.”

  She did not deny it, and for once, all that she felt was visible on her face. The outpouring of emotion was nearly Kit’s undoing, and he kissed her with all the force of a claim laid. She clung to him, and when Kit stepped back it was because he knew they could not linger.

  “Stay here,” he repeated. Exiting the gatehouse, Kit ran round the wall that enclosed Raven Hill’s inner court, glad that he had not been forced to climb it again. He was heading for the woods, trying to get his bearings, when a sudden crashing in the brush had him backing against a black trunk.

  But it was only a deer, scared up by the smoke, and Kit went on, though his pace slowed considerably as he groped through the trees, the mist rising to obscure his way. Finally, he heard a whinny nearby. No doubt, Charlie’s animal had smelled the smoke, too, and was restless.

  Still, Kit approached slowly, wary that someone else might have come across the horse, someone fleeing the fire. But the animal was tethered where he had left it, and he led it out of the woods toward the wall. The looming gray curtain was the only solid marker in an increasingly misty world, and he followed it, even though the massive stone seemed to disappear into the distance.

  So thick was the fog now that Kit was upon the gatehouse before he realized it. Breathing a sigh of relief, he led Charlie’s horse right up to the open door and called softly to Hero. When she did not appear, he wondered whether she could even stand, considering the state she’d been in when he left her.

  Dragging the reins, Kit stepped inside, only to bite back a cry of alarm. For even in the near darkness, it was obvious that the seat was vacant, and a search of the shadows revealed the small gatehouse was empty of all life, Hero having vanished into thin air.

  Kit shook his head to clear it. As tempting as it was to blame the ghoulish atmosphere in which he found himself, Kit knew that this was no Gothic trickery. There was a logical explanation for Hero’s disappearance, and he quickly dismissed the most obvious one—that she had fled from him yet again.

  And then he heard it.

  Stepping outside the gatehouse, Kit laid a calming hand upon Charlie’s animal to still it, then cocked his head to one side, listening. Now that the horse was quiet, there was no mistaking the creak of wheels and muffled hooves. Looking down the long lane, Kit could see nothing in the fog, and he realized the noise could be coming from anywhere, a path back to the stables or along the acres of property that surrounded Raven Hill.

  Raven or Erasmus could have come to their senses, left the burning building and come upon Hero. A servant might have offered rescue—or taken her back toward the blaze. Kit only had moments to decide, to make the gamble of a lifetime as he swung into the saddle.

  In the end, he chose to move forward, heading down the lane and putting Raven Hill behind him.

  Hero sat back in the luxurious coach, so tired that she felt as though she might lose consciousness. Weeks of tension and danger, lack of sleep and the events of the last hour had robbed her of her strength. And her wits. They had left her completely, or else she would not be here now.

  The wariness that had served her well for so long had deserted Hero as she sat slumped in Raven Hill’s gatehouse, trying to make sense of all that had happened. Even if she hadn’t been distraught, Hero would have seen little need for caution, with Erasmus and Raven both…gone.

  So when some dark figures appeared, gently urging her from her seat, Hero thought them servants or neighbors who had seen the fire. Dazed, she had let them lead her to the coach. At some point, she’d had the presence of mind to ask about Kit, and the vague assurance she received belatedly roused her suspicions. But by that time, it was too late. She was inside a vehicle far too comfortable to be Raven’s, the door firmly shut behind her.

  Hero could only think Erasmus responsible, but he was dead, wasn’t he? Or had he left his mentor to burn in order to claim the inheritance? If so, he would have no qualms about doing away with her, as well. But Hero’s last sight of him, fire close behind, was too fresh in her mind to imagine any other outcome for the man she had called cousin.

  For a moment, Hero wondered whether Kit had been right all along and some black-caped Druids were kidnapping her. But even that possibility could not rouse her to action. She was too tired to keep up the carefully cultivated facade that Raven had insisted upon, let alone muster her waning resources. All she wanted to do was to crawl into Kit’s arms and stay there.

  But even the thought of the man she loved filled Hero with despair, for Raven had taken the facts of her birth with him to the grave. Now she would never know whether her parents had been insane, eager to sell their child to a passing stranger.

  Although Kit claimed that he didn’t care, Hero did. How could she marry him, knowing that she might turn on him? Christopher Marchant, gentleman and scholar, deserved the best of everything, and that did not include becoming caretaker to a madwoman.

  Hero closed her stinging eyes and choked back a moan. She could not take the chance that she might make him miserable or turn violent. And worst of all, loomed the possibility that she might some day sell her own child in a lunatic act, repeating her sordid history.

  Swallowing hard, Hero realized that she should be grateful that fate had spirited her away from Kit and the temptation he presented. If Raven had given her a stipend, some kind of future, she could have tried to make a life for herself. But now, with Kit all that was left to her, she might have given in.

  It was better this way, Hero told herself, though she had no idea how she would make her way in the world. But perhaps that would not be a concern for long, she thought, as she peered out into the night with no knowledge of her whereabouts.

  Yet Hero soon recognized the lights in the distance as those of the great estates that
Raven had so coveted. Raven Hill was as close as he could get to the homes of the country’s nobles and most wealthy, and though they had done business with him, they had never welcomed him into their ranks.

  The darkness and fog made it difficult to determine her exact location, but once the coach passed through gates and turned toward a stylish facade, where rows of windows appeared out of the mist to wink with light, Hero realized her destination. And she laughed.

  Although she had never been here, Hero knew that the elegant residence was built during the last century in the classical mode, with four stories of cream-colored stone and slender marble columns marking the entrance. When the horses drew up before the stairs, Hero did not even bother to seize her pistol or try to escape. She simply stared as a footman appeared and hurried toward the coach.

  Upon opening the door, he bowed and held out a gloved hand to assist her descent, a treatment so different from her arrival at Raven Hill that Hero stifled another laugh. Unlike her old home, which was sadly neglected in favour of Raven’s collections, this place was neat and well kept and well staffed. But then the owner was wealthy beyond even Raven’s dreams.

  Inside, the marbled foyer was ablaze with light, in stark contrast to Raven Hill’s miserly darkness, but the mood was sombre. The footman handed her off to a grim-faced butler, who showed her into the study, an enormous circular room with carved ceilings and a door that seemed to disappear into the woodwork. The walls were hung with pale silk and the accents all painted, which made the space bright and airy even at this hour.

  Several lamps were set about, chasing away any shadows, and the furnishings were white and gilt, probably French collectibles worth more than some libraries. But Hero didn’t know much about furniture. Instead of inspecting it further, she walked to the pier glass to have a look at herself.

  Even to her jaundiced eye, she did not appear as though she had but recently escaped a conflagration. Thankfully, she had kept on her cloak at Raven Hill, and she kept it on now, as well, not knowing what was in store. Her boots were wet from her run through the grass, and she settled into a delicate chair near the marbled fireplace, where a roaring blaze warmed her cold feet.