The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(52)
‘Portsmouth?’
‘Dover, my lady.’
‘I do beg your pardon, I was somewhat distracted when we last met. Is something wrong?’
To her surprise he blushed. Then she recalled just where she had met him. ‘Er… Is Mr Hunt here, my lady?’
‘No, I have no idea where he is, I am beginning to feel a little anxious – Oh, that must be him.’ She turned at the sound of another horse and this time it was Jared.
Chapter Seventeen
Jared reined in from a trot to survey the group in the middle of the yard. ‘Dover? I left you in London with a task to perform.’
‘Yes, sir, and I have. Performed it, I mean. That was easy, only there’s something else and I thought I had best come immediately. I didn’t want to risk writing and perhaps you having moved on.’
‘All right. We will talk in the house directly.’ Jared dismounted, tossed the reins to the stable lad. ‘Give him a good rub down, a feed and drink when he’s cooler. We’ve covered a lot of ground today.’
‘Where have you been?’ Guin demanded, relief making her snappish.
‘I am sure we will all be more comfortable inside.’ Jared offered his arm and, when she took it, murmured, ‘With a smaller audience.’
He smelled very male, of horse and leather and dust and sweat and Guin was shocked to find that arousing. She was almost disappointed when, as they entered through the front door, he said, ‘Hot water, if you please, Thomas. To my chamber and bring some there for Dover as well. We’ll find him a room later. If you’ll excuse us for half an hour, Lady Northam, neither of us are fit for the drawing room. Then a council of war is called for, I think, including Faith.’
Guin suppressed the desire to demand an immediate report and rang for a substantial tea instead. Whatever the news, cake would be a comfort.
Jared and Dover were downstairs washed and changed within twenty minutes and she waved them towards the food. Dover and Faith looked uneasy at being expected to make themselves at home in the drawing room but Jared said firmly that he was famished and that he had no intention of repeating everything twice and so they relaxed.
‘Dover, finish what you have on your plate, then begin.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He manfully swallowed a mouthful of meat pie, gulped some tea and took an envelope from his pocket. ‘I made enquiries about Mr Theo Quenten as you ordered, sir. That was easy. He is universally liked, even if some sticklers disapprove of his wild ways and they say he relies too much on charm to worm his way out of trouble. He’s been up to larks, had some losses on the tables and the race course, but it’s play and pay – no really bad debts and tradesmen say he settles up with them too, even if they have to wait until his next instalment of allowance comes due. He’s a bit in the petticoat line – begging your pardon, my lady – but no gossip that’s nasty, if you know what I mean.
‘By all accounts he’s settling down and his father’s illness has speeded up the sobering process. I was writing all that down as a report for you, sir, then it all started.’
‘What?’
‘His father died the day you left London.’
‘Oh no, poor man. But I suppose he is at peace now, thank goodness.’
‘I’m sorry, my lady, I should have broken it better.’ Guin gestured to him to keep going. ‘Anyway, that means Mr Theo is now Lord Northam and the scandal sheets started. The print shops are full of these, sir.’ He sent Guin a harassed glance and unaccountably blushed again. He handed the envelope to Jared and took refuge in another slice of meat pie.
Jared pulled out what seemed to be a coloured print, looked at it and swore softly under his breath.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘You do not want to know.’ He folded the sheet in two.
‘I most certainly do.’
‘Lady Northam, this would distress you.’
‘Really, Mr Hunt? And I have had so little to agitate me lately, I am quite out of practice,’ she said with a sarcasm that made him wince. ‘Show me.’
With a shrug he handed her the print. Guin smoothed it out and studied it. At the bottom of the scene were two death-beds, hung with black cloth and garlands of evergreen with an elderly man in one handing a viscount’s coronet to another old gentleman lying on the other bed.
Shown much larger, a handsome, fashionably-dressed young man with a shock of black hair was bestriding the beds, snatching the coronet from the second dying man with one hand while, with the other, he reached out for a tall blonde lady with a low-cut gown who held out both her hands to him. A speech bubble issued from his lips, “Dear Aunt, now those two are out of my way you will show me how to go on as Viscount N. will you not?”
The blonde lady, who appeared to be staring intently at his exceedingly tight breeches, had her own speech bubble. “Nevvie dear, we may begin our instruction in the bedchamber.”
‘That’s supposed to be Theo,’ Guin stammered, one part of her brain recognising that it was a very good caricature. ‘And is that supposed to be me?’ When no-one spoke she drew a deep breath. ‘This implies that Theo has done away with both his uncle and his father to get the title. And that if I was not directly involved, I certainly welcome the result.’ Her hand was gripping the paper so tightly that it crumpled. Guin made herself relax her hold and smoothed out the image. ‘Is a man permitted to marry his aunt by marriage? No matter,’ she said without waiting for anyone to reply. ‘The implication that we are, or will be, lovers, is bad enough.’