by Mary Balogh
That left the curricle. She had drawn a thundering scold from Giles once when she had driven his to the gate of their property and back, a total distance of half a mile. She had taken the tongue-lashing meekly—she had had no choice with Giles—and had never repeated the experiment. One just did not do twice what Giles had scolded one for once. But she thought she had done rather well. All the way to London, though? What would she do during the nights? Or when she drew closer to the city amongst heavier traffic?
Where else? Barton Abbey? It would be rather like riding straight into the lion’s den to go there. And stupid besides. But it was a sure destination and only twenty miles or a little more away. And at least she would have breathing room for a while. Perhaps by the time she saw Nicholas again she would not be so badly affected by seeing him with his brother. And she would have the anger necessary to kill him.
The curricle was ready to leave again. Kate strode over to it with confident purpose. “I am going to take Mr. Seyton’s curricle along the street and back,” she said in the general direction of two ostlers who stood close by. “He knows about it.”
“I don’t know, mum,” one of the ostlers said. “Them horses look pretty frisky.”
“I am quite used to them,” Kate lied without deigning to look at the two men. Her heart was thumping rather uncomfortably.
“Perhaps I should talk to the gentleman,” the other ostler said hesitantly.
Kate gave him a look so full of cold hauteur that the poor man took a full step backward. “Am I being called a liar and a weakling to boot?” she asked in a voice so quiet that it spelled immediate danger to the two ostlers. “Did you not see Mr. Seyton talking to me just now? Do you think I am a common thief?”
For reply the first ostler rushed forward to help Kate into the high seat and hand her the ribbons.
“Thank you,” she said coolly and, shaking with terror, turned the horses’ heads in the direction of the village street. She expected them every moment to rear up or to suddenly bolt away. But she recalled something her father had always told her about horses, and other animals, for that matter. Show fear and they will be afraid, he had said. Show cool confidence and they will calmly obey. Kate schooled her hands to cool confidence and prayed that the horses were no mind readers.
And soon she was beyond the confines of the village, with no sign of mutiny on the part of the horses and no sound of hot pursuit from behind. After a few hundred yards of moving along at a sedate walk, she dared to flick the ribbons as an indication that the horses might break into a safe trot if they so desired. Two miles down the road she informed them that they might increase the pace to a brisk trot or even a mild gallop if the road were straight and no farmer’s cart or particularly large pothole happened to be looming ahead.
Of course, she reminded herself, to dampen any conceit that might be growing in her concerning her skills as a whip, the horses must be somewhat tired, having just finished traversing this same road in the opposite direction.
Chapter 25
It was the evening of the following day. Everyone left at the Abbey seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Most of the guests had left that same day to enjoy the remainder of the summer at their own country homes or at Brighton or one of the spas.
Lord Uppington and his sister had departed in high dudgeon, the former having been informed that his betrothal to Lady Thelma must regrettably be considered at an end. It was likely that the marquess knew very well about the elopement, yet would have been quite prepared to overlook the waywardness of his prospective bride—until after the wedding, anyway. He was not told the full truth of the change in status and fortune of his betrothed, or perhaps he would have considered himself the most fortunate of men.
Charles Dalrymple was the only one of the departing guests to whom all was explained. He left after wringing his friend’s hand as if it were his intention to break every bone and begging him not to forget his humble friend and distant relative now that he was about to soar to the social heights, especially as that friend was about to acquire a new wife. He received a not-too-gentle punch in the arm for reply.
By late afternoon only Lord and Lady Toucher and—somewhat surprisingly—Mr. Moreton remained. The latter had expected to be abandoned at the inn to make his own way wherever he cared to go. He had been somewhat puzzled when the earl had asked him, somewhat gruffly it was true, to return to the Abbey with the rest of them. He had been even more surprised when the earl had taken him aside the morning after their return and explained the change in his circumstances according to the story that Nicholas had decided should be the official one.
If Mr. Moreton still wished to marry his daughter, the earl had said with obvious difficulty, then the nuptials could be celebrated in the autumn. The man who was to be the new earl had said her dowry was to remain unchanged. Under the circumstances, seeing that Mr. Moreton had already somewhat sullied her reputation by the attempted elopement, he would allow the marriage to proceed.
Mr. Moreton, who was in transports of delight and totally unconcerned about either his own lack of fortune or his love’s changed status, wisely refrained from pointing out that a lady’s reputation was hardly compromised when she rode in a carriage for a few hours with a gentleman and her lady companion. Perhaps he understood something of his future father-in-law’s mortification at facing such a change in status. He was forced to admit to himself, though, that the earl was taking the whole thing with some graciousness. He seemed quite genuinely delighted over the good fortune of his cousin, whom he had been entertaining under an assumed name even before he knew the man’s birth was legitimate.
Lord and Lady Toucher, Lord Stoughton, and Thelma were told the same version of the story late in the afternoon after all the other guests had taken their departure. The others had been told only that Sir Harry’s long-lost brother, who had been living in France since his infancy, had sent notice of his unexpected return, and a small group from the Abbey had gone partway along the road to meet him.
