by Chloe Neill
“Jane is upstairs, as always,” Bettina said, joining them again. “Pari took Marielle to the park. Astrid is calling on Mary Cartwright.” Her tone dipped a bit at the last. At nineteen, Astrid was determined to marry her way into connections, wealth, and stability. Kit couldn’t fault her desire for security, even if she didn’t understand the desire to memorize the list of the season’s most eligible Beau Monde members. Come to think of it, Astrid and Grant would probably get along royally.
“Get back to your practice.”
“Come on,” Georgina said, slipping her arm into Bettina’s. “I’ll give you one more chance to beat me.”
Bettina snorted as Kit slipped through the long central hallway to the kitchen. And was stopped by a wooden spoon held at arm’s length like the finest of swords.
“Halt.”
Kit followed the spoon to the woman who wielded it. She was slender but strong, with pale skin and silver hair. Her dress was gray and starched so stiffly it might stand on its own.
“Mrs. Eaves,” Kit said. And was glad her gift had been hidden.
Mrs. Eaves pulled the spoon back, looked down at Kit from nearly six feet of imposing height. “It doesn’t appear you’ve eaten for a month. I hope you managed to feed your crew.”
“The queen is frugal. We prefer to throw them overboard when they start complaining of hunger.”
Mrs. Eaves’s mouth thinned in obvious disapproval. But as much as Kit enjoyed their sparring—and surmised Mrs. Eaves did, too—there were other matters at hand.
“I sail again in the morning,” Kit said, before Mrs. Eaves could voice that disapproval. “I’d like a bath after supper, please.”
Try as she might, not even stoic Mrs. Eaves could hide the flare of concern that creased her brow. “You’re leaving in the morning? But you’ve only just returned.”
“Someone needs our help,” Kit said, and felt the weight of the words and the obligation. Tomorrow, she’d don her coat, deliver a coin into the sea for luck and thanks, and command her ship and her crew into danger. But right now—in the warm kitchen of the house on Francis Street—she allowed herself a moment’s regret, and a moment’s gratefulness.
“In the morning,” Kit said again. “And a bath this evening would be most welcome.”
“Then it will be done,” Mrs. Eaves said, and nodded stiffly. “I believe we’ve yet some of the lavender salts you enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
Their agreement dissolved the temporary truce, and Mrs. Eaves squared her shoulders again, narrowed her gaze. “What contraband did you sneak into my house?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Kit said, and slipped away.
* * *
The potting room, with its long table, tile floor, and views of the garden, had become the domain of Kit’s closest sister, Jane.
It was a simple room, with whitewashed walls and chairs near the windows, perfect for reading. But that wasn’t the kind of contemplation that most commonly happened here. Work was done at the well-worn table in the middle of the room. Jane had scoured the kitchen for bottles and jars and pots, had borrowed books from Hetta’s library. And she’d directed her energies toward solving the mysteries of the world’s substances.
She funded her studies and purchased new wares with the profits of the things she’d already invented. Solid soap that never diminished or dissolved. A fertilizer made of ground turnips and beets—the only appropriate use for either, in Kit’s opinion—that nearly turned their small garden into a jungle. A paste that provided all the nutrition a body needed for an entire day’s work—and that tasted as revolting as it looked.
Jane was two years younger than Kit’s twenty-four years. She was tall and pale with blond hair, blue eyes, and a wide mouth. It was presently curved into a frown as she peered down at a thick book, used white gloves to carefully turn the pages.
It relieved Kit immensely to see her. But then she narrowed her eyes. “Are you wearing my gloves?”
Jane’s squeal of delight rang through the room. “You’re back!” she said, pulling off the gloves and running to her sister, wrapping Kit in an embrace. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” Kit said. “And those are my gloves.”
Jane snorted. “You hardly ever wear them.” She smiled slyly at Kit. “If you’d been here, I’d have asked you first.”
“But since I wasn’t, you helped yourself?”
“I had work to do.”
“You might as well keep them now,” Kit said. “They’re probably soaked in deadly chemicals, and I have to sail again at dawn.”
Jane’s smile fell away. “We’ll hardly have time to catch up.”
“Then we’ll have to catch up quickly,” Kit said with a smile. “My mission was successful, my crew and ship are safe, and I’ll be sailing tomorrow with a viscount. Oh, and I saw Kingsley.”
“Did you?” Jane’s brows lifted.
“It was a very brief meeting.” She decided on sparing the confidential details.
“And how was he?”
“Amusing,” Kit decided. “And he defended my honor when a soldier delighted in explaining that magic is nonsense.”
Jane smiled approvingly. “Then Kingsley has better sense than the soldier. Have you considered telling Kingsley that you enjoy his company, and suggesting he escort you to a musicale?”
Kit’s mouth thinned. “I have no interest in musicales.”
“No one of sane mind has an interest in musicales,” Jane said. “That’s hardly the point.”
“Which is?”
Jane made an exhausted sound. “To spend time in the company of someone charming and handsome.”
“In order to provoke an offer of marriage,” Kit finished. “And as I also have no interest in resigning my commission to spend my days with needlepoint and social calls, I’d rather provoke a sea dragon. The cost is too high.”
