by Chloe Neill
Grant cursed, rose. Kit and Jane followed suit.
“Stanton,” Grant said, and the men bowed. “May I introduce Captain Kit Brightling and her sister Jane Brightling? Ladies, this is John Stanton of the Foreign Office.”
Jane curtsied. Kit didn’t move.
“We’re acquainted,” Kit said. “Mr. Stanton has thoughts about Alignment, and felt free to share them in the palace one day.”
“Oh?” Grant asked, and his tone had gone hard. “Does he?”
“Surprised to see you here,” Stanton said. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”
“I’ve some business,” Grant said. “Why are you strolling alone through the gardens?”
“Why are you escorting foundlings in the gardens?” Stanton shot back.
“Stanton,” Grant said sharply.
“I’m not wrong,” Stanton said. “Plenty of women of good breeding and character. And coin. I understand you need a bit of the coin.”
Grant glanced at Kit. “I see you were correct.”
“About?” Kit asked.
“The boorish behavior of the Beau Monde. I find myself rather embarrassed to be part of the same class.”
Stanton snorted. “You’re barely clinging to membership, given the estate and your brother.” He looked derisively at Kit, gaze settling on her décolletage. “And she’s certainly got no money to enrich your coffers.”
Completely unperturbed, Grant cocked his head at Stanton. “You’re a very small man, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Stanton’s tone was all outrage.
“Oh, I don’t mean in stature. I find that anyone with such remarkable rudeness has made a very small impact on the world. Has contributed nothing of use to it.”
Stanton took a hesitant step forward, had to look up at Grant. “I ought to call you out.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Grant said, boredom in his voice. “And I’ve more important considerations. Be off, Stanton, before you say something you’ll regret.”
She could see Stanton considering it, debating whether instigating a fight with Grant would be worth the cost he’d likely pay. And apparently decided against it.
“Trash,” Stanton said. “The entire lot of you.” And he stalked down the lane.
“‘O goddess sighted,’” someone called out, and a man, tall with a mop of blond curls, emerged from the darkness. “‘In thine bower innocent, in thine profile divine.’”
Kit smiled at the man who made his way toward them.
“Kit Brightling,” he said, giving her a gallant bow. “You look absolutely ravishing.”
Dorian Marten loved women, horses, and money, if not necessarily in that order. And Kit considered him a good friend. In addition to reciting poetry, he’d built Marten’s, the coffeehouse where investors bought and sold the risk of sailing ships and the merchandise they carried, and he’d done it despite his Beau Monde father’s objections. His father, the earl, was opposed to Dorian having a trade, and disowned him for the effort.
“I know nothing about this week’s Crown transports,” Kit said. “So flattery will do you no good here.”
“Flattery eases the way socially,” he said, and glanced at Grant. “And I believe this man with the rather angry expression is Viscount Queenscliffe.”
“Rian Grant, Dorian Marten.”
“Marten,” Grant said.
“I believe I’ve seen you at the Seven Keys,” Dorian said, “although I’ve not had a chance to play you at indigo. I hear you’ve a very talented hand.”
Kit looked at Grant. “You play?” Indigo was the favorite card game of soldier and sailor alike. Thousands of hands had been played in the Diana’s forecastle.
Grant nodded. “I enjoy a hand now and again. Marten’s is an impressive establishment.”
“I prefer to think so,” Dorian said, gaze sliding behind Kit.
“My sister, Jane Brightling,” Kit said.
“Enchanted,” Dorian said, and bowed over her hand.
Apparently realizing, belatedly, that Kit and Grant stood together, Dorian cocked his head. “Have I interrupted a rendezvous?”
“A pleasant evening in the gardens,” Grant said smoothly, smiling mildly, but his gaze on the rendezvous point. “With an escort. Are you strolling alone?”
“I had plans to escort a young lady,” Dorian said, “but circumstances conspired against us. I decided to come alone, as one never knows what one might find in the dark. And in this case, it was a captain and a viscount.” He studied Kit and Grant, and peered very carefully over his shoulder before turning back again.
“I have the sense I should continue discussing inane things while something important occurs.”
“That is exactly what you should do,” Kit said, keeping her own eye on the pavilion. “How is business?”
“Very well, thank you. I’ve a pistol if necessary.”
Grant’s brows lifted. “Why are you carrying a pistol?”
“One never knows what one will find in the wilds of Lambeth Gardens. Other than snogging marquesses,” he said, and gestured in the direction of the amorous couple.
There were footsteps behind them. Grant put a hand at Kit’s back, fingers warm even through the fabric, and leaned toward her. If she hadn’t seen the approaching men—and they were men, or so it appeared—both in greatcoats over full dress—she’d have thought he was teasing her again.
“Do you prefer left or right?” Grant whispered.
She giggled—her first experience at the sport, and she found it unsettling—and watched as the two men neared the pavilion, eyed each other for a moment, then nodded.
“Right,” Kit decided, as she could more easily pivot in that direction.
