Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  “Circus?” That startled a laugh from him.

  “The jumping onto the horse and all . . .” She trailed off helpfully, giving a flick of her wrist.

  Marc finally caught the teasing glint in her eyes.

  “Or perhaps you are more clown than acrobat?” Her eyebrows raised a sardonic inch.

  Ah. Stunning, intelligent and snarky.

  A lethal combination.

  Unbidden, he smiled. Snark was a language he spoke fluently. Was nineteenth century snark any different? He sincerely hoped not.

  “Indeed. How did you know?”

  She grinned. “Consider it a fortunate guess.”

  “‘Tis such a pity. My parents had such hopes of a fine career as a lion tamer, but alas, I am always bound to disappoint. I was more suited for clown-ery in the end.”

  Wait. Was he flirting with her?

  “Clown-ery? Really?”

  “Clownishness?” he offered.

  “How about we settle on buffoonery?”

  Slowly, they both smiled at each other. She had a lovely smile, wide and full of mischief.

  He reflected it right back at her.

  A shared sense of . . . awareness passed between them. One creature recognizing another of its same species.

  Yes, there was definitely some flirting going on.

  Heaven help him.

  Chapter 6

  I say, Miss Ashton, was that you?” A voice suddenly called from the opposite side of the road.

  Marc whipped his head around and looked over the top of the horse to see two gentlemen nearly running out of the trees, hunting dogs yapping around them. Dressed like himself in long overcoats that fell to their heels, rifles tucked against shoulders, though both men sported beaver hats and leather gloves. Right behind them came what must be three servants in rougher clothing.

  The taller of the gentlemen gestured with a concerned look. “Jedediah’s shot went wide, and we heard a woman scream.”

  Kit gave a forced laugh. “Mr. Knight, I am quite well, as you can see. Though the shot did startle my poor horse.”

  “Dash it, Arthur. I told you it was nothing.” The shorter of the gentlemen—Jedediah, Marc presumed—grimaced in annoyance as they came near. “‘Tis only Mother’s companion and everything is obviously set to rights.” He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow.

  Kit stiffened in her seat.

  Had the man been offensive? Marc wasn’t sure.

  But wait—hadn’t he just referred to the taller man as Arthur?

  Marc nearly sagged with relief. Hallelujah! And not a moment too soon. Arthur would know how to smooth all this over.

  The men stopped alongside the gig, the hunting dogs continuing to run round and round. One of the servants called the dogs to heel, and then everyone finally spotted Marc standing by the horse’s withers on the opposite side.

  Noticing their stares, Kit gestured toward Marc.

  “This kind gentleman appeared at just the right moment to stop the horse. I am quite sure he saved my poor neck.” Her laugh seemed a little forced.

  “Well, a proper thank you is in order then.” Arthur nodded his head in Marc’s direction.

  “It was remarkable. He leapt onto the back of the galloping horse.” Kit gestured. “And right after being accosted by highwaymen too.”

  Arthur’s head jerked to attention.

  “Highwaymen?”

  “Yes, this gentleman had his horse and possessions stolen out from underneath him at gunpoint.”

  The servants let out gasps of alarm while the dogs, sensing the instant tension, started running in circles again. Arthur called them to heel.

  “Gracious!” Jedediah exclaimed. “I say, Arthur, what kind of place is Herefordshire turning into? First all those robberies and now this?”

  Arthur shook his head. “‘Tis most disconcerting, to be sure.” He gave Marc a shrewd, assessing look.

  For all his stuffiness, Arthur Knight was not a fool.

  “You have brought quite a bit of excitement to our corner of the world, sir.”

  Arthur gave Marc a polite bow and then waited expectantly.

  Marc gathered this was the point at which he was supposed to introduce himself. But given what a mess he had made of introductions so far, he would be better off holding his tongue.

  With a tight smile, Marc walked around the horse and gave both men a polite bow. At least, he hoped it was polite.

  “Mr. Arthur Knight, I presume.”

