Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  Linwood studied Marc with haughty contempt, his face giving away nothing. Though there was a glint in his eye. Linwood looked positively gleeful. Well, for Linwood anyway.

  Adrenaline surged through Marc. He needed to bluff and think fast. He hadn’t come this far to reveal himself to Linwood now.

  Marc smiled, tight and mocking.

  “Vader is a . . . Prussian title. Consequently, you won’t find me listed with British peers.” He handed the book back to Linwood, who took it grudgingly, setting it down on an end table.

  Linwood regarded him again, eyes narrowed now.

  “Why do I doubt the veracity of your answer?”

  Marc shrugged. Several replies popping into his head at once.

  Why are you such a stuffy cad?

  Have you considered a theater career as Scarlet Partridge?

  Marc settled for saying, “You are entitled to your opinion.”

  The viscount was currently feeding him and providing a roof over his head. No need to be a total jerk.

  Go figure. Maybe Marc actually cared about manners after all.

  Linwood merely brushed a speck of lint from his coat sleeve. “As I am the one currently housing and feeding you, I feel I deserve to know exactly who you are.”

  Ah, unless Linwood beat him to being a jerk. Then Marc supposed it was okay.

  “I believe we already covered the social niceties several days ago, Linwood, but if you would like another introduction.” Marc gave a precise bow and a mocking grin. “Lord Vader, at your service.”

  Linwood’s eyes narrowed. Obviously not appreciative of Marc’s wit.

  “I have been anxious to arrange a meeting with her most royal highness, Princess Pepsi of Toyota Camry,” Linwood said. “Are you acquainted with her highness?” He assessed Marc through hooded eyes, obviously searching for a reaction to his words.

  Marc instantly swallowed a laugh, though Linwood surely saw the smile which threatened.

  Despite being colossally inconvenient, this entire debacle Emme had set in motion was almost worth it, just to hear Linwood say the words Princess Pepsi of Toyota Camry in his snooty, aristocratic drawl.

  “I have never had the privilege of visiting the esteemed country of Toyota Camry. I hear it is quite lovely, being a safe and economical place for families but a little sedate for my tastes.” Marc considered himself more of a motorcycle kinda guy. “Though I understand Princess Pepsi has a bit of a temper. If you disturb her over much, she is liable to erupt. Like a shaken bottle of champagne.” Marc managed to keep his face straight.

  Linwood paused, obviously sensing that he was missing something.

  A beat of silence.

  “You bear a strong resemblance to a woman I once met. A Miss Emry Wilde. Perhaps a relation of yours?” Linwood clasped his hands behind his back.

  Damn. Marc reminded himself not to underestimate Linwood’s intelligence. Arthur was going to have a conniption over this conversation. He needed to get Linwood off the scent.

  “Miss Emry Wilde? That doesn’t strike me as familiar. Though perhaps she might be an acquaintance of my sister.” Marc pretended to ponder for a moment, tapping his lips. And then snapped his fingers, as if just remembering something. “I do seem to remember my sister mentioning a friend who was once accosted by a dishonorable man. But I can’t for the life of me remember her friend’s name.”

  Okay, so maybe baiting Linwood wasn’t the best way to dissuade him from this line of questioning . . . but Marc seemed unable to stop himself when around the viscount.

  Linwood shifted his weight. Almost as if he were uncomfortable with something.

  Marc liked to think it was perhaps some vestige of a guilty conscience.

  Though more likely it was just gas.

  “Indeed. Well. I shall leave you to your reading, Lord Vader.” Linwood lingered ironically upon the name.

  And then bowed, stiff and formal, exiting the room.

  Chapter 13

  Kinningsley

  A few minutes later on February 28, 1814

  That will be all, Miss Ashton.” Lady Ruby waved her hand, pulling a lavender shawl tighter around her shoulders. Kit plumped a final bed pillow. “You are free to retire or continue mingling with the other guests. Please see that I am not disturbed.”

