The Gentleman's Quest Read online

  “If that’s why you’ve come, I’m afraid I can’t offer you any hope on that score,” Mr Marchant said. “They were my father’s, you see.” Sadness flashed briefly across his features, and Hero cursed Raven’s greed. How many times had he swooped down upon a grieving relative to break up and sell the precious volumes the deceased had spent a lifetime lovingly acquiring?

  “I’m sorry,” Hero said, and she meant it. But when his dark gaze met her own, she felt as though he were looking right into her, and she glanced away, unwilling to let anyone, especially this man, see her. Suddenly, she wondered whether he could tell how he affected her, and she straightened, determined to reveal nothing of herself.

  “Certainly, I can understand your feelings,” Hero said, briskly breaking whatever connection had been between them. If Christopher Marchant’s only attachment to his father’s collection was sentiment, then he shouldn’t care about any of the individual items, which made her task that much easier. “I would not want you to part with so treasured an assembly, but perhaps you could spare one volume?” she asked.

  At her words, Mr Marchant’s open expression turned closed, making her wonder if he was as uninterested as he seemed. Was he aware of what he possessed and its potential value? Any collector would know that a book long thought lost would start a bidding war.

  Hero gave no outward sign of her thoughts, though the change in Mr Marchant made her uncomfortable. Did he realize she had hoped to dupe him? He had seemed genuinely welcoming, but now there was an edge to the man, the kind that made her wary.

  On occasion even the old and withered antiquaries were immune to her charms. Some miserly creatures were intent upon holding on to the meanest title even if it meant going without supper. But Hero did not intend to return to Raven empty-handed, so she chose her next words carefully.

  “Perhaps you are aware of interest in the volume, a text by Ambrose Mallory?”

  To Hero’s surprise, Mr Marchant’s handsome face darkened with anger, and she hastened to avoid any outburst that would destroy her chances entirely. “I’m afraid once word is out, there is no stopping them,” she said, with a shrug of apology.

  But he was not placated. Instead, he looked astonished by her comment. “You cannot mean to tell me that there are more Druids out there, intent upon evil?”

  Druids? Hero kept her expression steady as she realized her host might not be in his right mind. Even as she shied from the possibility, she wouldn’t put it past Raven to send her here, knowing of his condition. It was just the sort of twisted jest that amused Raven, who might hope to gain a bargain, as well.

  Floundering, Hero cast about for some sort of reply and tried a conspiratorial smile. “Not Druids, sir, but something far more dangerous,” she said, leaning forward. “Bibliomaniacs.”

  But Mr Marchant was not amused. Surging to his feet, he turned toward the doorway, and for one startling moment Hero thought he might forcibly evict her. She felt a tremor of fear. Or was it excitement? But Mr Marchant appeared to regain control of himself as he strode toward one of the deep-set windows.

  Rain was lashing against the panes, pounding as fiercely as Hero’s heart, and the very air crackled, like that which presaged lightning. She was on the edge of her seat, ready to make her escape, if necessary. Yet at the same time, she had to fight the urge to go to him, for he seemed in need of comfort.

  When he finally spoke, he did not turn toward her, but gazed out at the storm. “The book you refer to is gone, burned in the conflagration that took my garden and stables. I cannot help you.”

  It was a dismissal, but Hero ignored it. Her mind was too busy working. Was he telling the truth? Books were often lost to fire or water, but it would not be the first time she had been handed a Banbury tale to divert attention from a prize—or to gain a higher price from another bidder. Perhaps Mr Marchant knew that some bibliomaniacs would go to any lengths to acquire an item, handing over outrageous sums for the rare and coveted.

  Word had it that Snuffy Davie paid about twopence for a book that eventually sold for £170 to the Regent himself. Those with the means, such as the Duke of Devonshire, filled whole rooms, even entire houses, with their acquisitions. It was definitely a mania, one that Hero could not understand.

  Although Mr Marchant had seemed indifferent at first, perhaps he was stricken, as well. Was he playing her, as she had tried to play him? Hero eyed him closely. “If that is true, then it is a sad loss to the collecting world, as well as to yourself.”

