by Nichole Van
She felt the cat’s eyes on her now. Accusing.
Kit shook her head, banishing the maudlin thoughts. They wouldn’t help her achieve her current goals.
Determined to drag her brother out of his current mess and back to home, she had followed Daniel’s cryptic note to Marfield, arriving a little over a week ago. But she hadn’t planned ahead—long story there—and had found herself penniless and wardrobe-less in an unfamiliar village. Bless the kind-hearted vicar and his wife for taking her in and, even more, arranging an interview for a post.
All of which had resulted in Kit being hired earlier in the week as a companion to Lady Ruby Knight—Arthur Knight’s aunt visiting from Shropshire—when the woman’s previous companion had unexpectedly resigned her post. The daughter of an earl, Lady Ruby had married decidedly down in life when she eloped with the younger son of an untitled gentleman, Arthur’s now-deceased uncle.
If Lady Ruby found her reduced circumstances a trial, it was hard to say. The lady had a mercurial temperament. No situation was so grand that Lady Ruby couldn’t find fault with it.
Quite frankly, Kit didn’t care. The employment was a godsend, giving her a much-needed roof over her head, food in her belly and a chance to live in Haldon Manor, the place her brother had indicated he was heading. The place she hoped to find him. Before Daniel did something incredibly stupid and ruined the future for both of them. But discreet inquiries had yielded nothing, forcing her to adopt more direct measures.
Kit needed answers now. She could only hide her true identity for so long.
Something or someone would betray her eventually. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for this situation.
Well, to be a lady, yes.
A paid companion, however? Not so much.
It was only a matter of time before Arthur and Lady Ruby realized it, before she exposed herself for the fraud she was.
She didn’t do well being ordered about by others. Nor could she keep opinions to herself.
Every morning, she ruthlessly pinned her mass of unruly hair to her head, buttoned herself into a second-hand serviceable frock and swallowed every last dry, dry, dry remark down her throat.
But like too many goose feathers stuffed into a pillow, eventually someone would hit her on a weak seam, causing a virtual explosion of Kit to burst out of her mouth.
Take this evening, for example. Everyone had stared when Kit disagreed with Lady Ruby, insisting that buttercup yellow was a horrid color for just about any complexion and no woman with taste would ever wear it.
Ruby had not been amused.
You really need to hold your tongue. The risk is too great, Virtuous Angel chided.
But only for now. Once we find Daniel, you can march right up to Ruby and tell her that no amount of rouge will make her look thirty again, Wicked Angel snickered.
Kit studied the drawer currently opened. Again, expense ledgers and filed correspondence. She tilted the candle to better examine the papers. Nothing.
She drew in a deep, stuttering breath.
She had maybe five more minutes before her absence from the drawing room was considered overlong and someone came looking for her. Though hopefully that someone would not be Mr. Jedediah Knight, Arthur Knight’s cousin and Lady Ruby’s son.
She now knew why Lady Ruby’s previous companion had quit so abruptly. A week of fetching shawls and dodging Jedediah Knight’s wandering hands had shown her, more than anything, how protected, pampered and sheltered her life had been up to this point.
Ironic that. Particularly given how un-protected and un-sheltered she had always assumed herself to be.
She had just opened the last drawer in the desk when footsteps sounded in the hallway. Kit slid the drawer shut and froze, listening intently. The rumble of Arthur’s voice reached her, talking with another low male voice. They wouldn’t come into the study, would they?
The door handle moved.
Why, yes, indeed, they would.
Instantly, Kit snuffed her candle and dove under the desk, grateful for its paneled front hiding her from view. It was a tight squeeze as she had never been accused of being a smallish sort of woman.
Tall and overbearing? Yes.
Statuesque and shapely? Certainly.
Petite and demur? Uh . . . no.
She had spent years coming to terms with the fact that men would always be intimidated by her size. Probably because most had to look up into her eyes.
