by Chloe Neill
They exchanged polite nods.
“You received my message?” Grant asked.
“We did, sir. The physick is on his way, and we’ve gathered some materials. We’ve just now put them in the schoolroom, and moved in the spare beds. We thought Captain Brightling might enjoy the viscountess’s rooms, given they’re empty.”
“That’s fine,” Grant said, then glanced at Kit. “There’s room and light and . . . facilities in the schoolroom. And I’m sure you’ll be comfortable in the suite.”
Kit doubted that very much. “A cot in the schoolroom with the others would be more than sufficient.”
Mrs. Spivey looked appalled. “Well, that won’t do. You’re a captain. You should have a nice place to sleep.”
Nice, Kit thought, was relative. “There’s no need to go to any trouble.”
“Well, it’s no trouble to use a room that already exists, is it?” Mrs. Spivey’s tone made it very clear she neither expected nor desired a response—or any further argument from Kit. So she nodded, accepting the loss.
“Was it a very fierce battle?” Mr. Spivey’s dark eyes gleamed. A little bloodthirsty, Kit thought, which loosed some of the tension in her shoulders. She understood bloodthirsty.
“Very fierce,” Kit said. “Although, with Lord Grant’s assistance, we were victorious.”
“Well, of course,” Mrs. Spivey said, and smiled beatifically at Grant. “He’s a very brave one, is our colonel.”
“Very brave,” Kit said. “And he has a bandage that needs replacing.”
Mrs. Spivey’s eyes went wide with concern. “Bandage? You’ve been injured, sir?”
“A scratch,” he said, giving Kit a flat look. He hadn’t wanted them to know he’d been hurt. He either didn’t want them to worry, or didn’t want to deal with the hassle.
“Later,” Grant said. “I’ll keep until then.” He looked around the foyer. “Where’s Lucien?”
Mrs. Spivey looked at Mr. Spivey, who appeared markedly uncomfortable. “He’s . . . not in residence, sir,” Mr. Spivey said. “He said he had urgent business in New London.” Mr. Spivey’s tone was cautious, and he shifted his gaze meaningfully at Kit, as if uncertain how frank he could be.
Grant went utterly still, a predator poised on the edge of violence. “He promised me—” Grant cut himself off, turned away, and stalked across the room, anger obvious in the hard set of his shoulders.
“Lucien?” Kit asked quietly.
Grant jolted at the question, as if he’d forgotten she was still in the room. “My brother,” he said. And that was all he said.
The younger brother, Kit surmised. The one Hetta had called a wastrel. “I see.”
“Mrs. Spivey will show you to your room. I have some business to attend to.”
“Of course,” she said. And he moved into the corridor. It was obvious he wanted to be alone, to deal with whatever it meant that his brother was in New London. But there was one thing that had to be said.
Kit followed him, had to move briskly to keep up with his long strides, found him heading toward a closed door, dog still tucked beneath his arm.
“Grant.”
“Brightling,” he said, and sounded defeated. “I’ve neither the interest nor the inclination to discuss the Crown Command at present.”
“Thank you,” was all she said. And she was amused by the suspicion in his eyes.
His brows winged up. “For what?”
“For this. For the wagon and the horse and the care for my men. It’s obvious you’ve other concerns, but you offered your home to them, a solution for the ship. So on behalf of the Crown Command, thank you.”
For a long, quiet moment, he simply looked at her, and she couldn’t begin to name the emotions behind his eyes.
“You’re welcome,” he said finally, then walked into the room and closed the door behind him.
* * *
Mrs. Spivey led Kit up one of the staircases to the house’s second story, and then to a wide paneled door of pale blue.
“The suite hasn’t been used since the viscountess passed,” Mrs. Spivey said, pulling out a chatelaine of keys and bobbles, and sliding one into the wide paneled door.
“That would be Colonel Grant’s mother?”
“It would,” Mrs. Spivey said, then opened the door and stood aside so Kit would walk in. “A well-loved woman, was she.”
And a woman with lovely taste, Kit thought, walking into the room.
The sitting room was chalky blue, with a fireplace of blue stone flecked with bits of silver. The paintings in this room were landscapes—windblown cliffs and sunsets—silk and velvet settees and chairs with embroidered cushions. A wall of windows fronted by deep, padded seats threw light across the room. The sitting room led to the bedroom. The same blue paint and fireplace, more beautiful landscapes, and the largest bed Kit had ever seen, a silk canopy rising over it.
“You should find everything you need,” Mrs. Spivey said. “But if don’t, you’ll likely find us in the back of the house. The kitchen stays warmer than the rest,” she said with a smile, “and we don’t have the staff—not these days—to keep upstairs maids at the ready. But we do what we can. I’ve not spoken to my lord about it, but he doesn’t usually dine formally at supper. But there will be a sideboard with plates, should you be hungry.”
Kit didn’t have much appetite, and wanted a good night’s sleep more than anything. But she nodded politely. “I’m sure that will be lovely. Thank you very much.”
