Compared to Raven Hill, with its petty horrors and perpetual discomforts, this home was the epitome of fine taste and opulence. And yet, her very presence here confirmed that the owner could be no better than Raven himself.
However, as a prison, this place was preferable, and the absence of any guards made escape a simple option. In fact, Hero was tempted to go to a tall window and check the drop to the ground below, but she could not rouse herself. Besides, she was too interested in what her host intended.
She did not have long to wait. Soon, the subtle door opened, and a slender older gentleman entered. He was dressed all in black, and although there was nothing lacking in his costume, it was not of the quality Hero expected. It took her a moment to realize that he was not the master of this house.
“Miss Ingram,” he said, with a polite bow. “I apologize for the abrupt manner of your arrival. I understand it was quite the hurried undertaking, but I assure you there was cause for haste.” He turned away, walking toward a large ormolu desk that sat in the center of the room.
He made a careful show of pulling out his chair, taking a seat at the desk and folding his hands in front of him. In the light, Hero could see that his face was pale, the shadows under his eyes attesting to some strain. When he spoke, his voice cracked under it, and he was forced to clear his throat.
“You see, we had hoped, but…” He paused, as though to gather his composure. “Again, I apologize for my erratic behavior. My name is Fiskerton, and I’m the secretary to the…late Duke of Montford.”
“Late?” Hero asked.
Fiskerton nodded. “His Grace passed away earlier today.”
Hero shook her head. “I’m sorry.” Although she had never met the man, he was a fine collector whose presence would be missed in the book world. And despite his liveried servants harrying her over the past weeks and practically forcing her into his coach, Hero forgave him. As Poynter had said, he appeared to be in pursuit of one last, great find. And how could she begrudge him that?
Fiskerton cleared his throat again. “The timing is most unfortunate because his last wish was that he speak to you.” He drew a deep breath. “But you are a difficult young lady to find.”
Hero blinked in surprise.
“When his Grace made his intentions clear, we wrote repeatedly to you at your home, I believe it is called Raven Hill?”
Hero felt a cold chill dance up her spine. She nodded, then shook her head. “But I never received any messages.”
“Yes,” Fiskerton said, frowning. “I suspected as much. I even sent one of my representatives there in the hopes of speaking with you in person, but he was denied admittance.” He sighed. “As his Grace grew more ill, my queries became more insistent, but then Mr Raven claimed that you were no longer living with him.”
Hero drew in a sharp breath.
“Unfortunately, a great deal of time was wasted before we came to the conclusion that Mr Raven might not be forthcoming to us.” Fiskerton frowned. “That’s when we were forced to make some alternative inquiries, and we discovered that you were traveling, but your whereabouts, again, were difficult to determine. During this time, we also set a, ahem, watch upon Raven Hill, should you return at some point.”
Hero could only gape in astonishment at this revelation, which explained why the coach had been so quick to retrieve her.
“Unfortunately, since time was of the essence, they might have been a bit abrupt. Indeed, I believe they were prepared to enter the house, if need be,” Fiskerton said, with obvious disapproval. “Thankfully, that was not necessary, though I understand that a fire was reported?”
Hero nodded numbly.
“In that case, their abruptness may be excused, for their intention was to get you safely away, and to bring you here, of course.”
It was the “of course” that finally prompted Hero to speak. “But why?” she asked, in confusion.
At her question, Fiskerton assumed a more businesslike expression. “That was for his Grace to explain, but when it became clear that we might not be able to locate you, he did empower me to notify you as to the, uh, circumstances.”
Looking down at a sheaf of papers on the desk, Fiskerton began shuffling through them, as though he was not eager to explain further. “And from your curiosity, it appears that Mr Tovell…er, Raven, kept his part of the bargain in that you are unaware of your relation to his Grace.”
Hero blinked, uncomprehending.
