It wasn’t long before, thawed by the warmth, he stirred and turned on his back. Kit approached the bed, confidently leaning across to lay a cool hand on his forehead.
Strong fingers encirled her wrist. Heavy lids rose to reveal black eyes, hazed with fever. The man stared wildly up at her, his eyes searching her face. “Qui est-ce vous êtes?” The black eyes raked the cottage, then returned to her face. “Où sont-nous?”
The questions demanded an answer. Kit gave it in French. “You’re quite safe. You must rest.” She tried to ease her hand from his hold, but his fingers tightened instead. Irritated by this show of brute male strength when it was least helpful, Kit added with distinct asperity: “If you bruise the goods, Jack won’t be pleased.”
The mention of her husband’s name saw her instantly released. The black eyes scanned her, more confused than ever. “You are…acquainted with…Captain Jack?”
Kit nodded. “You could say that. I’ll get you something to drink.”
To her relief, her patient behaved himself although he continued to study her. He drank the weak tea without complaint. Almost immediately, he sank back into sleep. But his rest was disturbed.
Kit bit her lip as she watched him twist in the bed. He was muttering in French. She drew closer, to the foot of the bed. In his present state, she wasn’t certain how clear his mind was. Getting too close might not be wise.
Suddenly, he turned on his back and his breathing relaxed. To her surprise, he started speaking quite lucidly in perfect English. “There are only two of them-only two more of the bastards left. But Hardinges drank too fast-the cretin passed out before I could get anything more out of him, blast his ignorant hide.” He paused, a frown dragging the elegant black brows down. “No. Wait. There was one more clue-though God knows it’s not much to go on. Hardinges kept using the phrase ‘the sons of dukes.’ I think it means one of the two we’re after is a duke’s son, but I can’t be sure. However, I wouldn’t have thought Hardinges was given to poetic illusion.” A brief smile flickered over the dark face. “Well, Jack m’lad, I’m afraid that’s all I could learn. So you’d better get on that grey terror of yours and fly the news back to London. Whatever they do, they’ll have to do it fast. The vultures are closing in-they know something’s in the wind our side, and they’re determined to extract the ore by whatever means possible. If there’s a rat still left in our nest, they’ll find him.” The long speech seemed to have drained the man’s strength. After a pause, he asked: “Jack?”
Startled, Kit shook off her daze. “Jack’s on his way.”
The man sighed and sank deeper into the pillows. His lips formed the word “Good.” The next instant he was asleep.
With gentle snores punctuating the stillness, Kit sat and put the latest pieces of the jigsaw of her husband’s activities into place. He was the High Commissioner for North Norfolk-he’d been specifically entrusted with stamping out the smuggling of spies. It now appeared as if, not content with chasing spies on this side of the Channel, Jack had been instrumental in sending some of their own to France.
All of which was very well, but why couldn’t he have told her?
Kit paced before the fire, shooting glances every now and then at her patient. There was no reason why Jack couldn’t have entrusted her with the details of his mission, particularly not after her sterling service to the cause, albeit given in ignorance. It was patently clear that her husband harbored some archaic idea of her place in his life. It was a place she had no intention of being satisfied with.
She wanted to share his life, not forever be a peripheral part of it, an adjunct held at arms’ distance by the simple device of information control.
Kit’s eyes glittered; her lips thinned. It was time she devoted more of her energies to her husband’s education.
It was late morning before she felt comfortable in leaving the Frenchman-who was clearly no Frenchman at all. There was no possiblity of hiding her male garb, so she didn’t try. She rode straight to the Castle stables and dismounted elegantly as Martins ran up, his eyes all but popping from his head.
“Take care of Delia, Martins. You can return her to the back paddock later and bring up the chestnut. I’ll not be riding again today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kit marched to the house, stripping off her gloves as she went. Lovis was in the hall when she entered. Kit sent one defiant glance his way. To his credit, not a muscle quivered as he came forward, his stately demeanor unimpaired by a sight which, Kit suspected, sorely tried his conservative soul.