When she was alone, Kit looked back at the rooms. At the pretty luxury. The viscountess, whomever she might prove to be, would have a glorious set of rooms when settled into Grant Hall. Whom would Grant want? Undoubtedly someone beautiful—he was too handsome, and probably too particular, to settle for anything less. Someone titled, probably with funds, given the repairs that still needed to be made. Someone mannerly and eager to settle into routine.
She walked to the bed, traced fingertips along the silk counterpane, then walked to the window, did the same with the silk and velvet curtains. Rain had begun to fall, spilling raindrops across the glass. Through it, she could see the grounds that stretched beyond—lawn and trees and gardens. And not another house or human in sight.
This would be a very lonely life, she thought. To be a woman alone in these rooms in the cavernous house, which in turn sat alone in the park and far from the village. There would probably be books and embroidery, and the interruptions of tea and luncheon. Perhaps a ball or party now and again during the season. To Kit, it seemed a very small life. A very confined one, despite the sheer amount of space. She couldn’t imagine giving up the sea, the freedom, the camaraderie, the discovery, and exchanging it for this . . . empty beauty, she decided.
But that was neither here nor there. She was a guest, only here for a bit while the Diana was being repaired. And for the first time, it occurred to her that she’d return to New London without Grant. Their mission was complete, and just as she promised Grant his first day on board, their involvement was at an end. Much to her surprise, she wasn’t entirely pleased to realize that. No point in dwelling on it. (Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 4: Learn from the past; don’t dwell on it.) So she let the curtain fall again, adjusted her coat, and went for the door.
* * *
She walked down the corridor, followed the noise of chatting to a room on the right. It was a bright and open room, even on a rainy day, with wood floors and high windows along one side. Chairs and small desks and settees had been pushed against the walls, and four small beds had been placed in a row in the center of the room to make a kind of infirmary.
Phillips, Cordova, and Teasdale were on the beds. Cordova sat up, cradling his arm in its make-do sling, and the others reclined. All were still in uniform.
A barrel-chested man with neatly trimmed white hair and beard, wearing a dark coat and trousers
, was directing two women in apron-covered dresses about bandages and cleaning wounds. She walked inside, but the physick straightened his shoulders and stared at her with small, bright blue eyes.
“No,” he said, in a tone that promised he was accustomed to being immediately obeyed.
“Excuse me?” But she stopped.
The man walked toward her, waving her back. “No. We are caring for individuals in precarious health. There will be no interruptions, no visits, until we ensure they are comfortable.”
“I’m their captain,” Kit said, in her most captainly tone.
“We aren’t on a boat.”
Kit couldn’t fault that logic. “When can I see them?”
“At a time which is not now,” he said, and shut the door in her face.
* * *
Grant had arranged for her trunk to be taken to the house, and she allowed herself the luxury she couldn’t afford on board—she changed into her nightdress. Beat to quarters might be called in the wee hours of the morning, and she needed to make a swift appearance on deck. Which meant she’d either have to waste time changing into her uniform, or appear on deck in a filmy linen nightdress and wrapper. Which would almost certainly have violated several Crown Command protocols—if the Crown Command had considered the possibility of captains mustered in their wrappers. Even Cox’s Seamanship, which devoted an entire chapter to the boiling of mutton, had nothing to offer. So Kit avoided the problem and slept uncomfortably.
But tonight, there was soft muslin and freedom of movement. And an upsettingly large bed in a voluminous room in a sprawling country manor.
She lay on her back, sheet drawn to her chin, and stared at the ceiling. It was too damned quiet, and it was too damned still. There was always noise on the ship. People or waves or wind or canvas being reefed or unfurled. The din of the watch bells. The shuffle of the watch being changed.
Even Moreham Park had its noises. Merchants coming or going, street sweepers about their work. Rustling trees, barking crows, whining cats. And in her house, a sister staying up entirely too late or waking entirely too early, or Hetta rushing to the palace, or Mrs. Eaves stoking fires or preparing breakfast.
Here, there was only silence. There were several people in the house—Grant, the Spiveys, surely a few more staff—but she couldn’t hear any of them, or anything else other than the occasional sigh of the house settling around her.
Maybe it was different for Grant, who’d been raised in this kind of quiet, in this kind of space. And likely would be different for the woman he ultimately chose.
She tossed for an hour, then rose and went to the window, could see nothing but stars in the darkness that stretched outside. Thinking a walk might do her good, she pulled on her wrapper and slippers, and made her way downstairs. The house was dark but for a glow from a room in the far corner.
She walked toward it, peeked inside, and found Grant, jacket abandoned, stretched in a leather chair. Sprout, the little dog, was curled beside him. Grant’s study, she guessed.
Grant looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “Captain.”
“So sorry,” Kit said. “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light . . .” She turned, hardly in a state of dress appropriate for chatting with a bachelor viscount, but heard footsteps behind her.
“Wait,” he said, and she sighed, turned back.
He glanced at her ensemble, raised an eyebrow.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said again. “I hadn’t planned on company.”
“And yet,” Grant said, moving back into the room. “You’re welcome to join me. The fire and whiskey are very agreeable. But I’ll understand if you prefer a chaperone and”—he glanced back at her nightwear—“alternate clothing.”
