The Gentleman's Quest Read online

  "A more pressing question is how Rauser or his attacker came to possess it," he said.

  "Very true," Honoria said. "This should have been in the trunk in the attic with the rest of Stephen's things."

  Her mother looked thoughtful. "I don't recall packing it."

  "I remember it was on the desk near his bedroom window." When Honoria closed her eyes, she could picture it next to Stephen's Bible. "But the funeral, and then being—moving from Merritton … I didn't notice if it was missing."

  Her mother suddenly gasped. "Honoria, if it were taken after Stephen's death, that would mean …"

  Someone had come into this house to take it.

  Honoria jumped to her feet and found Christopher behind her as she exited the drawing room, leaving her mother there. They hurried up the main staircase, then down a hallway to the smaller stairs that led to the servants' quarters and the attic.

  The attic door had been locked at one time, the housekeeper had said, but then a maid lost the key, and the lock was broken in order to open the door. No one had bothered to replace the lock after that. There'd been no need—nothing of value had been stored up there.

  The door stuck, however, and Honoria stepped away so Christopher could apply his shoulder. It yielded far more easily to his weight and strength.

  Dust clouded up from the floor and rained down from the low ceiling as they entered. The tiny window along one side of the long, narrow room was useless enough that it could not have been there at all, so Honoria fumbled with the candle stub and flint near the door.

  They wove their way among old furniture and cloth-covered paintings. Honoria tripped over the broken leg of a table, which had been jutting out at an odd angle, and then she saw her brother's trunk. She and her mother had packed it after the funeral to clear the bedroom for Aubrey as the new Lord Merritt.

  Christopher held the candle as she lifted the heavy lid. She expected to see carefully folded shirts, a pair of riding boots, and Stephen's worn leather Bible, which had been passed to him from their paternal grandmother.

  Instead, the clothes were balled up and thrown in. The boots had been slashed with jagged cuts from a knife. Ink from an open bottle had spilled across a nightshirt and an embroidered robe.

  Someone had gone through her brother's things.

  Chapter 2

  Christopher hadn't known what to expect in looking through his deceased friend's things, but it wasn't these signs of violent disturbance. He had somehow imagined that no one would dare to soil Stephen's memory by turning out his trunk.

  Or perhaps it was that he couldn't bear for anyone to do so. He didn't want to remember that Stephen was gone, because he'd spent seven years trying to forget that it had been his fault.

  Honoria's fingers covered her mouth. In her eyes was not simply horror, but also pain at the violation. She had loved Stephen so much.

  She would hate Christopher if she knew the truth.

  "Honoria." He reached out to grasp her hand, pull it from her face. Her fingers trembled slightly, and he squeezed them.

  She looked at him, her face luminous in the light of the candle. It struck him again, as it had when he'd first seen her enter the drawing room, how her beauty had blossomed and changed, like a rose taking on a deeper blush. There had been a time, long ago, when he had thought he might fall in love with her, that it would be as natural and easy an act as breathing.

  "I know," she said in a low voice. "We must go through it, see what else is missing. It's such a shock."

  "Would you like me to do it?"

  "No." She pulled her hand from his—he hadn't realized he still held it. The girl of his memories fell away, and this new Honoria, calm and yet with steel behind her rosewood eyes, carefully lifted items from the trunk and laid them on the floor next to her.

  As they neared the bottom of the trunk, her actions became more urgent. "Stephen's Bible." She touched the bottom of the trunk. "Where is it? It was in his bedroom."

  "Are you certain?"

  "You remember how devout he was."

  His eyes slid away. "I remember our arguments about it."

  Christopher had not quite understood how for both Stephen and Honoria, the Lord God was somehow a close presence. Stephen had described it as a feeling that he had a constant companion.

  But Christopher felt differently. He attended church fitfully, only doing so because it would be beyond the pale for him to eschew it entirely, and also because he had a reluctant fondness for his young curate up in Northumbria. But in his heart, he felt that God had done nothing to show Christopher that He was more than a disinterested being.