“Lovis, I want to send a message immediately to Mr. Smeaton. I’ll write a note; I want one of the men ready to carry it to Smeaton Hall as soon as I’ve finished.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Lovis moved to open the library door for her. “Martins’s son will be waiting.”
Pulling the chair up to her husband’s desk, Kit drew a clean sheet of paper toward her. The note to George was easy, suggesting he go immediately to the aid of his “French” friend, whom she’d left in the cottage, somewhat hors de combat. She paused, then penned a final sentence.
“I feel sure that you, being so much more in Jack’s confidence, will know better than I how best to proceed.”
Kit signed the note with a flourish, a grim smile on her lips. Perhaps it was unfair to make George squirm, but she was beyond feeling amiable toward those who’d helped her husband attain his present state of arrogance. She addressed the missive, confident it would send George posthaste to his friend’s help. He could take subsequent responsibility.
She rang the bell and gave the note to Lovis to speed on its way.
For the next twenty minutes, she barely stirred, her mind engrossed with forming and discarding various options for bringing Jack’s shortcomings to his attention.
When it came to it, she could think of only one way to proceed. There was no point in any complex maneuvers-he was far more expert in manipulation than she. In truth, she had little idea of how to go about bringing him to her heels in true feminine fashion. If she went that route, she’d a shrewd suspicion she’d end on her back, beneath him, leaving him as arrogant as ever. And as unwilling as ever to make concessions. The best she could hope to do was to make a statement-something dramatic enough to make him sit up and take notice, something definite enough for him to be forced to at least acknowledge her point of view.
Determination beating steady in her veins, Kit set out another sheet of paper and settled to write a letter to her errant spouse.
Jack arrived home on Monday evening. He’d had to wait until that morning to speak to Lord Whitley. Various schemes were already afoot to flush out the man they believed was Belville’s Henry. All that remained was to wait for Anthony’s return, to see if there were any more traitors to track down. They were nearly there.
With a deep sigh, Jack climbed the steps to his front door. Lovis opened it to him.
“My lord. Mr. Smeaton asked you be given this the instant you crossed the threshold.”
Jack tore open the single sheet. George’s writing took a moment to decipher. Then Jack heaved a weary sigh. He hesitated, wondering whether to send a message up to Kit. He wouldn’t be back in time for dinner. It was doubtful he’d be back before she was abed. With a slow grin, he went back out the door. Much better to take her by surprise. “I’ll return later tonight, Lovis. No need to tell anyone I was here.”
At the cottage, he was greeted by a much-improved Sir Anthony. George was not there to hear the recounting of Antoine’s adventures; he’d been summoned to a Gresham dinner.
“One of the trials of an affianced man.” Grinning, Jack pulled up a chair, straddling it. It transpired that the French had tracked Antoine down, not out of suspicion, but in order to interrogate him in case he knew more than he’d yet revealed. He’d escaped by stowing away aboard a lighter bound for Boston on the other side of the Wash. Unfortunately, it had also turned out to be a smugglers’ vessel. Smugglers did not like stowaways; he’d had to f
ight his way off, throwing himself overboard before they’d skewered him.
Anthony’s tale suggested that the French were desperate for information. The news that there were only two traitors left was music to Jack’s ears. “We’ve got them.” Quickly, he filled Anthony in on the happenings on the beach after he’d taken ship, referring to Kit only as another member of the Gang.
“George said something about that,” Anthony said. “But he said he’d leave it to you to elaborate as you ‘had a deeper interest in Belville’s death.’ What on earth did he mean?”
Jack had the grace to blush. “Don’t ask.”
Anthony threw him a look of mock surprise. “Keeping secrets from your friends, Jack m’lad, is most unwise.”
“You’ll meet this secret eventually so I wouldn’t repine.” At the intrigued look on Anthony’s, face, Jack continued quickly: “Whitley thinks Belville’s Henry, whom we believe is Sir Henry Colebourne, will be behind bars in a few days at most. Which, together with your information, means the end is nigh. We’ll have got them all.”
