by Mary Balogh
She had resumed her work in the library. She was still perched on the top of the moving stairs, but she was almost at the center of one of the long walls now. In another day or so she would be finished with the top shelf, she thought with mingled satisfaction and despair. She found that she was not even expecting to make any startling discovery. Half an hour before, she had come across another single sheet of paper on which someone had doodled an apparently meaningless pattern. She had placed it dutifully on the desk. But the job was satisfactory in itself. She could look back along the top shelf and know that all the books were clean and that she knew the topic of each in the event that Lord Barton should approve her idea for reorganization.
Another thought was what kept her energy flowing, however. An exciting thought, though she tried not to set too much store by it. And she believed she had been patient long enough. Everyone must be safely away from the house by now or settled to some other activity. Kate climbed down the staircase, walked deliberately to the fireplace, and tugged on the bell to summon the butler. She had puzzled over whom to ask, but he seemed to be the one most likely to have the answer she needed.
“Oh, Russell,” she said with a warm smile when the butler entered the library, “are you very busy at the moment?”
“I am at your service, ma’am,” he replied, bowing stiffly. Kate had been somewhat surprised and relieved on her arrival at Barton Abbey to discover that the servants did not treat her as one of themselves.
“The longer I am here, the more I am fascinated by the Abbey and its history,” Kate said brightly. “I was looking at the family portraits in the salon again this morning and I have been rummaging among these books this afternoon. There are so many details I would love to know. I imagine you must be very knowledgeable, Russell. You have been here for many years, have you not?”
“Nine-and-twenty years, ma’am,” he said, clearly gratified by her not-too-subtle flattery.
“Some of the most recent history, for example,” Kate said. “I was looking at the portrait of the viscount who was the son of the last earl. His must have been such a tragic death. He would still have been a relatively young man now, would he not?”
“He was the senior of his present lordship by only two or three years, ma’am,” the butler confirmed.
“He had just returned from the Grand Tour, had he not?” Kate said. “How sad it must have been. It must have seemed to him and to everyone that life was just beginning to open up for him.”
“Aye, ma’am, it was a sad blow to his lordship,” the butler said, his stiffness of manner relaxing somewhat. “To his father, that is. And to his present lordship too, ma’am. Like brothers they were.”
“Yes, so I have heard,” Kate said with a sigh. “Did the present Lord Barton accompany his cousin on the Grand Tour?”
“No, ma’am,” Russell said. “He made his own tour a few years later.”
“I see,” said Kate. “Then Lord Stoughton traveled alone?”
“He returned alone, ma’am,” the butler said. “He traveled with a friend at first, but I understand that young man went somewhere else when our young lord decided to come home. It would have been better for Master Jonathan if he had extended his tour as well.”
“Yes,” Kate agreed. “If we could only see into the future. It must have been a dreadful shock for his friend when he returned, to find Lord Stoughton dead.”
“I daresay, ma’am,” the butler agreed with a sad shake of the head.
“And is he still alive?” Kate asked.
“His friend?” the butler asked. “I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. I have never heard tell of him since.”
“Oh,” said Kate. “Who was he?”
“Some university friend,” the butler said. “Let me see now.” He pulled at his lower lip and stared at the Turkish carpet, a crease between his brows. “Short, fair-haired young man. A baron. He had inherited from his father only the year before. He was still wearing mourning when he was here with Master Jonathan. Left it off when they set off on their travels. Lindburg. No. Lind . . . Lund . . . Lindstrom. That’s it. Lord Lindstrom. I haven’t given him a thought for years. Queer fellow, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, ma’am. Always stuttering and apologizing. Always afraid of offending.”
“I really must not take any more of your time, Russell,” Kate said, “or you will never get your work done. I just find all those portraits so fascinating that I want to know everything there is to know about each of the people involved. Will you mind very much if I ply you with questions sometimes when you are not too busy?” She smiled disarmingly.
