Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
“Hmm? Oh, you need not think I would send him to Eton until I am quite satisfied that no harm will come to him.”
She gestured helplessly. “Then what’s to be done? I want Quentin to live a normal life, but I’m so afraid that if he shows himself, he may become a target.”
He was watching her closely. “Are you never afraid for yourself, Deborah Weyman?”
She was so startled by his tone that she jerked her head up and stared at him with wide, questioning eyes. Caught by the softness in his expression, she answered unthinkingly, “Mortally afraid, but there is nothing new in that.” When his look sharpened, she quickly retreated. “So, where do we go from here? I presume you have given the matter some thought?”
“A great deal of thought.” He allowed her to turn the conversation, but he made a mental note of her unthinking remark.
Mortally afraid, but there is nothing new in that.
He opened his snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff, then shut the box with a snap.
Finally, he said, “We must demonstrate to the murderer, without a shadow of a doubt, that neither you nor Quentin can identify him.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Quite simply, by taking you both to London and showing you off. There’s no point in concealing Quentin’s loss of memory, but we won’t make a great fuss about it. We will simply say that the death of his father affected his mind. If someone makes a bolt for it, I shall have my man, but it’s unlikely. He would have done it before now. No. Our murderer will breathe a little more easily when he sees with his own eyes that he is free and clear.”
He had hardly finished speaking when she burst out, “That’s not it! You are hoping that the shock of seeing his father’s murderer will jog Quentin’s memory. That’s it, isn’t it? There’s a spy at the Foreign Office, and you are counting on Quentin to catch him for you.”
A muscle in his jaw jerked. “That’s a damn lie! You told me the doctor didn’t hold out much hope of Quentin ever recovering his memory. However, if it did happen, and he could identify the person who murdered his father, so much the better. What’s wrong with that? Don’t you understand anything? Until that person is apprehended, you and Quentin must always go in fear of your lives.”
She was on her feet, her weight braced with both hands on the flat of the table. “Oh, I understand, all right. Who better to understand than one of your victims? Quentin and I are just pawns to you. Bait, in fact.”
His eyes leapt with fury. “Don’t be ridiculous! The risks entailed in exposing you and Quentin to his father’s murderer are slight. Haven’t I explained it all to you? The murderer thinks he is safe. Besides, you and the boy will be well guarded. Afterward, in a week or two, you can go down to my estate in Kent. If you have a better plan, I should like to hear it.”
“I don’t have a plan, but what you suggest is too dangerous. I won’t allow it, do you hear? I won’t allow it.”
“You
won’t allow it? You have no say in the matter, Miss Weyman. You can do as you wish, but whether you like it or not, Quentin goes to London with me.”
Their eyes battled as Gray’s implacable stare met her stormy, resentful glare head-on. In a low, angry voice, she declared, “I would not dream of leaving Quentin until I know he is no longer in danger.”
“Does this mean you accept my invitation?”
“Invitation?” Her bosom quivered. “That was no invitation! You were commanding me in your usual highhanded fashion.”
He studied her for a long, contemplative moment, then a gleam of amusement lit his eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “You seem to have this strange effect on me. I assure you, I am not so autocratic with other ladies. In fact—you will hardly credit this—I am renowned for my charm.”
Unaffected by her dark scowl, he went on. “It won’t be so bad. You’ll like my mother, and I’ve no doubt she
will like you. You are Quentin’s guardian now, and that makes a difference. You’ll be a guest in my home, my mother’s guest, and you will be treated as a member of my family. Of course, I shall expect you to be guided by me in all things. I want that clearly understood between us before we set out. I must know that you trust me implicitly, or our charade won’t work.
“It’s only for a few weeks, then you and Quentin can go to my house in Kent. I promise you, I’m
not
setting Quentin up as bait. There are other ways of apprehending this scoundrel. When I unmask my traitor, I shall have him. All I am trying to do is make him feel so safe that he will become careless. Sooner or later, he will make a mistake.”
