by Mary Balogh
Kate flushed and glared down at him. “I do not believe it is any of your concern what I do or why, sir,” she said. “Did you come for a book? Pray do not let me delay you. If you do not find it and start reading soon, it will be time for tea and you will have lost the chance.”
“I really had no particular plan, ma’am,” he said, his drawl so pronounced it sounded almost like a yawn. “Some of the guests are resting in their rooms, four took a drive into Trecoombe, and the others are out walking. None of those activities appealed to me. Perhaps I shall help you. Busying myself cleaning books will at least be a novel amusement. Is there room for two at the top of the stairs, do you suppose?”
Kate bristled, “I am quite sure there is not, sir,” she said, “and I will not have my work hampered by one who does not take it seriously at all. I should be obliged if you would remove yourself.”
“Mrs. Mannering,” Sir Harry said with a sigh, setting his foot on the bottom stair, “What a veritable hedgehog you are. I thought my offer particularly obliging and condescending. Your refusal has cut me to the quick.”
He did not mean to do it. He was quite sure that even beneath the conscious level he did not mean to do it.
After all, she might have been hurt. But deliberately or not, Nicholas’ foot pushed too hard against the edge of the stair and the whole contraption moved several inches. Kate shrieked, swayed, tried to regain her balance, and came hurtling down the stairs, her feet moving not quite fast enough to support her weight. She ended up falling heavily against Nicholas’ chest, almost bowling him backward in the process. He found himself, quite without design, holding against him the very shapely body of Katherine Mannering and staring down into her flushed and furious face. He lowered his eyelids and sneered.
“Really, Mrs. Mannering,” he said, “you do not need to hurl yourself at me with such desperate intent. I am really quite approachable by more normal means.”
“Oh!” she said, her bosom heaving against his chest in a manner that set his temperature to rising to a quite alarming degree. “Oh! Unhand me this instant, you, you . . . rake! You did that quite deliberately. You are despicable, sir. Insufferable. Let go of me. You . . . toad.”
It really had not been deliberate, he assured himself. Would he have voluntarily put himself through such torture? The temptation to bend his head and take those indignant lips inside his own was almost overwhelming. The desire to move his hands forward to caress those breasts that were still heaving against his chest set his fingers to itching. He raised one eyebrow and let his half-closed eyes move lazily and impudently over her face.
“You seem to think yourself irresistible, Mrs. Mannering,” he said, staring at her lips. “The moving of the stairs was an accident. And if you were not so intent on being thrilled by my nearness, ma’am, you would have realized moments ago that you are by no means being held prisoner against my person. You may remove yourself whenever you wish.”
“Oh!” Her eyes grew round. She pushed herself away from him as if indeed he were a toad. And then she slapped him—a stroke that was poorly aimed and caught him painfully on the side of the nose and across the lips as well as on the cheek.
Nicholas winced, but forced himself to regard her cynically, one eyebrow raised. He wondered how she would look—alarmed or even more angry than she was now—if she knew just what very great danger she was in at that moment. He had only just resisted the instinct to grab her, drag her against him again, . . .
He fingered his lip gingerly and realized that the inside had been cut against his teeth. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “I take it this is your way of declining my offer to help you clean the books and search them for treasure maps. A pity. We might have done it in half the time together. Have you found any great possibility of fortune yet, by the way?”
Kate was standing before him, her hands in tight fists at her side. “Yes,” she said, and smiled. “I found the essays of Sir Francis Bacon inside one of the books. They are a great treasure to the inquiring mind, sir.”
She was startled when his eyes danced into life and a grin flashed across his face. The expression was gone in a moment, leaving her wondering if she had imagined it. The bored, cynical face of Sir Harry Tate was regarding her. She frowned, reaching into her mind for some elusive memory.
