The Gentleman's Quest (13 page)

A sharp stab of panic nearly sent her leaping from her berth, but the wariness that had served her well in the past kept Hero from moving. If she left her hiding place, there was no guarantee that she would locate Kit, who might have traveled past her in the traffic or fallen behind. But there was a very real danger that she might be found by those who had chased them from the Three Aces.

She could not go back.

With a map of the city in her pocket, Hero could take a sedan chair or some other conveyance back to the inn. But she needed to get her bearings, and the next time the cart slowed, Hero climbed out, slipping into the shadow of the nearest building.

Her first thought was to hurry to the inn, if only to make certain Kit was all right. The fear that he wasn’t created a knot in her chest to match the one in her throat. But she needed information, and returning to their room would do little to aid her cause, especially when time was of the essence.

For the first time in years beyond count, Hero felt hope, a fluttering, glimmering glimpse of something beyond the walls of Raven Hill. It was that hope, and the plan it depended upon, that gave her strength of purpose. Hailing a passing boy, she gave him a coin
to find out what had happened at the Three Aces in St James’s, promising him another coin upon his return.

The sun would be setting soon, so Hero urged him to hurry. And just in case he should be waylaid, she glanced across the street for a place to wait and watch for his return. As fate would have it, there stood a bookshop, William Strong’s, and Hero headed toward it.

These days the retail book trade was centred in Pica-dilly, Pall Mall and St James’s, with new shops springing up to cater to the customers living in the most fashionable new sections of London. But Hero rarely did business in such public places, so she did not know them all.

Still, the moment she entered, she was assailed by the familiar smells of ink and paper and leather bindings, as though being welcomed home. Inhaling deeply, Hero wandered the premises, looking over the newest publications, as well as the many reprints of older titles, while glancing periodically out of the bow windows for the boy.

William Strong’s had nothing for the serious collector, unless such offerings were kept behind the counter, and Hero resisted the temptation to ask. The less contact she had with others while in her current guise, the better. Such thoughts set her nerves on edge, and at the sound of a door opening, Hero flinched. Since she heard no corresponding tinkle of the bell, she glanced up warily.

The front of the shop was still and quiet, so she looked over her shoulder. Behind the long counter, a door had opened, perhaps leading to a storage area or
select stock. The latter was probably likely because the man who exited clutched a wrapped parcel to his breast. He was short, with dark, stringy hair and shifty eyes, and Hero was struck by the sensation she had seen him before.

Quickly, she turned her head and hunched over a book to avoid notice. Was he one of Raven’s minions, or just a fellow buyer she had glimpsed during some past encounter? Either way, he should not recognize her, dressed in her boy’s costume.

Yet, somehow Hero felt his gaze upon her. Refusing to look up, she ducked her head and tugged on her cap, pulling it down over her face. Hardly daring to breath, she waited for the sound of footsteps to go past her, but they did not, and suddenly she was nearly knocked down by a hard jolt.

“Excuse me…sir.” The man’s voice sounded odd, and Hero did not respond, but crouched to retrieve the volume she had been holding, her eyes focused on a pair of worn boots.

“How clumsy of me,” the fellow said. “I hope you are not hurt.”

Shaking her head, Hero cursed herself for stepping into the shop. She should have known better, for the book world was an insular one where most serious players knew each other by name, by reputation, and perhaps even by face.

When the man finally shuffled away, Hero still kept her head low, refusing to lift it until she heard the tinkle of the bell over the door. Only then did she surreptitiously peek around the cover of the volume she held to her face. She was in time to see the back of the
shifty-eyed man’s coat as he stepped outside, confirming her suspicions that he was the one who had run into her. But was the action deliberate?

Putting aside the book, Hero walked to the bow windows, but the man had already disappeared into the street. Had theirs been a random encounter, or was he even now hurrying to alert Raven to her presence in town? Hero knew only that she could not afford to linger here where she had been marked.

Slipping from the shop, she glanced up and down the street, taking special note of any shadowy corners where shifty eyes might be watching. Although she did not see him, she saw the boy she had paid approaching their meeting place. Again, Hero scanned the area for any signs that he might be accompanied or followed, then hurried across the roadway to meet him.

