Destined To Last Part 15

"Only way to get a word in edgewise," he returned.

"Then have your word."

"Thank you." He lowered his brow, but leaned forward to catch and hold her eye. "I am willing to compromise on the matter of you staying within sight at all times, but not on this-you will not, at any time, leave Pallton House grounds."

She considered that. It wasn't as asinine as his first order. And she had practically given her word that she would adhere to his orders. She had no intention of breaking her promise. But what if the ladies took it into their heads to go out for a picnic in the nearby countryside, or her mother asked her to go into town for a bit of shopping?

She pressed her lips into a line. Partic.i.p.ating in the investigation was becoming more bother than it was worth. "What if I've need-?"

"No more arguments, Kate," he cut in for what she thought must be the hundredth time. The aggravating oaf. "You will will remain on the grounds at all times, or I will inform your brother of your involvement in this mission and let him decide what's to be done with you." remain on the grounds at all times, or I will inform your brother of your involvement in this mission and let him decide what's to be done with you."

"Decide what's...?" She gaped at him yet again-just for a moment, just long enough for the waves of insult and indignation to solidify into the far more useful emotion of fury.

"You," she began coolly, rising from her chair, "and that ultimatum, may go straight to the devil. that ultimatum, may go straight to the devil. I I shall inform Whit of my involvement, and shall inform Whit of my involvement, and I I shall decide what is to be done with me after that." She sniffed once and looked down her nose at him. "I'll leave it to William Fletcher to decide what's to be done with shall decide what is to be done with me after that." She sniffed once and looked down her nose at him. "I'll leave it to William Fletcher to decide what's to be done with you you."

"Holy h.e.l.l, you're stubborn." His voice was more awed than angry. "You're quite serious, aren't you? You'll tell Whit yourself."

"Yes."

"He's mentioned you can be mule-headed," he commented in an aren't-you-rather-interesting sort of way that turned the edges of her vision red, "but this this I hardly expected." I hardly expected."

"Apparently, you don't know me as well as you would like to think."

"Apparently," he agreed. He leaned forward in his chair and motioned toward the door. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and just a little taunting. "Go on and tell him, then. It should be interesting to see how he takes the news of your untrustworthy behavior."

"I beg your pardon?" Her tone was sharp enough to cut gla.s.s.

"You agreed to adhere to my orders." He sat back against the cushions of the chair once more. "You've broken your word."

Kate took a slow, deep breath through her nose in an effort to control the overwhelming wave of emotions that insult had provoked. Coles never never broke their word, not since her father had pa.s.sed. It was a matter of utmost pride for every member of the family. The accusation that she had failed to uphold that honor infuriated nearly as much as it wounded. broke their word, not since her father had pa.s.sed. It was a matter of utmost pride for every member of the family. The accusation that she had failed to uphold that honor infuriated nearly as much as it wounded.

She didn't speak again until she was certain she could do so in a voice that was confident rather than thready. "Unlike you, my brother knows me too well to question my integrity. Had you let me explain myself rather than rushing to a.s.sume the very worst of me, you'd have known I was only looking for clarification of your order, not seeking to excuse myself from a promise."

His dark eyes searched her face. "You meant to keep your word?"

"I always always keep my word." She spun on her heel, headed toward the door, and threw a parting shot over her shoulder. "And I give you my word that Whit won't cast aspersions on-" keep my word." She spun on her heel, headed toward the door, and threw a parting shot over her shoulder. "And I give you my word that Whit won't cast aspersions on-"

"I'm ordering you not to inform your brother of your involvement."

She stopped in her tracks, but didn't turn around. She couldn't. She simply could not look at the man...not without risking doing him a physical injury.

"Not tonight, Kate." His voice had gentled, a fact that only added fuel to her fury. There was nothing more grating than being enraged and having the object of that rage remain calm and collected. "You're angry," he continued. "It would appear you've some right-"

She turned around for that, and found he'd risen from his chair, his hands clasped behind his back. "I've ample right," she bit off.

"Be that as it may, I am ordering you to wait twenty-four hours before making a decision you might regret."

She'd have given nearly anything in that moment to tell him she would speak to Whit at the time of her choosing, and the devil take his orders. But she couldn't, not without proving him right. Furious, she spun around again, reached the door, and spun back. "Don't forget to send a footman for Mr. Potsbottom."

