She smiled. “There is a letter,” she said, “but I have something else to say too. I shall have to write another letter.”
“If it is not so complicated as to be beyond my intelligence,” he said, “perhaps it would be easier just to tell me and let me take the message, Kate. I promise secrecy, if that is what you are afraid of. No one but Seyton will know what you have told me.”
She looked earnestly into his eyes. “Will you tell him . . . ?” she said, and paused to take a deep breath. “Tell him that Josh Pickering has what he needs. Just that. He will understand. Will you remember that?”
“Josh Pickering has what he needs,” Nicholas repeated as through in a dream.
She smiled. “That is even more important than the letter,” she said. “But you will remember. I do trust you.” She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the lips. “I shall run and fetch the letter.”
“Wait,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “I cannot have you racing up and down the corridor half the night, risking your reputation, Kate. Return to your room and get the letter. I shall tap on your door in five minutes’ time. Hand it out to me and close the door.”
“Yes,” she said, and turned to go. But she turned back again. “Harry,” she said with a breathless laugh, “hold me once more. I do not have the courage to leave without one more kiss.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around her and hugged her to him. “Silly,” he said. “I shall see you in the morning. Good night, Kate. And thank you for tonight. You have given me a gift more precious than you know.”
He kissed her deeply on the lips before releasing her and crossing the room to the door to make sure that there was no one in the corridor outside. Kate ran lightly back to her room and found Lord Lindstrom’s letter. She put in with it the note she had found in the library, the one Nicholas’ father had written as a boy to the present earl. She handed the package to Sir Harry a few minutes later, her eyes drinking in their brief and final sight of him, her fingers tingling as they brushed his for the last time. She closed her door and leaned back against it, her eyes tightly closed.
Nicholas was the first down to breakfast the following morning. It had not been difficult to get up early; he had not been to bed at all—not since Katherine had left him, that is. He did not know what time the carriage had been ordered to take her on her way to London, but he was not going to risk missing her. He was so filled with suppressed excitement that he could not even settle to eating any food. He poured himself some coffee from the sideboard and paced the room, from the window, where his eyes examined the heavily overcast sky, to the table, where he scalded his mouth more than once with the coffee, to the doorway, where he had to stop himself from peering out to see if she were coming.
God, he thought, turning back into the breakfast room again and looking around him. God! It all belonged to him. It was his. Or rather, he belonged to it. The idea had still not quite penetrated his mind. He did not know quite how he had lived through the night, his excitement all bottled up inside him. He had wanted to run through the house, yelling at the top of his voice. He had wanted to go to Katherine, drag her from her bed, and waltz her around her room. He had wanted to shout and sing. Instead, he had stayed in his room and paced and paced for what remained of the night.
He had read the letter as soon as he returned to his room. He had expected it to be a letter from Katherine with some new information. He had certainly not expected anything quite so spectacular. Lord Lindstrom. He had never even heard of the man. How had she discovered that the man had accompanied his father on his Grand Tour? It had never even occurred to him to wonder if his father had had a companion, though he felt foolish now not to have done so. All his inquiries had been directed to what had happened after his father’s return. And how had Katherine been able to find Lord Lindstrom and to get in touch with him?
This letter would surely lead him to his mother. He would no longer have to follow Lord Barton in the hope of being led to the right place. He could leave tomorrow. Surely he would be able to trace her. If she had lived in a village, there would be plenty of people who would remember her and would know where she had gone. That was assuming, of course, that she was not still there. That surely was to hope for a little too much.
Nicholas had grasped the letter tightly in his hand and closed his eyes. Now that his dreams seemed on the verge of becoming reality, he could hardly believe his own good fortune. And it was Katherine who had discovered this. Katherine, whom he had abandoned, whom he had treated badly while impersonating someone else, all to protect her from the danger of involvement in his affairs. He might have known she would be the one to unearth the truth. And he might have known that the idea of possible danger would not deter her one whit. What if Barton had discovered somehow that she had such a letter in her possession?
The other little note touched him deeply. A note written by his father. Katherine must have found it in the library and realized what it would mean to him. What a very thoughtful person she was.
And that was not all. Nicholas opened his eyes, aghast that in the excitement of reading the letter and seeing the note he could have forgotten for the moment the other message she had given him. How could he have forgotten even for one second? When she had said the words, his senses had reeled. There could be no mistaking what she had meant. Josh had what he needed. Nicholas would understand, she had said. Did Josh have those papers? He must have. Katherine’s words could have no other meaning.