  “As you wish, my lady. Good night.” Kit curtsied.

  Lady Ruby nodded and reached for a book on her nightstand as Kit carefully closed the bedroom door, balancing a candle in her hand.

  Kit tripped down the grand staircase, slippers tap-tap-tapping on the marble, eager to return to the drawing room and the company there.

  Well, really only one person—Marc.

  Scarlet Partridge, indeed.

  She left the stairwell with a bounce in her step and started across the soaring entry hall.

  “There you are,” a deliciously low baritone voice murmured from behind her.

  Marc.

  Before Kit could answer, a strong hand snagged her elbow and pulled her into the library. Without a word, Marc lifted the candle from her hand and carefully used it to light a standing candelabra next to a table.

  He stood back, arms crossed, staring at her. “Really, Miss Ashton, we must stop meeting like this.”

  “Indeed, my lord. What will people say?”

  He grinned.

  Kit grinned back.

  And then his smile turned quite predatory. A thrill sizzled down her spine.

  He took a step toward her. And then another.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. Questioning. But she didn’t take a step back.

  His grin turned decidedly roguish, green eyes glinting catlike in the dim light.

  Kit caught her breath. What was it about this man? An adventurer wrapped up in a gentleman’s clothing. That combination of tailored elegance and wild unpredictability.

  You are in soooo deep, Virtuous Angel whispered.

  Mmmmm, can you blame her? I mean, look at him, Wicked Angel sighed.

  Kit did look at him. She wanted to rumple his clothing, to take him back to the man who had jumped onto her runaway horse. Elemental.

  Marc took another step toward her, stopping so close Kit could see the faint reflection of the room in his eyes. Could feel the heat of his body.

  Her heart sped up.

  And then, with that same lazy grin, he reached out and grasped her elbow, tugging her to him.

  Kit didn’t resist.

  He engulfed her in his arms. His incredibly strong, muscled, male arms.

  The sudden touch shocked her. But right behind the shock came relief.

  At last.

  As if she hadn’t been complete before this. As if every moment spent outside his embrace was only half-lived.

  For her part, Kit wrapped her arms around those broad shoulders, leaning on them. Threading a hand into his thick, curly hair.

  “Is this your boon?” she asked. “Because though it was a near thing, I never laughed. I admit Scarlet Partridge was a near miss—”

  Marc laughed and gathered her closer. “I have been wanting to do this all evening,” he muttered into her ear. “All week, really.”

  Kit resisted a sigh as he tightened his arms around her waist, his thumbs making lazy circles against the small of her back.

  He was just so warm, so solid. Heavens but she loved the strength of him. The feeling that he could move mountains for her.

  She tried and failed to imagine the path of his life. But she wanted to know all of it. Every last detail that had brought him to this point.

  He sighed and somehow clutched her closer.

  “When I walked into the drawing room and saw you in this dress . . .” He growled in her ear.

  Actually growled. Low and rumbly.

  “Did you just growl?” Kit laughed quietly.

  He growled again. Making her laugh harder.

  “If you could see yourself in this dress the way I do, you would growl too. If I had my way, I would burn every single one of
those shapeless things you usually wear and dress you only in red silk.”

  Kit stilled. Did he mean that?

  He could actually make good on that threat, she realized. He was an unattached gentleman of some means. A baron. Was he contemplating offering for her? Did a man like Marc . . . marry?

  Panic edged in. It was just entirely impossible. Her life was just too . . . she mentally flinched away from the thoughts crowding in.

  Marc sensed her sudden tension.

  “Relax.” He breathed in her hair. “Let me have the delight of simply holding a beautiful woman in a breathtaking red dress. Nothing more. Just let me have another growl or two.”

  Which lead to another deep grumble in her ear.

  Kit melted against him, surprised to find her eyes stinging.

  Why was Fate being so cruel? Why thrust her into this impossible situation with Daniel and then toss the most remarkable man in her path?