“I am only too pleased to find someone who is interested, ma’am,” Russell said, his stiffness completely vanished. “Now, the chapel is the place for you. Some fascinating stories connected with that. You wouldn’t believe the half of what went on in the days when this was supposed to be a holy place. I could tell you . . . ”
“Oh, yes, I would love to hear,” Kate said with quite genuine enthusiasm, though she was far too excited to prolong the conversation at that moment. “Perhaps you will accompany me there one day, Russell, and tell me all you know.”
The butler bowed. “At your service, ma ’am,” he said, and left Kate to herself again.
She sat down carefully in the large wood-and-leather chair behind the desk and waited for her heart to stop thumping. Lord Lindstrom. She had never heard of him, but that was hardly surprising. She had never been into society. Was he still alive? Assuming that he too had been a very young man when he accompanied Nicholas’ father on his Grand Tour, he was probably not even fifty years old now. The chances were that he was still alive. But where? Was there any chance that she could find him?
She must not allow herself to become too excited. At the moment she had no idea how she, a lady’s companion in the remote county of Dorset, was to locate a baron who had last been heard of more than five-and-twenty years before. And even if she could accomplish that formidable task, there was a strong possibility that the man would not be able to help her. He had been with Jonathan Seyton for only part of his tour. Had he ever known of Annette? Would he know where she had lived?
She must not get her hopes up too high. It was very probable that Jonathan Seyton had married his Annette only just before returning to England, if at all. By that time he was probably no longer with Lord Lindstrom. But of course Nicholas had been born shortly after the marriage. He must have been conceived early in Lord Stoughton’s tour. There was a chance that Lord Lindstrom would have known Annette or that at least his traveling companion would have talked of her.
How could she find Lord Lindstrom? Ask one of the members of the house party, perhaps? Lord and Lady Toucher spent most of their time in London. All the younger gentlemen were men of fashion who probably knew almost everyone of any social significance. If Lord Lindstrom moved around at all, it was possible that one of the gentlemen would know him. But how could she broach the subject with any of them? What explanation could she give for her interest? She did not think the explanation she had used with Russell would convince anyone else. Besides, news of her questions might reach Lord Barton, and he might realize the danger the answers would pose for him.
Aunt Priscilla, of course! Her aunt and uncle did not move in the very highest social circles, but they had connections and they did reside in London. And there would seem nothing strange in her writing a letter to her aunt. Of course, the business would be dreadfully slow. Kate felt impatient enough to rush to the stables that moment, demand that the fastest horse be saddled, and gallop without stopping in the direction of London. She could not expect a reply to her letter within a week and a half at the soonest. And then, if the answer were positive, she would have to write to Lord Lindstrom himself and await his reply. And how was she to keep from Lord Barton the fact that she was both sending and receiving letters from that particular man?
Kate sighed. It was all very provoking. But quite marvelously challenging, she thought, brightening again and
looking up to the top shelf of books. She had work to do.
The Marquess of Uppington and Sir Harry Tate were riding a little apart from the rest of the gentlemen. They had observed the crops, questioned some tenants, directed their eyes toward a wood which the earl remembered to be an excellent place for shooting when that sport was in season. They were making their way back to the Abbey at a leisurely pace.
“This is all quite impressive for an out-of-the-way part of England, would you not agree, Tate?” Uppington said.
“Oh, quite, quite,” Sir Harry agreed. “It has had a reputation for years.”
“I consider it quite consistent with my consequence to ally myself to the family,” Uppington continued.
“Lady Thelma?” Sir Harry said, sounding bored. “Yes, sometimes such alliances become a necessity, Uppington.”
The marquess shrugged. “We all know the rules from an early age, do we not?” he said.
“Oh, quite,” Sir Harry agreed. “I have always considered myself singularly blessed not to have been born to the high aristocracy. What an utter bore to have to do what is expected of one even when choosing a bedfellow.”
“I suppose you would not know some of the more tedious duties of rank,” Uppington said, contriving somehow to look at Sir Harry along the length of his very aristocratic nose. “In fact, Tate, you must have been keeping yourself very much to yourself for the last several years. I confess I have never come across either you or your family until this week.”
