Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  Two overstuffed chairs crowded close to the fire, separated by a long sofa. A large console backed the sofa, sporting wide drawers along its length which were said to house the late Mr. James Knight’s impressive collection of maps.

  Quite frankly, it all reminded her of home. Her father loved rooms like this. He would have spent days closeted with the maps, dragging old tomes off the bookshelves and perusing them lingeringly.

  Kit’s throat tightened. She blinked fiercely several times.

  Now was not the time to think about her father. Even though it had been nearly a year, his death was still raw. He may not have been the most attentive of fathers, but he had loved her in his way and she still missed him.

  She pulled her feet under her, tucking them firmly out of sight with the rest of her. She liked this little corner of the library, sandwiched between the window hangings and the tall, paned window. It was always full of light, despite the dreary overcast skies outside. Best of all, it hid her from the rest of the room, particularly the doorway.

  That was crucial.

  Lady Ruby was taking one of her ‘restoratives’—which was what Ruby called a glass of brandy and a lengthy nap. Despite it not even being noon yet.

  The problem, of course, was Jedidiah. Ruby considered it a ‘restorative,’ but Jedidiah thought of it more as ‘open hunting season.’

  Fortunately, Jedediah Knight had a strong aversion to libraries—Kit supposed it was the possibility of accidentally learning—and so had yet to find her here.

  Granted, hiding in the library also meant no one else would find her.

  Particularly not the dashing man who had stopped her runaway horse.

  More’s the pity.

  Marc. She whispered his name. And then paused. Marc felt a little too familiar for a lady’s companion to call a visiting lord.

  Marcus, then. The same name that Linwood had mentioned to Arthur. Miss Emry’s brother. Who may or may not be a spy.

  Coincidence? Or subterfuge?

  And if subterfuge, it explained his reluctance to properly introduce himself.

  But he had retired early, and she had been unable to get another word from him on the matter. Or even a passing look.

  That said, Kit had found out from Fanny, the upstairs maid, who had it firsthand from the second footman, Gilbert, who had overheard the cook talking with the housekeeper about how the stranger had been accosted and had probably killed one of the robbers with his bare hands before being grievously wounded himself, left to stagger his way to Haldon Manor half dead (None of which made any sense with what the man, himself, had told Kit, but who cared? It was an entertaining story . . . ), when the butler, Finley, interrupted and called a meeting in the staff dining hall to set them all straight.

  Though the facts themselves were not uninteresting, despite Finley’s dry, monotone recitation.

  The stranger was actually Lord Vader, a longtime school friend of Mr. James Knight, who had recently returned from a lengthy stay in India.

  Marcus, Lord Vader . . . which was just an unexpected surname, really.

  Was it a British name? It sounded more German, truth be told. She had even asked Gilbert and Fanny about it. Gilbert had simply shrugged, but Fanny insisted her father’s cousin knew a family of Vaders who lived near Hereford. So perhaps it wasn’t as odd as it seemed.

  In any case, Marcus, Lord Vader, had been robbed while en route to Haldon Manor to visit his former friend and had been left to find his way on foot. Lord Vader had been devastated to learn that his friend, James, was now deceased. But Mr. Arthur Knight had seen fit, in his goodness, to provide Lord Vader with clothing and allow him to stay as long as he wished.

  Furthermore, Finley did not want to hear any more speculation about Lord Vader killing anyone or being wounded.

  Additionally, in response to Fanny’s question, Finley did not wish to speculate on Lord Vader’s marital status, or as Gilbert put it, his ‘history with the ladies.’

  And, no, Lord Vader had not provided a description of the robbers, and Finley hardly felt it relevant to his position to ask. Miss Ashton would be wise to remember that and keep her curiosity to herself.

  Which effectively shut off the string of follow-up questions Kit had poised on her tongue.

  Everyone was summarily dismissed.

  Kit really needed more details about the robbery.

  Had Daniel been involved with it? It seemed unlikely . . .

  Well, actually, it didn’t seem unlikely at all. That was the problem. Daniel was probably desperate for cash, and highway robbery would be just the romantic thing to appeal to him.