Lord Stoughton and his sister, whom one might have expected to be most upset over the news that they no longer had any claim to their titles or the fortunes that might have come their way from their father, reacted quite unpredictably. Thelma leapt to her feet as soon as her father had finished speaking.
“Papa!” she cried, looking quite radiant. “Now I shall not be able to marry Lord Uppington because he will consider me quite beneath him. And I shall be able to marry Sidney. Oh, say I shall, Papa. I am so happy.”
She hugged her father, her aunt, and—after a moment’s hesitation—Nicholas, and blushed furiously.
“You are my cousin of sorts, are you not?” she said. “I did not suspect at all who you were. But I am so glad. It must be terrible to think you are a bas . . . ” She could think of no alternative word, and merely blushed hotly again.
The former Lord Stoughton was on his feet too, his hand outstretched to Nicholas. “I say,” he said, “this means I can get back to my comfortable life again without everyone expecting certain things of me merely because I am a viscount. I shall be able to go to America. Or Canada. Famous!”
“I think you might have dropped a little hint to me about who this dear man was, Clive,” Lady Toucher said, sounding somewhat aggrieved. “I would have kept the secret from everyone else. I am so glad, my dear Nicholas. You are not at all like poor Jonathan, you know. I would never have guessed. But so handsome! And so like your half-brother. I am going to claim a cousin’s privilege, my dear, and kiss you.”
She gave vent to a little shriek and a remarkably girlish giggle when Nicholas put his arms around her and hugged her tightly.
“You cannot know how wonderful it is, ma’am, suddenly to acquire a family,” he said. He smiled across at Anatole. “On both my mother’s and my father’s side.”
And indeed, Nicholas thought, Clive Seyton was playing his part with remarkable good grace. Perhaps, with a great deal of tact and hard work on his own part, he could keep
these family members close to him. And Anatole. He still felt a thrill of excitement at the knowledge that he had a living mother and a stepfather as well as this half-brother, who was already dear to him after scarcely more than one day’s acquaintance.
It needed only two things to make his happiness complete. The first would be looked after tomorrow. After the departure of the remaining guests, including the earl and his family, he and Anatole would leave for London too. Within a week he would be with his mother. He could scarcely imagine how it would feel to meet a strange lady and know that she had borne him. Excitement tied such a knot in the area of his stomach that he tried not to think about that meeting too much. Anatole had said that their mother was small and dark-haired and still beautiful.
The second requirement for his happiness was that somehow he get past that locked door in the west to where he might shake Katherine by the shoulders until her teeth rattled and then wring her neck—probably in that order. The foolhardy woman had driven Dalrymple’s curricle all the way back from that inn at what must have been breakneck speed judging by her purported time of arrival. And then she had rushed past numerous guests and servants in the hall and on the stairs and straight into her room, where she had locked the door and remained ever since.
He would concede that she had a great deal to be angry about. But really, there were limits to what one might reasonably expect. Had she had to punish him by risking her life in the curricle? He had had a nightmare ride home, expecting to come upon her mangled remains around every bend of the road and over every rise. And was it not taking anger a little too far to lock herself in her room for almost twenty-four hours?
On the first occasion when he had gone along to reason with her from the other side of the door, she had refused to come out, but her voice had certainly not done so. His ears had soon been ringing with insults and hair-raising threats. She was so ingenious, in fact, he had decided, that perhaps it was as well that a man could die only once. On the second occasion her voice had done the same as the rest of her person: it had refused to come out. He had been left holding a well-reasoned argument with a silent and unsympathetic wooden door.
And he refused utterly to avail himself of the key to the door, which Russell had suggested in the wake of a discreet cough. Fair is fair, Nicholas decided. While she was at Barton Abbey she was, he supposed, his guest, and one did not force oneself on one’s guests. Let her wait until she was off Barton property, though. Then Mrs. Katherine Mannering would find her privacy and her sullen tantrums less well-respected.
She had allowed both Thelma and Audrey into her room after a lengthy interrogation had had both girls swearing on their honor that a certain monstrous Nicholas Seyton was not lurking beyond the keyhole ready to invade her room as soon as she turned the key. She had needed to let someone in. She had not a stitch of a personal belonging in her room with her, having left her trunk in Moreton’s carriage and her reticule in the inn parlor. She had made arrangements to leave for London the following morning, traveling with Thelma and her father and brother.
Kate was feeling foolish. It had been the obvious thing to do, in her embarrassment on her return, to rush to her room and lock the door. And it had seemed a good idea to show Nicholas that she was still angry and still had not forgiven him, by refusing to come out of her room. She had even enjoyed abusing him through the locked door. There had been no danger that the sight of him would weaken her resolve.
But she had really put herself into a nasty predicament. How was she to get out of the room without looking and feeling remarkably silly? And so she had been stuck there for two whole nights and an interminable day in between. It did not help to hear from Thelma all the disclosures that had been made during her absence and all the happiness that seemed to fill the house except for the small area of her room.