  “Hardly,” he said. “My sister nearly died, and that accursed book was to blame.”

  With that, his gaze met hers, and Hero swallowed hard. Again, she felt out of her element. This man’s grief and anger threatened to reach out and touch her, something that she could not allow.

  Hastily breaking eye contact, she sought to regain control of the situation. “I’m sorry,” Hero murmured. “But I believe I have some information that might be of interest to you, if you would hear me out?”

  He turned to look out at the rain again, reaching up to run a hand through his dark hair, and Hero found her own gaze lingering on the thick locks in need of a trim. His clothes were those of a gentleman, though not of the most expensive materials, but his form was such that he could probably wear anything to his advantage. And Hero found his simple breeches and coat far more appealing than the London dandies with their gold embroidered waistcoats or Raven’s friends with their old-fashioned wigs and silk breeches.

  When he said nothing, Hero decided to press her point. “You see, with that copy burned, any other would be the sole surviving edition, a very valuable volume indeed. And my uncle has reason to believe that another exists, perhaps in this very house—”

  Mr Marchant cut her off. “I certainly hope not,” he said. He turned his head to send her another probing glance. “Are you even aware of what you are seeking? This book that you want tells how to augur the future from the death throes of innocent people. And my sister was to be one such victim.”

  Hero sucked in a harsh breath. Was that the subject, or was Mr Marchant delusional? Hero cursed Raven for giving her so little information, but the thought focused her attention on her task. Druids and auguring, whether real or not, had little to do with it.

  “I’m sure my uncle has no interest in the text,” Hero assured her host. “It’s the rarity of the work that makes it collectible.” Without waiting for Mr Marchant’s response, Hero pulled the paper Raven had given her from her reticule and held it toward him.

  “My uncle found this in another book he acquired. Since all copies of the Mallory were thought lost until recently, he was most interested, of course.”

  For a long moment, Hero waited, hand outstretched, but Mr Marchant did not stir from his position.

  “Perhaps I have not made myself clear,” he said. “I have no interest in this work except to destroy it.”

  Now he was talking madness. “I can hardly believe you, the son of a scholar, would condone suppression of the written word,” Hero said, hoping to shame him.

  But he did not argue. Desperate now, Hero stammered out a protest before catching herself. She took a deep breath, then eyed him levelly.

  “I assure you that Augustus Raven has no intention of letting anyone even see the book, except to admire its position in one of his presses. His collection is vast and varied, but it is the singular editions he particularly treasures, the pages being of no consequence, as long as they have not been gutted.”

  Mr Marchant simply shook his head, and Hero’s heart sank. “Perhaps you don’t realize the kind of sum Raven would consider paying.”

  But even that did not move him, and Hero tried to make some sense of his stand. It would be just her luck to find the only man in England with some sort of conscience. Usually, she was a good judge of people, but even she could not take the measure of Christopher Marchant. Was he a lunatic? A fool? That rarest of all creatures, a man without a price? Or had he simply received a better offer?

>   Hero studied him closely, looking for a telltale sign, a hint of how she should proceed. But she could see no hidden meanings, no deep dark secrets she could use against him, no weaknesses she could exploit, no promise of further negotiation. Or was her judgement clouded by the man himself?

  Finally, he turned away from the windows to face her. “I would not send you out in this storm, so you are welcome to remain here for the night.”

  At his words, Hero didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Her instincts told her to abandon her mission now, while she could, and to run from this man who had such an effect upon her. But Raven’s will was stronger than her own, and he had sent her here with a purpose.

  Hero nodded her agreement, knowing that she would try again at supper, at the very least, at breakfast at the very latest. And if all else failed, she could search the place herself.

  Kit pulled off his neckcloth with a sharp jerk, tossed it aside, and sank into a chair to stare moodily out at the darkness. But even he realized that he spent entirely too much time looking out into the gloom, and he forced himself to turn away from the window. Instead, his gaze was drawn across his bedroom to the decanter he now kept on a chest of drawers. There was nothing wrong with a glass or two to help him sleep, he told himself.