  She hoped Lady Ruby would send her back into Marfield once she woke up. Kit was desperate to find and, this time, actually talk with her brother . . .

  The door to the library creaked open, followed by muffled footsteps on the wood floor. Kit instantly stilled, practically holding her breath.

  Drat. Had Jedediah found her at last? The curtain was excellent at hiding her, but it also had the disadvantage of hiding the room from her view.

  The footsteps drifted toward the bookshelves away from the window. A cabinet opened and Kit heard the shush of books being pulled from the shelves and then snicked back into place.

  Was it Jedediah?

  The steps started again, this time drawing closer and closer. A hand appeared on the edge of the curtain and began to pull it back.

  Lord Vader—Marcus, Kit reminded herself— poked his dark head around the edge of the fabric, eyebrows hiking up at finding the window seat occupied. Kit locked eyes with him just as a voice sounded from the doorway.

  “I say, there you are, Lord Vader.” Jedediah’s nasal wheeze unmistakable.

  Marcus turned back toward the room, leaving Kit with a view of his tailored broad shoulders and tight buckskins. His body and the window curtain hiding her from the rest of the room.

  “Uh, yes. Here I am.” Marcus clasped his hands behind his back but did not move away from the window, protecting her from Jedediah’s view.

  Jedediah grunted.

  “May I help you?” Marcus gave a polite nod.

  “Don’t suppose you have seen Miss Ashton skulking about, have you?” Jedediah gave one of his signature sniveling sniffs.

  Oh dear . . . would Marcus betray her?

  “Skulking?” Was that humor in Marcus’ voice? “I can’t say that I have seen Miss Ashton display any tendency toward skulkery.”

  Marcus crossed his fingers behind his back, causing Kit to smile and relax slightly.

  Jedediah humphed. “Dashed hard to keep track of that chit. Always snooping about where she shouldn’t and not respecting her betters. Not quite sure why Mother hasn’t sacked her yet.”

  Kit sucked in an outraged gasp.

  Ugh! He was such a creepy cad.

  Though you have been snooping about, Virtuous Angel pointed out.

  But not skulking, Wicked Angel countered. And you definitely respect those who have admirable qualities. Jedediah is just not one of them.

  Marcus canted his head toward her and then stilled. “Well, if I see any unauthorized . . . skulking . . . from Miss Ashton, I will be sure to inform you.”

  Ah, bless Marcus for defending her.

  A pause.

  “I thought I saw Miss Ashton headed down to the lake just a moment ago.” Marcus bounced on his toes, still keeping his fingers crossed behind his back.

  “The . . . lake?”

  “Yes . . . or at least I supposed that was a lake I saw out beyond the walled garden. It looked largish and full of something liquidy and wet, so naturally I assumed—”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Jedediah sounded even more stiff than usual.

  Marcus waved a hand. “Think nothing of it, old chap. I would be more than happy to help you identify other physical landmarks, as well. I do believe I also saw a thing called a ‘hill’ in the distance. It is quite large and rises from the ground as a high protuberance complete with these white fluffy do
ts I have on good authority are referred to as ‘sheep’—”

  Kit clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling her laughter. The man was truly incorrigible.

  Jedediah made a choking sound. “I am well aware of what a hill looks like, Lord Vader.”

  “Ah, well, that is a relief. But if you need any pointers about trees, just let me know. They are those tall, spindly things you see jutting up everywhere. Quite bare this time of year, but if you are patient, come April—”

  “I said thank you, Lord Vader. I shall leave you to your perusal of my cousin’s library.” Jedediah practically snarled the last sentence and stomped out.

  Jedediah’s angry footsteps fading, Marcus turned around to Kit on the window seat, hand still over her mouth, eyes dancing with laughter.

  He pushed the curtains back to reveal more of the room and folded his arms across his chest, leaning a shoulder into the window jam, a roguish gleam in his green eyes.

  Taking up more than his fair share of air in the room.

  “That,” he said, nodding toward the doorway Jedediah had just vacated, “is one remarkably repulsive human being.”