Anthony lay back on his pillows with a deep sigh. “However will they get along without us, now we’ve all sold out?”
“I’m sure they’ll manage. Personally, I’ve got fresh fields to plow, so to speak.” Jack’s smile of anticipation was transparent.
Anthony’s gaze descended from the ceiling to examine the odd sight of Jack’s eagerness for civilian life. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “your newfound liking for peaceful endeavors has anything to do with the redheaded lad who brought me here?” At Jack’s arrested expression, Anthony quietly added: “Taken to the other side, Jack?”
Jack bit back a distinctly rude reply. His eyes gleamed. “From which comment I take it my wife was wearing breeches when she brought you here?”
“Your wife?” Anthony’s exclamation brought on a fit of coughing. When he’d recovered, he lay back on his pillows and fixed Jack with an astonished stare. “Wife?”
Jack nodded, unable to contain his smile. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Kathryn, Lady Hendon, better known as Kit.” He paused, then shrugged. “It was she who shot Belville.”
“Oh.” Anthony struggled to match fact with memory. “How on earth did that slip of a thing get me from the beach to here?”
Jack stood. “Probably sheer determination. It’s a quality she has in abundance. I’ll leave you now, Tony.” He walked forward to drop a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I’ll send Matthew in the morning with a horse to move you up to the Castle. Rest assured I’ll get your news to Whitley as soon as possible. He’ll be relieved to know we’ve got them all.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Anthony lay quiet on his pillows and watched Jack walk to the door. “But why the hurry to leave?”
Jack paused. “A little matter of propriety I have to discuss with my wife. Not something a rake like you would understand.”
Closing the door on his friend’s “Oh-ho!”, Jack strode to the stable. He hadn’t actually caught her in her breeches, but it was close enough, surely?
Anticipation was riding high by the time he reached the house. He entered through the side door, picking up the single candle to light his way. He went straight to his wife’s room.
And stopped short when the light from his candle revealed an undisturbed expanse of green satin, with no deliciously curved form snuggling beneath.
For a moment, he simply stared, unable to think. Then, his heart thumping oddly, he went through to his own room. She was not in his bed, either. The sight of the simple white square propped against his pillow caused his hand to shake, spilling wax to the floor.
Drawing a deep breath, Jack put the candle down on the table by the bed and, sinking onto the mattress, picked up the letter. Kit’s delicate script declared it was for Jonathon, Lord Hendon. The sight of his proper given name was warning enough.
His lips set in a grim line, Jack tore open the missive.
Her formality had apparently been reserved for the title. Inside, her message was direct and succinct.
Dear Jack,
I’ve had enough. I’m leaving. If you wish to explain anything, I’m sure you’ll know where to find me. Your devoted, loving, and dutiful wife,
Kit
His first thought was that she’d omitted the obedient, obviously realizing his imagination wouldn’t stretch that far. Then he read it again, and decided he couldn’t, in all honesty, take exception to the adjectives she had claimed.
He sat on his bed as the clock in the hall ticked on and struggled to make sense of what the letter actually meant. He couldn’t believe Lovis had given him George’s message but forgotten to tell him his wife had left him. Trying to ignore the empty void that was expanding inside his chest, threatening to crush his heart, he read the letter again. Then he lay back on his bed, hands locked behind his head, and started to think.
She was annoyed he hadn’t told her the details of his mission. He tried to imagine George telling Amy and felt a glow of justification warm him. Abruptly, it dissipated, as Kit’s image overlaid Amy’s. All right-so she wasn’t the same sort of wife, theirs wasn’t the same sort of marriage.
He and his mission were deeply in her debt-he knew that well enough. That she yearned for excitement and would follow wherever it led was a characteristic he recognized. He could understand her pique that he wouldn’t involve her in his schemes. But to leave him like this-to walk out on him-was the sort of emotional blackmail to which he’d never succumb. Christ, if he didn’t know she was safe at Cranmer Hall, he’d be frantic! No doubt she expected him to come running, eager to win her back, willing to promise anything.