Did it make sense? Would his father have entrusted something of quite such importance to a man of below normal intelligence? If he had, then Nicholas had to admit without any further thought that his father had made an inspired choice. Clive Seyton had doubtless hunted for those papers for years. He seemed still to be hunting for them. And both he and Katherine had looked and racked their brains in an attempt to enter the mind of the rather timid, newly married young man who had been afraid to admit to his father that he had shackled himself to a pregnant French lady of reduced circumstances.
Yes, it made perfect sense, Nicholas thought. He had been told that Josh had worshiped his father, following him around like a faithful puppy. And he had heard Josh numerous times express his conviction that “Master Jonathan” would return. Of course. Josh had been told to keep the papers until his master came for them. But his master never had come. And Josh had kept the papers and the secret ever since. It might even prove difficult to get him to give them up. It seemed likely that Katherine had tried and failed.
But she had discovered the truth. How? How had she guessed? How had she got Josh even to admit to having the papers?
He must go early in the morning, he decided, to try to coax them from Josh and to find out exactly what they were. He must not assume that they were marriage papers. There was a slim possibility that they were something else. But if he waited until the morning, he might miss Katherine. And besides, he did not believe he could wait one hour longer. And it would be four or five hours before he could decently consider that morning had come.
Ten minutes later Nicholas was striding down the driveway. There was nothing for it but to disturb the Pickerings in the middle of the night. Of course, they would not be in bed anyway with a ball in progress at the house. Anyway, if those papers were what he thought, they would work to the advantage of the Pickerings too. They would not have to leave their beloved lodge.
It had taken half an hour of quiet, persuasive talk. Thirty minutes was not a long time, but under such circumstances it had seemed endless. He had to resist the urge to shout and bully, to grab Josh by the shirt collar and shake the truth out of him. But even if such had been his accustomed way of dealing with other people, Nicholas had enough wisdom to know that someone of Josh’s loyalty would die rather than give in to bullying.
Finally the package had been in his hands. He could recall now, several hours later, how his hands had shaken. He had been afraid to open it there in the cottage, where all three Pickerings sat staring at him silently and anxiously. He had brought it back to the house, lingering on the driveway, strolling merely, putting off the moment when perhaps all the truth about himself would be revealed. He had almost forgotten to be cautious of guests beginning to leave the ball. And when he was back in his room he had carefully removed his coat, washed his hands, and dried them with deliberate thoroughness.
His parents had been married in a Roman Catholic ceremony in the parish church of the village of Belleville in France almost exactly one month before his birth. His mother was the Viscountess Stoughton. He was legitimately her son. He was no bastard. His mother was a lady. His father had married her before returning to England. He had doubtless been going back for her after her confinement. Had his father lived, his mother would be living at the Abbey now. He would have been brought up as their legitimate son.
The facts rolled around in Nicholas’ head. But although he had suspected them for several months and had dedicated himself to finding out the truth for all of that time, his mind could not grasp the reality. He sat on the edge of his bed, still rumpled from his lovemaking with Kate earlier, the papers in his hand, the facts turning themselves over in his numbed mind.
He was the Earl of Barton. That thought came last. It was the least important. What really mattered was that his father had had some decency after all. He was no longer to be despised as a man who could impregnate some poor girl and then abandon her; as a man who had so little feeling for the child he had begotten that he could doom it to life as a bastard. After five-and-twenty years Nicholas could finally love the man who had given him life, the man whose picture in the salon had always haunted him. And what really mattered was that perhaps he had a mother still living and now no longer beyond his reach. He had a name and a place name with which to search. Annette Marcelin, she had been. Of Belleville.
It was as the numbness had gradually worn off his brain, long after the house fell silent, that Nicholas had wanted to shout and dance, to wake everyone in the house, to take Katherine into his arms again. But he had spent the remaining hours of the night pacing his room instead, excitement growing in him until he scarcely knew how to contain it.
And now, if only Katherine would come, he could tell her everything. She would be angry, dreadfully so. But surely she would be glad for him too. Once her anger had passed its first heat, she would share his excitement. She might even stay, at least for another day or two. Then perhaps he could accompany her to London and leave her at the home of her aunt while he journeyed to France to find his mother.
He did not know what he was going to do about Clive Seyton. He did not know what the procedure was under such circumstances. He would have to find himself a good lawyer, he supposed. And he did not know when he should confront the man with his knowledge. Certainly not before he had spoken to Katherine and worked everything out with her. Truth to tell, he had not given much thought to the more unpleasant aspects of his discovery. He was still caught up in the euphoria.
Would she never come?