Well, who was she fooling? It was still a struggle. Did any woman truly love everything about herself?
Men either treated her as uninteresting wallpaper or viewed her as some freak-show trophy to be shown off.
Though, being about five inches shorter would be helpful in a situation like this. Kit winced as she wedged her knees tightly against her chest, ensuring all of her dress made it underneath with her. Her head twisted awkwardly against the under side of the desktop.
It was a literal reminder of her current situation. Stuffing herself into a too-small container.
The door creaked and two sets of footsteps sounded through the room. She rested her head on her knees and took several slow breaths, trying to quiet her thumping heart.
“I tell you, Linwood, I have no information about Miss Emry’s brother.” That was Arthur. Kit knew his voice by now.
Which meant the person with him was that haughty viscount she had met earlier at dinner: Lord Linwood.
“Come now, Arthur. I cannot believe that to be the case.” Linwood’s voice dripped sarcasm.
Kit could see Linwood as he had looked all evening. Dark haired with nearly colorless pale gray eyes. Meticulously—she would say even fastidiously—groomed in a glove-tight blue coat and tan trousers. And tall. He topped her five-foot-ten-inches by half a head.
The chilly February weather had swept inside with him, literally and figuratively. He had responded icily to all inquiries during dinner.
Even Marianne, Arthur’s wife and Linwood’s younger sister, could not thaw him. Not even when she encouraged him to hold her tiny two-month baby, Isabel—Linwood’s only niece. The baby had cooed at him, adorable and trusting. Though as a glowing new mother, Marianne had been too caught up in her baby’s charms to notice her brother’s uncomfortable stiffness.
“Miss Emry died with James in that carriage accident. You yourself went to identify the bodies,” Linwood said.
Kit’s interest peaked. She had heard about James Knight, Arthur’s older brother who had died just eighteen months before.
“After such a tragedy, you did not attempt to contact her brother—Marcus, was it?—to inform him of her demise?” Linwood continued.
A clink of metal sounded, followed by rustling and popping. Someone was stirring the fire to life. Arthur, perhaps?
“Things were not that simple after James’ . . . death.” Was there a pause in Arthur’s voice as he said that? Odd. “Tracking down Miss Emry’s brother was not an immediate concern at the time. I honestly cannot remember if Marcus was contacted or not. I most certainly have no knowledge of his whereabouts. To be frank, I do not understand why he is of concern to you.”
Someone shifted, pacing the floor, boot heels clicking.
“There have been several attempted thefts at Kinningsley over the last two weeks,” Linwood said. “Twice someone has entered the house. Just yesterday, I awoke to find my guard dog dead and my office ransacked.”
Kit stopped herself from sucking in an audible gasp. Oh dear.
Was Daniel involved with these break-ins? And if so, why? What exact mischief did he have planned?
Kit chewed on her cheek, mind churning through the possibilities. None of them pleasant.
“I had heard,” Arthur replied, his voice placating. “Robberies are not uncommon, as you well know. Why someone poached three hens from our coops Thursday last, and Sir Henry’s butler caught a maid red-handed with a cravat pin.”
The footsteps came closer to the desk. When Linwood next spoke, the sound
came from directly over Kit’s head. She held her breath, praying he didn’t walk around the desk.
“No. The attempts at Kinningsley are more serious than hen-rustling or a servant’s petty theft. I have several footmen keeping round-the-clock watch, but to truly stop these would-be-thieves, I must find the mastermind behind the scheme.”
Did Linwood seem agitated? Was that even possible? The viscount seemed incapable of agitation. Obdurate even.
“And you think Miss Emry’s brother is this mastermind?” Arthur sounded skeptical.
Linwood shifted something on the desk above Kit’s head. She silently ordered her hammering heart to stay in her chest.
