Instead of answering, Kate turned sharply to look again at the stranger. From this close his resemblance to Harry was even more remarkable. Only his eyes were quite different. They were brown instead of blue.
“Oh,” she said, “you must be going to find Sir Harry Tate. Is he your brother?”
“Unfortunately I do not know this man,” the stranger said with a very pronounced French accent. “But if he is an acquaintance of yours, ma’mselle, I regret that I am not his brother.” He bowed elegantly and smiled broadly at her.
Kate had a feeling of unreality. She must be in the middle of some bizarre dream. He was Nicholas Seyton. The same smile exactly. The same voice, except that the French accent was not quite identical. But different-colored eyes. No, he was not Nicholas. His figure was too slight and boyish.
“Yes,” she stammered, “Barton Abbey is little more than twenty miles distant.”
“Ah,” the stranger said with another smile, “then I shall be able to reach there by tonight, yes?”
Kate nodded.
“May I present myself, mamselle?” he said. “Anatole Duplessis, son of le Comte de Beaumaris at your service.” He bowed again.
“And of Annette, former Viscountess Stoughton,” Kate said in a dream.
He looked at her, his expression arrested. “But how did you know this, mamselle?’ he asked.
“Because I know your brother,” she said, a frown between her brows. “You are almost as alike as two peas in a pod.”
“Pardon, mamselle,” he said, “you mean this Sir Harry . . .?” His hand circled the air expressively.
“No,” she said. “I mean Nicholas Seyton.”
He looked at her, his hand suspended in the air for a moment, and then took her firmly by the elbow and led her across the taproom to the fireplace. The innkeeper went regretfully about his business.
“You know Nicholas Seyton?” the Frenchman asked. “Is he not dead?”
“No,” Kate said. “He is at Barton Abbey.”
“Can this be so?” Anatole Duplessis was looking intently at her, bent toward her as if to catch her every word as soon as it left her lips. “But when word reached my mother in France that the old earl was dead, and we—my father and I—persuaded her finally to come and see her first son, my half-brother, we discovered that the new earl is a man who himself has grown children. How can this be, when my brother was the heir of the old earl?”
Kate swallowed. Reality was beginning to return to her. “I am sorry, sir,” she said. “I should not have said so much. I have no right. But I do assure you that your brother is still alive. He will explain the whole story to you when you see him tonight.”
The Frenchman leaned toward her still. But he too seemed suddenly to be restored to the present. He smiled brightly. “Mon Dieu!” he said. “Maman must know this. I cannot believe it. He is alive! But pardon, mamselle. I am showing extreme bad manners to detain you thus when we are strangers. Please excuse me.”
Kate made a brief curtsy and left the taproom without further delay. But she did not even look around her for Mr. Moreton and the damaged carriage, though both were within clear view. She turned to the opposite side of the inn, where the innkeeper’s wife kept an immaculate, though small flower garden.
She was going to kill. That was what she was going to do. She was going to find him. But not to marry him. To kill him. Nicholas Seyton, alias Sir Harry Tate, had better enjoy the acquaintance of his French half-brother while he could. He would not live to enjoy it for long. A dagger through the heart would be very effective. Or a bullet through the brain. Better still, between the eyes. Or a slow, agonizing poison. Or drowning with a firm feminine fist holding his head underwater. Or . . . There had to be a more satisfactory method, one that would have him groveling for mercy and her ruthlessly and adamantly refusing it. She would kill him. Death was too good for Nicholas Seyton. Or Sir Harry Tate. Or the two of them all rolled into one.
Make a fool of her, would he? She would tell him a thing or two-before she killed him, that was. If she just had him there right now before her purpose cooled. Not that it would ever cool. Not this one. This insult would be remembered in all its raw indignity until her dying day.
Kate swung back to face the stableyard. She would go inside right this minute and beg a ride with that Frenchman, no matter how improper the request. She would reach that impostor by tonight. And she would give him just long enough to shake his brother’s hand. Then she would kill him.
“Kate! What the devil do you mean running away without a word like this?”
Kate could hardly believe her good fortune. A curricle stood before the door of the inn. Lord Barton was being assisted to the ground. But hurrying toward her, hands outstretched, face filled with eager concern, was the doomed monster. Nicholas. Harry. Harry. Nicholas. She stood where she was, her jaw tightening, her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared, her hands in fists at her side.
“Don’t you come one step closer, you viper!” she hissed when he reached the edge of the tiny lawn.
Nicholas’ expression became instantly wary. He stopped moving. “Why do I have the impression that you are furiously angry, Kate?” he asked. “Is it something I have said? My language perhaps? Did you not approve of my mention of the devil?”
“That was most appropriate,” Kate said through her teeth. “He is a close associate of yours, I believe?”
He became Sir Harry Tate before her eyes. “Goodness me,” he said with a sigh. “You really are angry, Kate. Do you plan to tell me why, or am I to start guessing?”
“I am going to kill you,” Kate announced.