Hunter didn't bother with the footman. His own temper still simmering, he followed Kate at a discreet distance to be certain she made it safely back to her room, then went directly to the music room where he found Potsbottom snoring in the very spot where they'd left him.

Hunter toed him with his boot. "Get up."

When that failed to illicit more than a loud gurgle, Hunter stalked over to a vase with cut flowers and stalked back to dump the contents over the boy's head.

Potsbottom lurched violently and flailed his arms as if warding off an attacker. "Wazzat? Wazzat?"

"Awake now, are we?"

Mr. Potsbottom stared at him, eyes wide and uncomprehending. "Wazzat?"

Awake, Hunter ascertained, but nowhere near sober. "Get on your feet. We're going to the stables."

Mr. Potsbottom required some a.s.sistance in fulfilling that command, which Hunter provided in the form of dragging him up and hauling him out the door. Under normal conditions the walk to the stable took under a minute, but with Mr. Potsbottom's stumbling, lurching, and tripping-all whilst babbling unintelligible nonsense-it was at least five before Hunter pushed through the doors, and then shoved Mr. Potsbottom against the wall of the nearest stall.

His instinct was to follow up that shove with a right jab to the nose, then a left jab to the jaw, and then a serious of blows to the gut, and then...Well, he just wanted to beat the man unconscious.

Pity a man couldn't answer questions when he was unconscious. While Hunter was debating his limited options, Mr. Potsbottom mumbled something about heaven, or possibly lemons, and his eyes began to roll back in his head.

Hunter shoved him again. "Stay awake, Potsbottom."

"What?"

That was an improvement, anyway. "You've questions to answer. Let's begin with why you thought Lady Kate would appreciate your attentions."

"Lady Kate?" Mr. Potsbottom squeezed his eyes shut on a groan. "Mistake...Terrible...Sorry..." His head began to loll to the side then snapped back up again when Hunter gave him a hard shake. "Didn't mean...frighten her...I'd never..."

"You did."

"Terrible...Said she wanted a kiss...She said..." He blinked owlishly and looked around a little. "We in the stables?"

"Lady Kate said she wanted a kiss?" He didn't believe that, not for a second.

"Huh?"

Hunter ground his teeth together. "Did Lady Kate ask you to kiss her?"

"No...No, don't think she wanted...Might have frightened her...Didn't mean...I'd never..." His face suddenly took on a green cast. "Gonna be sick..."

Hunter let him go and took a step back. Mr. Potsbottom staggered away a few feet and bent at the waist as if to toss up his wine. But rather than ridding his body of the poison, he kept bending forward slowly until he'd finally toppled to the ground headfirst.

Hunter curled his lip in disgust and wondered if it would be worth the effort to drag the sot up again. Probably not. From what he knew of Mr. Potsbottom, and what little-what very very little-the drunken fool had been able to make clear, it was fairly obvious the young man had been drunk, clumsy, and stupid when he'd turned his attentions on Kate, but hadn't intended to harm. little-the drunken fool had been able to make clear, it was fairly obvious the young man had been drunk, clumsy, and stupid when he'd turned his attentions on Kate, but hadn't intended to harm.

He'd have another talk with him in London, a sober one, about limiting his drink. And to make certain he kept his tongue in his head.

Mr. Potsbottom snorted, gurgled, and began to snore.

"Waste of good air," Hunter grumbled.

A soft snicker sounded from overhead and he looked up to discover a large pair of brown eyes in a young face peeking out from over a bale of hay in the loft.

Hunter jerked his head in acknowledgment. "Evening, lad. You have a name?"

"Simon, sir."

"Well, Simon." He dug a few coins out and held one up for the stable boy to see. "Care to earn a bit of this?"

The boy crawled out from behind the hay to crouch on his heels at the edge of the loft. At least twelve, Hunter guessed. Old enough to hear a spot of rough language. He tossed him the coin. "Inform Mr. Potsbottom upon his rising that he is to get on his horse and go home. He can send for his things. If he takes one step inside Pallton House, I'll personally hack off the offending foot."

Simon nodded.

Hunter tossed him another coin. "Also inform him that if he speaks one word of what took place this night I'll personally hack off his head."

Simon nodded again.

"If he gives you any trouble, come for me. Understood?"

"Aye."

"Good lad."

"You hack off mine? If I talk?"

