“It is like this, my dear chap,” Sir Harry said with a heavy sigh. “I hate to be backed into a corner. When such a thing occurs, I have a blind urge to drag someone else in there with me. I imagine your somewhat uncomfortable experience and your, ah, blighted hopes of this afternoon would make amusing drawing-room conversation, Uppington. Good enough to be repeated at every assembly in London for a Season, I would guess.”
The marquess’s eyes narrowed and his hands at his sides closed into tight fists. But he said nothing. He turned on his heel eventually and began to stride on toward the house.
Sir Harry made no move to accompany him. “Oh, Uppington,” he called before that gentleman had moved out of earshot, “I shall not rearrange the features on your face if you touch Mrs. Mannering again. You need have no fears for your good looks. I shall merely kill you.” There was no drawl this time. His voice was curt and clear.
Lord Barton was seated at the desk in his cabinet, apparently concentrating all his attention on the dry pen he was turning end over end against the blotter. He had thought himself in the clear. He had begun to relax again. The letter he had received from Shropshire that morning had made him particularly exuberant. Jonathan’s boy was definitely in residence there. It had seemed safe to assume that he had forgotten his curiosity about his mother or had convinced himself that she was not worth finding. Now what was he to think? Nicholas was talking of a trip to France despite the political situation? There could surely be only one reason why he would be doing so. Did he know where to search? Was there any possibility that he might have discovered something? Apparently he had mentioned something of the sort in his letter to Charles.
But what? Charles had been quick to cut off the information that Sir Harry had been about to reveal.
What had the boy found out? There was nothing. It was not possible that he had discovered anything of any importance. He was probably going to France, or considering going, on a wild-goose chase.
The earl put down the pen, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. It would be stupid to worry. He was becoming obsessed by his fears. If Nicholas had found anything of real value, he would have come to the Abbey to confront the usurper. And Lord Barton did not like using that word to describe himself, either. He was no usurper. Who was this boy, more than the son of a Frenchwoman who had been clever enough to trap Jonathan into marriage a mere month before the child was born? It was he, Clive, who had the birth and upbringing to be master at Barton.
What was it the boy had discovered? And why had Charles been so anxious to conceal the contents of his letter? Did he know? Had Nicholas revealed his suspicions to him? And did this Tate know too? Apparently Charles had shown him the letter.
It was probably nothing. If he could only see that letter, he would be able to set his mind at rest again. Was it possible? Lord Barton’s heart began to thump quite uncomfortably against his waistcoat. Charles had joined Adam and Angela and that Carstairs chit in a walk into the formal gardens after returning from the lake. Was he still there? Tate had remained at the lake awaiting Uppington’s return, Charles had said.
The Earl of Barton left his rooms and walked without noticeable haste toward the drawing room, which was at the south front of the house. He was pleased to find that there were no occupants. He looked down on the fountain and garden. Yes, they were still there, the four of them, the two girls sitting on a wrought-iron seat, Adam standing beside them, and Charles squatting on the gravel walk in front of them. And they were at the far end of the garden, apparently engrossed in conversation.
Lord Barton found that his hand was shaking and his breath coming in short gasps by the time he shut the door of Charles Dalrymple’s bedchamber behind him and looked around. He had no idea how he would explain his presence here if by chance Charles returned unexpectedly from his walk in the garden. Or Tate. There was no telling when he might return.
It was unlikely he would find it in a hurry. He was mad to have come. It would take him half an hour at least to look through all the drawers. He walked through to the small dressing room attached to the bedchamber and wondered wildly where to start. But he did not have to make a decision. A half-folded piece of paper had been flung carelessly onto the washstand. Lord Barton crossed the room with hasty strides and snatched it up. Then he grabbed it with both hands, scarcely able to credit his good fortune.
He read hastily. He dared not take the letter back to the safety of his own room. In all likelihood Charles would miss it before it could be returned. His eyes skimmed two paragraphs of light, friendly gossip. They slowed on the third paragraph.
I shall be going to France as soon as I am able. Are you surprised? Who would want to enter the lion’s den when the lion is roaring with hunger? you might ask. I cannot spare a thought for old Boney. I am near finding my mother! My own mother, Dalrymple. Can you imagine my excitement? All my life I have assumed that she was dead. Only just before Grandpapa died did I discover that there was no evidence that she was no longer living. And she is French. My own mother one of the enemy. And do I care? Ask any orphan how he would feel, my friend.
There have been problems. The new earl was the one to bring me from France as an infant. Alas, he no longer remembers any of the details, and I am afraid that I angered him by persisting with my questions. I was almost ready to admit defeat, Dalrymple, when I discovered—oh, glorious day—an old letter that gives me her direction. The information is five-and-twenty years old, but good enough, surely. I am afraid I was trespassing when I found the letter, taking one final farewell of the Abbey before removing here. I shall trace her, my friend, if I have to travel the length and breadth of Europe.
I have just finished writing a letter to his lordship and was fit to bursting with the news. But I said nothing. He explained in an earlier letter, you see, that my mother is or was a dancer. That means that she could have been worse too, Dalrymple. Now I am past caring what she is if she is only alive. But I can well understand that his lordship might consider the finding of her a further blight on the family name. I shall find her and then decide if I must keep my discovery a secret or if I may invite him to share my joy. So keep this to yourself, friend.
