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The Arrangement. Lyn Stone
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“Name wasn’t Nathan. Edward, I believe we called him. Surname was Chapton, or something like that.” Nelson nodded, satisfied he’d remembered correctly. Yes, I believe it was Edward Chapton, or perhaps Chudwyn.”
Rupert threw up his hands again and rolled his eyes. “Well, if his given name wasn’t Nathan and his last name wasn’t Lyham, what’s the bloody point, man?”
Nelson folded his hands and returned Rupert’s glare. “Lyham was his title, Roop. The fellow was a lord. Father was an earl, I believe. Left school when the old man died.”
“Christ’s nails! An earl?” Rupert’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The gel’s gone and got herself an earl?”
“No, no. I told you this fellow’s name wasn’t Nathan. And besides that, wouldn’t Kathryn have thrown the man’s title at you if he had one? That would make her a countess, and I doubt very much if she’d forget to mention that.”
Rupert thought for a moment. Randall was right for a change. The lad hadn’t much in the way of fortitude, but he had a head on his shoulders. A fine-looking head it was, too. Rupert had been banking heavily on Nelson’s good looks to snag Kathryn’s attention. Bugger that idea now; they would simply have to resort to elimination and force.
“You find out, boy. I want to know who this rascal Lyham is by week’s end. Get on it first thing in the morning. Better yet, tonight. Ask around, check the peerage books just in case. Hire a detective, whatever it takes. We have to know who we’re dealing with and get rid of him before the girl turns twenty-five.”
Very late that evening, Jon stopped in the village and stabled Imp with the smithy, Ike Noblett. He then trudged through the woods to Grandy’s cottage, where he left his suit and the small case containing the wig, mirror and stage paint. After scrubbing himself in the lake, he donned the rough work pants he had brought with him. His heart had gone out of the charade, but he had little choice but to continue now that he was in it up to his neck.
The chilly night air revived him a little, but nothing could restore the bit of his soul he had left with his harp at Graythorne Antiquities. With a huge dose of luck, he might retrieve her someday, but that would rest with fate and the whims of Ned Bunrich.
He approached the house and noticed candles flickering in the ballroom windows. Had Kathryn waited up? “Halloo th’ house!” he called, so that he wouldn’t frighten her.
“Pip! Where have you been? It’s so late!” She caught his arm and shook it gently. “I was worried about you.”
Jon patted her hand and fought the urge to raise it to his lips. There was a stupid thought. He had always hated kissing hands. Pretending attentiveness. Watching women simper. But Kathryn’s hands were so small and so soothing, even when she was berating him for being late.
“Hungry,” he mumbled. And not just for food, he thought.
She sighed and pulled him toward the kitchen, where she had obviously been sitting. One of the chairs stood out of place. Usually they all did. Someone had scraped away his huge mound of candle wax from the center of the table and replaced it with a dish holding a fat new taper.
Kathryn nudged him to sit. “There’s a bit of the bacon from this morning. Your Grandy brought a tin of biscuits, and I cooked some of the apples I picked out back.”
Jon looked around while she gathered the food on a chipped plate. The whole room seemed different. The floor had a near shine to it. The cobwebs had disappeared, and the window glass reflected the light clearly. He didn’t recall ever seeing it do that. “It’s clean!” he exclaimed.
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