Blame It on Bath Page 0,111

eyes and struck them dumb at first glance—like her mother—but she was something even more appealing at second glance: she was kind and warm and genuinely interested in others. Her wit was quiet but keen, and she never exercised it cruelly. Any man who spent half an hour in her company would quickly agree with Gerard that she was the proverbial hidden pearl, with a soft, quiet glow rather than the alluring sparkle of some women.

So why had she gone away with her mother? To teach him a lesson? He almost hoped so; first, because he’d learned the lesson too well, and second because he was ready to repent until she forgave him. It would also mean she still loved him. He fervently hoped that was still true. If she’d gone away because she’d given up on him, it would be very bad.

His thoughts were interrupted when Charlie spoke. He stopped and turned, and heard another voice calling his name. A thin, balding fellow was chasing them, waving one arm and holding his hat with the other hand. “Captain de Lacey!”

“Yes?” As the man stumbled to a halt in front of them, breathing heavily, Gerard recognized him. “You’re the postal clerk.”

“Yes, sir,” gasped the fellow, clutching one hand to his side. “William Brynfield, sir, of the Bath Post Office.”

There was only one reason the postal clerk would be chasing him down the street. Gerard felt a flash of triumph. Beside him, Charlie cleared his throat expectantly. Damn it, he should have written more often to his brothers. But first he had to learn what the clerk knew. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Brynfield?” he said, giving Charlie a quick nod. “You look in need of a bit of rest.”

“Thank you, sir. I could use a moment at that.”

Gerard led the way into the house, torn between elation and frustration. Brynfield could be about to hand him the blackmailer, leaving his way open to ending the infuriating, nebulous threat over his name. But he burned to go after Kate that instant, blackmailer be damned. Impatiently he threw open the drawing-room door and waved the clerk to a seat.

“Yes, what is it?”

Mr. Brynfield perched on the edge of the sofa, breathing almost normally again. “I remembered what you said, my lord, about the letters you brought in, and the man who sent them. I’ve come to let you know—that is, I saw him again today.”

His muscles tightened instinctively. “Today? In Bath?” Gerard demanded. “Just now?”

“This morning, sir. He came in to post another letter, and I recognized him at once.” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve been watching for him ever since you came to see Mr. Watson, my lord,” he said proudly. “I never forget a face, I don’t, and I knew, if only I waited patiently enough, sooner or later he’d—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Gerard. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did. He had two letters to post—both to London, sir—and I worked my brains to think how I could ask his name while he counted out the coins for postage. Finally I says, ‘How good to see you again, Mr. Smythe. I’m delighted to see you’ve recovered enough to go out.’ Well, he looked quite amazed, and said, ‘You’ve mistake me, I’m not Mr. Smythe at all.’ ” The clerk was practically wiggling with excitement as he told his story. “I affected great astonishment, sir, and declared again that he must be Mr. Smythe, who has lived down the lane from my mother these last five years. ‘I know your wife,’ I told him. Well, he was not pleased by that. He said he had no wife, and I was mistaken. Again I pretended ignorance, and shook my head, muttering that he must have a fever of the brain to say such things, for didn’t I know my own mother’s neighbors? He was growing irate, my lord, and finally he exclaimed, ‘My name, sirrah, is Hiram Scott, and you have taken leave of your senses if you think me someone else!’ ” Brynfield beamed at Gerard. “Unfortunately I had to remain at the counter, sir, and had no opportunity of following him. I would have come directly, but I’ve only just closed up the post office.”

“I see,” said Gerard slowly. “I left my card with Mr. Watson, that it might be given to this man.”

Mr. Brynfield’s expression shifted, becoming a shade coyer. “I know, my lord, but Mr. Watson wasn’t in at the time, and I didn’t have the card you