“You’re so funny,” Jane said, apropos of nothing, but linking her arm through Dorian’s as if he’d just shared the most enjoyable anecdote. It hit just the right note, added just the right amount of show, and Kit decided her sister could join her for an operation anytime.
Kit nearly jumped when the first firework burst, light and sound filling the air. And she wasn’t the only one. Despite having planned to meet during the fireworks, the men jumped apart, looked around.
“Go,” Grant said, jumping toward the man on the left.
Eyes on the other one, Kit pushed off into a run.
* * *
This wasn’t his first time at Lambeth, Kit thought. She chased her quarry down the lane, where he dodged left and into the forest that covered the northern end of the gardens. Three acres of trees, streams, meandering dirt paths. If she lost him in the woods, he was as good as gone. Which was undoubtedly his plan.
Kit followed him through a copse of hackcherry trees, their white petals a carpet across the ground that sent their fragrance—vanilla and musk—rising into the air. Another firework whistled, casting green light upon the landscape and the man fifteen feet in front of her.
The man glanced back, and she saw the flash. Kit darted left, but heard stitches tear along her sleeve, then the thwack of the blade hitting behind her. She turned, found a blade still wobbling in a tree trunk. “You bastard,” she muttered, but pulled out the knife, spun it in her palm, and took off again.
His legs were longer, but Kit was faster, notwithstanding the dress and slippers, both of which would undoubtedly be ruined by the experience.
She decreased the distance between them to twenty feet, then fifteen. He darted to his right, running around a small pool and fountain. Kit followed him down the stone path that surrounded the pool, leaned forward, pushed harder, narrowing the gap to ten feet, and threw the blade already in her hand. She gauged her distance and flicked her wrist, sending the knife spinning through the air.
It struck him in the calf. He screamed, limped twice, pulled out the blade, and tossed it aside. Then he darted into a tallgrass meadow that
lined the south side of the path.
“Oh, bloody hell,” she said, hearing Grant’s voice in her head.
The grass was easily five feet tall, and impossible to see through. She stood at the border, worked to slow her breath and catch the sound of footfalls, of movement, of shifting pebbles or scratching leaves.
She heard nothing.
The man was gone. Swearing, Kit walked back to the spot where she’d hit him, picked up the man’s knife, and slipped it into her reticule.
* * *
Kit followed the same path back to the pavilion, found Dorian waiting with Jane, and Grant emerging from another path.
“Nothing?” Grant asked.
Kit kept her gaze steady. “Dorian, could you escort my sister home?”
Jane lifted her brows. “Am I being excused?”
“I believe we both are,” Dorian said. “My carriage is waiting, and I’m happy to escort Ms. Brightling, although I’m very disappointed I won’t have the details on”—he gestured at Kit and Grant—“whatever this is.”
“The nation’s business,” Grant said.
Jane looked at Kit, who nodded. “It would be best,” Kit said, “while we finish things here.”
“All right,” Jane said with a sigh. “But I’m owed a good adventure.” She looked at Dorian, who held out his arm, and then placed her arm in his.
Dorian smiled at Kit. “I’ll call soon, if you’re to be in town for a bit?”
“For now,” Kit said.
“What do you know about the dionic acids?” Jane asked as they strolled back toward the entrance.
“Nothing at all,” he said. “Enlighten me.”
“You and Marten are friends?” Grant asked when they were alone again, a rather steely tone in his voice.
“We are,” Kit said lightly. “And will continue to be.” Since she was entirely uninterested in pursuing that line of discussion with Grant, she gestured toward the pavilion. “I didn’t see his face. Did you?”
“No,” Grant said after a moment. “Mine was in shadow.”
Kit nodded. “Mine wasn’t quite as tall as you. Pale skin—I saw his wrist between coat and gloves, but nothing identifiable. Except that he was wearing a Guild token.”
Grant’s brows lifted. “That was bold.”
“Or stupid, given it implicates the Frisian consulate.” She pulled out the knife, offered it to Grant. “He’ll also be hobbling, favoring his left leg.”
Grant’s eyes widened. “You stabbed him?”
“He threw that at me. I threw it back.”
Grant’s smile was wide and pleased. “Well done, Captain. I’ll have it delivered, along with a report, to Chandler. And I expect the queen will want to speak with us tomorrow.”
“May I confess something?” Kit asked.
Grant placed the knife inside his coat. “You’re disappointed Stanton wasn’t our man.”
Kit looked up at Grant. “Terribly disappointed. It would have been so satisfying to see him dragged before the queen. Next money’s on Thornberry.”
“It’s not Thornberry.”
“He’s an ass,” Kit said.
“Inarguably,” Grant said. “But they rarely make good spies. They aren’t nearly charming enough, and can’t keep their mouths shut long enough to obtain information.”
That made a certain disappointing sense.
A plink echoed in the silence, the sound of a droplet hitting the earth. Kit looked down, and saw crimson against the stone, and the trail of blood along her fingers from the gash in her arm.
“You’ve been injured,” Grant said, and pulled Kit bodily into the light, turned her so the wound was visible. Red striped her biceps in nearly the same position he’d been injured at Finistère.