  But he knew his sister Sydony wouldn’t agree. She would not approve of his behavior, the nightly drinks and the brooding that she would say was not like him. But he didn’t feel like himself. He hadn’t since the fire.

  He was the one who had brought Sydony here, insisting that the property willed to him from a great-aunt was good fortune. And he had reveled in his new role as a landowner, ignoring her misgivings and suspicions. He’d even begun to wonder about her sanity when she prattled on about Druids and mysterious lights.

  And then he’d nearly lost her. If it hadn’t been for their old friend Barto, who had not ignored Sydony’s suspicions, Kit would have woken up in a ditch, stupid and useless, his sister dead, his garden usurped by cloaked killers.

  Kit shook his head at his stupidity. Of the two siblings, he had been the cheerful one. Syd certainly wasn’t dismal, but she had always seemed more conscientious, perhaps because she had assumed control of the household after the death of their mother many years ago. Meanwhile, Kit had drifted through life with a casual contentment—until the fire.

  Ever since he’d been unable to move forward, to tackle the rebuilding with his usual enthusiasm. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut and, angry and hurting, he questioned everything, especially himself.

  Surging to his feet, Kit moved to the chest and poured himself a glass of wine. Just for another night, he told himself. Because of her. He took a big swallow and frowned at the wry twist of fate that had brought him a guest.

  Visitors to Oakfield were infrequent, if not nonexistent, so he had been surprised when Mrs Osgood reported that a servant had arrived on foot from a broken-down coach. Racing against the storm, Kit had hurried out, only to come across a beautiful creature standing fearlessly against the wind, one hand holding the hood of her cloak against her streaming hair. Just as though she were waiting for him.

  He had been so desperate for companionship that he had imagined…Hell, Kit wasn’t sure what he was thinking when he saw her, probably that she was some sort of answer to everything that ailed him. And when she fitted so well against him, his hopes seemed confirmed.

  Kit shook his head. Whatever conquests he had made had been left behind in his old neighborhood, while the female population around here stayed well clear of Oakfield and its owners, out of long habit. So he could hardly be blamed for letting his imagination run away with him when presented with a young woman who was as articulate, intelligent and opinionated as his sister, while making poor Syd look like an antidote.

  But then he’d found out what she was about, this Miss Ingram. Hero. Kit swirled the name around on his tongue and found it bittersweet. If she had come for any other reason, he would have welcomed her into his home, perhaps even into his life. Instead, he had studiously avoided her company.

  It had not been easy for a man so isolated to forgo such an opportunity, especially when his visitor was no ordinary female. Kit’s mouth twisted wryly at that understatement. Unusual and intriguing, Miss Ingram was a puzzle that begged closer study. But more than that, she somehow had managed to stir him to life, as nothing else had.

  Kit couldn’t help remembering his first sight of her, standing like a beacon in the gloom, as though she could hold back the darkness. Tossing back the last of his drink, he shuddered. Looks could be deceiving, as he well knew, for it seemed that Miss Ingram had brought the darkness with her.

  A knock made Kit lift his head, and for one wild moment, he wondered whether the beautiful siren had come to plead her case here and now. Drawing in a harsh breath, he surged to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. But when he opened the door, it was only to greet the new housekeeper.

  “Pardon me, sir, but the coachman is downstairs, wishing to see you. I told him you’d gone up to bed, but he said it was important,” Mrs Osgood added with a hint of disapproval. Obviously, she did not think much of the staff bothering her master at this hour.

  But Kit nodded without hesitation, for Hob was his friend Barto’s man and coachman was the least of his duties. Hurriedly placing his empty glass on a nearby table, Kit closed the door and followed the housekeeper downstairs. This sudden summons from Hob could not be good.

  But what? Kit wondered. Those responsible for the fire presumably had all died in it, and the maze and book that had drawn them here were gone. Yet Barto had insisted that Hob stay on at Oakfield, and Kit had agreed, if only to placate his old friend.