She was angry that pink colored her cheeks, and glad that it was dark enough that he couldn’t see her face. She was a ship’s captain, for gods’ sake, and didn’t need a damned chaperone. She’d done her time in a forecastle berth where there was little time or space for modesty. She was clothed, wasn’t she? Perhaps not for tea with company, but for warming oneself in front of the fire? Perfectly acceptable.
“I’d appreciate a drink,” she said, chin lifted.
“Very well,” Grant said with a knowing smile, and gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”
She walked inside. His study was dark cornered, with leather chairs and sparking fire, a table for gaming, a desk for business, and books lining the walls. Not entirely unlike Hetta’s office, she thought.
“Grant Hall is beautiful, and this room is no exception.”
“Largely beautiful,” Grant said. “Partially decrepit.” He moved to a table that bore a collection of crystal glasses and decanters.
Kit moved to the facing leather chair in front of the stone fireplace, fire roaring, and sank in. A moment later, Grant brought her a small glass of amber liquid.
“Thank you.” Kit accepted the glass and sipped—and was welcomed by warmth and smoke and smoothness. “Well. That’s rather impressive.”
“It’s a family favorite,” Grant said darkly.
“You’ve been working on the house?” Kit asked.
He nodded. “My father had debts—became, I think, careless after our mother died. The house wasn’t maintained the way it ought to have been. I’ve been trying to put the estate back in order, but that work is obviously not complete. I’ve learned any number of new skills along the way. Creditor juggling, masonry repair, the cost of curtains.”
“You were fighting when your father passed?”
“With Sutherland,” Grant said with a nod. “My brother managed the estate while I was gone. Or was intended to do so.”
“That would be Lucien.”
Grant took a sip. “That would be Lucien. He was nineteen when I left. By the time I made it home again, the house was in further disrepair, the notes from creditors still piling up.”
He finished the rest of his whiskey, put the glass on a side table. “He drinks and he gambles, both without success. There are times when his particular demons do not haunt him, and he is a smart and charming fellow then. But the demons seem to inevitably find him again, and lure him back in. Now they’ve lured him to New London, and I imagine there will be more creditors to contact, more debts to negotiate, more repairs to delay.”
“I’m sorry,” Kit said.
“As am I.”
“You said your mother died?” Kit asked.
“A few years before my father,” Grant said. “She loved growing things. The gardens outside were her design, and primarily her work. It wasn’t fashionable—not for her to work in dirt or dirty her hands. But she didn’t care.”
“She sounds like a very formidable woman.”
“She was. I miss her dearly.”
The words echoed in the space. Even here, the ceilings rose nearly twenty feet high.
“Was it lonely to grow up here?” Kit asked. “The house is so large, and I didn’t see another for several miles.”
“We weren’t lonely as children,” Grant said. “We ran a bit wild across the estate, made a fortress of the orchard, harassed our tutors. But then my mother died, and Gerard took power. I wanted to fight; Lucien didn’t. My father was opposed to it—my being the first son and all—so I went to my uncle to fund the commission. My father and I were angry at each other when I left, and I was on the peninsula when he died. The house feels lonelier now.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate the work you’ve put in to set it to rights.”
Grant’s expression was hard, his brow furrowed as if he wrangled with memory. “I very much doubt that, Brightling.”
Rain began to fall, knocking hard against the window. Kit thought of her gothic romances, which were usually tales of an emotionally haunted man in a spiritually haunted abode. Grant Hall and its master might qualify.
“A few giant wolfhounds might h
elp liven the hall,” Kit suggested with a smile. “They’re quite common in stories of lonely cliffside estates.”
“Are they?” he asked, obviously amused, and looked down at the dog nestled in his lap. “Sprout doesn’t have a wolfhound’s build, but he does have the confidence of a much larger dog.” He looked up, watched her for a moment. “Do you know much about your family—before Hetta, I mean?”
She hadn’t discussed her family with Grant, but if her surname hadn’t been clue enough, he’d probably have looked into her background before they sailed. Probably interviewed Chandler about her, just as she’d done with Hetta.
“I have no memories of my parents,” Kit said, finishing her own glass and placing it beside Grant’s. “Not my mother’s face, or my father’s laugh. I don’t know if she liked to garden. On the other hand, while I’d not say it’s better to be a foundling, being one does avoid some of the familial complications.”
“Surely you and your sisters have disagreements.”
“Well,” she said with a smile. “There are seven of us.”
“Seven,” Grant said with a chuckle. “So many women in one home. The rows must be terrible.”
Her flat look had him holding up a hand. “Apologies, Brightling. I couldn’t resist.”
The quiet fell again. The fire crackled, as the wind swirled outside, and Kit realized this might be one of the last conversations she’d have with Rian Grant now that their mission was done. And she found that disappointing, as she’d rather gotten used to their sharp repartee.
“I suppose you’ll be returning to New London to find your brother? I mean, I’ve the sense you weren’t entirely confident he’d return in a timely manner.”
Grant grunted. “That was diplomatically said. And yes. I likely will, if he’s not returned before you sail.”
“You’re welcome to return with us. Although you may prefer a faster method.”
“I’ve not yet decided which I would prefer.”
