Jared was still contemplating the tasks in front of him as there was a tap on the door.

‘Sir? I thought you might want me.’

‘Dover. We are going to Whitby tomorrow, you too. Tell Thomas and one of larger footmen that they are coming with us. I have no idea what is awaiting us, if anything, and it may simply prove to be a social call and some shopping for jet jewellery. On the other hand – ’

‘We go armed and expect the worst.’ Dover’s broad grin showed a certain bloodthirsty eagerness.

Jared found he was grinning back. What the devil was happening to him? He never grinned. He rarely smiled except for effect. Guinevere was getting under his skin to a dangerous extent and that had to stop.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, deadly serious again. ‘And I would wager that the worst is about to befall us if we are not very wary.’

 

Jared was silent over breakfast, which did not concern Guin overmuch. The experience of two very different husbands at the breakfast table had taught her that men tended to be taciturn first thing in the morning. Last night she had hoped he would have joined her in her bedchamber after dinner, but when he did not come she told herself that he was concerned for her rest and her reputation. Although, now she thought about it, he had been silent at dinner too.

She had expected him to join her and Faith in the carriage when they set out immediately after breakfast, but he ordered Dover into the coach, Thomas and Peter the footmen onto the back, and mounted the sturdy black hunter that Augustus had kept at Allerton for tackling the rough upland country.

‘Mr Hunt is making me dizzy,’ she complained, half joking, after a few miles. ‘I never know which side of the coach he is going to appear on next.’

‘Shaking the fidgets out of the horse, I expect, my lady,’ Dover said, his own gaze flickering from side to side, watching the country as they passed with far more attention that the hills and dales merited. Guin noticed that he had a rapier at his hip and that there were pistol butts sticking out of both the holsters built into the side panels of the coach.

It took two hours to reach Cross Holme, the manor house that was now the Quenten cousins’ main home. It was situated just outside Whitby near the hamlet of Uggle Barnaby, which reduced Faith to helpless giggles, convinced that the name must be a joke by the inhabitants.

‘It is very small. Just a farmhouse really,’ Guin said as they all looked at the stone house flanked by high walls that curved away to enclose, she supposed, stables and yards.

‘It is nothing like as fine as Allerton Grange.’ Faith wrinkled her nose. ‘They must have been very sad to have to sell that.’

‘It was probably a relief if they had difficulty keeping up two houses. Much better to concentrate all the limited resources on one small one, I would have thought.’ Even so, the house had an indefinable air of neglect about it, which was depressing.

Thomas jumped down and ran to knock and Guin reminded herself that this was, in a sense, a homecoming for him, with many of the servants familiar from when he had worked for the Quentens. Certainly the door was opened wide as soon as whoever answered it saw who was standing there and Thomas came back to the carriage with an elderly butler by his side.

‘This is Hopchurch, my lady.’

‘I fear we are not expected,’ Guin said to the old man who regarded her dourly from red-rimmed, watery eyes. ‘But I took the chance that my late husband’s cousins would be at home. Is Mrs Quenten receiving?’

‘I’ll ask, m’lady.’ He turned, stumped off back to the front door and they all sat patiently until he reappeared and made vague gestures at Thomas who seemed able to interpret them.

‘You are all to come in, my lady. Don’t mind Hopchurch, he’s a right misery, always was.’

Guin was not sure how he managed it, but Jared was off his horse and through the door in front of her and Dover was close on her heels as they went in. She felt apprehensive, as though Jared was poised to throw her behind a sofa as he had when the firework came down the chimney.

A couple in their mid-thirties rose to their feet as they entered, a large man who looked a little like Augustus if one knew to search for a resemblance and a short, plump woman with a determined chin and the air of having a temper, tightly controlled.

‘Welcome.’ The gentleman came forward holding out his hand in an awkward, angular manner as though his hands were bigger than he quite knew what to do with. ‘My dear Lady Northam – or may I call you Cousin? I am Julian Quenten and this is my wife, Mrs Quenten. Come, Lettie dear, and shake hands.’

Mrs Quenten took Guin’s hand limply then snatched her own away. She must be shy, Guin thought, trying to be charitable. A noise by the window made her look across to find two boys, perhaps eight and six years old, standing staring at them.

‘Come along boys, come and make your bows,’ Quenten urged. ‘This is Charles, named for my father.’ He put a possessive hand on the shoulder of the older lad who looked wide-eyed at Guin, bowed and then fixed his gaze on Jared. ‘And this is Hal.’

The younger boy bobbed his head at Guin then went to stand by his brother. ‘Is that a real sword?’

‘Yes,’ Jared said, his hand on the hilt. Mrs Quenten sat down abruptly on the sofa.

‘Permit me to introduce Mr Hunt, my agent,’ Guin said, determined that Jared was not going to be expected to join Faith and Dover in the kitchen. They all settled down, Jared in an upright chair slightly out of Mrs Quenten’s eye-line. Guin caught her giving him uneasy glances and supposed that the unexpected arrival of a black-clad, armed man in one’s sitting room was enough to alarm anyone.