Sir Harry yawned. “London, Bath, Tunbridge, Brighton,” he said with a sigh. “Such a bore, Uppington. Who could stand it? I find even the exertions of such a house party quite too taxing on my energies.”
“And talking of exertion,” Lord Uppington said, “your interest in Mrs. Mannering has not escaped my attention, Tate.”
“Mrs. Mannering?’ Sir Harry exerted himself sufficiently to raise both eyebrows and turn lazy eyes on his riding companion.
“She is a delectable armful, I grant you,” Lord Uppington continued, “and of course her position as a type of servant makes her . . . shall we say, accessible? I would remind you, though, that since I am about to ally myself to the mistress, I must also show concern for the servant.”
“Meaning that Mrs. Mannering is already earmarked for your bed and you would prefer not to have to deal with overused goods?” asked Sir Harry.
“Precisely, my dear fellow,” Lord Uppington said. “I see you understand me. Now, there is a very accommodating upstairs maid whom I would gladly pass your way if you feel the need for a cure for that insomnia of yours. She would come highly recommended.”
“Thank you, but no,” Sir Harry said. “I make it a rule never to consort with upstairs maids or scullery maids or any maids in between, Uppington. Too much regard for my health, old chap. As for Mrs. Mannering, I believe you have discovered for yourself that she is one of those tedious beings known as a virtuous lady. I believe you would do well to lay siege to someone more amenable, Uppington. Or keep to your upstairs maid, since a siege there seems totally unnecessary.”
“Let me make myself clear.” The marquess’s voice was as pleasant as it had been from the start of the conversation. “I do not believe your appearance in the library a few evenings ago and in that hermit’s cave the following afternoon were accidental, Tate. And I was not hoodwinked by the fact that you allowed Mrs. Mannering to cross the rocks yesterday before you followed after. I do not know if she favors your pursuit or not. That is quite immaterial. The point is, dear fellow, that it must stop. She is to be mine, and I do not take kindly to being kept waiting for what I desire. There are to be no more ‘interruptions’ to our tête-à-têtes. Now do I make myself understood?”
Sir Harry stared ahead, a slight crease between his brow. Then he looked across at the marquess, his eyebrows rising again. “I believe you do, Uppington,” he said with a heavy drawl. “In fact—forgive me if I misunderstand—I almost feel that you are threatening me. Is there the possibility of a duel on the horizon? What a bore!”
“I do not believe I would condescend to duel with a baronet of whom no one seems ever to have heard,” Lord Uppington said, his look both haughty and penetrating. “At least”—he paused for effect—“I would want to do a little more investigation of your credentials before I would honor you with a challenge.”
“Ah.” Sir Harry removed his glance and looked ahead again. “Now I perceive the full sting of the threat. You are going to dig up all the murky past of the Tate family, I see. All the skeletons in the closet will be dragged into the light. I must warn my estimable mama. Perhaps you will even unearth the carefully guarded family secret that her grandfather was a butcher and her grandmother an actress. I am in fear and trembling, Uppington. If Mrs. Mannering were mine to dispose of, I might even be tempted for one whole second to relinquish my claim to you.”
“You are a quite obnoxious worm, are you not?” Uppington asked pleasantly. “I cannot imagine where Dalrymple dug you up. He gives the impression of being something of a gentleman.”
“In reality I am his bootblacking boy,” Sir Harry said with a sigh. “We thought it might be amusing to try to pass me off as a baronet.”
“Be warned anyway, my dear fellow,” the marquess said before urging his horse forward to join Lord Barton and his brother-in-law. “Mrs. Mannering is not for the likes of you.”
Nicholas kept his horse to the same pace. He made no attempt to join Dalrymple and Moreton, who were riding close by, or any other member of the group. He had rather enjoyed that exchange, if the truth were known, though he realized that it had raised some very serious issues. Very serious. He seemed to be landing himself in quite a mess, in fact.