“Sorry I’m late, sir, but I’m not used to finding out the news, just handing it out. I’d sold all my gazettes when you saw me. But now, I’m thinking I might just become a reporter someday.”

“Maybe,” Hero answered, too nervous to smile at the boy’s bravado. “What did you find out?”

“It was a shooting,” he said. “A gentleman killed himself right in one of the gambling places, not one of the fancier establishments, mind you, but still, the kind where they aren’t used to that sort of thing. It’s called the Three Aces. He’d lost his fortune, they said.”

Hero felt a stab of panic. “Killed himself? Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Saw him for myself, sir,” the boy said. “Or what was left of him as they carried him out. I guess his
brains are splattered all over the salon where he did it. And on some of the patrons, too, I’ll warrant.”

Hero felt sick. Perhaps men, even boys such as this one, could handle such frank talk, but her stomach churned and bile filled her throat.

“You all right, sir?” the boy asked.

Hero nodded, trying to fight off the nausea that threatened, along with the emotions that Raven claimed she didn’t possess. He was wrong, of course. She simply had learned to keep her feelings to herself, and now she used that skill to dismiss visions of Marcus Featherstone, a young man in the prime of life, reduced to debris on the mirrors of the Three Aces. She had never met him, but he was a lover of books, a collector, someone’s friend, someone’s relative, and Hero felt the loss.

Fighting against the thickness in her throat, Hero managed to catch her breath only when her own loss became glaringly apparent. Without Featherstone, how was she to follow the trail of the Mallory? Her sorrow over his death twisted into despair, as all the hopes and plans she had so recently devised were dashed.

Was she doomed to resume her old life, hunting and fetching at Raven’s beck and call, prey to his increasingly bizarre whims? Hero’s heart thudded at the thought of returning to that world of darkness and gloom, greed and deception. Helpless.
Hopeless.
After her brief escape, it would only be that much harder to endure.

As would Raven’s displeasure at her failure.

Perhaps Kit was right about the Mallory. It certainly
had a history of bringing misfortune to all those who owned it—from the murdered author through to poor Featherstone, dead by his own hand. In that case, Raven would be a fitting owner for the calamitous volume, Hero thought, though she instantly regretted it. Despite all, she did not wish Raven ill, just that she might be free of him.

If only there was a way to satisfy him without actually proffering the book, but how? If the Mallory had been among Featherstone’s possessions, it would eventually make an appearance. Unless, if Kit was correct, and there was no copy to be found, then…

Suddenly, Hero thought of Thomas Laytham, a respected bookseller and collector whom Raven dismissed with contempt. Although Laytham hadn’t a hint of scandal to his name, Raven didn’t trust him or the hundred-year-old pamphlets that he was famous for procuring for his wealthy clients.

“He’s a clever one, I’ll give him that,” Raven had told her. “And as long as he does me no ill, I’ll keep my suspicions to myself. But it takes one to recognize one, my dear, and I think someday the truth will come out when it comes to the revered Mr Laytham.”

The idea that came to Hero now was so audacious, her breath caught. Surely nothing could come of her wild notion, yet the urge to pursue it was so strong that she could not easily dismiss it.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Absorbed in her own thoughts, Hero had nearly forgotten the boy standing before her until he spoke. “Yes,” Hero answered, handing him the coin she had promised.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Glancing at the waning day, Hero was filled with a sudden urgency. “Yes, you may fetch me a hackney coach.”

While Hero watched the boy set off with a nod, she realized she wouldn’t have time to return to the inn. But perhaps that was just as well, for she suspected that Kit would not approve over her plan.
It was not the act of a gentleman.

But Kit could not understand what this opportunity meant to her. He’d never been desperate, for even stripped of his property, he had opportunities. He could join the military, take up a trade, cast himself in with friends or relatives. Hero could do none of that. Still, she did not want him to think poorly of her—or see her for what she was: what Raven had made her.

In an instant, Hero decided to pursue this scheme alone, though her pulse pounded at the thought. Raven’s presence in her life had been omnipresent and stifling, but the realization that she had no one, not a chaperone or footman or companion of any sort at her side, was more alarming than freeing.