Strangely the armchair that she sat in was warm, as though someone had just abandoned it. Mrs Quenten had been sitting there, perhaps.

The two boys stood obediently at their father’s knee but their eyes kept straying towards that tantalising rapier.

Guin remarked brightly on how pleasant the drive had been and how well situated Cross Holme was. When she sensed a slight relaxation in the room she smiled apologetically at her hostess. ‘I hope you will forgive our unannounced arrival, only it was such a lovely day and I had an impulse to buy some of the Whitby jet jewellery I had heard about. At the moment it seems very suitable.’ She brushed one hand over her black skirts, worn especially for the visit.

‘Of course. We were so very sorry to hear about the passing of our cousin,’ Mr Quenten said. ‘A fine gentleman.’

‘Thank you. Yes, he was indeed.’

There was a small silence, broken by the arrival of a maid and a footman with the tea tray and urn.

‘You have not been long at Allerton Grange on this occasion,’ Mrs Quenten remarked as she passed Guin a cup.

‘No, we travelled up after the funeral. London felt oppressive as I am sure you will appreciate. I felt the need to get away.’

‘Gossip can be so cruel. Milk, Cousin Guinevere?’

‘Gossip?’ Out of the corner of her eye Guin saw Jared’s head move a fraction.

‘Oh, we receive the London papers. The new Lord Northam is much mentioned. So unpleasant and distasteful.’

‘It must be exceedingly trying for Theo,’ Guin said repressively. ‘For myself, it was very pleasant to be back at Allerton. Tell me, did your estate manager come with you here? Cousin Theo asked me something about the land and I was so pleased to find all the ledgers had been kept up so well – I was easily able to find what he wanted.’

‘Why yes.’ Mrs Quenten said. ‘Mr Foster our estate manager came too, although he is getting on and I suppose one could say he is partly retired now. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason. Just an idle observation.’

 

‘Well, that was pointless and rather embarrassing,’ Guin said snappishly as Jared handed her into the carriage again an hour later. ‘Will you ride inside so we can talk?’

‘I think not. We still have to go to Whitby.’

‘I have no desire to go to Whitby, you know it was merely an excuse.’

‘And if we do not, then word will get back to the Quentens and they will know that was what it was.’ He closed the door, swung back onto his horse and fell in behind them as the horses broke into a trot.

Guin brooded on the Quentens for the next mile or so. She had not liked them, but then why should she? They had nothing in common other than a distant relationship to Augustus and it seemed he had merely a family sense of duty towards them.

The carriage swayed as they began to go downhill sharply and Guin looked out of the window to see the jagged ruins of the abbey looming on the cliff in the distance, sombre against the blue sky.

Her mood improved a little when Jared handed her out on a broad quay beside a busy harbour. ‘This is charming.’ She sniffed. ‘If a trifle fishy. Thomas, go and see if you can find some good fresh fish for supper.’

‘The best jet shops are this way, Lady Northam.’ Jared offered his arm and guided her along a cobbled street. ‘This one, I recall as being good quality. The inn just beyond it will serve for luncheon.’

He hardly sounded like the man who had made passionate love to her only twenty four hours before, Guin thought, puzzled, as Jared pushed open the door and the bell tinkled. There was a distance in both his voice and manner, almost a return to the way he had seemed when Augustus had first employed him.

The jewellery was indeed fine and the designs simple and wearable. Guin tried on a pair of ear drops mounted in gold and turned for Jared’s opinion. ‘What do you think?’

She had expected some warmth, some small, secret sign that he had an interest in her, but Jared merely remarked, ‘They appear appropriate, my lady.’

As though he is some dratted lady’s maid, she thought, hurt. She almost rejected them and chose one of the more ornate, facetted designs, simply to snub his tepid approval, but that was merely pettish, she told herself.

‘I will take these and the matching pendant. If you could thread it on a silk ribbon – that narrow dove grey one – I will wear it now.’ When the shopkeeper did as she asked and handed it to her Guin turned, gave it to Jared. ‘Tie it for me, Mr Hunt, if you please.’

He had to stand close behind her to circle her neck with the ribbon, his breath brushing her nape before the touch of his fingers, rapid, precise, as he tied a bow and stepped back without so much as a caress, a whispered word.

So, he had taken what he wanted and now was not interested? ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’

The shopkeeper had wrapped the earrings and an empty box for the pendant in silver paper and tied an elaborate bow and loop on the top. Guin paid him and waved one hand towards the dainty little package. ‘If you would, Mr Hunt.’ If he wanted to behave like a lackey then he would be treated like a footman and could walk through the town with a bauble hanging from his fingers.

Guin had expected Jared to hand it to Faith but he took the box. ‘Of course, my lady.’ He untied the ribbon, wrapped it neatly into a coil around his fingers, slid that into one pocket and the little parcel into another. ‘I will retie it for you later.’

See that you do. The words were almost out of her mouth before she bit them back. Her nerves were on edge and Jared’s coldness was giving her a pain under her breastbone, but that was no excuse for behaving badly.