"Won't need to, will I? That's what this is for." He tossed him a wink to let him know the jest, and tossed him the final coin, a sovereign. "You're in no danger from me, Simon. But I expect you to earn that and be mindful of what you say."

"Aye," the boy breathed, he turned the coin over in his hand, his eyes wide. "That I will."

Though he would have preferred to go straight to his room for a drink, and the privacy in which to savor it and his foul mood, Hunter made himself stop by the library on his return from the stable. Cracking the door open, he looked inside to discover Lord Martin pa.s.sed out on a settee, Mr. Kepford snoring loudly on the floor in front of the settee, and Mr. Woodruff slumped over in a high back chair, a thin line of drool seeping from his mouth.

He briefly considered picking each of their pockets for the keys to their chambers before deciding it would be easier and safer to simply pick the locks on their doors. He'd been a fine pickpocket in his youth, but he'd been a better thief.

He let himself into Lord Martin's room first, using the tools from a small leather satchel he rarely went anywhere without. He'd not had the benefit of those tools the first time he'd gone thieving. There'd been only one of his mother's hairpins, a small knife, and a very rudimentary understanding of how a lock worked.

He could still remember that night as if it had been only yesterday-the fear as he stood in the darkened hallway of the workhouse, the desperation for what was on the other side of the locked kitchen door, and the determination to acquire what was needed. But most vivid in his memory was what came after he'd found success and left the kitchen with his pockets stuffed with bread. He'd felt useful, confident, even powerful. There was something he could do to help, to make a difference. It was a heady experience for a boy-one he'd sought out time and again, even after the sense of power had proved to be false. He'd been able to keep what he'd stolen, but not who he'd stolen for.

Hunter shoved the memory aside. He was no longer a helpless young boy. And there was work to be done. He searched the room quickly but thoroughly, opening every drawer, turning over every sc.r.a.p of paper, and delving his hand into every pocket. His search was met with success in the form of simple note in a desk drawer.

My dearest Martin,As you are quite well aware, the shipment shall arrive within a fortnight. Please do attempt a show of patience.

Hunter turned the note over in his hand. It was neither signed nor dated. Clearly, it had been hand delivered, but whether that delivery had occurred at the house party or prior to Lord Martin's arrival was impossible to determine. What was was clear, was that Lord Martin knew the sender well. The tone was chiding and that implied familiarity. clear, was that Lord Martin knew the sender well. The tone was chiding and that implied familiarity.

Hunter studied the note until he was confident he would recognize the handwriting if he saw it again, then tucked the note back into the drawer and made his way to Mr. Kepford's chambers. He searched that room and Mr. Woodruff's in under fifteen minutes and found nothing of interest. To his frustration, samples of both gentlemen's handwriting failed to match the note addressed to Lord Martin. The second party remained an unknown. He hated hated unknowns. A man couldn't strategize properly without knowing all the variables, all the players. As a thief, he'd studied his marks for weeks before making a move. As a businessman, he knew the personal and professional lives of each and every one of his compet.i.tors. As an agent, he was left studying cryptic, unsigned notes, penned by an unknown individual who may, or may not, be a threat to Kate. unknowns. A man couldn't strategize properly without knowing all the variables, all the players. As a thief, he'd studied his marks for weeks before making a move. As a businessman, he knew the personal and professional lives of each and every one of his compet.i.tors. As an agent, he was left studying cryptic, unsigned notes, penned by an unknown individual who may, or may not, be a threat to Kate.

He left Mr. Woodruff's room with a scowl, and headed for the parlor. It had been easier being a thief.

CHAPTER Thirteen

Despite her distaste for moping, Kate spent the next morning in her room doing mostly that. She would have much preferred to have spent her time doing something a little less disheartening, or at least a little more imaginative, like devising ways to make Hunter pay for his high-handedness, but she just couldn't drum up an interest in it.

Most of her anger had burned away the night before-after she'd stormed down the halls, painfully aware that Hunter was following her at a distance, and gone to her room to pace, fume, and kick at her bed a few times. When the latter had prompted Lizzy to hesitantly knock on the connecting door between their rooms, Kate had claimed clumsiness and pretended as if nothing was amiss. She'd allowed Lizzy to help her change her gown for a night rail, and then she'd gone to bed. she'd stormed down the halls, painfully aware that Hunter was following her at a distance, and gone to her room to pace, fume, and kick at her bed a few times. When the latter had prompted Lizzy to hesitantly knock on the connecting door between their rooms, Kate had claimed clumsiness and pretended as if nothing was amiss. She'd allowed Lizzy to help her change her gown for a night rail, and then she'd gone to bed.