“Even for Kingsley?”
“For anyone.”
Jane just sighed. “Where are you going tomorrow?”
“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Kit said. “But it’s a mission of utmost importance and valor.”
“You’re being mysterious again.”
“I try to be mysterious at least thrice a day. It keeps the blood moving.”
“Speaking of mysteries and missions,” Jane said, moving around the table, “I have a little something for you to try.”
Kit narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I’ve forgotten the vinegar candies? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, also shame on you, because I’m your devoted sister.”
Jane picked up a velvet pouch that lay on a corner of the table. “So devoted you stopped by Portnoy’s and didn’t bring me so much as a nougat?”
Kit’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”
“You smell of chocolate.”
“The twins have the package. Well concealed.”
“Concealed in their belly within the hour,” Jane predicted. “Hold out your hand, please,” she said, when she’d reached Kit again.
Kit extended her palm, marked with the history of her Alignment, and Jane spilled the contents of the bag into it—two glass marbles, smooth and cold, and spun through with color. Kit held one up so sunlight shined through it, sending blue light glimmering across the floor. “They’re beautiful. But why did you make marbles?”
“Thank you. And they aren’t marbles. They’re explosives.”
Kit went completely rigid. “I beg your very serious pardon. You just dropped explosives into my hand?”
“I call them sparkers. They’re quite inert. Unless you drop them.”
Kit’s expression was murderous. She hadn’t planned on returning to a battlefield tonight, nor expected that her beloved sister would actually lob munitions at her.
“Just a bi
t of a joke,” Jane said. “I mean, they are explosives, but dropping them won’t do anything. They have to be triggered. There’s a small depression in the glass. Press it until you feel the glass heat. Then throw it. Quickly,” she added, as if Kit might need the incentive to put distance between herself and a warming explosive.
Frowning, Kit carefully lifted one from her palm. The glass was smooth but for, as promised, a gentle divot on one side that was slightly rougher than the other so it could be triggered even in darkness.
“I thought they’d be useful since the Diana has no guns, and your mission is certain to be dangerous.”
Kit just looked at her. “I have no idea what you mean. I am a courier.”
Jane’s sigh was long and haggard and rather impressive. “Kit, you are a wonderful sister but a miserable liar. The queen is too smart to waste someone of your impressive talents as a watery messenger girl.”
There was silence for a moment, as Hetta was the only one in the house aware of her actual duties, and Kit was honor bound to silence. A disappointment, as she was eager to complain about being partnered with an egotistical viscount.
“At any rate,” Jane said, respecting Kit’s silence, “they’re very effective.”
Kit lifted an eyebrow. “How effective?”
Jane’s smile was wicked. “They’ll blow a hole right through the hull of an enemy ship. So don’t trigger it unless you intend to do serious damage.”
Surely Kit could find a use for that.
Five
The Brightling house had plenty to commend it—the orangerie, with its fragrant potted citrus; the garden, nearly overburdened with peonies and boxwoods and roses. But the best room of all belonged to Hetta.
Her study was a museum, a library, a gallery. The walls were covered in books and folios that held prints of lands Kit hadn’t yet had the opportunity to see. The chairs were leather and deep, and the tables held artifacts and stones. A globe stood near Hetta’s claw-footed desk, an imposing, bulky piece of furniture covered in bric-a-brac and carvings. It was large enough, and Hetta was small enough, that she could have made a bunk out of it. She was not quite five feet tall, with pale skin and short hair, and brown eyes that saw much.
She’d summoned Kit, and sat beside that desk in a tunic of brilliant turquoise undoubtedly obtained outside the Isles, much to the consternation of Mrs. Eaves, who believed the clothes entirely too garish for a Saxon household.
A fireplace faced the desk, hanging above it a painting of her late husband in uniform, wearing a charming and slightly lopsided smile, rather than the cool reserve usually shown in portraits. Sir Harry’s hair was short and red and stuck up in tufts, and his cravat was slightly off center.
Hetta peered at Kit over her spectacles, then carefully put down the book and removed them. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Kit said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
“Help yourself if you’d like some tea.” Hetta gestured to a side table where a teapot and cup awaited. “Mrs. Eaves brought it in—well, I’m not sure how long ago. It may not be warm.”
“Bergamot?”
“It is.”
Kit touched a fingertip gingerly to the white ceramic pot. “Still warm,” she said, then glanced back at Hetta. “Would you like some?”
“Please.”
Kit poured two cups, added light sugar as Hetta preferred, and generous sugar and milk in hers. When she’d given Hetta the cup, she took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, savored the first sweet sip.
“Oh, I’ve missed this.”
“Run out of tea on board?”
“Milk,” Kit said, opening her eyes. “We only had a bit iced down in the hold, and we had to drink it quickly.”
“And how was your mission?” Hetta asked. When she wasn’t raising children, Hetta assisted the Crown as an analyst of intelligence gathered by the Crown Command’s Foreign Office. Hetta and Sir Harry had been in Gallia, seeking out useful information, when he’d died.
