The groom was looking at her with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think you need worry about Master Nick, ma’am,” he said. “He is quite well able to take care of himself, wherever he may be.”
“But what if there is some danger that he does not know of?” Kate asked. This man was not believing her. Had Nicholas not been in touch with him about her?
“What is this danger, ma’am?” he asked. “If I did happen to hear where he has gone, what message would you like passed on to him?”
Kate hesitated. The groom’s manner was far from encouraging. But she had to trust someone. She had to let Nicholas know. And he had said specifically that this taciturn, burly man was his friend. “There are two guests here who know him,” she said, “and they know he is in the area. They are going to be looking for him. He is a wanted man. Did you know that? It would be dangerous for him to be recognized.”
“I shall let him know what you have said if I happen to hear of him, ma’am,” the man said, turning away as if to return to work.
“Wait a minute,” Kate said, frowning. “Do you not wish to know which two guests?”
“I reckon you could give me their names, ma’am,” he said.
Kate was feeling very indignant. She was not believed. This man was not taking her seriously at all. It was doubtful that her message would ever find its way to Nicholas. “Mr. Charles Dalrymple and Sir Harry Tate,” she said, and watched, incredulous, as the man merely touched his hat and strode away from her back into the stables.
Well, she thought, so much for Barret. Nicholas Seyton was obviously an incredibly careless man. He was living on the brink of disaster and did not even know who his friends were. If the servants had not told Lord Barton of his whereabouts, the reason seemed to be more apathy than deliberate conspiracy. He almost deserved to end up at the gallows. But that thought immediately sent her scurrying in the direction of the driveway that led to the main gates. Perhaps Josh Pickering would be more helpful. Surely he would agree to take a message for her. She might have to write it down, of course. She was not sure she trusted him to remember a verbal message, though Nicholas had assured her that Josh was capable of doing so. Unfortunately, she was fast losing faith in Mr. Seyton’s judgment.
Nicholas Seyton was almost enjoying himself. Not entirely, of course. He was still at a loss to know how he was to get the information he wanted. Clearly his father’s cousin was not going to reveal anything in the ordinary course of events. A search of the library was going to be a very slow business and was very unlikely to turn up anything useful anyway. Katherine Mannering, of course, seemed to have thrown her energies into the hunt. He might have expected that she would do so despite his express command to her not to become further involved in his affairs.
But despite the frustrating situation in which his affairs seemed to be at present, Nicholas was almost enjoying himself. He found the danger of his situation exhilarating. Finding himself free to wander around his former home, deferred to as a guest by the earl, treated as a stranger by all the servants, who knew him so well, was quite stimulating. Each time Cousin Clive looked full at him and talked to him, he felt a wicked glow of triumph. He was used to operating behind a mask, though almost disappointingly no one except Katherine Mannering had ever put it to the test. To be able to walk around without a literal mask but to remain unknown nevertheless was an exciting irony.
The knowledge he had gained the day before had stimulated him even more. So the earl knew that he had not gone away from Dorset, did he? Katherine had been quite right about that. And he was attempting to ferret him out of his hiding place. What a marvelous scene that had been: Barton enlisting the help of Dalrymple and himself to find himself!
One fact of that scene had particularly satisfied Nicholas. He now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all his conclusions about the new earl were not wild conjecture. The man had lied quite brazenly. Clearly he really did have something to hide. And he had shown a weakness. Once one begins to lie, Nicholas believed, even in a small and seemingly insignificant way, one is vulnerable. Barton’s best self-defense would have been to convince himself utterly of the truth of his own story concerning Nicholas’ past and to act forever after as if that story were true. If he had told Nicholas two months before that he must leave Barton Abbey because his presence there was an offense to decency, then he should have kept to that attitude even if it showed him in an unsympathetic light to his sister and his guests. But he had shifted ground. He was vulnerable. The thought was some small encouragement.
Nicholas had not been totally idle in his three days at the Abbey. His thoughts on the way back from Wiltshire had convinced him that at one time at least some important papers had been lost at Barton Abbey: his mother’s letter to his father and probably some papers his father had brought back from France to prove the legality of his marriage. He did not really expect to find those papers, but it did strike him that his new knowledge could be tested on the servants, several of whom had been in service at the Abbey for a longer period than five-and-twenty years.
Speaking to the servants at length was, of course, a tricky business. It was unlikely that a man of Sir Harry Tate’s character would spend a great deal of his time conversing with servants. Such behavior might arouse suspicion even if he had decided to make Sir Harry a pleasant character. So the questioning had to be done gradually, as opportunity arose. So far he had talked with the butler, whom he had engaged that morning to show him the salon again and explain whom the various portraits represented. The Earl of Barton had appeared quite touched by his interest.