‘Luncheon, I think,’ she said with a bright smile as they emerged onto the street again. ‘It has been a very long morning.’

Faith was staring at her, then looked away. Perhaps the smile was a little too bright. Desperate.

‘This way. The Golden Fleece.’ Jared pointed to where a large gilded sign hung over the roadway. ‘The food has always had a good – ’ Then he stopped as suddenly as if he had been struck. Stopped speaking, stopped dead on the pavement.

In front of him a slender dark-haired woman in deep mourning black stopped too. Guin thought that it was no accident. Jared had been taken completely by surprise, but the lady in her expensive gown had not. The stranger stared intently into his face for a long moment. ‘You. It is you.’

‘You are in mourning.’ No greeting, no preliminaries.

For a moment Guin thought the woman was not going to reply. ‘For my husband.’ The woman caught up her skirts with one hand and swept past them, chin up. As she came level with Jared’s shoulder she hissed, ‘A sword for hire. A mercenary.’

‘Who was that?’ Guin demanded, looking back over her shoulder. The stranger walked away rapidly without turning, silken skirts swaying.

‘The entrance is just here.’ Jared, tight-lipped, was holding a door for her.

Guin shot him one hard glance then swept in, up to the man who came out of a side door to greet them. ‘A private parlour, if you please. And luncheon.’

‘Of course, ma’am. Just step this way.’ He led them to a small antechamber, then opened a door onto a pleasant room overlooking the street.

‘Thank you, my maid will order. Please wait in the anteroom for a few minutes, Faith.’ She closed the door almost on their faces and whirled on Jared. ‘Who was that and what the devil is going on?’

‘My sister-in-law and nothing is going on.’

‘No? When you are as cold as one of Gunter’s ices? When you won’t talk to me other than to my lady me? When you are told in the street that your brother has died and you walk on as though nothing has happened?’

‘I am not cold, I am concentrating on doing my job and keeping you alive.’

‘Yesterday you were in my bed.’

‘And I should not have been. You want me to be warm? You want me to flirt with you? You want my focus off whatever is attacking you?’

‘And you cannot be a normal, feeling human being and concentrate?’

‘Do you think I want to take the risk?’ He was not cold now, she thought with a shiver of something that was not quite alarm. ‘Yesterday I left my damned weapons in the study and that door was unlocked and the staircase unguarded. And my mind, what little I appear to have left of it, was entirely focused on what we were doing on that bed. I do not know what is wrong, but somehow you have turned my brain to mush.’

‘So it is my fault is it?’ Guin demanded.

‘No,’ he snarled back. ‘It is mine.’

There was such bleak despair in the amber eyes that Guin caught her breath. He has just heard that his brother is dead and I am railing at him like a Billingsgate fishwife. ‘Of course you are right.’ She kept her voice low. ‘We were careless, both of us. We will not be so again. But, Jared – your brother. I am so sorry.’

He had his composure again, the long-fingered hands were steady. But his eyes still betrayed him. ‘I had not spoken to him in eleven years.’

‘And it was he who lied about you, hurt you.’ He half-shrugged one shoulder. ‘She is beautiful, your sister-in-law.’

‘Bella. Yes.’

‘And very well dressed.’ And there had been both a liveried footman and a smart maid following her, Guin realised. ‘Wealthy. Just who are you, Jared Hunt?’

‘The man I have made myself,’ he said and opened the door. ‘Faith, wait in here with your mistress and lock the door behind me. I am not leaving the building. Open only to me.’

‘Jared, come – ’ The door closed leaving Faith, bewildered, on the inside. ‘– back. Oh damn. Lock the door, Faith.’

 

Jared strode into the main taproom. Several tables were occupied, a bar maid was serving and the landlord was at one end of the bar polishing glasses and keeping an eye on what was going on. He put down the cloth as Jared approached him.

‘I hear Ravenlaw is dead. When did that happen?’

‘A month past, near enough. A fall from his horse – herd of bullocks spooked it, he fell, got trampled. Nasty business.’

Nasty business. Jared slammed a brake on his imagination. William. My brother. He waited a beat until he was certain his voice would be under control. ‘And his father?’

‘Bearing up, they say. He’s taken it hard though, that’s for certain.’

‘Ravenlaw will have a son to inherit. The old man will have to take him in hand.’ He had never once yielded to the temptation to open that thick red tome, look at the list of names that would, surely, be growing beneath the entry for William and Bella, under the heading Huntingford.

‘No.’ The man picked up the cloth and began polishing again.

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘Three daughters, no sons. There was some scandal, years ago now, not that I recall the details, but there was another son of the old man’s. Dead now, I suppose, nothing’s been heard of him, so they say. They’ll find some cousins somewhere in the family tree to inherit.’

There was a buzzing in his ears, like that time he’d been shot in India and he hadn’t realised how serious it was until Cal was shouting at him, catching him as he fell. Hell. Jared clenched his fist until the short nails cut into his palm and the pain steadied him.