He sighed. “Au revoir, Mrs. Mannering,” he said. “Now I perceive I am doomed to spend the next hour in my room until the imprint of your fingers has disappeared from my face. Though I fear my nose might resemble a beacon for a somewhat longer time.” He made her a mock bow and sauntered from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Insufferable, conceited, insolent . . . fop! Kate thought, hands on hips, staring after him. He had moved the stairs deliberately. He had wanted to embarrass her. And he had succeeded admirably. He was just the sort of man she despised most, the sort who liked to think himself irresistible to women. He had wanted her to blush and sigh and stammer merely because she was in his arms.
“God’s gift to women,” she muttered under her breath as she tested the staircase for steadiness and climbed to the top again.
It was just good for her that indignation had been the strongest of her emotions. He could not know—indeed she did not want to admit to herself—that she had felt uncomfortably heated at his closeness. She had thought he was going to kiss her. Indeed, some cool, remote part of her mind had been preparing itself to discover how his kisses would compare with Giles’s and Nicholas’ kisses. It would have been horrible. She knew it would. His obvious contempt of women would have made it horrible. But he was large and very strong. Attractive. And of course damnably good-looking.
Well, he could not know that she had felt momentarily attracted. And she was not really attracted, anyway. It was just that his size had reminded her somehow of Nicholas, and she was missing Nicholas. Oh, how she was missing him! She was aching for him even now. Kate sighed and reached for a book on the shelf before her. If only she could discover something that would give her the excuse to visit him again. She wanted to see him, ridiculous mask and all, and she wanted to talk to him. She felt as if she had known him for years. She felt as if he were her friend. She wanted to kiss him.
Kate shuddered suddenly as she replaced the book on the shelf. What a toad that Sir Harry Tate was. And she had been attracted. What a horrifying and humiliating thought it was to know that one could be attracted to someone one knew to be thoroughly despicable. As if the physical could sometimes be more powerful than one’s common sense or one’s moral sense.
She reached up for another book.
All the guests at Barton Abbey, with the exception of the four who had gone to Trecoombe and were not yet returned, gathered in the drawing room for tea later in the afternoon. The earl even summoned Kate from her task in the library so that she could preside at the tea tray.
The Earl of Barton was not finding the presence of his guests as effective as he had hoped in distracting his mind from its uneasiness. He was unable to forget about Nicholas Seyton and his curiosity to find his mother. Alice and Charles Dalrymple had both asked about that young man. The soldiers of the coast guard had been unable to find any trace of either the highwayman or Seyton in their search, and none of the servants appeared to know of his whereabouts. But Lord Barton was not satisfied. His cousin’s son was not in Shropshire either. He had received a reply to his inquiry on that matter earlier in the day.
Where was he? If he were still in the vicinity, surely someone would have seen him. And everyone for miles around must know him. He had lived most of his life at Barton Abbey. The sensible answer, of course, was that Seyton had taken himself off somewhere to seek his fortune or to squander the modest inheritance he had been left. He had probably forgotten all about finding his mother once he realized that it would be almost impossible to do so.
That was what he should believe, the earl kept on telling himself during an afternoon spent in his cabinet. But he could not convince himself. The myriad questions o
f Nicholas’ second letter had been a clear indication that the boy was very eager indeed to discover the secrets of his past. Was he likely to have given up so easily? And Lord Barton was nagged by the certain knowledge that he had done the wrong thing in replying the way he had to that second letter. In fact, his refusal to answer all questions was enough to make even a less than normally intelligent person suspicious. He wished he could go back and respond differently.
And that kidnapping scheme still troubled him. Highway robbery was unheard of in this part of the world. And this had not even been highway robbery. The sole purpose of the villain had seemed to be to kidnap Thelma. Why? For ransom merely? Or for information that he knew the earl would not be able to withhold? It was the only explanation that made any sense. If the highwayman had wanted a ransom, he could have exacted a modest sum even for Mrs. Mannering. Instead he had let her go free after thoroughly frightening the poor young woman.
