That left the curricle. She had drawn a thundering scold from Giles once when she had driven his to the gate of their property and back, a total distance of half a mile. She had taken the tongue-lashing meekly—she had had no choice with Giles—and had never repeated the experiment. One just did not do twice what Giles had scolded one for once. But she thought she had done rather well. All the way to London, though? What would she do during the nights? Or when she drew closer to the city amongst heavier traffic?
Where else? Barton Abbey? It would be rather like riding straight into the lion’s den to go there. And stupid besides. But it was a sure destination and only twenty miles or a little more away. And at least she would have breathing room for a while. Perhaps by the time she saw Nicholas again she would not be so badly affected by seeing him with his brother. And she would have the anger necessary to kill him.
The curricle was ready to leave again. Kate strode over to it with confident purpose. “I am going to take Mr. Seyton’s curricle along the street and back,” she said in the general direction of two ostlers who stood close by. “He knows about it.”
“I don’t know, mum,” one of the ostlers said. “Them horses look pretty frisky.”
“I am quite used to them,” Kate lied without deigning to look at the two men. Her heart was thumping rather uncomfortably.
“Perhaps I should talk to the gentleman,” the other ostler said hesitantly.
Kate gave him a look so full of cold hauteur that the poor man took a full step backward. “Am I being called a liar and a weakling to boot?” she asked in a voice so quiet that it spelled immediate danger to the two ostlers. “Did you not see Mr. Seyton talking to me just now? Do you think I am a common thief?”
For reply the first ostler rushed forward to help Kate into the high seat and hand her the ribbons.
“Thank you,” she said coolly and, shaking with terror, turned the horses’ heads in the direction of the village street. She expected them every moment to rear up or to suddenly bolt away. But she recalled something her father had always told her about horses, and other animals, for that matter. Show fear and they will be afraid, he had said. Show cool confidence and they will calmly obey. Kate schooled her hands to cool confidence and prayed that the horses were no mind readers.
And soon she was beyond the confines of the village, with no sign of mutiny on the part of the horses and no sound of hot pursuit from behind. After a few hundred yards of moving along at a sedate walk, she dared to flick the ribbons as an indication that the horses might break into a safe trot if they so desired. Two miles down the road she informed them that they might increase the pace to a brisk trot or even a mild gallop if the road were straight and no farmer’s cart or particularly large pothole happened to be looming ahead.
Of course, she reminded herself, to dampen any conceit that might be growing in her concerning her skills as a whip, the horses must be somewhat tired, having just finished traversing this same road in the opposite direction.
Chapter 25
It was the evening of the following day. Everyone left at the Abbey seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Most of the guests had left that same day to enjoy the remainder of the summer at their own country homes or at Brighton or one of the spas.
Lord Uppington and his sister had departed in high dudgeon, the former having been informed that his betrothal to Lady Thelma must regrettably be considered at an end. It was likely that the marquess knew very well about the elopement, yet would have been quite prepared to overlook the waywardness of his prospective bride—until after the wedding, anyway. He was not told the full truth of the change in status and fortune of his betrothed, or perhaps he would have considered himself the most fortunate of men.
Charles Dalrymple was the only one of the departing guests to whom all was explained. He left after wringing his friend’s hand as if it were his intention to break every bone and begging him not to forget his humble friend and distant relative now that he was about to soar to the social heights, especially as that friend was about to acquire a new wife. He received a not-too-gentle punch in the arm for reply.
By late afternoon only Lord and Lady Toucher and—somewhat surprisingly—Mr. Moreton remained. The latter had expected to be abandoned at the inn to make his own way wherever he cared to go. He had been somewhat puzzled when the earl had asked him, somewhat gruffly it was true, to return to the Abbey with the rest of them. He had been even more surprised when the earl had taken him aside the morning after their return and explained the change in his circumstances according to the story that Nicholas had decided should be the official one.