  One day while out riding with Stephen, arguing theology, they'd seen a hawk overhead. Christopher had identified with that hawk—flying high and alone. God was simply a wind that buffeted him indifferently.

  Honoria's brow wrinkled. "Someone went through this trunk, but were the Bible and the puzzle box here when he did?"

  He was reminded how quick her mind was, seeing multiple possibilities to a situation. He tended to be rather linear and focused. "Was the Bible significant? Or a coincidence?"

  "It doesn't look as though anything else is missing, but how could I be sure?"

  "If only whoever did this had accidentally left something behind." He helped her put the items back in the trunk.

  "Luck was never with our family," she said quietly.

  They returned to the drawing room to tell Lady Merritt about the trunk. Honoria deliberately withheld the news about the missing Bible, perhaps to not distress her mother further.

  "Who could have done such a thing?" Lady Merritt said.

  "Someone in this house," Honoria said. "Or someone with access to it. The attic door was unlocked."

  "It is distressing to think that someone in this house has stolen from us," her mother said.

  "That may not have happened," Honoria said. "At some point, someone looked through the trunk, but the box may not have been here."

  "If something happened to the puzzle box before Stephen died, he never spoke of it," Lady Merritt said. "I think he would have mentioned if it had been stolen, so perhaps he lent it to someone."

  "He never spoke of it to me," Honoria said.

  "Nor me," Christopher said.

  "I wonder if Uncle Chabautt knows more about this than we do." There was an edge to Honoria's voice. "He had access to the trunk, and he knew it contained Stephen's belongings. But I would not ask him."

  Not if he were behind the theft.

  "I know my brother can be … difficult," her mother said, "but he has had time these past seven years to look through Stephen's trunk. We were in the attic only last winter looking for old sheets, and we did look inside the trunk at that time."

  "Something could have happened … he could have discovered something new." Honoria's jaw was tight as she spoke.

  Christopher had not considered what her relationship with her uncle was like. He had met Mr. Chabautt a few times before they moved away, and the man had been stern, almost bitter. Honoria had had a polite enough relationship with him, but perhaps living under his roof had changed that.

  "Your uncle could not have murdered that man," Lady Merritt said. "He was here. He could not have ridden to Heathcliffe Manor and back in a day."

  "He could have hired someone," Honoria said.

  "It could just as easily be a servant who went through the trunk looking for valuables, uncaring that they were your brother's things," Christopher said.

  Some of the tension left her shoulders. "Yes, that is true."

  "We cannot determine how the box found its way to my father's stables, but we can try to determine where the map points to. You said that old maps of Merritton are at the house?"

  "I'm going with you," Honoria said.

  His first reaction was a desire to reach out to cup her cheek, to trace the stubborn line of her chin, as if her wanting to come with him gave him the right to touch her. But reason intervened. Why would he think that? He h
ad no right to even want to be with her.

  "A man has been killed because of this box," he said. "I cannot put you in harm's way, Honoria."

  She hesitated, then glanced at her mother. "If this map is of some lost Dunbar treasure, then it is worth the risk."

  "Honoria—"

  "It is this map," she said, "or Mr. Criddle."

  Christopher didn't understand, but Lady Merritt did. Her eyes were grave as they rested on her daughter, then Christopher. "You can keep her safe, Christopher. Just as you have always done. You protected her from Jem Rauser countless times."

  "This isn't the village bully," he said. "This is a grown man with an agenda we do not know."

  Then Honoria reached out to take his hand, and he couldn't speak. He wanted to pull her closer to him.

  "I must come with you, Christopher," she said. Then a smile curled the corners of her mouth. "You cannot expect me to wave you off on a treasure hunt by yourself. Surely you know me better than that."

  He sighed.

