“I imagine he felt the awkwardness of his situation after my uncle died,” the earl said. “Mrs. Carstairs, will you have more tea? Mrs. Mannering will pour.”
“Is that the same Seyton as you had visiting some years ago when I arrived, Charles?” the rather bored drawl of Sir Harry Tate asked. “I must confess that I found the situation something of an embarrassment. One is not used to associating with persons of doubtful birth.”
“Seyton was raised here,” his friend replied. “He was as well-bred and as well-educated as you or I, Harry.” Sir Harry turned his lazy eyes on Lord Barton, “And how, pray, did the bastard come to be taken in here?” he asked. “My information was that the late Earl of Barton was something of a high stickler.”
The earl seemed reluctant to reply. But all his guests appeared interested in this slightly scandalous turn the conversation had taken. He smiled. “He was brought here as a child soon after the sudden death of my cousin, his father,” he said. “In his grief, my uncle took him in. After that, I suppose he did not like to turn him off again. And he did well by the boy. He left him the means with which to live independently.”
“Mr. Nicholas Seyton is a fortunate young man,” Sir Harry said with a languid sigh. “The aristocracy would be soon beggared, my lord, if all by-blows had to be provided for. And what happened to the mother, pray?”
“I believe my uncle settled with her,” the earl said. “It is not difficult to deal with such creatures, I understand. But I am sure we should not bore the ladies with such ancient and rather unsavory history. Perhaps you would like to retire to your room with the young ladies, Mrs. Carstairs? You will wish to rest before dinner.” Kate was bristling with indignation against the insufferable snobbery of Sir Harry Tate. Even so, she was disappointed that Lord Barton had so effectively put an end to that particular line of conversation. She rose to her feet to accompany the ladies to the west wing, where the bedchambers were situated.
She realized almost simultaneously that the conversation about Nicholas Seyton would soon have been interrupted anyway. Even before the ladies had had time to withdraw, the butler was ushering in two new arrivals, both young friends of Lord Stoughton whom she had seen in London. Mr. Sidney Moreton and Lord Poole were both dressed with the flashiness and exaggeration of young dandies. They had always somewhat amused Kate, though Lord Poole could be something of a nuisance, since he fancied himself a ladies’ man and liked to direct his gallantries her way. Mr. Moreton, small, slim, and quite undistinguished in any way Kate could see, was the young man whom Thelma secretly sighed over. He was not averse to Thelma’s charms, either, if one could judge by the flush that rose along his neck and up into his face as he bowed over her hand.
The only guests Kate had not met when she retired to her room, having accompanied Lady Thelma to hers, were the guests of honor, the Marquess of Uppington and his sister, Lady Emma North, the son and daughter of the Duke of Oakleigh. No one except Lord Barton appeared to be at all well-acquainted with these two. The earl had cultivated the acquaintance of their father only in the few weeks that preceded his leaving for the country.
Nicholas Seyton closed the door of his room behind him and blew out from puffed cheeks. Dalrymple had been given his old room just next door. But he had always liked this one, its painted Chinese wallpaper and green bed hangings and curtains making him feel as if he were in a garden. He crossed to the mirror that hung in its heavy frame above the mantel and changed his expression again into that of Sir Harry Tate. Was it convincing? he wondered. He must be sure that he did not slip into his real self even for one moment beyond these four walls.
Dalrymple had reasoned with him yet again when they had met earlier that day at a distant inn, as arranged the week before. He would never get away with his deception, his friend had argued, when everyone and his dog for miles around knew him well. Surely there were at least a few people who would be only too glad to reveal his secret to the earl. And even more surely, someone who meant him no harm would forget the charade and call him by his real name.
But Nicholas had insisted on proceeding with the plan. He did not know of anyone who wished him harm. He had always been at pains to be friendly with the local folk even before the closer ties he had enjoyed with them over the last year. And how could people resent a young man whose birth had doomed him to an obscure and humble life? There was nothing in him that could draw anyone’s envy and therefore hatred and malice.
Even if all this had not been true, Nicholas doubted that he would have listened to his friend’s cautionary words. Life had been necessarily dull for him, except perhaps for those few years he had spent at Cambridge. He had acquired a taste for adventure and danger, especially in the last year. What could be more adventurous than to masquerade so openly before his father’s cousin at Barton Abbey, surrounded by servants who had known him all his life? The challenge was quite irresistible.
And the first hour had proceeded without a flaw. The footman who had opened the door to Dalrymple’s knock; the butler, who had made his dignified way across the hall to bow before them and offer to conduct them to the drawing room; the housekeeper, who had conducted them to their rooms: all three had performed their tasks without the merest flicker of recognition.
Truth to tell, Nicholas admitted as he unknotted his neckcloth and removed his high collar with a sigh of relief, he had enjoyed his hour in the house enormously. He had not yet had a chance to enjoy the sheer pleasure of being at home again. But he found that playacting was to his liking. He had not intended to make himself quite so obnoxiously toplofty, but he rather thought that the image was a good one. It would give him the chance to ask all sorts of impudent questions and to wander into places that a well-bred guest would avoid without invitation.