The masked man that his son and daughter and Mrs. Mannering herself had described did not resemble the type of man he imagined Nicholas must have grown into. This rogue was tall and well-built. Both Jonathan and his uncle had been of only medium height and quite slender in build. And most unexpected of all, the highwayman had had long and very blond hair. That could have been a wig, of course. Or it was equally possible that Seyton had an accomplice, that he had someone else to do the dangerous part of his task for him. But whatever the answer, Barton was convinced that Nicholas Seyton was lurking somewhere in the vicinity of the Abbey and that he was growing desperate for answers.
Those marriage papers still haunted Lord Barton. He was quite delighted to make use of Mrs. Mannering’s eagerness to ingratiate herself with him. She could search the library without any inkling of what she was involved in. But finding those papers was a forlorn hope. Better to concentrate on finding Seyton and somehow eliminating the danger he posed. If he could find him and prove that he was the kidnapper, of course, his task would be well done. He would be safe for the rest of his life.
The Earl of Barton smiled around on his chattering guests. “Alice,” he said, “I had an interesting letter just today about Jonathan’s poor son. Strange that you should mention him yesterday. I had written to him in Shropshire to assure him of my goodwill, but had a reply from the housekeeper to say that he is not there.”
“Indeed?” she said, setting her cup in its saucer and giving her brother her full attention. “I wonder where he went, Clive. He was here when Uncle died? He must have felt obliged to leave. I know it is most improper of me to say so, but I have a great curiosity to see him. Do none of the servants know where he went?”
“Apparently not,” the earl replied. “The groom says he took his horse and left. The butler was inclined to believe that he took the stage.”
“But what about all his belongings?” Lady Toucher said. “Surely they were sent on to some definite address.”
“I understand he took his few personal possessions with him,” the earl said. “I suppose that fact makes it unlikely that he left on horseback.”
Kate was pouring tea for Mrs. Carstairs and trying to block out the sound of a conversation that was taking place between Lord Toucher and Lady Emma North beside her.
“I have a theory,” the earl said carefully. “There is probably nothing in it, of course. But I have a theory that our illegitimate cousin did not leave Dorset at all.”
“Whatever can you mean, Clive?” his sister asked.
“Barton Abbey has been his home all his life,” the earl said. “And as you observed, Alice, the poor boy must have felt obliged to leave when the property passed into my hands. He was quite right to do so, of course. It would be an embarrassment—now, for example—to have him hanging on here. But one cannot but feel sorry for him. This is the only home he had known. What would be more natural than for him to stay close for a time, anyway, until he can summon up the courage to put the past behind him and begin a new life?”
“Seyton did not strike me as a man of great sensibility when I knew him in Cambridge,” Charles Dalrymple said. “What you say makes sense, Clive, but not in his case, I am afraid. It seems far more likely to me that he has taken himself off adventuring before settling down in Shropshire. And the servants would know if he were in the vicinity. In my experience I have found that it is well nigh impossible to keep anything from servants.”
“He would probably keep himself well-hidden,” Lord Barton said. “He surely would not like to have the embarrassment of being found skulking around the home that is no longer his. Poor boy. I feel quite sorry for him, Alice.”
“If he still is in the area,” the languid voice of Sir Harry Tate said, “you can be sure, my lord, that he is intent on playing on just the sympathy that you are showing. It is altogether possible that he even holds out hopes of being received by you. In my opinion, all persons of unmentionable birth should be treated as if they never had been born at all. Ignore him. He will go away eventually.”
Kate folded her hands demurely in her lap. Nicholas Seyton was twice the man that fop was, for all his unmentionable birth, she thought indignantly. She was pleased to believe that Sir Harry’s upper lip was looking slightly swollen even if the disfigurement was apparent to no one but her. She hoped that the hot tea hurt his mouth like a thousand daggers.