  In another time—at another point in her life—Marc would be a godsend. Someone she would dream into her future.

  Ruthlessly, she pushed any thoughts of the future far away.

  The moment needed to just . . . be. In this beautiful place, with her lovely dress, heady with after-dinner wine . . . and him so gentle and strong and free. It had to be enough.

  She sighed and nuzzled her nose into his neck, breathing in the scent of wool and something faintly woodsy. If she pulled back her head, he would kiss her. She knew it.

  Mmmmm, yes! What are you waiting for? Wicked Angel urged.

  An enormous part of her wanted that. Wanted his kiss.

  But . . .

  Kissing him would admit, even if only to herself, that she was in too deep. That for all her caution—which, quite frankly, hadn't been particularly cautious at all—she was falling hard for him. And that things were about to get very, very messy.

  Exactly! Kissing him will not help you find Daniel. It will not help you solve this mess and return home. It will only make everything so much worse. Dumb Virtuous Angel and her prudent, moment-killing logic.

  Kissing would just make the inevitable parting that much more painful.

  She let out a small growl of frustration of her own.

  She felt more than heard Marc’s laugh.

  “That’s my girl.” His breath tickled her ear. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of the thing.”

  “I didn’t want to leave you hanging like a fool,” she murmured back, letting her lips graze his ear in the process.

  So much for holding back.

  Marc growled again. Her unsolicited touch obviously being all the encouragement he needed.

  He responded in kind, nibbling a kiss along the edge of her ear. The touch of his lips like hot satin. Kit tightened her grip on his hair, barely suppressing a full-on gasp.

  Way too deep.

  Help, she mentally cried.

  She was sinking fast.

  His lips had found the edge of her jaw and were drifting slowly, slowly, slowly toward her mouth . . .

  . . . when chaos erupted outside the library door.

  They jumped apart as footsteps pounded across the entry hall.

  Through the hubbub, Kit clearly heard Linwood’s angry voice.

  “There will be hell to pay for this.”

  Marc glanced at her and then grasped her hand.

  “Stay here. I will see what is going on. We can’t be seen leaving this room together.”

  Too true. She did have a reputation to think about, she supposed. Not that she had been thinking much about it over the last few minutes.

  Kit nodded, eyes wide. Unsure if the interruption was a welcome reprieve or an unwanted intrusion.

  Marc lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss into her palm.

  And then he was gone.

  The entire house was in uproar.

  Linwood stood in the high, domed entryway, calling out orders. Like a general marshaling his troops.

  Marc paused for a second, trying to pull his head back to the matter at hand.

  Instead of swimming in the memory of Kit in his arms. The heat of her breath swirling around his ear.

  That dress, her teasing smile, the lushness of her—both physical and emotional. The sense of connection he felt. He was only a man. How could he resist such a perfect combination?

  He felt a lingering sense of unease for kissing her jaw like that. She wasn’t some flirty woman he had just met at a bar. She was a nineteenth century lady, completely unused to playing by his twenty-first century rules.

  He would do well to remember that.

  Man, his mother and Emme would give him such a talking to over this. A well-deserved lecture.

  Linwood noted him standing off to the side and pointed.

  “You!” he intoned, walking toward Marc. “I would speak with you immediately.”

  He snapped his fingers and strode past Marc right back into the library, confident Marc would trail behind him.

  The library where Kit most assuredly still was.

  Damn.

  Which meant Marc had to follow him. If only to be sure that Kit’s person and reputation were preserved.

  Suppressing an urge to hurt something—or even better, a tall, arrogant someone—Marc followed Linwood into the library. Feeling like a school boy about to be taken to the whipping shed.

  Marc entered expecting to find the viscount confronting Kit. But the library appeared blessedly empty. Only the flickering candles and fireplace winked a polite welcome.

  Where had Kit hid herself? The room was half shadows, but Marc caught a glimpse of red disappearing under the desk.

  Plucky, adorable woman!