I am chafing at the bit, eager to be on my way, but I cannot leave for France for at least another month. There is business here that I must attend to first. But as soon as I may, I am off to seek my mother, Dalrymple. Wish me good fortune. I shall let you know.
The Earl of Barton almost crumpled the letter into a ball until he recollected himself. He laid it down with shaking hands in just the place from which he had picked it up, and withdrew hastily to his own rooms again.
For the first time since the house party had begun almost two weeks before, conversation did not flow freely at the dinner table. The older couples were perhaps fatigued after a long afternoon in the sun and on the water. Lord Uppington, who had led Lady Thelma in and seated her beside him as usual, neglected his customary attentions to her. He seemed preoccupied and without appetite. His hooded eyes glanced occasionally at Sir Harry Tate, and narrowed more than once with an unfathomable expression on Kate.
Lady Thelma did not seem to notice the inattention of her suitor. She toyed with her food and scarcely raised her eyes from her plate. When she did, it was to gaze fixedly at Mr. Moreton, who sat on the opposite side of the table. Once their eyes met and held until she returned her attention to her plate. Mr. Moreton, his head imprisoned between the usual high shirt points, made little attempt to entertain either Angela Lacey to his right or Kate to his left. He watched his beloved far more than she appeared to observe him.
But neither of his neighbors really felt his incivility. Angela was too aware of Charles Dalrymple at her other side, their shoulders almost touching on occasion. She stole glances at his profile at intervals during the meal, trying to contain her blushes as she remembered that that good-humored mouth had given her her first kiss as they walked back to the Abbey from the lake earlier that afternoon. She had scarcely looked him in the eye since.
Charles Dalrymple was aware of the quiet, sweet girl at his side too. And he knew that he must arrange an interview with her father now that he had taken the irrevocable step of kissing her. He was glad he had done so. But he could not relax and converse with her. He was too worried about that madcap Nick. It was a dangerous scheme, to try to make Clive desperate enough to come out into the open. He had never thought of Clive as villainous. But if he had had the audacity to deprive Nick of his birthright, there was no telling what he might do if he thought his secret would be discovered.
And their plan was working. The letter had been touched. The hair Dalrymple had placed carefully across the fold of the paper had disappeared, and the top-right-hand corner of the paper did not quite touch the marble flower on the washstand that it had covered when he had placed it very carefully before going out. And no servant had been into the room. Dalrymple had left careful instructions with his valet and had checked with the man on his return.
Nicholas for his part was feeling the stirrings of excitement, like a soundless hum at the back of his mind. It was a feeling he was familiar with. He had had it on that night when he had gone out to discover the smugglers for himself and again the first time he had joined them on a run. He had had it the night he had waited for two hours for the Barton carriage to make its appearance on the highway so that he might kidnap Lady Thelma. He had it now.
Clive Seyton was falling into the trap. He had a month. The house party was due to continue for a little more than a week. Just before then or, more probably, soon after would be the time Barton would choose. He would not be able to trust to a letter or to sending someone else in his place. He would have to go himself. All he, Nicholas, would have to do would be to watch the man night and day and follow him when he slipped off to France. He would be led straight to his mother, or at least to the place where she had been at the time of his birth. But he had the advantage over the earl. He had friends whom he could trust. The impossible twenty-four-hour watch would not have to be on his shoulders alone. Others would help him watch. He would be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
Nicholas hardly even noticed Kate beyond one penetrating glance when they first entered the dining room, to see if there were any signs of distress or imminent collapse. There were no such signs, as he had expected.
Kate was filled with glee and suppressed excitement. She had chosen right the first time. The Pickerings knew where Heathfield Court was. It was surprising, really, they said, since the manor was over in Devon and not one of the famous houses of the land that everyone knew about. They would never have heard of it themselves if it were not for the fact that Mr. Pickering’s second cousin Alf had married the daughter of the second gardener at Heathfield Court and gone to live there twenty years or more before.
The house could be reached in a hard day’s ride, Mr. Pickering had assured Kate. It was hardly worth sending a letter there when any of the stable lads could undergo the journey there and back in two days. Josh, for example. Josh knew the way. He had made the journey three times when Alf first married, helping the bridegroom remove his possessions to his new home. And Josh never forgot something like that. He was good at holding things in his memory, was Josh. Always had been.
Before she had had any time to consider the matter and decide what was best to do, Kate had found herself confronted by a grinning and furiously nodding Josh and had accepted the offer to use him as a messenger boy. She was to return to the lodge either that night or early the following morning with a letter for Lord Lindstrom. In two days’ time she might have her answer. She might have the information that could lead Nicholas to his mother and the truth about himself. It would be a wild triumph for her, even though she cared not the snap of a finger, of course, for his good opinion.
Lord Barton, sitting in dignified silence at the head of the table, was planning his trip to France as soon as his guests left the Abbey, and grimly hoping that Nicholas could be relied upon to complete his business in Shropshire before taking his own departure.