As with Kit, few knew of Hetta’s real work, and they assumed she spent the majority of her free time like those who’d been born into the Beau Monde: at her leisure. They didn’t know of her ongoing service, and believed she’d only been inducted into the Order of Saint James, one of the nation’s highest honors, because she’d lost her husband.
“A coded letter in Gerard’s handwriting,” Kit said, and watched expressions stream across Hetta’s face. Pride, concern, dismay.
“So much for the ban on communications,” Hetta said. She sat back in the chair again. “I told them Montgraf was a poor choice. It seems imposing—the jagged peaks, inaccessible castle. But there’s a village at the base of the mountain. A bit of gold crossing the hands of an eager villager, and much havoc can be wrought. Where was it bound?”
“Pencester.”
Hetta nodded. “A disappointment, if not a surprise, to learn we’ve operatives in the Isles.”
“And that may not be the only evidence of treachery. I’m leaving in the morning on a rescue mission.”
Hetta stilled, teacup nearly to her lips. “Who?” she asked, and Kit could all but feel the dread that spilled into the air.
“Marcus Dunwood.”
Porcelain rattled as Hetta lowered the cup and saucer again. “Vas tiva es,” she murmured. It was half question, half curse in the old language: What have the gods wrought?
Hetta sat quietly for a moment, brow furrowed and gaze staring as she considered, evaluated. “He was supposed to be in disguise,” she said, after raising her gaze to Kit again.
“Compromised,” Kit said, and saw the flash of temper in Hetta’s dark eyes. “He was captured on a packet and is believed to be in Finistère. I leave in the morning.”
“I’ll wish you fair winds. I suppose you’ve already been to Portnoy’s?”
Kit grinned. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
Hetta sipped, rolled her eyes.
“What do you know about Viscount Queenscliffe?” Kit asked.
This time, Hetta’s brows shot up. “The Grants hold that particular seat. As I recall, the family had financial troubles when the last viscount died. Two sons—the younger was a bit of a wastrel, and I believe there was some consternation about the older son’s taking a commission.”
Easy enough to guess Rian was the older son.
“Is the elder trustworthy?” Kit asked.
“I don’t know enough of him to say. The family is generally well regarded, but for the lack of funds. Why do you ask?”
Kit cleared a bit of space on the edge of Hetta’s desk—moving a box of pinned butterflies and a spyglass—and put down the cup and saucer.
“He is to accompany me on the mission,” Kit said. “We are to lead it together, by order of the queen.”
“As you’re here,” Hetta said coolly, “it doesn’t appear you’ve been imprisoned for refusing her.”
“She is my queen, and I’m not fond of treason.” Restless now, Kit rose, wandered to the globe in its golden mount. She put a hand to the gemstone surface, felt the cold beneath her hand. Then spun it with a finger so the Isles whirled past, a dot in a great blue sea.
“I don’t like having a member of the Beau Monde on my ship.” She looked back at Hetta. “And I don’t like involving in my mission a man I don’t know, much less giving him partial control. Not when lives are at stake.”
“The queen is young,” Hetta said. “But she is not naive. She’d have had her reasons for adding him. And there’s one easy way to confirm his motives.”
Kit looked up, expecting Hetta to offer to send an inquiry.
“Ask him,” Hetta said, amusement in her eyes.
Kit snorted. “I doubt he’ll willingly confess to perfidy.”
“Assuming he’s involved in perfidy, which is unlikely.” The cabin
et clock sounded the hours ominously. “As you’ve an early morning, you might try to get some sleep.”
“I should,” Kit agreed.
“I didn’t know you still wore your ribbon,” Hetta said, gaze dropping. Kit looked down. She’d left her jacket unbuttoned, and a frayed end of ribbon peeked out.
“I do,” Kit said, and fastened the buttons again. “As a reminder of how lucky I am, and Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 7—The best of life comes from having earned it.”
She walked around the desk, pressed a kiss to Hetta’s cheek. Hetta covered Kit’s hand with hers.
“The world is becoming dangerous again,” she said. “Be as careful as you can.”
“The world has always been dangerous,” Kit said. “But some are better at hiding it. And there’s too much of the world that I haven’t yet seen to leave it so quickly.”
She walked to the door, but paused by a shelf and pulled out a slim volume of adventure stories. She held it up to obtain Hetta’s permission.
Hetta’s expression was grim. “There are a thousand books in this room. Discourses on ancient philosophies. Treatises on naval maneuvers. And my children only want fairy tales and love stories.”
“Because they aren’t discourses on ancient philosophies or treatises on naval maneuvers,” Kit said, and skipped out before she was treated to a lecture on the importance of intellectual breadth. That was Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 8.
Ten minutes later, Kit was chin-deep in a copper tub of lavender-scented water, with a sweet in one hand and a book in the other.
She was home, even if only for a little while.
Six
Kit slept fitfully in the stationary bed in the immobile house in the unmoving corner of New London. She was used to sleeping in the bosom of the sea, with the boat’s gentle motion around her. Her feather bed was more than comfortable, but it still felt stiff after sleeping atop rolling waves for two months.
She woke to the sound of the cock crowing in the garden below, found the sky still dark, the wind blowing east. It would be a fine day for sailing.
