Nicholas had no choice but to bow his head graciously and mouth platitudes about how honored he was to have a lovely lady for each arm. But his mind registered with dismay the reason why Lady Lacey had relinquished the arm she had leaned on since leaving the house. The Marquess of Uppington was deep in interested conversation with Lord Barton and his bailiff. Nicholas was even more alarmed to note that the rest of the group was following him and his two ladies up the gradual slope that led soon to the steeper climb up the hill. He cast one appealing look in Charles Dalrymple’s direction, but that faithful friend had his head down to hear something that Angela Lacey was saying.
Well, Nicholas thought resignedly as he bent his sidelong look at Miss Barr-Smythe to start the giggling and the chattering in motion again, they would be out of his sight for a few minutes only. He could not watch them for twenty-four hours a day, after all. And Barton was not likely to disappear before the ball he himself had announced that morning.
They strolled in very leisurely fashion up the hill, the gradient being quite steep and the afternoon warm. Nicholas was relieved to hear the rumbling tones of Lord Barton’s voice somewhere behind him even before they reached the top. He relaxed again and continued to listen to Lady Lacey. Being a vastly more sensible lady than his other companion, she required most of one’s attention when she spoke. The three of them were the first to the top. They stood there for several minutes marveling at the magnificent view while the others gradually emerged from the trees and straggled up to them.
Perhaps ten minutes passed before it became quite obvious to Nicholas that now they were all gathered on the bare top of the hill and that Uppington was still absent. He looked frantically around him again. But he was right. Everyone else was present. Uppington was not.
“I see that the marquess has been put to shame,” he drawled. “He must be panting with exhaustion somewhere on the side of the hill.”
“No,” Lord Barton said. “He returned to the Abbey.”
“Ah, what a coward,” Lord Stoughton said. “And all the rest of us have made it to the top without one casualty.”
“He remembered an important letter that must be written before today’s mail coach leaves,” Lord Barton said. “He seemed quite worried about it. He sent his apologies, Barbara.”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” that lady called gaily. “I am enjoying the company of my present handsome escort even if I do have to share him.”
“Well, you should be accustomed to having a handsome escort, my love,” Sir Peregrine said with a smile in her direction.
Nicholas was feeling sick with panic and indecision. She was safe at the house, was she not? She would be with Lady Thelma and her aunt. Was it flowers they were going to plan? Invitations? It did not matter. She would be with them. She would be safe. It was foolish of him to worry quite this much. But he had to go and make sure. He would not rest until he saw that she was indeed safe. But how to get away? Feign a sudden illness? Remember that he too had urgent business back at the house? It just could not be done. But he would be away an hour or more if he waited for everyone to have had his fill of the view and a chance to recover breath after the climb. And the group strolled at a snail’s pace. There were two miles to cover between here and the Abbey.
He was just going to have to be thoroughly ill-mannered, he decided after a couple of agonized minutes. He could not afford to care what other people would think of him. Anyway, he had cultivated a character for Sir Harry that would make such behavior quite credible. He wandered with impatient slowness a little way down the hill, apparently admiring the view across the valley to where the Abbey stood and beyond to the hills on the other side. He strolled among the trees below the summit until he was hidden from view above. And then he broke into a run.
She was not at the house. The butler informed him of that when he entered the hallway. Neither was Lord Uppington.
No, Lord Uppington had not returned to the house. Had he not gone with the walking party?
Yes, Mrs. Mannering had stepped out quite a while ago. No, he had not seen which direction she took. Neither had the two footmen on duty in the hall.
Nicholas left the house again, feeling all the panic and frustration he had felt up on the hill when he had first known of Uppington’s disappearance. After a few moments of indecision he raced around the Abbey and set off at a run down the mile of grassland between the house and the lake.
The Marquess of Uppington had been somewhat more fortunate. He had met a gardener’s boy who had seen Mrs. Mannering set off down the driveway half an hour before. The marquess had followed in her footsteps five minutes later, on foot, though he had made a brief visit to the stables first.
Kate was on her way back up the driveway. Beneath the shade of the elm trees it was cool and quiet. But she would not have noticed the discomfort of the hot rays of the sun. She was smiling to herself and humming a tune. Her reticule was swinging from one hand.
What a glorious, glorious day. She had hoped and hoped, of course. But deep down she had not really expected it all to be so easy. She felt like laughing out loud to know that she was the one who had thought of it. And it was so simple and so obvious really. Nicholas had not thought of it, though he had set his mind to solving the mystery long before she had. It made perfect sense that his father would have had a traveling companion on his Grand Tour. And she had thought of it.
Josh had returned that morning and had hardly been able to contain his own excitement when she arrived. He had a letter for her from her distant cousin Lord Lindstrom. Perhaps it was an invitation to go and visit? Josh had been made welcome. He had been allowed to sit right in the kitchen and eat. He giggled with delight at the memory.
Kate had sat down right there in the lodge and opened the seal with shaking hands. She glanced to the signature. It really was from Lord Lindstrom and addressed to Nicholas Seyton. She had pretended that her own letter was from him. It was a good thing that none of the Pickerings seemed able to read.
And there it was inside, the information she needed. Oh, not quite as clear-cut as it might have been. But good enough. It should be good enough. Yes, Lord Lindstrom had traveled with Lord Stoughton for six months. And there had been a female at the start of their tour. A lady, too, though one whose family had fallen on hard times, he seemed to recall. Stoughton had talked about her a good deal for a few weeks after leaving her. Lord Lindstrom did not remember that the viscount had contacted her again, but of course they had not returned from Italy together. Yes, her name might have been Annette. Or Marie. Or something typically French.
It had happened while Lord Lindstrom was visiting relatives. They had recently been bereaved or he would have taken his friend with him. It had not seemed quite appropriate to take a stranger to visit them at such a time. Though as far as that went, they were quite genteel in manner and doubtless would have made him welcome. But Stoughton had stayed with an impoverished widow in a village close by. The girl—Annette or Marie or whatever her name was—might have been her daughter or niece. She lived there, anyway.
No, he could not recall the name of the village, though he had racked his brains for all of fifteen minutes trying to remember. Something typically French. But his relatives’ estate was the Hotel Beaumaris. It was between twenty and thirty miles north of Paris, a little off the main road.
That was really the sum of the information in the letter. There were missing details, most notably the name of the village where Annette had lived. And Lord Lindstrom had been unable to confirm beyond all doubt that this lady Lord Stoughton had met really was Nicholas’ mother. Apparently the viscount had been quite a ladies’ man and had possibly had more than one mistress during the months of his absence from England.
But Kate was convinced that she was on the right track. She had to be. And the missing village name was really quite a minor setback. It was close to the Hotel Beaumaris, wherever that was. It should be easy to find. Twenty to thirty miles north of Paris.
Now all she had to do was decide what to do with her information. Should she write to Nicholas immediately? It would give her great satisfaction to do so, to write a cold businesslike letter to him passing on information that might be of crucial importance to his future. She would enjoy imagining his discomfiture at remembering his shabby treatment of her. She would refuse to accept any sort of thanks or reward from him. She would return any token of his gratitude with contempt.
Or should she wait? Would it not be even more satisfactory to be able to give him more definite information? If she could find out the name of that village, perhaps? Or even beyond that, if she could write to that village to find out if Nicholas’ mother still lived there? How could that be done, though? Would she write to the mayor or the priest to ask if there was a female resident in her forties or thereabouts answering to the name of Annette?
Kate’s smile broadened at the absurd thought and she gave her reticule an extra twirl before resuming the song she had been humming without conscious thought.
And then she saw Lord Uppington.