  "And you will need my help at Merritton," she continued. "I doubt Aubrey will readily give you access to the family papers in the library."

  He stifled a groan. "I suppose not."

  He had never been fond of her selfish cousin, Aubrey Dunbar, now Baron Merritt. Spoiled by his parents, Aubrey often became mean-spirited when frustrated. When home from university one Christmastide, the three young men had been playing at cards when Aubrey had drunkenly accused Christopher of cheating and challenged him to a duel. Young idiot that he was, Christopher had accepted and met for swords at dawn. The superior swordsman, Christopher had beaten Aubrey by inflicting stinging cuts to his arms and legs, finally slicing his forehead and causing blood to run in his eyes. Aubrey had never forgiven him for embarrassing him.

  "Oh, but …" Honoria bit her lip. "Uncle will not like that I have left. What will he say? Or do?"

  Christopher was surprised by the fear in her look to her mother.

  But Lady Merritt smiled. "I shall tell him the truth. You are travelling with the only son and heir to Lord Heathcliffe as a favour to the Creager family. Even your uncle will not object to that, I am sure."

  "But Mr. Criddle's visit on Thursday …"

  "Oh! That is a wonderful idea." Lady Merritt's eyes gleamed. "I shall mention how eminently eligible a bachelor Christopher is, and perhaps I'll inflate his fortune tenfold."

  He felt the heat suffuse his face like a roaring fireplace.

  "Mother!" Honoria was scandalized.

  Lady Merritt waved a hand. "Oh, you will have a maid with you. There will be nothing improper about it."

  This was the Lady Merritt he remembered, who, when she discovered that he and Stephen were teaching Honoria how to shoot, had insisted that they teach her as well. She looked delighted at the situation.

  Honoria groaned and rubbed her temple.

  "Both of you," Christopher said calmly, "are out of your minds."

  Chapter 3

  Barely an hour after setting off in his coach, the maid Honoria brought with her for propriety's sake became violently ill. All over Christopher's boots.

  "You poor dear, Sally," Honoria said, tucking an arm about the young girl, completely oblivious to Christopher's poor boots.

  "If I may," the maid said in a weak voice, "could I ride up with the coachman? I rarely feel ill when I ride with my brother in the cart."

  "Of course, if you're certain."

  "Yes, miss. I think I shall feel much better."

  So Christopher signaled the coachman to stop and helped Sally climb up to sit with John on the box. Meanwhile, Honoria found an old rag and cleaned out the floor of the interior. Christopher cleaned his boots as best he could with his handkerchief. Then they climbed back into the coach and continued their journey.

  "Oh, Christopher." There was a mixture of laughter and apology in her voice. "Your boots. I do hope your valet does not resign."

  "Unlikely, as I have no valet."

  "No valet? Your father must be shocked."

  His father's reaction when he'd arrived at the house without a valet had been, as usual, freezing. "He was not pleased, no."

  Her expression had a soft understanding that he hadn't realized he'd missed about her.

  "It must have been a welcome change to remove into a home of your own."

  "It was left to me by my mother's uncle about a year after Stephen died. It is a small farm, but it is mine."

  She tilted her head. "You have always enjoyed the country more than London. Northumbria must be a peaceful haven for you."

  His parents had not understood his desire to move so far north, and yet Honoria understood him quite well. "It is far from Heathcliffe Manor, but I … I like the isolation." There were days that it filled his soul like a cup with water, but he was too embarrassed to express that to her.

  "You are not lonely?"

  He was always lonely. No, more accurately, he had always felt alone. He had been happy in the brief hours he spent in Stephen's company when they were young, but most of his time had been in school, or later had been filled with his duties as the eldest son. All his memories of his father were of his coldness and disapproval. His mother and sister loved him but did not understand him.

  "No," he said, "I am not lonely."

  But Honoria pursed her lips as she regarded him.

  He fidgeted in his seat. "Much," he said. "I have a dog," he added defensively.