Fiskerton cleared his throat. “You are, ahem, the duke’s natural child,” he said. “Of course, inheritance laws and entailments apply, so that his Grace did not intend to, uh, formerly recognize you. A cousin will inherit the title and estates, but his Grace did want to make certain that you received something.”
Hero felt as though someone had struck her. She tried to draw in air, but her stomach roiled, and her lungs did not seem to be working.
“Miss Ingram? Are you all right?”
Fiskerton rose from his desk to come round to her chair. “Put your head down,” he advised, obviously agitated. “Perhaps I should send for a maid or Mrs Ferguson. She will know…Shall I call for smelling salts?”
Hero shook her head and swallowed a hysterical laugh. She had seen and heard it all, Gothic horrors that would set any sane woman to screaming, yet now she threatened to swoon at something that was not even frightening.
“Are you certain?” Mr Fiskerton asked. When she nodded, he awkwardly patted her arm. “I wish you could have spoken to his Grace directly, for…I know that when he neared the end of his life, he rued his earlier decision.”
Hero’s head shot up so quickly that she almost knocked the older man aside. “He gave me to Raven!” she said, as the realization struck.
Fiskerton frowned. “Actually, the man was then Augustus Tovell, and he served the duke’s library well. It was only, uh, afterward that he assumed his, uh, new character.”
“Why?” Hero asked numbly. Although legitimacy counted for much in society, many fathers, including the royal heirs, provided for their natural offspring, setting them up in households without acknowledging them officially.
Fiskerton shook his head. “Again, that was for his Grace to say. I was not privy to the decision.”
Hero looked at the man long and hard until he finally glanced away. “I believe pressure from the dowager duchess was involved.”
Pressure from his mother, Hero thought dismally, then she drew in a sharp breath. “Who was my mother?”
Fiskerton shook his head. “His Grace never named her.”
Again, Hero gave him a hard look, for servants knew everything that took place in their households and were privy to every bit of rumour and gossip. She knew it, and Fiskerton knew it.
Frowning, he finally spoke, with obvious reluctance. “There was talk that she was a princess royal. But I know nothing for certain, and you will find little to gain should you pursue that avenue.”
Hero reared back in outrage at such a suggestion.
As if fearing he had said too much, Fiskerton returned to his seat at the desk, put the massive piece of furniture between them, and resumed his businesslike manner.
Shuffling through the papers, he did not look up when next he spoke. “As I said, his Grace’s final wish was to talk with you, but he made arrangements on your behalf, should he be unable. He was most pleased that your interests echoed his own, so his bequest reflects that shared appreciation.”
Hero felt like her weary head was spinning. What was he saying?
As if she had spoken aloud, Fiskerton lifted his head to eye her sombrely. “His Grace left you his library.”
Again, Hero reeled as though from a blow, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. “Wh-what?”
“You have inherited his Grace’s collection of books, which is worth a great deal of money—” Fiskerton began, but he was interrupted by the sound of a commotion beyond the confines of the quiet room.
Hero heard muffled shouts before the discreet door burst
open to reveal a familiar figure, followed by the butler and assorted footman, who appeared to have been shaken off in some sort of altercation.
“What’s going on here? Hero, are you all right?”
But by the time Kit spoke, Hero had already leapt to her feet, intent upon throwing herself into his arms. They were a haven that she would never have to leave, she realized, as she cried out in relief.
“Oh, Kit, my parents weren’t lunatics.”
Chapter Sixteen
Once Hero identified Kit as her betrothed, the footmen trooped out, leaving the two of them alone with Fiskerton. However, the duke’s secretary eyed Kit up and down with some disfavour, as though the new arrival did not quite meet his approval.
Hero swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter at the suspicion that Kit might be after her money. Not long ago she had been homeless, penniless and of dubious parentage, and still he had pressed his suit. At the memory, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself back into his arms.