  Kit dropped her hand, freeing her laughter. It felt so good to laugh. Particularly with Marcus smiling at her.

  He had changed and was now shaved, styled and immaculately turned out in a tight coat and those thigh-hugging breeches, looking every bit a gentleman of station and breeding. Altogether striking.

  But his eyes betrayed him. He could be buttoned up into civilized clothing and starched within an inch of his life . . . but the rumpled gypsy sparkled underneath.

  She sensed he wore being a gentleman like a cloak. Something to be easily tossed on or off.

  She found the thought entirely too compelling for her peace of mind.

  How did the East Indies shape a man? What experiences readied one to effortlessly leap onto the back of a galloping horse? How wild and untamed was he underneath that veneer of urbanity?

  And did she really want to know?

  Nothing can come of it, Virtuous and Wicked Angel sing-songed together.

  How unkind of Fate to toss such an attractive man into her path when she was absolutely not in a place to do anything about it.

  In contrast to him, she wore a twice-turned muslin gown with faded gray stripes and a fraying hem, her hair pinned to her head as best she could manage by herself, stuffing her curls into a large knot. Kit didn’t know the first thing about creating the intricate hairstyles she saw ladies like Mrs. Marianne Knight wear. In the past, someone else had always done such things for her. Granted, she had tried to enliven her current outfit by wrapping a ribbon around her head and draping a red paisley shawl over her shoulders, both gifts from the kind Mrs. Knight.

  Though she still looked poor and frumpy. Sigh.

  “Thank you for not giving me away, my lord.” Kit’s hands twitched, reaching to smooth her skirts and fluff her hair. To preen under his gaze.

  Gah. Marcus, Lord Vader made her feel so self-aware. She never felt awkward around men. What was it about him?

  “Think nothing of it,” he returned, eyes flicking to her hands with the smallest grin. Probably sensing the effect he had on her.

  Drat him.

  Why did she care what he thought of her?

  “Though you will have to avoid any and all skulking activities you had planned this afternoon, as I would hate for you to make a liar of me,” he continued. Still with that knowing grin hovering around the edges of his mouth.

  He really was a marvelous specimen of manhood. Leaning against the window jamb, arms crossed, making his shoulders seem enormous.

  Again with the broad shoulders. They almost taunted her.

  Shoulders which could hold things . . . like her sorrows and troubles, her endless responsibilities and secrets . . .

  Or you, Wicked Angel said. They could also just hold you.

  Yes. There was that too.

  Kit squelched her wistful thoughts.

  Not helping.

  A beat of silence.

  “I thought we agreed to be Marc and Kit to each other? None of this ‘my lord’ nonsense.” He gave one of his slow burn smiles. Mischief-lit. The kind that said I’m a rascal, but you will love me anyway.

  Both her shoulder angels exhaled in delight despite themselves.

  Stupid, charming man.

  No flirting, remember? You promised to be good. Virtuous Angel chided.

  Don’t listen to her, Wicked Angel chimed in. You deserve some fun.

  True that. And how could a little flirting hurt? She wasn’t actually going to confide in him or cry on those (large, inviting, attractive) shoulders . . .

  Every facet proclaimed him a man who joked his way through life without ever engaging his emotions. Infinitely attractive and lively to be around. But she knew from her long experience in society to never take such men seriously. Woe to the woman who ever gave her heart to one. Once a rogue, always a rogue . . .

  Exactly! And spending time with him isn’t helping you find Daniel. Virtuous Angel could be such a kill-joy sometimes.

  Not true. Remember he was robbed. He might know something about Daniel. You definitely need to flirt the information out of him. Wicked Angel said, smugly.

  That was too true.

  She did need to know more about that robbery and Daniel’s possible involvement.

  So, really, she was merely engaging in a little bit of investigative inquiry. That was all. She would not lose her head over Marcus, Lord Vader.

  The flirting was just a means to an end, right?

  And to that end . . .

  “No skulking for the rest of the afternoon?” Kit made a small moue of distaste, drawing her shawl around her. “That does put such a damper on all the activities I had planned.”