  Linwood whirled on him with barely suppressed rage. It was oddly heartening to see him so angry. The man actually did feel some emotion underneath that fastidious veneer. Fire and ice.

  “Does this look familiar?” Linwood said, shoving his hand toward Marc.

  Hesitantly, Marc looked down. And then scowled himself.

  With a sharp intake of breath, he snatched a button from Linwood’s grasp and tilted it into the candle light.

  A brass button with a raised crest covered in vines.

  The button already seared into his memory. It had to belong to the man who had attacked him in Duir Cottage.

  Daniel.

  But what—?!

  “I see you recognize this button, Lord Vader.”

  Marc nodded. “It is definitely the same as the one sported by the . . . highwayman who accosted me.”

  He heard a faint hiss that could only come from Kit. Marc instantly coughed to cover her noise.

  “Where did the button come from?” Marc asked.

  Linwood clenched his jaw. Marc could practically hear his teeth grinding. “It was found lying on the floor of my private study. Which, at some point this evening, was ransacked. With everyone’s attention on our guests, it was the perfect opportunity.”

  Marc’s head reared back. Daniel was definitely up to something.

  “Was anything stolen?”

  “Yes.” Linwood nodded once. Curt and precise.

  The viscount’s demeanor did not invite follow-up questions.

  Marc couldn’t care less.

  “What was stolen?”

  Linwood narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you wish you knew, Vader?” A healthy dose of sarcasm there. “Or are you in league with these highwaymen yourself? In which case, why not tell me what was stolen?”

  Ah. The man could be such a smart arse.

  Marc handed the button back. “Please, Linwood. Were I to steal something from you, I would not be so gauche as to leave a button calling card and a ransacked room. Give me some credit.”

  Why, oh why, could he not stop baiting this man?

  For his part, Linwood regarded him with jaw clenched, eyes intense and accusing.

  “This robbery is a capital offense, Vader. A matter of national security. Even aiding the robbers would be considered an act of high treason. I w
ould moderate your tone, were I you.”

  “Well, thank goodness I am not you.”

  Linwood hissed. Yes, Marc needed to reign in his junior high taunting tendencies.

  “Again, what was stolen, Linwood? You are talking in riddles and making threats, but I assure you, I am utterly innocent. I haven’t a clue what was stolen or who, precisely, would have stolen it.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, but close enough.

  “The French will pay a high price for what was taken. Something I am willing to bet you already knew.” A muscle twitched in Linwood’s cheek as he spoke.

  Marc had not, in fact, known that. Surprise surely showed on his face.

  No sense hiding this fact from Linwood.

  Did that make Daniel an agent for the French then?

  If so, it explained why Kit was so desperate to find her brother.

  High treason was an ugly crime, as Arthur had mentioned. It thoroughly tainted every family member it touched. No wonder Kit wanted her brother found and returned home before he was captured.

  But what about Marc’s interaction with Daniel in Duir Cottage? Was Daniel somehow planning on using information from the future to alter the course of the Napoleonic wars?

  Just the thought sent a chill of foreboding down Marc’s spine.

  “What is your game, Vader?”

  Marc blinked. Drat. No matter how careful, Linwood was determined to expose Marc. “I have no game, as you put it, Linwood. The button belongs to someone who robbed me. That is all.”

  A pause.

  “And your sister, Miss Emry?”

  Back to that, were they? Arthur was not going to be happy about this.

  “As I have said, Linwood, you have the wrong man.”

  Linwood drummed his fingers against his thigh, obviously not buying Marc’s story. Whatever. It was just nice to see that the viscount had a nervous tick. He wasn’t quite as impervious as it would seem.

  “Ah. But I believe that I do have the right man,” Linwood said after a moment. “My sources point quite squarely to a missing British agent being involved in this. Did I mention that the missing agent is in fact a woman?”

  Marc stilled. That piece of information was impossibly interesting. And yet . . . explained so very, very much.