“Quite so,” the earl said, nodding to his guest. “You are quite right, sir. However, unfortunately, sentiment sometimes intrudes on one’s judgment. I cannot forget, you see, that this young man is the son of the cousin who was like a brother to me until his death. I should like to shake his hand and assure him that I am his friend as far as circumstances will allow.”
“And so should I,” Lady Toucher said, glancing at her husband, who was still engrossed in his own conversation with Lady Emma.
“You know Seyton,” the earl said, directing his attention to Charles Dalrymple. “You said you and he are still friends? Perhaps I may enlist your help, Charles. If he is somewhere close and in seclusion, perhaps he would reveal himself for a friend. And then he could discover that I and my sister are his friends too.”
“I still have strong doubts about your theory,” Charles Dalrymple said. “But of course I will be more than willing to do as you ask, Clive. I shall ask around. If he is here, someone must know, who is perhaps reluctant to admit as much to you. I shall find him if he is close by, you may depend on it.”
Sir Harry Tate lifted his quizzing glass in order to examine the marble cherubs cavorting beneath the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “I do not believe I could forget that face either,” he said, his drawl very pronounced. “I cannot tell you how mortifying it was, my lord, to discover just to whom Dalrymple here had presented me. In fact, it is amazing that our friendship survived the incident. I shall keep an eye and an ear open too, though I do hope that you would have no plans to receive Mr. Seyton into the bosom of his family while your house party is in progress.”
Kate, sitting idle behind the teapot, felt an almost overpowering urge to cause his lower lip to swell to match the upper. He, an uninvited guest! Her indignation was quickly swallowed, though, in fright. The earl knew that Nicholas had not left Dorset. He was intent on finding him. And he was quite calculatedly enlisting the help of an unsuspecting guest. And it was quite possible that the servants and others would let down their guard with this man who was Nicholas’ friend.
He was going to be found out, she thought. The stupid man seemed wholly unaware of the danger to himself of staying in the area. He was going to be caught. And he would hang for highway robbery and kidnapping. Kate stared downward, thankful that no one was in need of another cup of tea. She did not think her hands would be steady enough to enable her to direct the liquid into the cup.
Chapter 9
The Marquess of Uppington and Lady Emma went riding in the park with Thelma and Lord Stoughton the following afternoon. The outing was not at all to Thelma’s liking.
“I promised Mr. Moreton that I would show him the gree
nhouses after luncheon,” she told Kate when the latter was sitting with her in her dressing room before the appointed ride. “But Papa said that I must go with the marquess. I do not see why I should, Kate. After all, a promise first made is the one that should be kept, even if the second does concern a person of higher rank. I cannot see why his lordship does not escort Christine or Julie or Angela. It is not as if he and Lady Emma need a guide. Adam will be with them.”
“Unfortunately, when one is a hostess, one must frequently forgo one’s personal wishes,” Kate murmured soothingly. “You did spend yesterday with Mr. Moreton, after all.”
“I do not like the Marquess,” Thelma confided. “He is stiff and cold in manner. I believe he is toplofty.”
“Perhaps merely a little uncomfortable because he knows no one here except your father,” Kate said.
“Well, I suppose I must go.” Thelma sighed as she rang for her maid to help her into her riding clothes.
Kate remained in the dressing room after Thelma had left. Stiff and cold in manner! Yes, she supposed the description fit the Marquess of Uppington as he had appeared during most of the past two days. He treated Lord Barton with some deference, everyone else as his social inferior. He showed marked but formal attention to Thelma, leading her in to meals, sitting beside her during the taking of tea. It was very obvious to Kate, even if Thelma herself had not realized the fact yet, that some agreement had been reached between the earl and the marquess. The poor girl was going to receive the addresses of the latter before too much time had elapsed.
Kate really did pity her employer. And it was not just the fact that the girl appeared not to like the marquess, while she did favor a man who was socially insignificant. Kate pitied her because she knew what kind of man the marquess was. She had known as soon as she set eyes on him two days before. But the events of the previous evening had confirmed her suspicions.