  “Indeed, I am he. It seems we are in your debt, Mr. . . .” Arthur let his voice drift off, obviously expecting Marc to finish the introduction.

  Unsure, Marc shot a glance at the crowd of people and dogs, all watching with interest.

  “Might I have a word with you in private, Arth—uh, Mr. Knight?” Marc gestured for them to walk up the road a ways.

  Arthur dragged his eyes up and down Marc’s clothing. No doubt noting his odd footwear and lacking hat and gloves.

  “If you wish.” Arthur nodded after a moment. “I would appreciate a recounting of the robbery which landed you here.”

  “Naturally, of course. There is much to discuss.”

  Arthur raised his eyebrows at this, but said nothing more. Instead, he handed his rifle to one of the servants and instructed them to see Miss Ashton back to Haldon Manor. He then gestured for Marc to walk beside him up the lane toward the house.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marc studied his brother-in-law—for lack of a better way to describe the brother of his sister’s husband.

  Though Arthur’s hair was more sandy than Georgiana’s blond and his eyes more gray than James’ blue, Marc could easily see the family resemblance between the three siblings. The same shape of the eyes, the same long nose. Arthur was somewhat taller and leaner than James and, as expected, his eyes lacked the mischievous sparkle of his brother and sister.

  But, all in all, he seemed a good enough sort. Stiff and serious but also conscientious and kind.

  Arthur said nothing and Marc waited for the gig to pass them with Jedediah now driving. Once everyone was safely out of earshot, Marc stopped.

  “Marc Wilde.” He offered his hand with a smile.

  Arthur’s eyes widened considerably under the brim of his hat. “Well, well, this is unexpected,” he said, giving Marc’s hand a firm shake. “Very unexpected.”

  Marc’s laugh came out strained. “That makes two of us.”

  They assessed one another for a moment.

  “Well, well, well,” Arthur repeated, as if the reality of Marc’s presence was settling in. “I take it you are Emme’s brother from the twenty-first century? The one who fights in that Oriental style?”

  Marc nodded, resisting a smile. He was quite sure every martial artist on the planet collectively shuddered at their sport being referred to as ‘that Oriental style.’

  “I can see the family resemblance. But your clothing . . .” He gestured toward Marc’s long greatcoat.

  “Ah, yes, well—I didn’t want to make a scene, so I helped myself to some things left in Duir Cottage. I hope that was all right. The fit isn’t too off—”

  Arthur nodded. “You did quite right.”

  Marc breathed easier. It was nice to be with someone who knew his true past. He didn’t have to stress over every word out of his mouth.

  “And the highwaymen?” Arthur asked.

  “Man, I am sorry about that.” Marc gave a rueful laugh. “I totally made it all up. Miss Ashton was asking me all these questions about who I was and where I came from and the whole robbery thing just popped out. ”

  Arthur blinked at him. “I take it you mean to say the robbery is fictitious?”

  “Exactly.” So yeah. Maybe he needed to watch his speech after all. Nothing was going to be easy, was it?

  Arthur nodded. “You did right. It is as good an explanation as any for your appearance, I suppose.” Arthur gestured for them to walk up the lane.

  “I am terribly sorry to trouble you.�
� Marc nodded at the road ahead.

  “No, no, ‘tis no trouble.” Arthur waived his hand. “James and your sister . . .”

  “ . . . are doing great,” Marc finished for him. “Happy and ridiculously in love. I wish I had my phone, so I could show you a photo or two—”

  “No, no, that would not be necessary.” Arthur’s expression instantly became strained.

  Ah, right. Arthur disliked references to twenty-first century technology too. Marc wasn’t going to be able to relax his guard at all.

  “How about yourself? You and the family doing well? I am sure James would love to know.”

  Arthur’s entire expression changed at the mention of family. His face softened and got a sort of wondrous look.

  “We are well,” he said. “We welcomed a tiny addition to our family just before the new year. Isabel Augusta Knight. She is small but fierce.” Arthur laughed at the oblique Shakespearean reference.