However, Fiskerton frowned upon such displays, so Hero restrained herself, for the time being, and tried to appear impassive. But the facade that had served her so well in the past was unattainable. Despite her best efforts, Hero felt her lips curving and her cheeks flushing. Happiness, long denied, filled her so completely that it threatened to spill out.
Of course, Fiskerton could not know that her joy came from his news, not of her inheritance, but of her ancestry, and with it, her ability to accept Kit’s proposal without reservation. She had kept him at arm’s length for his own sake, as well as her own, and now she would close any distance between them.
“Perhaps you don’t realize, Miss Ingram, the value of your bequest,” Fiskerton said, frowning at her seeming giddiness. “His Grace’s library is a great responsibility and will make you a wealthy woman, should you choose to break it up.”
“I can well imagine members of the Roxburghe Club salivating at such an opportunity, but I don’t intend to put the collection up for auction,” Hero said. She nodded toward Kit. “Mr Marchant is planning some improvements to his estate, and perhaps that will just have to include the library.”
Although he had not been privy to the earlier discussion, Kit took her cue, as usual, and nodded in agreement, while Fiskerton looked dubious.
“Oh, yes, Mr Fiskerton,” Hero insisted, her smile wide. “Perhaps his entrance here gave the wrong impression, but I can assure you that Mr Marchant is both a gentleman and a scholar.”
If Fiskerton still was not convinced, he kept his opinion to himself and included Kit in the ensuing conversation. There were details that had to be seen to and papers to sign, as well as questions about the fire at Raven Hill to be answered. But Raven’s reputation for being reclusive and eccentric made for little inquiry, as did the statements from the Duke of Montford’s liveried servants and Hero’s presence in his Grace’s home.
It was late by the time all the business was concluded, and rather than see them off into the cold at that hour, Fiskerton offered them accommodations for the night in the dowager’s residence tucked into the woods nearby.
“It’s not staffed at this time, since her Grace passed away some time ago, but I had the housekeeper prepare some rooms and light fires,” Fiskerton said, giving his papers a final shuffle.
Although Hero would have liked to see more of her father’s home, the true heir would be arriving soon, and, understandably, Fiskerton wanted to avoid any awkwardness. When presented with the prospect of setting out for Charlie’s in her current state of exhaustion, Hero was eager to bed down anywhere.
Still, she was hardly prepared for the lavishness of her destination. Although not built on the grand scale of the main residence, the dowager’s house was larger than Oakfield and beautifully appointed. While the fires were being lit, Hero wandered around, running a finger over the dusty surface of a gilt writing desk and a medallion-backed chair.
Her presence here, in the home of the woman seemingly responsible for her life, made Hero feel oddly off balance. Although the dowager duchess might not have arranged Hero’s placement with Raven, she had made sure the duke never knew his daughter. And she had been Hero’s grandmother. That thought was startling enough, but then Hero considered just who her other grandparents might be, and she had to stifle another hysterical laugh.
Wasn’t the king himself rumoured to be mad? It seemed that Hero could not escape that taint, but it was enough that she had not be purchased from asylum inmates—and that she was not related in any way to Raven. Although Hero regretted his stewardship, she found it difficult to envision any other existence, especially one as the illegitimate daughter of a duke, and her steps faltered.
On the surface, the idea seemed ideal—the dream of every orphan who ever pondered her ancestry. But upon reflection, Hero felt an uneasiness far different from that engendered by Raven and his Gothic home.
In truth, Hero was not sure she would have liked the stigma of natural birth, even with such an exalted pedigree. And what kind of world would she have inhabited? She could not have lived with either parent, and would never have known her mother, for though there were rumours, the royal princesses did not acknowledge any scandals.
Would her caretaker have been any better than Raven? Probably. But who would have made up her circle? Would she have been pursued for connections, her influence? Hero could not imagine anyone like Kit in that setting, someone kind and decent, who wanted her only for herself, without name or coin attached.