“He got my sleeve,” Kit said, turning to look, “but I only heard the seam rip. I didn’t feel anything. It’s not so deep.” But she began to feel it now, as if awareness had deepened the injury.
“It’s deep enough,” Grant said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, rolled it, tied it around her arm. Tightly.
“Ow,” Kit said.
“Now you know how it feels,” Grant murmured, then added a second knot. “You need a physick, but our town house is faster. It’s just over Lambeth Bridge.”
“I have a handkerchief,” Kit said. “Hetta can take care of the rest.”
“Oh, definitely not,” Grant said. “I’m not turning you over to Hetta so she can run me through for getting her daughter sliced up.”
“Afraid of my mother?” Kit asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Twenty-Five
The Grant town house was directly across the road from Victory Park, and was very posh indeed. Four stories of pale stone and a colonnaded portico, precise shrubberies outside.
The front door was thrown open by a man in black, with tan skin and dark hair. “Colonel, thank god. Lucien’s here. I sent a runner, as he’s—” The man stopped, cast a wary glance at Kit. “Perhaps we should speak privately?”
“Inside,” Grant said, and the man stepped back to allow them in. “What’s happened?” Grant asked, when he’d quickly closed the door behind them. “You can speak frankly in front of Captain Brightling.”
“Your brother is upstairs, in bed. He’d been stabbed. It’s not life-threatening,” the man added, before Grant could bolt for the staircase. “A skim across the ribs. I treated him. He’ll be sore, but should heal well as long as he rests and the wound stays clean. He’s sleeping now. He was rather . . . inebriated.”
“Of course he was,” Grant muttered. “Who attacked him?”
“I’m not certain, Colonel. He didn’t say.”
Grant closed his eyes, seemed to reach for composure. “That’s a rather miserable coincidence, as Captain Brightling also incurred a knife wound. Brightling, Will. Will, Brightling. Will, can you please fetch the kit? I presume it’s already at hand.”
Will’s lips twitched, but he managed not to smile at Grant’s dry tone. “Of course, Colonel. One moment.”
While he moved through a hallway, Kit looked around. The foyer was large and lovely, with gleaming floors and pale gold walls. A wooden staircase, also gleaming, curved to the second floor, and rooms stretched along both sides of the foyer. But they were virtually empty of furniture.
“Lack of funds,” Grant said, before she could ask. “It was either keep the furnishings, or keep Will. I made the better decision.”
“A former comrade at arms?”
“We served together on the peninsula,” Grant said. “He’s saved my life more than once. He’s now the family’s majordomo, and runs our New London affairs. And refuses to call me anything but colonel.”
“For sailors and soldiers both, the title matters.”
“So it does.”
Will returned with a basket of items, looked between Kit and Grant.
“Thank you, Will. I’ll handle this, then see to Lucien.”
Given the snarl in Grant’s tone, Kit nearly felt sorry for his brother.
* * *
Grant tended to Kit’s wound with a bit more finesse in the town house than the park, carefully removing the handkerchief, cleaning the wound, wrapping it with clean linen.
“It’s not terribly fashionable,” he said, when the linens were tied off. “But it will keep the wound clean. Although you’ll likely still scar.”
Kit smiled. “It would hardly be my first. I consider them badges of honor.”
“You would,” Grant said, and Kit thought she heard a compliment in the words.
“Although I do usually prefer my scars be accompanied by some sort of success.”
“You saw the Guild token,” Grant said. “Got the knife, and wounded the man. That’s significantly more than I accomplished.”
“I�
�d have rather caught him.”
“One step at a time,” Grant said, and put the remaining items in the basket. Then he cast a wary glance upstairs. “I’ll check on Lucien, then arrange your transportation home.”
Kit nodded. He wasn’t any more likely to find a hackney at this hour than she was, but she could admit to curiosity about the wastrel brother.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
And when he took the stairs to the second floor, she waited an honorable amount of time before creeping up behind him.
* * *
She heard them in a bedroom, and watched through the crack in the door.
A man sat up in a small iron bed. Sun-kissed skin, dark blond hair that brushed his shoulders, blue eyes not unlike Grant’s. Grant stood nearby, body rigid.
“Why are you in New London?” Grant’s voice was low, threatening. The thunder that preceded a storm about to break. “And what the hell happened to you?”
Lucien glanced toward the window. “I owe money to someone who has very little patience for delay. I thought it best that I handle it myself.”
“Gambling?”
“Does it matter?” Lucien said, his voice carrying as much fatigue as Grant’s carried anger. “He wants the money now, and I don’t have it. I came to town to work out terms.” He lifted his nightshirt, showed the bandage across his ribs. “That was not successful.”
“‘To work out terms,’” Grant repeated. “You hoped to gamble your way into good fortune?”
“Of course,” Lucien said, smiling mirthlessly as he lowered the shirt again, grimacing with the movement. Grant walked to the other end of the room, Kit guessed to keep from laying hands on his brother.
“I hadn’t planned on being stabbed, brother mine. But, as you can plainly see, I have once again failed to live up to the Grant name.”
