Aurora by Joan Smith Page A

took a certain leap of imagination to picture him all grown up into this fine gent.
    Horace would know as much about the local folks and their problems as Kenelm. Of course he wouldn’t be familiar with all the ins and outs of the family, but he would at least recognize the two baronesses, know what children they had, and might have rehearsed the layout of the house through the courtesy of some of the servant girls. Quite a young lady’s man, Rutley, for all he wasn’t too bright. Or for that matter he might have fallen in with the real Kenelm any time over the past ten years. It was assumed they knew the relationship in which they stood to each other, although they had never been seen in each other’s company Had they chanced to meet in America, or India for that matter, two expatriots, half brothers—what more natural than that they should have become friends? Rutley, the older and generally credited with being the more wicked of the two, might have learned all he could  from the younger man with this very scheme of returning in mind.
    To return as Kenelm would be to his advantage even if Bernard had lived out his normal span. Bernard was fond of his little brother, and would not be clutch-fisted with him. Another awful and vastly titillating prospect was that Rutley had plain murdered Kenelm when they had heard of Bernard’s death. Had already put one man in his grave, so certainly he wouldn’t stick at murder. With such a plum as the title and estate to attract him, might not Rutley have killed Kenelm, to come home himself and claim it all? It was conceded that in any case, whoever he was, he’d have some job pulling the wool over Lady Raiker’s shrewd eyes.
    Clare sat stunned, mute and furious, as her guests took their leave. She detained Marnie and Rorie when they made a move to leave with the others. “We must get together and decide what is to be done about this impostor,” she said. The first thing done was to bring Charles in from the rose garden, the implication being that the villain might abduct and kill him.
    “What do you think should be done, Clare?” Marnie asked.
    “He should be thrown into prison.”
    “We don’t know that he has committed a crime.”
    “Impersonating another for unlawful gain is a crime.”
    “Maybe he is Kenelm. How can you be so sure he isn’t?”
    “He doesn’t resemble him in the least. He’s bigger, darker, wickeder. Kennie was nice, a very sweet boy.”
    “Eleven years have passed—he would no longer be a boy. I’m not convinced the man isn’t Kenelm, though I’m not convinced he is either.”
    “He is as sly as a fox. You saw him making up to Alice McBain, getting the Dougalls to accept him. Ken was nothing to the Dougalls. They scarcely knew him. You didn’t see him saying a word to Hanley, the only one who might possibly have discovered his trick. I knew him better than anyone, and I say he is not Kenelm. He’ll have to prove it.”
    “I expect so. It cannot be difficult. There are things that no one except the real Kenelm would know. We must put our minds to work and discover what they are, and test him,” Marnie agreed.
    “It must be done at once, before he has time to nose around and find things out.”
    “He is coming to see you tomorrow, he says,” Rorie offered.
    “Coming here! I’ll not let him in. I’ll bar the door.”
    “That would look very odd, Clare, as though you are afraid of him,” Marnie suggested, and looked at her hostess with suspicion. She realized that beneath the natural anger, frustration and determination, there was something else that might be fear in Clare’s eyes.
    “I’m not afraid of him. He can’t prove a thing. I shall get my solicitor down from London, and we’ll see who’s afraid.”
    “Well, he is coming to see me in the afternoon, and I have agreed to see him,” Marnie told her.
    “He’s using you,” Clare said at once. “He’ll try to win you over, try to weasel things out of you. Just