He wouldn’t do it.
At least, not yet. He had to go back to London tomorrow, to convey Anthony’s news to Lord Whitley. He’d leave Kit to stew, caught in a trap of her own devising. Then, when he came back, he’d go and see her and they could discuss their relationship calmly and rationally.
Jack tried to imagine having a calm and rational discussion with his wife. He fell asleep before he succeeded.
Chapter 29
Heaving a sigh of relief and anxiety combined, Kit plied the knocker on her cousin Geoffrey’s door. The narrow house in Jermyn Street was home to her Uncle Frederick’s three sons whenever they were in London. She hoped at least one of them was there now.
The door was opened by Hemmings, Geoffrey’s gentleman’s gentleman. He’d been with the family for years and knew her well. Even so, given her costume, a long moment passed before she saw his eyes widen in recognition.
“Good evening, Hemmings. Are my cousins in?” Kit pressed past the stunned man. Brought to a sense of his place, Hemmings rapidly shut the door. Then he turned to stare at her again.
Kit sighed. “I know. But it was safer this way. Is Geoffrey here?”
Hemmings swallowed. “Master Geoffrey’s out to dinner, miss, along with Master Julian.”
“Julian’s home?”
When Hemmings nodded, Kit’s spirits lurched upward for the first time that day. Julian must be home on furlough; seeing him would be an unlooked-for bonus in this thus-far-sorry affair.
She’d left Castle Hendon on Sunday afternoon, more than twenty-four hours ago, dressed as Lady Hendon with no incriminating luggage beyond a small black bag. She’d told Lovis she’d been called to visit a sick friend whose brother would meet her in Lynn. The note she’d left for her husband would, she’d assured him, explain all. She’d had Josh drive her into Lynn and leave her at the King’s Arms. When the night stage had left for London at eight that evening, a slim, elegant youth muffled to the ears had been on it.
The stage had been impossibly slow, reaching the capital well after midday. From the coaching inn, she’d had to walk some distance before she’d been able to hail a sufficiently clean hackney. And the hackney had dawdled, caught in the London traffic. Now it was past six and she was exhausted.
“Master Bertrand’s away in the country for the week, miss. Should I make up his bed f
or you?”
Kit smiled wearily. “That would be wonderful, Hemmings. And if you could put together the most simple meal, I would be doubly grateful.”
“Naturally, miss. If you’ll just seat yourself in the parlor?”
Shown into the parlor and left blissfully alone, Kit tidied the magazines littering every piece of furniture before selecting an armchair to collapse in. She’d no idea how long she lay there, one hand over her eyes, fighting down the uncharacteristic queasines that had overcome her the instant she’d woken that morning, brought on, no doubt, by the ponderous rocking of the stage. She hadn’t eaten all day, but could barely summon sufficient appetite to do justice to the meal Hemmings eventually placed before her.
As soon as she’d finished, she went upstairs. She washed her face and stripped off her clothes, wryly wondering what it was Jack had intended to do if he found her in such attire. The thought brought a soft smile to her lips. It slowly faded.
Had she done the right thing in leaving him? Heaven only knew. Her uncomfortable trip had succeeded in dampening her temper but her determination was undimmed. Jack had to be made to take notice-her disappearance would accomplish that. And he would follow, of that she was sure. But what she wasn’t at all sure of, what she couldn’t even guess, was what he’d do then.
Somehow, in the heat of the moment, she’d not considered that vital point.
With a toss of her curls, Kit flung her clothes aside and climbed between the clean sheets. At least tonight she’d be able to sleep undisturbed by the snorts and snores of other passengers. Then, tomorrow, when she could think straight again, she’d worry about Jack and his reactions.
If the worst came to the worst, she could always explain.
She was at the breakfast table the next morning, neatly attired in Young Kit’s best, when Geoffrey pushed open the door and idly wandered in. He cut a rakish figure in a multicolored silk robe, a cravat neatly folded about his neck. One look at his stunned face told Kit that Hemmings had left her to break her own news.
Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor Page 35