  Ah, so that was the source of Arthur’s change in manner. A daughter.

  “Mother and baby are well?”

  Arthur nodded, a deeply satisfied look on his face.

  “I take it your trip through the portal was, uh, unintentional then?” Arthur changed the subject.

  Marc gave a small burst of laughter. “Putting it mildly.”

  “Did you try to return?”

  “Several times. It seems the portal wants to keep me here for the moment. A man attacked me in Duir Cottage—in 2014—half-drugged me and then tumbled us both through the portal. I’m still trying to figure out how it all happened.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened with alarm.

  “So someone else came through with you?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. But if it’s any comfort, he seems to be from the nineteenth century too.”

  Walking along the lane, Marc told Arthur about the blackmail attempt, arriving to find the nineteenth century trunk and clothing in Duir Cottage and then the attack from behind by an unknown man. That distinctive brass button with the vine-covered shield crest. The drug-soaked cloth which indicated the man had come through the portal too. How were they to track down Marc’s attacker with so little to go on?

  “Blast! What a mess.” Arthur let out a long breath of air.

  “I really don’t know what to make of it, Arthur,” Marc continued. “James and I couldn’t find anything anywhere that hinted at someone else knowing about the portal in 2014. But obviously someone does. Is it possible that someone here found out about it?”

  Arthur gave a bewildered shrug. “I have told no one about the portal, though obviously Sebastian and Georgiana know. Possibly . . .” Here Arthur paused, looking into the trees, thinking. “The superstitions about the old oak tree which once guarded the portal still abound in the area. Perhaps someone took them to heart and experimented. I shall have to ask my gamekeeper if he has seen anything unusual on the grounds as of late.”

  “Have you thought about having a guard of some sort for Duir Cottage? I’m not sure how you could phrase it, but with more people knowing about the portal, it really should be watched more carefully.”

  “Agreed.” Arthur nodded. “Perhaps your story of robbery and highwaymen can be put to good use. It will allow me to set a guard to the cottage without arousing suspicion. It is not quite planting season yet, so there are several tenants and their sons who would be happy to have the extra work.”

  They walked in silence for a moment longer, Arthur shaking his head. Troubled.

  “Deuce take it, things are unsettled at present,” Arthur said. “I must thank you for not introducing yourself to others. I would have had a devil of a time explaining your presence here.”

  Marc cocked his head, questioning.

  “Your sister caused a bit of . . . trouble before she left, particularly with Lord Linwood—”

  “That’s Emme!” Marc laughed. He had heard all about Linwood from Emme and James. Neither had a particularly favorable opinion of his high-and-mighty lordship.

  “Yes, well, she more-or-less told Linwood you were a spy—”

  “What?! Emme never mentioned she turned me into a spy.”

  Arthur gave a humorless chuckle. “Well, she did. And Linwood latched onto that small piece of information and is utterly convinced you are somehow involved with a spy ring. He is just trying to determine which side you spy for.”

  “Which side?” Marc scrambled, trying to remember his British history.

  “Exactly. Are you spying for the British, the French or the Americans?”

  Marc blinked. Well, that decision was simple enough. “The Americans, of course. My father may be British, but my mom isn’t, and I was raised in the U.S. Not that I’m actually a spy, but if I had to choose—”

  “You do realize we are currently at war with the United States, do you not? That just being known as an American citizen puts you at risk of arrest?”

  Ah. He had not, in fact, known that. How very educational.

  Of course! Americans referred to the Napoleonic wars as the War of 1812. Duh.

  Crazy what a difference a hundred years would make in British/American relationships. But for the time being—

  Marc swallowed.

  “Even worse, if you are a British citizen and guilty of spying on your countrymen, betraying us to the enemy . . . Well, there really isn’t anything worse you could do. Such traitors are hung, drawn and quartered. Even more, the family of a convicted turncoat is also ostracized. All their lands, titles, monies . . . everything seized by the crown.”

  Marc paused. He was missing something here, he was sure.

  “But why would Linwood care about me?”