In the end, of course, she had relented, as he must have known she would. As long as he had Quentin, he had the upper hand, but she did not like what he had proposed. It was all very well to say that the murderer felt safe knowing that Quentin had lost his memory, but nothing was certain. And she was not convinced that the traitor at the Foreign Office and Lord Barrington’s murderer were one and the same person. But Lord Kendal was convinced, and nobody else’s opinion held any weight with him. There were just too many “ifs” in his reasoning for her comfort.
What she really wanted was to take Quentin to his uncle in the West Indies, but she knew Lord Kendal would never agree to that. He would look upon it as the act of a coward. She sniffed. So, she was a coward. She would rather run away than stay and fight. She could not change what she was, any more than Lord Kendal could change what he was. The man was tenacious, ruthless, implacable, and though those qualities repelled her, she was very glad, for Quentin’s sake, that his guardian was no weakling but a man who would know how to protect his own.
For some time after he had left her, she did nothing but stare at the untouched food on her plate, debating inwardly the advisability of taking up residence in London in Lord Kendal’s household. She could never think of London without remembering Albert and her father’s
house in the Strand. She would only be in London for a few weeks, she chided herself. Her father and stepmother rarely showed their faces in town until the season was under way, and she and Quentin would be in Kent by then. And come what may, she was not going to let Quentin out of her sight until Lord Kendal had caught his traitor.
Gray, meantime, was congratulating himself on his easy victory. He had known that Quentin would be the irresistible bait to lure her to London. Her loyalty and devotion to the boy were unquestionable. As was natural, she mistrusted him, her ruthless abductor.
He had told her no lies when he had revealed his motives for taking them to London. True, he had toyed with the idea of using Quentin as bait and, as a last resort, it might come down to that, but only as a last resort. In that event, he was going to have the battle of his life with Deborah. He shook his head when he realized he was smiling.
All the same, he had not been transparently honest with her. He’d set dozens of traps for the spy at the Foreign Office, and had failed to tempt him. The trouble was, nothing much was happening in the war right now. Both France and England were arming themselves to the teeth. It could be months before the fighting began in earnest, months before their spy was tempted to pass information to his masters. And he had covered his tracks well. That’s why he had silenced Gil.
He had one of those flashes, when Gil’s face came sharply into focus—a roguish smile and merry brown eyes with a laugh always lurking in their depths. No one had understood their friendship, least of all themselves. They were complete opposites. He was a born cynic. Gil, on the other hand, was inclined to accept everything at face value. That’s why neither of his marriages had added one iota to his comfort. Both times, he had married pretty girls with nice manners and no substance.
This thought led him quite naturally to Deborah. He couldn’t fault Gil there. He must have seen her sterling worth before he named her as Quentin’s guardian. And
how well she had repaid his trust! It was more than time that someone did something for Deborah Weyman.
In London, there would be time to gain her confidence, time to dig a little deeper into her background. Then, when he had fixed whatever it was that brought that hunted look to her eyes when the past was mentioned, he would see her settled with some—he grinned wickedly—eligible young gentleman, who would cherish her as she deserved.
As he mounted the stairs to Quentin’s room, he was mentally ticking off the eligible young gentlemen of his acquaintance whom he considered worthy of a young woman of Deborah’s mettle. To his astonishment, he could not come up with a single name.
On the morning of their departure for London, Deborah opened her eyes to see Mrs. Moffat packing her valise. Quentin stood at the side of the bed, his eyes sparkling.
“I’ve brought your chocolate, Deb,” he said.
She accepted the glass of chocolate, but her eyes were trained on the gown Mrs. Moffat had laid out for her. She had never seen it before in her life.
Quentin couldn’t contain his excitement, and burst out, “Uncle Gray did it, Deb. He arranged everything.”
“What,” asked Deborah ominously, “did Uncle Gray arrange?”
“New gowns! And … and everything!” exclaimed Quentin.
“He’s done
what?”
She hauled herself up and set down the glass of chocolate.