His idea to get himself inside Barton Abbey with the freedom to move around as he chose had seemed an excellent one when it was first conceived. And it had been surprisingly easy to execute his plan. But what, really, had he accomplished by it? He had been at the Abbey for several days already and his every attempt to discover some fact that might be the key to unlock the mystery of his past had been frustrated. He had talked to all the servants at the house who had been in service there five-and-twenty years before, and that morning he had also talked to both Mr. and Mrs. Pickering at the lodge. But nowhere had he been able to discover anything that would provide him with a lead.
There was still, of course, the other plan that he had begun to put into operation. He would need Dalrymple’s cooperation if that were to work well, and his friend was bound to come up with a hundred and one objections. All of them perfectly reasonable.
Now he was confronted by a definite problem, though. Uppington was suspicious. And Nicholas had offended him deeply enough to cause the marquess to investigate this mysterious Sir Harry Tate. Of course, it would take him time. It was a frustrating and time-consuming task to trace the home and ancestry of someone who did not exist. But sooner or later, Nicholas knew, he ran the risk of being exposed as an impostor. He supposed he should have been content to arrive as a mere mister. Uppington would not be so concerned about never having heard of a Mr. Harry Tate. Well, it was too late now.
It was not in Nicholas’ nature to back down from a challenge, no matter how dangerous. In this particular instance, he could not back down even if he wanted to. And in the interests of his search, perhaps he would normally have thought twice about antagonizing Uppington. But giving in to the marquess involved sacrificing Katherine. She was a strong and aggressive young lady who did not need his protection in the ordinary events of life. But there was nothing ordinary about Uppington. He was a powerful and ruthless man, one who was accustomed to having his own way. And one who was totally insensitive to the feelings of others.
Katherine would not have a chance with him. It would not matter to Uppington if the only way he could have her was by ravishment. In fact, he would probably enjoy a rape more than an encounter with a willing bedfellow. It was quite out of the question, then, for Nicholas to avoid provoking the anger of Uppington
by abandoning Katherine to her fate. Indeed, after this afternoon’s encounter, Nicholas decided that he must redouble his watch over her.
Not that that prospect was the chief of his worries. He would quite cheerfully take his chances with Uppington. What was far more disturbing was the marquess’s belief that Sir Harry himself was involved in some affair with Katherine. If Uppington could believe so, could not other people do the same? One of his main concerns since he first met Katherine was to ensure that she was not involved with him, to make sure that no one could accuse her of anything if for some reason the investigation of his past became nasty. His concern for her safety had been his main reason for sending himself away to Shropshire and for keeping his real identity a secret from her. It had also dictated the very unpleasant character he had given poor Sir Harry.
And was his name becoming linked to hers despite all his efforts? It was very possible. He usually led her into the dining room at mealtimes. He had been seen alone with her on the afternoon of the picnic when they returned from the hermit’s cave. He had escorted her into the garden a few evenings ago. And he had been seen returning across the rocks with her the previous afternoon. All the rest of them had been standing in a group watching the two soldiers of the coast guard ride away and buzzing with the news that they suspected that smugglers had landed in the area within the past few nights. Apparently a group of smugglers had been caught ten miles down the coast, and it was believed that a boat from France would not have made only one drop. But that was another concern. Nicholas would not addle his brain with that at the moment. The delivery of goods had seemed to go smoothly the night before, though he had not been there himself.
It was stupid of him not to realize that conclusions might be drawn from his frequent closeness to Katherine. He had been so concerned that she not discover the truth that he had given no thought at all to the perceptions of other people. The trouble was that there was little he could do about the matter. If he were to protect her from the lecherous designs of Uppington, he had to stay close to her. He would just have to do the best he could, he supposed. After all, it was perfectly normal for a single gentleman to show interest in a single lady, even if she were almost on a level with the servants. It was clear to him, for example, that there was a growing attachment between Dalrymple and Miss Lacey. Nobody seemed unduly concerned. He would just have to hope that nothing violent developed from his search and that if it did, Katherine would not be caught up in it in any way.