  Arthur gave a fairly hefty sigh, tapping a gloved hand against his thigh.

  “The story is somewhat involved, so I’ll be brief. A spy within the British aristocracy has gone missing and left information that French agents were active in this area. Linwood is convinced some of the attacks have been targeted at his estate, Kinningsley. I would wager Linwood has something to hide. He sits in the House of Lords and is privy, I am sure, to affairs in the Home Office.”

  Arthur shook his head and then continued. “The problem is this. In an attempt to explain her sudden appearance, your sister stated that you and she were spies intent on destroying Napoleon. She claimed you were employed by Princess Pepsi of Toyota Camry and Calvin Klein, the Duke of Kleenex. Emme asserted she had been attacked by a French agent who had left her for dead here in Marfield. This explained her sudden presence, but unfortunately, left Linwood with many unanswered questions, particularly about you and your role as a covert agent.”

  A groan escaped Marc’s lips. Princess Pepsi of Toyota Camry? The Duke of Kleenex?

  Emme was a riot. He was going to kill his sister.

  Arthur continued on. “Even worse, Linwood is now convinced that French agents caused the carriage accident that, uh . . . killed James and Emme and that you, as Emme’s brother, must have knowledge of this—”

  “Damn! What a mess!” A mirthless laugh escaped Marc. He ran both his hands through his hair, tempted to pull it out by the roots.

  Granted, Emme had a way of making him feel like that.

  “Precisely,” Arthur agreed with a weary smile. “And I have been unable to distract Linwood from the trail. He is convinced of your involvement. And now you arrive with this true tale of blackmail and threats to the portal . . .” Arthur’s voice trailed off.

  “Is it possible they are related? The blackmailer, local burglaries and the possible French agents in the area?”

  Arthur shrugged. “I was just asking myself that very question. It raises the possibility something more sinister is afoot, particularly if a British agent has gone missing. Linwood’s concerns must have some merit after all.”

  They walked in silence for a moment.

  “I know that James would want me to make you feel at home, so you are obviously welcome to stay for as long as you wish,” Arthur said.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate
it. To be honest, I’m feeling way out of my depth. I would love some help on the finer points of . . . etiquette. Ya know, bowing and the whole lot.”

  Arthur turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. “Etiquette cannot have changed that much. Gentlemen do not bow in 2014?”

  “Not particularly,” Marc chuckled, “and definitely not Americans.”

  Arthur looked suitably scandalized. “Well, I shall have my valet assist you, both with matters of etiquette, as well as your speech.”

  Of course. Marc definitely needed help with that too.

  Arthur continued. “Michelle is well-versed in all things that pertain to being a gentleman.”

  Another pause.

  Wait—Arthur had a valet named Michelle? A female valet?

  That didn’t really make much sense—

  It all seemed a little progressive for early nineteenth century Britain. But before Marc could ask a follow-up question about Michelle, Arthur had moved on.

  “We will need to provide you with a history.” Arthur tapped his fingers against his thigh. “We will say that you are an old school friend of James’ just returned from the East Indies. That will explain your sudden arrival, your tanned complexion and the general . . . uh, shall was say, rustiness . . . of your speech and manners. The robbery will be an excellent cover for your lack of possessions. You were accosted by highwaymen outside of Leominster—which also safely removes the robbery from my jurisdiction as magistrate—and then made your way here on foot, arriving just now. You have been devastated to learn of James’ demise and, considering your grief and loss of possessions, I have graciously invited you to stay as long as you would like.” Arthur gave a decidedly smug smile.

  Marc could practically see James rolling his eyes and making some comment about Arthur always wanting to be the hero.

  But, as far as plans went, it was actually an excellent one.

  “Now, I just need to create a plan to track down your blackmailer,” Arthur said. “The man sounds too dangerous to be roaming about the countryside—”

  “You?” Marc asked. Talk about wanting to be a hero. “No offense, but why should you be the one to track him down? The man has been specifically threatening me and I’ll need something to do anyway—”