He grinned suddenly as he tried to shake his arms free of the skintight coat and wished that he could have brought Parkin with him. The disguise appeared to have worked quite effectively on Katherine Mannering. He had been a little afraid of her. The woman had a sharp mind. It would not have altogether surprised him if she had recognized him immediately. But she had not. And she had thoroughly disapproved of him. He had enjoyed looking at her rather insolently when he knew she was aware of him and watching her bristle with indignation.
He had come to Barton Abbey determined to steer well clear of her. And he must still persuade himself to ignore her, forget her presence. But he realized now that the task was going to be far more difficult than he had thought. The sight of her had quickened his pulse as soon as he entered the drawing room. She seemed drab at first glance, her brown, unadorned dress dull in comparison with the bright and expensive silks and muslins of the other ladies, her hairstyle very severe and plain. But if Barton had hoped to disguise the woman’s charms by insisting that she dress thus, he was doomed to disappointment. Somehow the other ladies had looked gaudy, overdressed, and overfrizzed in comparison with her.
He had not been able to resist looking at her several times. And he had not been able to resist provoking her to indignation. The trouble with Katherine was that her behavior was always so stimulating. He had never lost a staring match with a female before. Not nearly. Most females blushed hotly and lowered their lashes as soon as they saw themselves observed, whether in genuine embarrassment or from coquetry. Not so Katherine Mannering. She had stared boldly back, hostility flashing from unwavering eyes. He had been forced to look away eventually before he either grinned or winked. And neither reaction would have suited the character he had set himself to play.
He must leave her alone. He must not respond to the challenge of causing her anger to explode or-even more tempting—of bringing her to respond to the advances of such a bored snob as Sir Harry Tate. No, he really must not.
How was he to proceed now? Nicholas wondered. It was exhilarating, of course, to be accepted as a guest in a house from which he had been banished only a few weeks before. But this episode was not just an adventurous escapade. He was here to find out anything he could about himself. The conversation in the drawing room earlier was all very well, and such a topic was worth pursuing. But of course he must not expect the earl to let anything of value slip. The man had had nearly five-and-twenty years in which to perfect his story. He was not likely to say anything careless or foolish at this late date.
He must discover if it were true that the earl was searching the library and perhaps elsewhere too. Then perhaps he would be more sure of whether his own conjectures about that letter from his mother or marriage papers his father had brought home had any basis in fact. If so, then he too must put his knowledge of the Abbey and the park to use and make sure he found the hidden document first. Though the task seemed formidable, if not downright absurd. He had had the freedom of the Abbey since he was a child. If there really were anything lying around that was of such importance to his own destiny, he would surely have found it long ago. There were no secret hiding places at Barton Abbey.
Nicholas wandered to the window of his room, rested his palms on the sill, and leaned forward to look across the lawns and flowerbeds below to the wooded hills that rose eventually to the stone wall and the road beyond. The view was almost identical to the one he had seen from the room next door almost every day of his life. He leaned his forehand against the glass and closed his eyes. Home! Oh, God, he was home again. He would do anything, he felt at that moment, anything, no matter how apparently pointless or even dangerous, to make his stay permanent again. He could not bear to think of it all belonging to that man, his father’s cousin, the stranger earl he had met in the drawing room this afternoon.
“My lord. My lady.” Kate curtsied deeply as she was presented to the Marquess of Uppington and his sister, the newest and last arrivals at Barton Abbey. They had arrived an hour before and had just now made an appearance in the drawing room, dressed for dinner. The evening meal had been held back all of twenty minutes on their account.
Kate again had not expected to be amongst the house guests for dinner. But of course she must dress and come down, Lady Thelma had assured her. Without Kate there would be unequal numbers at table, and how would they cope with that disaster? So Kate had donned her best gray silk gown, the one with the scoop neckline that actually bared the whole of her throat, dressed her hair again into the smooth bun at the back of her neck, and came down early to the drawing room so that she might stand unnoticed in the shadows. But her employer was indeed treating her more like a friend than a servant. She had brought the newest arrivals to Kate as to everyone else to make introductions.
“Is your husband one of the Norfolk Mannerings?” Lady Emma Worth asked Kate. “I did not know any of them were untitled.”
“No,” Kate replied. "My husband was from Sussex, and as far as I know, none of his relatives were ever titled.” She smiled.
“I see,” the girl said, ice dripping from both words. She opened her fan and turned to stare about the room, clearly having decided that Mrs. Mannering was beneath her notice.
The marquess did not turn away. “Do I take it from the tense of the verb you chose that your husband is deceased?” he asked.
Kate inclined her head.
“My sympathies, ma’am,” Uppington said, looking directly into her eyes.
Kate felt an inner shudder. She knew this man very well indeed. She had never seen him before, of course, and never heard of him until a few days before, when Lord Barton had announced that he would grace their house party. But she knew him very well nonetheless. The early signs of dissipation and self-indulgence and the boldness of manner were all too familiar to Kate. Just so her husband had been.