  A gleam of laughter lightened her eyes from rosewood to honey. "You need someone who will talk back to you."

  "No, I don't."

  "And why not?"

  "It can be very … uncomfortable." He didn't know how else to explain it. He could never describe his feelings, but especially with Honoria.

  She leaned in with a sly smile. "Only if you wish to continue in the delusion that you are always right."

  He glared at her. "Impudent minx."

  She laughed, a sound that brought to mind summer days racing each other in the wide meadow to the south of Heathcliffe Manor, pollen motes dancing in the air around them.

  "Tell me about your farm," she said, the laughter still in her smile and her eyes.

  His mother and sister asked the same question whenever they saw him, but usually thought of some news to relate to him before he had said more than a few words. In contrast, Honoria listened and asked questions, and under her interested gaze, he lost some of his normal reserve. He described the shallow valley in which his house nestled, the pond that overflowed the cow pasture every time it rained, the sound of the wind through the trees at night. She laughed and winced at the numerous mistakes he had made in his first forays as a gentleman farmer, and the misunderstandings that had occurred because he had not perfectly understood the thick dialect of the county.

  "My tenants are good people," he said. "More forbearing than I would have expected."

  "Why would you expect any less? You have always been polite, fair, and kind. Honest people recognize that in you and respond to it."

  He looked away from her and again felt the blush burning up his neck and jaw. He had blushed twice in one day whereas before this, he had not blushed like a schoolboy since … well, he was a schoolboy.

  There was a nuance to her smile that was a bit wicked.

  "You enjoy putting me to the blush," he accused her.

  "Of course," she said, unrepentant. "It was always so difficult to do."

  He glared at her.

  She laughed. "What is your dog's name?"

  "Stephen," he said.

  And her smile was like sunlight on the surface of water.

  It was strange to talk to someone—no, it was strange to talk to Honoria, after he'd only had his own company for so many years. Certainly he'd spoken with his tenants, his steward, the villagers, his family. But Honoria surprised him with her thoughts and ideas, made him think. She made him laugh, which was something he had done only rarely.

  His situation had not changed. His family—his father—
had not changed. And yet somehow he felt less burdened.

  If only it were someone besides Honoria who could do this for him. Because Honoria was the one woman he could never have.

  He had confessed his guilt to his local curate, a forward-thinking young man who had expounded upon the concept of grace as outlined in the Scriptures. And yet he never quite felt he deserved to be anything other than alone.

  Alone was where he was comfortable. Alone was where he was safe from harm and from harming anyone else. Alone was where he belonged.

  It was hard to remember that here, talking to Honoria in the privacy of the carriage. The years seemed to fall away … and yet, there was a difference in her.

  "Do you still ride neck or nothing?" Her boldness in horse riding had always spurred him and Stephen to greater daring, because they were determined not to be out-ridden by a girl.

  Her eyes became unfocused. "I rarely ride now."

  "But your uncle has riding horses." Christopher had seen them in the stables.

  "Yes, but … I suppose I got out of the habit."

  "But …" He was speechless for a moment. "You loved it."

  "I did."

  "Not anymore?" How was that possible?

  "I don't know. I suppose …" She looked out the window. "I can remember how galloping across the fields made me feel as though I were flying. But I suppose flying has no place in my life now."

  Her voice was strangely emotionless. It was as if inside her, there was a hollowness, a space that had once been filled with life, but now was drained.

  She broke out of her thoughts and gave him a smile that was not quite the same as her normal one. "I have become a testy old woman."

  "You were always testy when Stephen and I wouldn't let you play with us."

  "Boys had all the fun. I had to blackmail you to force you to teach me to shoot. And then Mother found out." She grinned.

  He groaned. "I thought we would be in for a royal scold."

  "Oh, I knew she wouldn't be too upset. But I was surprised when she said she wanted to learn, too. She and I were quite good shots, if I recall."