  Marc gave a small laugh, tilting his head toward the window. The overcast light raked his face, painting it half in light, half in shadow.

  “Ah. I had nurtured a private hope that the erstwhile Kit Ashton had a dark secret or two.” He winked.

  Kit managed a nervous chuckle.

  He had no idea.

  “Well, skulking without a secret is quite pathetic. And I generally try to avoid being pathetic.” She leaned toward him as she spoke, as if imparting a confidence.

  That statement won her another crinkle-eyed grin.

  “You seem like a man with secrets of your own,” she continued.

  No sense beating around the bush, as it were. Get straight to the heart of the matter.

  “Don’t we all?” He shrugged, his grin un-faltering, his face giving away nothing.

  Kit matched his grin. His smile was like a contagion. She dared anyone who saw it not to automatically reflect it back.

  Charming, stupid, secretive man.

  “I wager you have delicious secrets.” She lent a husky edge to her voice, angling her head in such a way as to invite him to share his.

  He chuckled. A deep, rumbly sound that she felt to her toes.

  “Naturally. Is there any other kind?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Though, I like the thought of you having a secretive history. It makes your life seem more interesting than simply reading or . . .” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

  “Embroidery?” Kit supplied.

  “Yes . . . embroidery.” Marc looked perplexed. “Is that all you do? Read and embroider?”

  “Oh no, not at all.” Kit went wide-eyed, pasting on her most innocent expression. “I also fetch reading and embroidery for Lady Ruby. Or, best of all, read to her while she embroiders. It’s a complex system.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really.”

  “It sounds heinously boring.”

  “It is, I assure you. Just a step above watching paint dry.” Kit cracked a mischievous smile of her own.

  Marc nodded thoughtfully, that grin tugging at his lips, and then gestured toward the book she held in her hands.

  “So . . . are those truly your only two
options of things to do? Reading or embroidery?”

  “No, a selection of handy crafts is open to the modern lady who is adept with a needle. We also while away our time at knitting, darning, tatting and even quilling.”

  Marc gave her a confused look and sat down on the window seat, angling against the opposite side of the window embrasure. He leaned against the cushions, stretching his legs out along the floor next to her. Kit couldn’t help but notice how the window light caught the sheen of his dark hair curling around his ears.

  The entire scene conspired to make his shoulders as broad and problem-supporting as possible. Drat him.

  “That sounds . . . monumentally boring.” He looked speculative. “And you spend your entire day doing this?”

  “Why yes. Of course, ladies also engage in such thrilling pastimes as strolling in the garden, changing our attire for dinner and, if we are most fortunate, practicing a musical instrument—”

  “Please tell me you are joking?” Marc’s look turned strained.

  Kit gave a wry smile. “No, I’m afraid I am not. Which explains why everyone drinks and gambles. It’s the only way to make all the rest of it palatable. I should think even quilling would seem exciting if one were drunk enough.”

  “Truly?”

  “No, I am completely lying. I don’t think any amount of alcohol could make quilling interesting, but it might be worth a try.” Kit gave a rueful shake of her head. “You know, as a way to break up the monotony of everything else. Perhaps we could even bet on the outcome.”

  Marc laughed. Head back, eyes scrunched nearly shut, flashing surprisingly white, straight teeth. He had an exceptionally nice laugh, deep and robust.

  “No wonder you harbor secrets then.” His laughter faded into a broad smile.

  He quite scattered her thoughts.

  She would not fidget with her skirts. Or check her hair in the window’s reflection.

  No, she would not.

  When was the last time a man had made her this self-conscious? She tried to remember.

  There had been that dinner party at Lady Spencer’s where Kit met a dreamy French painter with long tawny hair and passionate blue eyes. Nearly a caricature of the sweeping romantic artiste. He had whispered to her at length about the transitory nature of perception. She remembered fidgeting as he spoke, angling to catch her reflection in a silver candelabra to make sure her earrings were hanging straight. But in the process, she accidentally bumped her wine glass, spilling red Bordeaux down the front of her white evening gown . . .