“I am not sure,” Linwood said after a moment. “But as you well know, Napoleon is on the run, pulling back farther and farther into France. Victory is close. However, the French have spies among us who are determined to thwart this war at any cost, particularly with Napoleon in retreat. Miss Emry admitted to working within the greater spy network of Europe. We both know the future of Europe hangs on a knife’s edge right now. One tiny push one way or another, the slightest advantage, could make all the difference.”
Kit tensed, teeth grinding. That same panic welled again. This was what she most feared. Daniel was so impulsive. Hasty. Impetuous. Please let him have nothing to do with this.
But Linwood’s words buzzed angrily in her head. The French have spies among us . . .
“Miss Emry and James were killed in that carriage accident nearly eighteen months ago,” Arthur said. “Why haven’t you pursued Miss Emry’s brother before now?”
Linwood drummed his fingers on the desktop.
Is that actual emotion I am sensing from him? He seems too antisocial for that. Wicked Angel murmured snidely. But then, Wicked Angel was almost always snide.
“I am sure I do not need to impress upon you the confidential nature of this conversation.” Linwood’s fingers continued beating a steady rhythm: ta-ta-tum, ta-ta-tum, ta-ta-tum. Arthur must have nodded his consent because Linwood continued, “I have recently been given reason to believe that James and Miss Emry’s death was no accident.”
Silence for a moment. And then Arthur laughed, stiltedly.
“Truly, Linwood, I would not have thought you capable of a flight of fancy. James’ death was tragic but most decidedly an accident—”
“I must beg to disagree, Arthur. My sources would hint otherwise. James’ death was decidedly suspicious.”
“Linwood, you cannot believe—”
“Arthur, you are being obtuse. We know there were spies in this neighborhood just last year. Your trusting nature blinds you to the realities of life—”
“That is hardly the case.” Arthur let out a bark of laughter.
“I fear I shall have to be more specific.” More finger tapping on the desktop. “As you know, the Home Office has operatives from all walks of life who provide the British government with information. Several weeks ago, the Home Office lost contact with one of their most-trusted clandestine agents. A member of the aristocracy. But before disappearing, this agent informed the government there was an individual here in Marfield with connections to French intelligence gathering.”
“Heavens!”
“Indeed. Aside from trying to locate this agent, the Home Office is desperate to understand the nature of the threat in this area. Marcus is a known to be a man of some fighting skill who has been intimately involved with international spy activities. Due to his sister, we know those covert operations encompassed Marfield at one point. Therefore, it stands to reason Marcus has, at minimum, valuable information. At worst, he might be an informant himself.”
“I am still not quite sure I understand your reasoning, Linwood. We are in Herefordshire. Rural Herefordshire. Why would the French have any interest in this part of the country? It makes no sense.”
Linwood shifted, his trousers brushing against the desk. “There are reasons.”
A pause.
“Something perhaps related to the attempted break-ins at Kinningsley?” Arthur asked, pointedly. “Seeing as you are sharing confidences, what are these would-be thieves looking for?”
Again, a pause. A shifting of feet. And then:
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“I see.” Though Arthur’s tone indicated he clearly did not. “Well, if I hear from this Marcus, I will inform you immediately.” He sounded . . . amused, was it? As if he were humoring Linwood.
“I appreciate your cooperation in this matter. I have also been making inquiries into all newcomers. This new paid companion of your aunt’s, Miss Ashton, is it? From whence does she hail?”
Kit held her breath. Oh no.
“Yorkshire, I am told. She had been staying with the vicar but had glowing references from Lord Curtis.”
Kit grimaced. False references she wrote with her own hand.
See, this is why you should never, ever tell a falsehood, Virtuous Angel whispered.
The answer seemed to mollify Linwood, however, as the drumming fingers stopped.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come,” Arthur called. The door swung open.
“I say, most sorry to interrupt.” Jedediah Knight’s nasal words skittered down Kit’s spine. Like squeaky chalk on slate, that voice. “My mother sent Miss Ashton to fetch her embroidery, but Miss Ashton has not yet returned. Have you seen the chit?”
