“Oh,” Kate said, the excitement in her voice not hard to feign. “I would wager that Papa would be delighted to hear of his friend once more. Do you know in which part of Devon his lordship lives?”
“Heathfield Court is the name of the place,” Lord Poole said after a moment’s consideration. “I’m afraid I would not know the exact direction, ma’am. I don’t know this part of the world. Bath is the farthest west I have been until coming here.”
“Oh, how splendid,” Kate said. “Bath has always been a place I have longed to visit. Do tell me about it. Is it true that the color of the buildings is so white that the traveler is quite blinded when approaching the city?”
Lord Poole quite happily fell into a conversation on the merits of Bath and its lamentable decline as a fashionable resort in recent years. Kate listened with half an ear while her mind raced with excitement. Perhaps she would not even have to wait until she heard from Aunt Priscilla. Someone in the house—one of the servants, surely—must know where Heathfield Court was. She began composing in her head a letter to Lord Lindstrom. He must be the same Lord Lindstrom as had traveled with Lord Stoughton. His son was of an appropriate age. Surely he was the same man.
Nicholas was stretched out on the grass at the northern end of the lake, one knee raised, half-closed eyes staring up at the clouds that were scudding across the sky. He had a blade of grass between his teeth. It had been a tedious week. He hated inaction, but really there had been almost nothing he could do in those days but wait. He had not even had the mental stimulation of talking to Katherine and arousing her ire. They had exchanged scarcely a word since that afternoon on the beach.
Avoiding her had not proved difficult at all. It seemed that she was even more bent on staying away from him than he was on shunning her company. He missed their verbal exchanges. He ached to touch her. He had not realized until this week how much physical contact he had had with her since his arrival at the Abbey. Even the touch of her hand on his arm when he led her into the dining room had been something. Now nothing.
In fact, the only serious purpose that had given meaning to his days had been observing his self-imposed task as a watchdog. At all times of each day he knew where Katherine was and where Uppington was. But even that task had provided little excitement. It seemed that Katherine was no fool. Most of the time she was well capable of looking after herself. Only once had he had to even attempt a rescue. And even then it had been unnecessary. A regular check in the billiard room had shown him one afternoon that Uppington was no longer there. Katherine was alone in the library. It did not take much ingenuity to guess where Uppington had disappeared. But Nicholas had not had to use his practiced entrance and speech. He had almost bumped into Kate on her way out of the library with Russell. Uppington, presumably, was still inside, communing with a few thousand books. Nicholas had not looked inside to make sure.
And for this afternoon she would be safe. She was wise enough to stay with the large group. If Uppington or anyone else suggested a walk or another row in the boats, then he would make sure that he was one of the group. Afternoons like this should not be allowed, Nicholas thought, taking the blade of grass from his mouth and dropping it onto the ground. Sunshine and heat and the droning of insects made one think of love and the soft, warm body of a woman. Making love on the cool grass with the sound of water lapping close by.
Nicholas yawned and closed his eyes. It would be teatime soon, as soon as the boats arrived with Katherine and the others who had been left behind on the first trip. Then the action would start. Then he would see what he would see. Dalrymple had not liked the idea at all. But he would do his part. There was no doubt about that.
“Your letter from Nicholas Seyton showed him happily settled in Shropshire, my lord?” Sir Harry Tate asked Lord Barton half an hour later, when everyone was seated on blankets and busily engaged in eating the sumptuous banquet the cook had sent with two footmen.
“Yes, indeed,” Lord Barton said. “It was most gratifying, you know, to have such a prompt reply to my inquiry. I would have liked to shake my cousin’s son by the hand before he left, but one cannot help feeling that his removal to his own property is in the best interests of all concerned.”
“My feelings exactly,” Sir Harry said. “Your letter hinted that perhaps he did not intend to stay in Shropshire for any length of time, though, Dalrymple, did it not? It seems to me that perhaps Mr. Seyton does not know when he is well-off.”
“Oh?” Lord Barton looked up sharply, a lobster patty halfway to his mouth.
Charles Dalrymple glanced briefly at the earl and then looked more meaningfully at his friend. “He did not say that he plans to leave, Harry,” he said pointedly.
Sir Harry was examining the wine in his glass. He had failed to notice either his friend’s look or the emphasis of his words. “Did he not mention France?” he asked.