And suddenly her parents seemed poor, despite their wealth, concerned only with their position, with no thought for love or what was right. Glancing up to where Kit was speaking softly with the housekeeper, Hero realized that her gentleman farmer was worth more than the lot of them.
As if sensing her attention, Kit looked up and flashed Hero a smile that chased away the chill in the air. The house was cold in more ways than one, she realized, hugging her cloak close. For all its luxury, it held no life or hospitality, and the expensive furnishings were as brittle and meaningless as Raven’s elaborate collections.
“You’re cold, miss,” the housekeeper said. “Here, let me show you to your room, and you, too, sir, then I’ll be off. If you need anything else, just give a ring, for I’ll have one of the maids stay in the quarters here.”
Ushering Hero into a bedroom where a fire burned brightly, the woman closed the door, leaving her to stand in the middle of a vast space, occupied by an elaborate bed decorated with heavy hangings. As in the other rooms, the dowager’s taste tended toward French furnishings and gilt, taken to extremes.
Although elegant, the place had none of the appeal of the Armstrong town house or even the Smallpeace farmhouse. But it would do for tonight, Hero thought, bone tired as she removed her cloak. She had barely laid it upon a painted couch when the door burst open and Kit strode in unceremoniously, a determined look upon his face.
“What?” Hero asked, as he made a point of eyeing the curtained windows. For a moment, she fell into her old habit of wariness, but who could be after them now?
“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t planning your escape,” Kit said, slanting her a speculative glance.
Hero smiled, and the odd mood that had settled upon her since entering the dowager’s domain lifted. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well, I’m here to make sure of that,” Kit said, advancing upon her, his lips curved in a devilish fashion.
Hero took a step back, her weariness forgotten as a frisson of excitement danced up her spine. Suddenly, she realized just how alone they were in this strange house, without even a staff of servants to gossip. “You’ll just have to learn to trust me, even though it may take a lifetime.”
“I’m counting on that, but in the meantime I was thinking about a chain to tether you to me. With a lock,” Kit added, coming so close that Hero found herself up against the curtained bed.
Had she thought the house cold and dead? Kit brought warmth and life with such force that the ve
ry air around her crackled and her body roused itself in response.
Kit gave her a jaundiced look as he inched nearer, his hard frame almost touching her own. “But by the time I find one, you might be gone.”
When Hero opened her mouth to protest that he needed nothing to keep her to him, Kit put a finger to her lips. And the sensation was so powerful that she lost all train of thought.
“I could try to get a special licence, so we might be married immediately, but again, I don’t have enough time, especially since we need to leave for Hawthorne Park as soon as possible to attend my sister’s wedding,” Kit said.
A subtle nudge from him had Hero falling back upon the soft bedding, and he leaned forward. “So I’m going to have to do something else to make sure you never leave me again.”
“And what’s that?” Hero whispered, even though she recognized the dark intent in his eyes.
Kit grinned as he moved over her. “I’m going to thoroughly compromise you.”
Hero felt her pulse leap at the warning, but instead of protesting, she sighed in anticipation. “Well, in that case, I’m definitely not going anywhere.”
Hero arrived at Charlie’s town house in far more elegant fashion than before, in the Duke of Montford’s coach, his liveried footmen in attendance, and Kit riding Charlie’s horse alongside. Although Charlie was out, they were shown to their rooms and settled in for an overnight stay before leaving London.
This time, Kit threatened to remain in Hero’s bedroom during her bath, but when she invited him to join her, he left, muttering something about Charlie’s aunt. While Hero lingered, enjoying a perfumed toilette for the first time in her life, he arranged for their horses to be retrieved from one inn and their packs from another.
It was all over, and yet, Hero felt like her life was just beginning. Although she was inclined to toss out her boy’s clothing, Kit insisted she keep it in case she wanted to muck about with the new landscaping that he planned for Oakfield. Hero smiled to herself, certain that his reasons had less to do with work than play. Hadn’t he whispered something to that effect last night, about the look of her legs, clad in breeches?
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