Though her sleep had been restless, what was left of her anger had melted away during the night, and now at midday she felt only weary, heartsick, and a strong desire to avoid Hunter for as long as possible. She also felt rather guilty for having told Lizzy and Mirabelle she wanted to spend the day composing. Guilty enough, in fact, that she'd been trying for the past three hours to put aside her foul mood and work on her symphony.

She hadn't managed to put two notes together. For some reason, her mind kept going back to a silly little tune she'd made up as a child, and she couldn't open her windows and let the sound of the waves silence it because it was raining outside.

"I don't even like that song," she grumbled to herself. Nor did she like that she had misled her friends so she could mope about her room instead of facing Hunter.

"I'm not afraid of him," she grumbled again and rose from her small writing desk. She was going downstairs to find Mirabelle and Lizzy, and if she ran into Hunter, so be it. There was no reason for her to feel ashamed. She She hadn't been the one to toss about asinine orders and heartless insults. Remembering, she felt a small revival of anger. She latched on to it greedily. It was so much better than despondency. hadn't been the one to toss about asinine orders and heartless insults. Remembering, she felt a small revival of anger. She latched on to it greedily. It was so much better than despondency.

"See what's to be done with me," she muttered as she walked down the hall, her steps unconsciously matching the beat of the silly tune.

"Untrustworthy," she said under her breath as she made her way down a back staircase. That specific memory prompted the return of disappointment and hurt. Did he really think so little of her? Did he truly believe her so capricious as to give her word one day and break it the next? Or the day after the next...which was neither an improvement nor the point.

Had he always always thought so little of her? Had she given him cause to? She could admit to being impulsive- thought so little of her? Had she given him cause to? She could admit to being impulsive-occasionally-and she knew her distracted and romantic nature sometimes got the better of her common sense. But she wasn't an idiot, and she wasn't dishonorable. That Hunter should think her both- The silly tune playing in her head rather suddenly became a lively minuet.

Her hip nudged something hard and she glanced down to see the vase Lizzy had rescued once before go toppling from its table. To her considerable shock, Kate actually managed to reach out and catch the thing. But she had only a heartbeat to revel in this unusual display of coordination, because in the next, her toe caught on the leg of the table and then she she was toppling to the ground, vase in hand. was toppling to the ground, vase in hand.

She landed on it-caught it right between her shoulder and the hard wooden floor. The sound of it breaking was like a gunshot in her ear.

Slowly, painfully, she sat up and surveyed the wreckage. The vase was in at least a dozen pieces. She looked at them numbly, the next twenty-four hours of her existence playing out before her.

She would try to pay for the replacement of the vase. Lord Brentworth would refuse. Her brother would press the money on him in private. Kate would press her money on Whit. Whit would refuse. She would give the money to her mother. Her mother would lecture. Everyone would feel terrible.

A stinging sensation on her shoulder provided an almost welcome distraction, until she looked down to discover a long slash in her gown and an accompanying blooming spot of red.

"Of course," she said wearily. Of course Of course she would ruin yet another gown. Hadn't her brother worked so hard to restore the family coffers just so she could squander the money on one accident after another? she would ruin yet another gown. Hadn't her brother worked so hard to restore the family coffers just so she could squander the money on one accident after another?

She rather felt like crying.

"Kate? What's all this?"

And of course of course Hunter would suddenly emerge around the corner to witness her disgrace. Hunter would suddenly emerge around the corner to witness her disgrace.

To her mortification, she felt her eyes begin to water. Ruthlessly, she battled back the tears. She was not going to add to her pitiable circ.u.mstances by leaking like a sieve.

"I'm constructing a mosaic," she drawled in her most sarcastic tone, because honestly-What's all this? Was the man blind? He had to be, not to see she was sitting in the hallway surrounded by pieces of a broken vase. And to see her as an untrustworthy, dishonorable, and capricious idiot. The tears returned, and she fought them back again as Hunter crouched beside her. Was the man blind? He had to be, not to see she was sitting in the hallway surrounded by pieces of a broken vase. And to see her as an untrustworthy, dishonorable, and capricious idiot. The tears returned, and she fought them back again as Hunter crouched beside her.