Beneath the occasional bored and inane comments intended for any casual observer, Nicholas had questioned the butler about those events that had happened so long ago. Unfortunately, the man could remember little. Yes, the present Lord Barton had journeyed to France after the death of the viscount and come home with him, Master Nick, and a wet nurse. No, the wet nurse had not stayed beyond a few days. She was French and had presumably returned to her own country. No, he did not recall where the woman came from. She could not speak English, anyway.
He knew nothing about the late earl’s papers. They had always been handled by his lordship’s secretary. He had left Barton Abbey ten years or more before and died soon after. He did remember the letter from France that was addressed to the dead viscount. He remembered that the butler at that time—he himself had been only a second footman—had not known whether he should risk upsetting his lordship by delivering the letter to him or whether he should destroy it. It must have been delivered because Master Clive had gone to France soon afterward and they had all assumed belowstairs that his departure had had something to do with that letter. No, he could not say what had happened to the letter.
Yes, the butler said, his brow furrowing with his effort to remember events from so long ago, he could remember Master Clive—his present lordship, that was—showing a marked interest in going through the viscount’s effects. He remembered because he as second footman had been sent with his lordship’s secretary to turn out Master Jonathan’s bedchamber and cabinet and set his clothes, papers, and personal possessions in order. But they had not had to do the job because Master Clive was there before them and insisted on doing it all himself.
He remembered that because it had struck him at the time that it must be painful for Master Clive to go through his cousin’s things like that when they had been as close as brothers. He did not even want help, though the secretary had volunteered the services of the second footman. Master Clive had spent days shut up in his cousin’s rooms.
The butler’s memories seemed to confirm Nicholas’ suspicions without providing him with any answers. But there were several more servants to question. Perhaps one of them would recall some trivial detail that would prove to be the key to solving the whole mystery.
In the meantime Nicholas had other, more pressing matters to attend to that day. He had to resist the temptation to pay a visit to the library again. The urge was strong. He had thoroughly enjoyed his encounter with Katherine Mannering the afternoon before, though he really had not meant to precipitate them into physical contact. That moving of the staircase really had been accidental. But its outcome had been achingly delightful. He was becoming almost obsessed by his desire for that very sprightly young lady. He ran his tongue over the still-painful torn flesh behind his upper lip and grinned. He had never had his face slapped before and could not say he craved a repetition of the experience, but it had been worth the pain just to see her vibrant with anger. He really should not take such delight in provoking her. Poor lady. She was trying to help him, in his other persona, of course.
His grin faded fast. He believed he had rescued her from a nasty situation the evening before. It had not taken a great deal of intelligence to notice from the start that Uppington was interested in her and Nicholas had had a good idea that that nobleman’s interest would not show itself in a desire to converse with her or even flirt with her. He looked at her as if she were a lower servant, his for the taking. In his mind Uppington had Katherine consigned to his bed already.
Nicholas had noticed Katherine leaving the drawing room. He knew, without even having to look, when she was present and when she was not. Fortunately he had also seen Uppington slip from the room not more than half an hour later. He had not been able to leave immediately himself without attracting attention, but fortunately, when he did leave, he guessed right the first time that he would find them in the library.
And he had not been wrong. Her face, which was toward him as he entered, was furiously angry. But there had been fright there too, the sort of fright that he had detected in her in his cottage that first evening when he had kidnapped her. But he knew this time that she had good reason to fear. He had had to exercise all his self-control to be Sir Harry Tate instead of Nicholas Seyton. Poor Katharine. With her fear of being bedded, it was a cruel fate to have an unprincipled rake like Uppington in the house.
However, Nicholas thought now, he must forgo her for this afternoon. He would have to postpone the pleasure of infuriating her until another day. And he did not have to fear for her safety. Uppington had gone off riding with three other people. He had other things to do. Dalrymple was coming with him. He had confided all his secrets—except those concerning Katherine Mannering—to his friend. It seemed the only sensible thing to do. Dalrymple did not approve, of course.
“Listen, Nick,” he said as they rode out of the stable-yard after Nicholas had had a brief talk with Barret, “luck cannot continue on your side the way it has so far. It is little short of a miracle that in three days your identity is still unknown to Barton. You cannot plan on staying much longer.”
“Nonsense!” Nicholas said, flashing his grin at his friend and then remembering that even when unobserved it was wise to remain Sir Harry Tate whenever possible.
“You have seen how remarkably loyal all the servants here are, Dalrymple. Not a slip from any of them yet.”
“This is all a great deal more serious than I thought, though,” his friend persisted. “Barton knows you are nearby, and he is not going to give up until he finds you. You are mad to stay. You should take to your heels today. I shall stay and keep my ears open for anything that might help you.”
“Very often the safest place to be when someone is looking for you is right under that someone’s nose,” Nicholas said, gazing languidly around him at the deserted lawn that formed a shortcut to the lodge. “My cousin would not even dream of looking for me among his guests, Dalrymple.”