Kit could almost see Jedediah’s long nose twitching as he spoke, flushed and clashing with the striped orange and pink waistcoat he wore.
Both Linwood and Arthur disavowed knowing her whereabouts.
Jedediah grunted. “Hopefully she has not taken to sneaking whiskey in her chambers. Mother’s last companion spent every day half-sprung.”
The nerve of the man! Kit clenched her teeth. Though if anyone could drive someone to the bottle, it would be Jedediah Knight. Kit could hardly blame the woman.
Truth be told, if her situation became any more intolerable, whiskey could start to look like a viable solution.
Which merely underscored the point more fully. The sooner she found her brother, the better.
Daniel could try to shut her out of his life, but Kit was made of stronger stuff. She just needed to find him before he did something colossally stupid.
And even if he did, she would not abandon him. Ever.
Chapter 3
Duir Cottage
Herefordshire, England
February 18, 2014
Thirteen yellow roses sat gracefully in the windowsill as Marc pulled up to Duir Cottage—their cheerful blooms mocking the seriousness of his current situation.
Granted, the roses looked right at home with the honey-colored stone and thatched roof of the cottage. Ivy covered the fence surrounding the house, and an enormous old oak tree arched protectively over the entire building. The sunny yellow roses were just golden gilding on all the oozing English charm.
Marc had arrived at Duir Cottage six days ago. Both Emme and James were currently in Seattle and had reacted to the blackmail threat much as Marc expected.
James, laughing: “What a devilish mess. Adds a dash of excitement to everything, doesn’t it?”
Emme, puzzled: “Are you sure this isn’t one of your friends’ ideas of a practical joke? Like they just made a super lucky guess?”
Marc had no real answer for either of them.
Unfortunately, Emme and James had an off-the-grid trek through Mongolia planned, starting the next week. And in Emme’s own words, “No blackmail traveling disaster is going to derail this trip. Period.”
So . . . yeah. Emme and James would come straight back to Duir Cottage in March. In the meantime, Marc intended to uncover information about the blackmail and stall for time to sort out a solution.
His efforts, so far, had been disappointing. The blackmail letter had been slipped into the post box and that was it. No more letters had arrived. No one suspicious had been seen lurking around the property. Google found no digital chatter anyw
here about the portal.
Just nothing. Not a single lead. All Marc could do was hope the blackmailer contacted them again.
He hated waiting. Simply sitting around, everything on hold.
Not cool.
So after a couple restless days, he took the bait and purchased thirteen (obnoxiously chipper) yellow roses and placed them in the mullioned front window, just as the letter had directed. His attempt to flush out the blackmailer. The flowers waved an affectionate ‘hello’ every time he pulled up to the cottage, looking absurdly pleased with themselves.
Why would a blackmailer choose yellow roses? It seemed so . . . friendly. Neighborly, even.
He had pointed this out to Emme’s best friend, Jasmine, when she called to check up on things.
“They’re worse than a puppy. So sunshiny. It’s like they want me to pet them or something,” he had said.
Jasmine chuckled. “I would pay good money to see you pet roses—”
“Jas . . .” Marc warned.
“—but I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Yellow roses don’t always represent friendship. In many societies, they mean the exact opposite: treachery and death.” Trust Jasmine to set him straight. “Besides, there are thirteen of them. That’s never a good number of anything.”
“Nice. So you’re telling me that my cheery roses secretly want to stab me in the back with their thorny claws?”
“You have to admit, it would make for a great movie. You could call it Thorns of Menace.”
Silence.
“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Marc made his voice suitably grumpy.
“Absolutely.” Her laugh sounded tinny through the international phone connection. “Just imagine. You could dress up yellow roses in little dread-locked wigs and make them tiny chainsaws out of grass—”
Marc had practically hung up on her.
Stupid, stupid flowers.
But even with the roses displayed as directed, there had been no more notes from the would-be blackmailer. Just complete radio silence.