So Nicholas was happy, was he? He had good reason to be. He had suddenly acquired a respectable name, a title, fortune and property, a mother and a half-brother. And he was to leave later that very day to meet his mother in London. Who would not be happy under such circumstances? He had probably forgotten completely about her. He had not been to her room to try to coax her out since early the previous afternoon.
Kate was feeling satisfyingly sorry for herself as she sat on the edge of her bed, her packed belongings around her once again, waiting for Audrey to indicate to her that the carriage was ready at the door. She did not particularly welcome the thought of having to share a carriage with Lord Barton, but really she was thankful that she had a way of leaving the Abbey and returning to the sanity of her Aunt Priscilla’s house in London without any further delay.
The next few minutes would bring the worst ordeal, she decided when Audrey had knocked on the door and Kate had finally opened it wide to allow two footmen to carry her luggage downstairs. He would undoubtedly be waiting in the hall to see the travelers on their way. Well, she would just not let his presence bother her. She would keep her features quite composed and she would neither look at him nor speak to him. She would walk past into the carriage. If she were lucky, Lord Stoughton or a footman perhaps would be there to hand her in. She took a resolute breath and stepped out of the sanctuary of her room.
He was there, as she had anticipated. She did not have to look up to see him. She could feel him. Good heavens, why had she not realized long since that Sir Harry Tate was Nicholas Seyton? She had always had a sixth-sense type of awareness of both men. He was shaking hands with Lord Stoughton, and his brother stood beside him. The latter turned toward her as she stepped across the hall.
“Ah, madame,” he said, “how pleased I am to meet you again and to thank you for leading me to discovering my brother.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
Kate smiled at him deliberately as punishment to Nicholas, who had also turned in her direction. “I am glad for your sake, sir,” she said, “that your fears proved to be groundless.”
“Katherine . . . ” Nicholas began.
Kate let her eyes sweep over and past him, gathered her pelisse about her as if to avoid brushing against him, and swept through the open door to the waiting carriage. Lord Stoughton handed her in. It was perhaps a good thing that she missed Nicholas’ grin and the wink he directed his brother’s way before he made a dash for the staircase and raced up the stairs in most undignified manner, three at a time.
Kate stared stonily out of the carriage window for the remaining five minutes before it began to move and for the journey down the driveway and out onto the main road. What a dreadful thing pride is, her stubborn mind was telling her. Here she was, sitting in a carriage which was every moment taking her farther and farther away from him, plunging her deeper and deeper into misery, and all for pride. All so that he should not have the satisfaction of thinking himself forgiven.
Well, she thought determinedly, there was no point now in regretting anything she had done in the last few weeks. Better to put it all behind her and turn her mind to the future. No experience in life, no matter how painful, she recalled her father saying, is ever wasted if one learns from it. She had learned from this experience, right enough. She had learned that she must set herself to being a quiet, meek-and-mild governess. A nice quiet life without any emotional upheavals. Heavenly bliss! That would be her life from this moment on. She had learned to know herself at last.
“How lovely it is to have both you and Adam in the carriage with us,” Thelma was saying to her father. “For once I feel completely safe. Even with Sidney a few days ago I felt somewhat apprehensive, did I not, Kate? I suppose that once one has been held up once by a highwayman, one is bound to be nervous ever after. Though as Aunt Alice pointed out just yesterday, most people never get held up even once. It is safe to assume that if one has been held up, the same thing cannot possibly happen again.”
“I don’t think that particular highwayman is likely to show himself in these parts again,” the earl assured her a moment before the carriage lurched and began to pull to an abrupt halt.
Thelma shrieked.
“What the devil?” Adam Seyton said, pulling down the window and poking his head outside to see what had caused the commotion. “By Jove, Thelma, it’s that same highwayman. Of all the nerve! It is broad daylight.”
Thelma shrieked again and tried to burrow her way inside her father’s coat.
The door of the carriage opened from the outside to reveal emptiness. “You may all stay inside and take your ease,” a deep voice with the trace of a French accent said. “The wench who was saucy to me last time may jump down. The one in the gray garments.”
“You may go to hell with my blessing, sir,” Kate said very distinctly, sitting coolly in her corner of the carriage, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap.
Horse and rider appeared in the doorway suddenly, and the masked blond figure of the highwayman leaned inside, grabbed Kate by the waist before she had a chance to recover from her surprise, and swung her out and up before him on the saddle.
“Put me down this instant!” she hissed.
“Oh, I say,” Adam Seyton protested. “This will not do at all, you know, fellow. Mrs. Mannering is on her way to London and has no fortune on her person. I have twenty guineas. Take those and release her immediately.”
“Mrs. Mannering is a fortune,” the highwayman said before spurring his horse forward out of sight of the occupants of the carriage.
“Continue on your way, coachman,” he called to that individual, who strangely enough had put up no fight or protest at being stopped so rudely on the open highway. Perhaps equally strangely, Clive Seyton had made no attempt to dissuade the highwayman from kidnapping his daughter’s companion.