The wisest course would be to send a message to Mr Laytham, but Hero could not risk anyone learning of her interest. Nor did she have the time to wait for an appointment. If the shifty-eyed patron at William Strong’s recognized her and reported her presence to Raven, it wouldn’t be long before his minions were out looking for her.

Her heart hammering, Hero hesitated, but the stakes were too high to give in to personal fears. When the
hackney coach arrived, she straightened her spine, stood tall, and gave the driver the address of Thomas Laytham, Bookseller.

M
r Laytham was not in the habit of working behind the counter in his shop, so Hero spoke to one of the men in his employ. Since her clothing hardly marked her as the sort of wealthy client with whom Laytham normally dealt, she had to convey that it was a matter of urgency and importance, involving one of the hundred-year-old pamphlets he so prized.

The ploy worked. Hero was immediately shown into an office where Laytham conducted his more mundane business. He was an older man, his middle grown thick, with a shock of white hair and the air of a scholar about him. At the sight of his solemn demeanor, Hero felt her resolve weakening and took a deep breath.

“And what is so important, pray tell, Mr…?” Laytham looked askance at her obvious youth and ill-fitting clothes.

“Sidney Marchant,” Hero answered automatically. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

By all appearances, Mr Laytham was just what he professed to be, a gentleman, a collector and a purveyor of books, and yet Raven was rarely wrong in his assessment of people. And despite Laytham’s studied air of annoyance as he looked down his nose at her, Hero thought she detected a bead of sweat upon his brow. Either way, there was only one way to play this.

“I’m here for a favor, actually,” Hero said in her most businesslike manner. “I’m looking for a book by Ambrose Mallory.”

Laytham grunted in surprise. “Aren’t we all?”

Hero smiled. Leaning forward, she steepled her hands in front of her. “Yes, but all I need is a facsimile.”

Did the man twitch? Hero saw a flash of something in his eyes before the white brows lifted, and she was grateful for the years of experience that kept her own face impassive.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“It’s a prank,” Hero said, falling back against the elegant cushion of her chair. “Nothing that will be sold, of course, but it must be able to pass initial scrutiny.”

Laytham’s brows fairly leaped off his face, which was growing ruddy in color. “You are asking me to…find you an edition of a book that is not authentic? A…hoax?”

Hero nodded. “It shouldn’t be difficult.” Indeed, she could do it herself, if she had access to an antiquarian library, except for printing the title page and the cover. After all, no one knew the contents except for some dead Druids. “Since there are no
reliable sources as to the contents, any old occult text would do.”

Laytham’s skin turned beet-red. “And why on earth should I agree to this preposterous request?”

Hero met his angry stare without wavering. “I think you know why.”

Laytham held her gaze for a long moment before looking away. “If you mean to tell me that you have chosen Laytham’s for its ability to acquire the unusual and meet its customers’ expectations, I will not disagree. However, what you are asking for is hardly within our purview.”

Hero said nothing, while Laytham fiddled with his watch fob, then grunted, as though coming to a decision. “If it is to be used only for amusement, I suppose I could ask one of my contacts within the book business to prepare something for you.” He paused to eye her directly. “No money would change hands, of course.”

“Of course,” Hero said, though she had not foreseen this development. She had been prepared to use some of Raven’s funds in order to deceive him, an irony that was not lost upon her. But obviously, Laytham was more concerned with whom she might be working for, and it was not Raven or any other collector who had him worried. Someone in authority or a wealthy patron could well have put her up to this game in order to catch Laytham at it.

“I’ll need the volume as soon as possible,” Hero added.

Laytham winced, but nodded. “And where shall I have the parcel delivered?”

“I’ll come to pick it up,” Hero said, unwilling to give out an address, even that of the inn. “Tomorrow.”

“That’s absurd,” Laytham sputtered. “It might take weeks—or months—to find an appropriate text.”

I don’t have months or weeks or perhaps even days
, Hero wanted to scream. But she schooled her features to reveal none of her panic. “The day after.”

“The ink will hardly have time to dry upon the page!” Laytham protested.

“Then let it smear,” Hero said. “I’m sure you don’t want long, drawn-out dealings in this matter.”