Mrs. Moffat looked up, and seeing the look on Deborah’s face, made a small sound of impatience. “I know what is going through your mind, my girl, and you can just take that stubborn look off your face. There is nothing improper in accepting clothing from a gentleman when he is acting on his mother’s behalf. Lord Kendal explained the circumstances to me. Deb, you should be grateful that he went to so much trouble. His mother
knew you would not wish to arrive in London looking like a charity case.”
A charity case.
The words hurt. “Is … is that what he called me?” asked Deborah, her spirits plummeting for some unknown reason.
“Of course he didn’t. He is a real gentleman. And I am only telling you for your own good. He likes you, Deb. I can tell. If you would only smile at him, talk nicely, you know what I mean, I think you might be surprised at the results.” And smiling, she left Deborah to mull over her words.
Marriage
, that’s what was on Mrs. Moffat’s mind. Deborah felt the rise of hysterical laughter and swallowed it. Swiftly rising, she went to inspect the clothes that were laid out for her. Beneath the folds of a green twill carriage dress, cunningly concealed, was a set of fine lawn underwear adorned with rows of Mechlin lace, as well as white silk stockings and frilly lace garters embroidered with blue forget-me-nots.
“Where are my own clothes?” she asked Quentin.
“Uncle Gray told Mrs. Moffat to take them away.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Her whole body quivered in outrage.
Quentin’s eyes anxiously searched hers. “Deb, don’t you
like
Uncle Gray?”
“Your uncle Gray, let me tell you—” The look on Quentin’s face brought her up short. One word from her, that’s all it would require, and she could begin to drive a wedge between Quentin and his guardian. She took a deep breath and started over. “Your uncle Gray certainly knows how to please a lady.”
He studied her face, then satisfied with what he saw, plumped himself down on an upholstered stool. “Did you know,” he said, “that Uncle Hart has a boy the same age as me?”
So it was “Uncle Hart” now, thought Deborah uncharitably. “No, I didn’t know.” She managed a smile.
“He says Jason and I will become the best of friends, you know, like Papa and Uncle Gray.”
She heard the note of uncertainty in his voice, and gave him her full attention. “And?”
“Best friends are supposed to tell each other secrets.”
She knew the secret he was thinking of, and answered carefully, “You may tell him that you can’t remember things, and that’s all you may tell him. Do you understand, Quentin?”
This was one point she and Gray had agreed on. It was one thing to let the world know that Quentin had suffered a loss of memory, but nothing would be gained by revealing that he had actually witnessed the murder. In fact, it would only invite a great deal of unnecessary speculation and make things unpleasant for Quentin. The murderer would know what to make of everything, and that’s what counted.
Quentin nodded. “Uncle Gray explained it to me. If I tell people that I was in the library that night, they’ll badger me with questions.”
“Then, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Why can’t I remember, Deb? I’ve tried and tried and nothing happens. Papa … Papa …”
His face crumpled and he reached for her. She drew him into her arms, rocking him as he sobbed brokenly. “Papa must hate me. Why can’t I remember who shot him?”
His words shocked her. She had known that he chafed because he could not remember that night, but it had never occurred to her that he would feel guilty about it. She smoothed back his hair and held him till his tears had run their course. After a while, he sniffed, gulped, and dashed his tears away, then looked up at her. “You’re crying,” he said.
She didn’t try to hold him when he pulled out of her arms. Kneeling beside him, praying earnestly for the right words, she said, “Your uncle Gray loves you, doesn’t he, and he knows you can’t remember. Your papa loved you best in the world. Why should he be different from Uncle Gray? They were best friends, and friends think alike, don’t they? Your papa could never hate you, Quentin. I told you what happened. He saved you. He told you to run, and I was there to help you.”
He sniffed, thinking over her words. “I still wish I could remember,” he said.
“Your papa knows that too. And one day, it will all come back to you, you’ll see.”
“Truly, Deb?”
“Truly.”
His little face suddenly turned fierce. “Good,” he said. “Then we’ll catch the man who killed Papa and hang him.”
Deborah watched him go with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t care if Lord Barrington’s murderer was ever caught, just as long as Quentin was safe.
She dressed swiftly in her new clothes, but it wasn’t until she entered the parlor where she found Gray that she remembered she had a bone to pick with him.