  Now he felt a new sense of foreboding as he slipped through the darkened house. Was his home doomed to disaster? Cursed? Kit had never believed in such nonsense, but he had never believed in murderous cults, either. His mood was bleak when he entered the dimly lit kitchen, where Hob stood waiting. With a nod toward Mrs Osgood, who disappeared into the servants’ quarters below, Kit stepped forward.

  “It could be nothing, sir,” Hob said, as though gauging his temperament.

  But Kit knew that Hob would not be here if he did not have a valid concern. “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s their coach, sir, the one that arrived today.”

  “You mean Miss Ingram’s?”

  Hob nodded. “I gather it belongs to her uncle, Mr Raven, but she’s the one who uses it the most, according to the coachman.” He paused to eye Kit soberly. “We got a new wheel put on easily enough, but when we looked at the old one, well, it wasn’t any ordinary break.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it looked like a saw had been taken to it.”

  “What? You’re saying someone deliberately tampered with the wheel, assuring it would fail?” Since his own father had died in a carriage accident, Kit was well aware of what could have happened, and he felt a sharp surge of anger. “Why would someone do such a thing? And who? Some stable hand intent upon a rich prize?”

  Hob shook his head. “It’s an old coach, worn and uncomfortable looking, hardly what one would expect from a wealthy man like Mr Raven.”

  “From what I understand, he’s something of an eccentric,” Kit said, then he glanced sharply at Hob. “Perhaps the break was not intended for Miss Ingram, but for her uncle.”

  Hob shook his head. “This was done recently, sir, and they’re far from this Raven Hill, where they make their home.”

  “But if whoever did this wasn’t drawn to the coach, then what do they want?” Kit mused aloud. He didn’t like any of the possibilities, least of all the answer he got from Hob, who eyed him with a frown.

  “Perhaps they want something inside it.”

  Chapter Two

  Kit’s mood was dark when he returned to his room. The candles he had left burning flickered as he swung open the door and closed it behind him. Without conscious thought, he reached for his glass, but it wasn’t
where he had left it. Glancing around, he found it had fallen to the floor, which was probably a good thing, for he needed his wits about him. He set the empty glass on the table and sank into his chair.

  In the silence that followed, his gaze drifted to the empty seat opposite, and he realized that he missed having a sounding board. His old friend Barto’s advice would be welcome now, as would Sydony’s. Although the siblings had been apart before, this was the first time in his life that Kit had lived alone. And he’d better get used to it, for Sydony would be marrying Barto soon.

  Kit had been so pleased at the news that he had not given a thought to the day when his sister would be gone, both she and Barto far away. But now that day loomed before him, and Kit glanced at the glass again before he caught himself.

  He had a good home, which he planned to improve, property he hoped to make prosperous, and money he could draw upon to do both. So what if he was alone? He would just have to make more of an effort to meet the locals. Surely the gentry would come around, and there were some young people among them, for Kit had seen them at church.

  The ladies he had chanced upon there, however, paled in comparison to the one who was under his roof. So why wasn’t such a beautiful and intriguing creature married? Perhaps she was betrothed, Kit mused, but not many men would let her travel over the countryside making deals for her uncle.

  As a rule, her gender did not conduct business. Although there had always been rich and powerful females who exerted their authority, often behind the scenes, a young woman usually did not call on gentlemen, even with a chaperone in tow. Perhaps Miss Ingram simply had been traveling in the area, as she claimed. Yet she spoke of her uncle’s concerns so knowledgeably that Kit suspected this wasn’t the first such errand she had undertaken.

  He tried to remember all that he knew about Augustus Raven, but it wasn’t much. The man styled himself after Horace Walpole, a dilettante of the past century who had authored The Castle of Otranto. As far as Kit knew, Raven had never dabbled in writing, but just as Walpole was famous for his Gothic home, Strawberry Hill, Raven had his own elaborate fortress called Raven Hill.