Gaping at her, Laytham shook his head in honest reaction. Then he rose to his feet and ushered her from the room, displaying only the barest civility, his relief at her departure obvious.

Once outside the bookshop, Hero felt her knees shake, and she leaned against a nearby fence in order to right herself. She was playing a dangerous game—one that could cost her everything, for she shuddered to think of what would happen if Raven found her out. But when fright threatened to overcome her, Hero told herself that she would use what Laytham provided only if absolutely necessary.

Meanwhile, she could still try to track down Featherstone’s books. With that in mind, Hero went over all that had led her to this point, considering any pieces of the puzzle that she might have missed. But she came up with nothing, except the oddity of Raven having the scrap of paper that referred to the Mallory, but not the book itself.

Perhaps Raven alone knew the answer to that mystery. And yet…there might be another who could
help. Straightening with new determination, Hero pushed away from the fence and began looking for another hackney coach. By now it was full dark, and she had no intention of walking the streets of London alone, even in boy’s garb. Besides the various men who had trailed her since Oakfield, she wanted to escape anyone who might have followed her out of Laytham’s.

For Hero was not so witless as to savor her triumph over the bookseller. A lifetime of wariness told her that despite the seeming ease of her transaction, she might have made a powerful enemy—to add to those already in pursuit.

Kit was pacing. It was something Barto might have done while Kit watched askance, sprawled in comfort, with no real worries of his own. But now he understood the need for movement, the urge to do something to alleviate the fear that pressed down on him like a weight.
Fear for Hero.

Looking back, Kit wished that he had not left St James’s, but had combed the area for her. He had thought the Dandy Horse proof of her escape, but anyone could have retrieved it and propped it there for its owner—even the two men from the Three Aces.

The thought of Hero being manhandled by those thugs and discovering that they had a young woman, not a boy, in their clutches was enough to make Kit’s blood run cold. They were after money, he told himself, not anything else, yet that sort could easily turn from bad to worse.

And here he was, useless and helpless, just as he’d
been at Oakfield. Swearing under his breath, Kit swung a fist in the air, nearly punching a hole in the wall. At the thud of a knock, he looked at his own hand, as though it was responsible. Then he turned toward the door, where a chambermaid probably waited to light the fire.

But when he thrust open the worn wood, Hero stood before him, and without conscious thought, Kit snatched her up in his arms, hugging her to him with bone-crushing zeal. He might have kissed her, too, if not for the sound of a throat loudly clearing itself down the hall. A glance revealed a large man with expansive mustaches eyeing them with disfavor.

“It’s been a long time, brother!” Kit cried, before dragging Hero inside.

And then he did kiss her.

Slamming the door shut, he pushed her up against the smooth surface and lowered his head, taking her mouth for the first time since those brief moments in the library at Cheswick. And this was no tentative exploration, but a white-hot possession, an exultation that she was here and unharmed.

When his lips touched hers, Kit felt her startlement, yet she was soon clinging to him, returning his greeting in kind. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her body, dressed in boy’s clothes, strained against his own. He kissed her until they were both breathless, his blood running loud and fast in his ears, and still he did not stop. The cold room, bereft of light and fire, dropped away, leaving only heat and scent and sensation.

The darkness had always been his downfall where
Hero was concerned, for it was easier to ignore the promptings of his conscience when nothing existed except the two of them. Running a hand up the back of her neck, he knocked aside her cap and loosed her hair, wrapping his fingers in the smooth silkiness, just as he tried to wrap himself around every bit of her.

In fact, he might have tried to take her to the bed, stumbling across the unfamiliar floor to grope for its soft surface, if not for the knock that soon sounded. Kit was of a mind to ignore it, but he felt Hero stiffen in his arms, and then her palm came up to cover his mouth, a silent warning not to forget their situation.

Kit stepped back, prepared to tackle anyone who would gain entry, all his unspent passion now changed to fury. But it was only the chambermaid, coming to light the fire. Mumbling uneasily, she cast an odd glance at the darkened room seemingly occupied by two men, for Hero stood behind Kit, her hair and cap restored.

If only Kit could regain his senses so easily. As soon as the maid left, he turned on Hero. “Where the devil have you been?” He lifted a hand to run through his hair. “I nearly went mad with worry!”