If Mr. Moreton still wished to marry his daughter, the earl had said with obvious difficulty, then the nuptials could be celebrated in the autumn. The man who was to be the new earl had said her dowry was to remain unchanged. Under the circumstances, seeing that Mr. Moreton had already somewhat sullied her reputation by the attempted elopement, he would allow the marriage to proceed.
Mr. Moreton, who was in transports of delight and totally unconcerned about either his own lack of fortune or his love’s changed status, wisely refrained from pointing out that a lady’s reputation was hardly compromised when she rode in a carriage for a few hours with a gentleman and her lady companion. Perhaps he understood something of his future father-in-law’s mortification at facing such a change in status. He was forced to admit to himself, though, that the earl was taking the whole thing with some graciousness. He seemed quite genuinely delighted over the good fortune of his cousin, whom he had been entertaining under an assumed name even before he knew the man’s birth was legitimate.
Lord and Lady Toucher, Lord Stoughton, and Thelma were told the same version of the story late in the afternoon after all the other guests had taken their departure. The others had been told only that Sir Harry’s long-lost brother, who had been living in France since his infancy, had sent notice of his unexpected return, and a small group from the Abbey had gone partway along the road to meet him.
Lord Stoughton and his sister, whom one might have expected to be most upset over the news that they no longer had any claim to their titles or the fortunes that might have come their way from their father, reacted quite unpredictably. Thelma leapt to her feet as soon as her father had finished speaking.
“Papa!” she cried, looking quite radiant. “Now I shall not be able to marry Lord Uppington because he will consider me quite beneath him. And I shall be able to marry Sidney. Oh, say I shall, Papa. I am so happy.”
She hugged her father, her aunt, and—after a moment’s hesitation—Nicholas, and blushed furiously.
“You are my cousin of sorts, are you not?” she said. “I did not suspect at all who you were. But I am so glad. It must be terrible to think you are a bas . . . ” She could think of no alternative word, and merely blushed hotly again.
The former Lord Stoughton was on his feet too, his hand outstretched to Nicholas. “I say,” he said, “this means I can get back to my comfortable life again without everyone expecting certain things of me merely because I am a viscount. I shall be able to go to America. Or Canada. Famous!”
“I think you might have dropped a little hint to me about who this dear man was, Clive,” Lady Toucher said, sounding somewhat aggrieved. “I would have kept the secret from everyone else. I am so glad, my dear Nicholas. You are not at all like poor Jonathan, you know. I would never have guessed. But so handsome! And so like your half-brother. I am going to claim a cousin’s privilege, my dear, and kiss you.”
She gave vent to a little shriek and a remarkably girlish giggle when Nicholas put his arms around her and hugged her tightly.
“You cannot know how wonderful it is, ma’am, suddenly to acquire a family,” he said. He smiled across at Anatole. “On both my mother’s and my father’s side.”
And indeed, Nicholas thought, Clive Seyton was playing his part with remarkable good grace. Perhaps, with a great deal of tact and hard work on his own part, he could keep these family members close to him. And Anatole. He still felt a thrill of excitement at the knowledge that he had a living mother and a stepfather as well as this half-brother, who was already dear to him after scarcely more than one day’s acquaintance.
It needed only two things to make his happiness complete. The first would be looked after tomorrow. After the departure of the remaining guests, including the earl and his family, he and Anatole would leave for London too. Within a week he would be with his mother. He could scarcely imagine how it would feel to meet a strange lady and know that she had borne him. Excitement tied such a knot in the area of his stomach that he tried not to think about that meeting too much. Anatole had said that their mother was small and dark-haired and still beautiful.
The second requirement for his happiness was that somehow he get past that locked door in the west to where he might shake Katherine by the shoulders until her teeth rattled and then wring her neck—probably in that order. The foolhardy woman had driven Dalrymple’s curricle all the way back from that inn at what must have been breakneck speed judging by her purported time of arrival. And then she had rushed past numerous guests and servants in the hall and on the stairs and straight into her room, where she had locked the door and remained ever since.