“France?” Lady Toucher asked. “Now, what would the poor boy be thinking of to consider spending all his money on a journey abroad? And in such troubled times.”
“I do not believe he has any firm plans for such a journey, ma’am,” Charles Dalrymple said quickly, directing another pointed glance at an impervious Sir Harry. “Merely telling me of what he dreams to do one of these days.” He laughed with exaggerated brightness. “Much in the way that I dream of visiting America someday. I doubt if I shall ever do it.”
“Oh, come now, Dalrymple,” Sir Harry drawled, “I thought you told me that Seyton had discovered something.”
“Yes, quite right,” his friend said heartily, cutting off Sir Harry in the middle of his sentence. “You will be pleased to know, ma’am, that Nick discovered that his property is far more prosperous than he expected. He was being humorous, I believe, in recounting all the extravagant things he can now do. He mentioned France and Italy. I believe even India was named.” He laughed. “I am sure he was merely having a laugh at himself. The letter was quite a private one you know, and Nick knows that I always understand his humor.” His look at Sir Harry this time was little short of a glare.
And this time Sir Harry intercepted it. “I do beg your pardon, Dalrymple,” he said with a sigh. “You did say when you shared parts of the letter with me that you did so in strictest confidence, did you not? Seyton’s family, of course, will be only too happy to know that his situation is somewhat more prosperous than he anticipated. For my part, I would say that his grandfather must have doted altogether too much on him. But then, of course, I speak of something that is none of my concern.” He returned his attention to his wineglass.
“I had a letter today too,” Christine Barr-Smythe said, “from my brother in Brighton. Prinny is there, and half the fashionable world.” She sounded somewhat wistful.
Several minutes passed before Sir Harry, looking lazily around him, realized that Kate was no longer present.
Neither was the Marquess of Uppington.
Kate had been bubbling with high spirits. She could hardly wait for the boating party to be over so that she could return to the house and discover the information she wanted. She had decided that she would ask the Pickerings first. They might not know, of course. But some one would.
She was eating a cucumber sandwich with great enjoyment, continuing to compose her letter to Lord Lindstrom, when her mood swung with alarming rapidity to the opposite extreme. The gentlemen had begun to talk about those letters again, those two letters that had arrived earlier in the day from Nicholas in Shropshire. She had not realized until they were mentioned at luncheon just how much she had been hoping, deep down, either that he had not really gone away at all or that he would write to her to explain his hasty departure. There were two letters: one for Lord Barton and one for Mr. Dalrymple. None for her.
She had been mortally depressed all through luncheon and afterward until she had conceived her notion of coaxing information out of Lord Poole. In her excitement at his knowing Lord Lindstrom, or at least at his knowing of him, she had forgotten the letters. Now they were talking about them again. And about him. She could not stand it. She was sick of hearing of Nicholas Seyton. She wanted only to forget him. She failed to note the strangeness of the fact that all her energies for the past week had been devoted to discovering the secrets of his past.
Kate finished her sandwich in one bite, got to her feet unnoticed, and walked away along the only path that led away from the water. She was soon surrounded by trees. And blessedly beyond earshot of the conversation on the bank. She would walk for a few minutes, just long enough to get rid of the dreadful feeling of emptiness that had been grabbing at her all too frequently in the last week or so, and long enough to allow the topic of conversation to be changed. It was peaceful here. Quiet. She lifted her face to look at the sky through the branches over her head and drew in a deep breath full of the smells of grass and woodland.
It was so lovely to be alone again, outside the confines of the library. Free. Just for a few minutes. She was reminded of home. There were a meadow and woodland behind Papa’s house, where she had loved to wander, a book in hand. She smiled. Her solitude had rarely lasted, though. Usually some child had detected her leaving and come running up from behind to take her hand and demand that she help pick bluebells or wild daffodils or whatever flower was in season.
“You have good taste, Kate. The wildness of nature here is vastly superior to the tamer beauty around the lake.”
Kate closed her eyes and swallowed panic before turning. Foolish. Oh, foolish. She had completely forgotten the necessity of staying close to the group. She was not free to dream of freedom. She turned toward the Marquess of Uppington, who had come up behind her on the path, and regarded him coolly.
