The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(8)

‘Lord Northam’s brother and his heir might, however, have cause for concern as heirs presumptive if they believe they may be displaced.’

Was that a question? Was he asking if she had intimate relations with her elderly husband? Well, he could ask straight out if he was wondering about that. If he had the gall.

‘I have no idea whether they feel concerned or not. They have always been pleasant to me. Amiable, in fact.’

‘You are not with child?’

It seemed he did have the gall to be very blunt indeed. ‘No,’ Guin said.

‘May I?’ Mr Hunt waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the room.

‘Yes, certainly. What are you looking for?’

He got up as she spoke and moved slowly about her sitting room, head slightly tilted as he studied the hangings, the pictures, the furniture. He bent to read the book titles on the shelves, glanced at her embroidery tossed carelessly on a side table. He touched nothing, but his gaze skimmed over surfaces, noted details. Then he turned to her and stripped her to the skin with his eyes. She fixed a faint smile on her lips. He was not getting to her soul.

‘What am I looking for? Why, for you, Lady Northam.’

‘I am here,’ Guin pointed out, perhaps rather more tartly than good manners dictated.

Mr Hunt turned to resume his study of the curios on a side table. She caught herself admiring the way he moved, the breadth of his shoulders, the ease with which he hunkered down to look at the lowest shelf then rose effortlessly again. It was enough to make any woman irritable, to find herself doing such a thing.

‘And you are here.’ This time the sweep of his hand encompassed the pictures she had chosen and the books she read, the way the furniture was arranged, the colours she favoured. He had long fingers, she noticed, unadorned by any rings. ‘At the moment you are tense, fearful and mistrustful. You are keeping secrets from me and I do not blame you. I need to understand Guinevere Quenten, née Holroyd, lately Willoughby – the real woman, not Lady Northam on display – before I can help her.’

‘I am not fearful.’ It was a lie, of course, one she kept telling herself. She was not very convincing, apparently.

‘Then, as an intelligent woman, you should be.’ For the first time Jared Hunt sounded less than calm and neutral. He sounded irritated. ‘Unless this is all your fantasy or a device to get your husband’s close attention?’

‘It most certainly is not. And if you must have it, yes I am afraid and yes, I am afraid of showing fear,’ Guin said flatly, insulted into truthfulness.

‘Good.’ He smiled and she caught her breath. ‘Now we have honesty we can work.’ He smile was gone so fast she thought she might have imagined it.

‘Work? I thought you would guard me, that is all.’ Yes, the smile was gone, but with it, the cold assessment. Somehow they had reached an understanding. Did his fencing pupils feel like this when he accepted that they had mastered a thrust or a parry?

‘And wait until someone blunders into view with a gun or a phial of poison? Yes, I will guard you outside this house and advise your husband on precautions for securing it. But it would be better to catch whoever this is sooner rather than later, do you not think?’ When she nodded he sat down again and picked up the notebook. ‘So, why Guinevere? Are all your family equally Arthurian?’

‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’

‘Humour me, please.’

I have nothing else to do all afternoon but fret and practice looking calm for Augustus. I may as well indulge this man. He was, after all, both good to look at and refreshingly astringent.

‘My mother thought it a charming idea. At my christening she realised that all her family were sniggering at her, so she reverted to solidly conventional names for my younger siblings. I, however, am stuck with Guinevere. And you, Mr Hunt, what were you baptised?’

For a moment his lips tightened, but it was so rapid she thought perhaps she had imagined it. ‘My name is Jared. One of my hellfire Parliamentarian ancestors at the time of the Civil War was a great believer in Biblical names for his offspring. Fortunately the son I am descended from was not called Hezekiah, although as a boy I always rather favoured Zelophehad. I liked the rhythm.’

He said it so seriously that Guin was caught unawares by her own laughter when she saw the twitch of his lips. So, the fierce hawk had a sense of humour, had he? ‘What does it mean? Zelophe– whatever it was?’ she asked, serious again, but now she had a smile inside.

‘Shadow from terror, which is apt for a bodyguard, although I only found that out later.’

‘And Jared?’

‘One who rules.’

Yes, that suited him. She could not imagine Jared Hunt taking orders, however respectfully he presented himself as an agent for hire. But shadow from terror, that suited too – a darkness, but one that protected.

‘Perhaps we can begin by you telling me about the attacks,’ he said, reverting to business as though that intimate joking moment had never happened. ‘Was the first the shot through the carriage when it was moving or – What was that?’ He was on his feet, staring at the cold fireplace. A curl of soot swirled down and settled on the polished marble of the hearth like a black feather on snow.

‘Just soot falling. No, wait, I hear it too, up the chimney.’ There was a faint scrabbling sound that echoed down to them as though from a great distance. ‘We have the sweep in, I think,’ Guin said as Hunt turned. ‘I certainly told our butler Twite to organise it because the chimney in my husband’s study has been smoking. They must have sent a climbing boy into the stacks from the room above this. Oh!’