“I was trying to find out what happened to Featherstone.”

“Featherstone!” Kit wanted to throttle her. “Don’t tell me you went back to the hell.”

She shook her head. “I paid a boy to nose around and report back.”

Kit felt a tumult of anger and relief. “You should have come directly here,” he said, even though he knew remonstrance was useless. Hero would always
follow her own course, risking her life over what seemed senseless to him. With the taste of her still on his lips, Kit wondered whether she would ever be content to sit back, out of harm’s way, with no dealings to make, no mystery to unravel, no treasures to search out.

The thought sent his mood deflating like one of Montgolfier’s balloons, all his emotions spent. Perhaps the answer he’d been seeking had been before him all along, a realization that left him stunned and gaping, while Hero prattled on about Featherstone.

“What?” Kit asked, his voice strained, as he tried to marshal his wits.

“They’re saying Featherstone shot himself, supposedly despondent over losing his fortune.”

“I imagine his fellows think ill of him for dirtying up their table,” Kit muttered. He had not known Featherstone, but lost fortunes and even deaths were little regarded in a world where gaming was encouraged without thought for the consequences.

“Probably,” Hero admitted. She wore an expression Kit had come to know too well, and he stifled a groan.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m sure the boy faithfully reported what people were saying, but what if Featherstone didn’t shoot himself?” Hero asked. “Perhaps those men who started chasing us killed him over the Mallory.”

“In a roomful of gamesters?” Kit asked. “I doubt it.”

“We don’t know who else was in there.”

“I’m guessing the fellow who cast up his accounts at our feet,” Kit said drily.

Hero frowned. “But if Featherstone shot himself, why were those two men chasing us?”

“We have a sign over our heads asking two men, not one or three, mind you, to chase us at all times?”

Hero was not amused, and Kit sighed. Sometimes, her logic was more convoluted than sensible, for he could not imagine how two thugs from a gambling hell could be connected to an old book that probably did not exist.

Kit shrugged. “They heard us asking about Featherstone and thought we might be friends or relatives from whom they could squeeze the money he owed them.”

“What?”

“Some of these cent-per-centers are quite capable of ungentlemanly actions,” Kit explained. “Murder would do them little good, but seeing their hopes of repayment dashed, they might look to their victim’s heir. Some hells provide their own unscrupulous lenders in order to better fleece their clients.”

Hero appeared unconvinced. “Why would such fellows give chase?”

“To get a name, an address, a payment, a promise. If Featherstone has nothing, they have little chance of recouping their losses, but they might press his acquaintances to make good his name. The entire world doesn’t revolve around your quest,” Kit said, more sharply than he intended.

“No, but sometimes I think the entire world revolves around Raven,” Hero muttered.

“So now what?” Kit asked, before realizing that his words could be interpreted in many different ways.

Hero sat down in the room’s only chair, and Kit realized just how tired she must be. He had been so consumed with his own fears and frustrations that he had forgotten that Hero, despite her often stoic bearing, was not invincible. She leaned forward wearily to stare into the fire.

“Obviously, Featherstone cannot tell us the fate of his books,” she said. “And we could spend weeks trying to hunt them down, interviewing his servants, his friends, his family.”

Was she giving up? The suspicion startled Kit, but her features soon took on the cast he well recognized.

“But I was thinking that there’s someone else who might be able to verify where those lots went, someone we might approach first.” She glanced up, her gaze intent. “Only the people who arrange the sales can really account for the whereabouts of the volumes under their care.”

“You think Featherstone had someone in charge of his collection?” Kit asked, dubious.

“No,” Hero said, waving a hand in dismissal. She eyed him intently. “I’m talking about Richard Poynter.”

“The man who handled Cheswick’s library?”

Hero nodded.

“Do you know where to find him?”

“The world of books is an insular one. And more often than not, the only place one leaves it for is the grave.” Leaning over to tug off one of her boots, Hero rubbed the sole of her foot. “These days Mr Poynter works with the London Institution.”

Kit shook his head at her determination. There was no stopping her, ever, which meant if she really wanted
something, she would surely go after it with the same single-mindedness she exhibited in her search for the Mallory. The thought was a discouraging one.