Could it have been some similarity to one of his long-discarded mistresses, popping up to waylay him when he least expected it? Perhaps it was simply the effect of unusual abstinence?
Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part? Jack grinned. He couldn’t deny that a nice, wild woman, the sort who might lead a smuggling gang, would make a welcome addition to his current lifestyle. Elsewise, the only sport to be had in the vicinity consisted of virtuous maids, whom he avoided on principle, and dowagers old enough to be his mother. Ever fertile, his brain developed his fantasy. The tension in his shoulders slowly eased.
Insidiously, sleep crawled from his feet to his calves to his knees to his hips, ever upward to claim him. Just before he succumbed, Jack hit on his cure. He’d unmask Young Kit—that was it. The sensation would disappear once Kit was revealed as the male he had to be. George was sure of it, Matthew was sure of it. Most importantly, the smugglers who followed Kit were sure of it, and surely they must know?
The problem was, he was far from sure of it.
Kit spent the following day in a distracted daze. Even the simplest task was beyond her; her attention constantly drifted, lured in fascinated horror to contemplation of her dreadful dilemma.
After incorrectly mixing a potion for the parlor maid’s sore throat, twice, she gave up in disgust and headed for the gazebo at the end of the rose garden. The morning had cleared to a fine afternoon; she hoped the brisk breeze would blow away her mental cobwebs.
The little gazebo, with its view of the rose beds, was a favorite retreat. With a weary sigh, Kit sank onto the wooden bench. She was caught, trapped, squarely between the devil and the deep blue sea. On the one hand, prudence urged that she accept Captain Jack’s proposal for her crew and decline it for herself, slipping cautiously into the mists, letting Young Kit disappear. Unfortunately, neither her men nor Captain Jack would be satisfied with that. She knew them—knew them far better than they knew her. She didn’t, in truth, know Captain Jack, and if she was intent on following prudence’s dictates, she never would.
Coward! sneered her other self.
“Did you see him?” Kit asked, annoyed when her heartbeat accelerated at the memory.
Oh, yes! came the thoroughly smitten answer.
Kit snorted. “Even in moonlight he looked like he could give the London rakes lessons.”
Indubitably. And just think what lessons he could give you.
Kit blushed. “I’m not interested.”
Like hell you’re not. You, my girl, turned a delicate shade of green when Amy was describing her experiences. Now fate hands you a gilded first-ever opportunity to do a little experiencing of your own and what do you do? Run away before that gorgeous specimen gets a chance to raise your temperature. What’s happened to your wild Cranmer blood?
Kit grimaced. “I’ve still got you to remind me I haven’t lost it.”
Putting a lid on her wilder self, Kit brooded on her folly in getting involved with smugglers. That didn’t last long. She’d enjoyed the past weeks too much to dissemble, even to herself. The excitement, the thrills, the highs and lows of tension and relief had become a staple in her diet, an addictive ingredient she was loath to forego. How else would she fill in her time?
The alternative to disappearing grew increasingly attractive.
Resolutely, she shook her head. “I can’t risk it. He’s suspicious already. Men can’t be trusted—and men like Captain Jack are even less trustworthy than the rest.”
Who said anything about trust? If he realizes Young Kit’s not all he seems, well and good. You might even learn what you’re dying to know—what price a little experience against the years of lonely spinsterhood ahead? You know you’ll never marry, so what good is your closely guarded virtue? And who’s to know? You can always disappear, once your men have settled in with his.
“And what happens if I get caught, if things don’t go as planned?” Kit waited, but her wild self remained prudently silent. She sighed, then frowned as she saw a maid looking this way and that amongst the rosebushes. With a rustle of starched petticoats, Kit rose. “Dorcas? What’s amiss?”
“Oh! There you be, miss. Jenkins said as you might be out ’ere.”
“Yes. Here I am.” Kit stepped down from her retreat.
“Am I wanted?”
“Oh, yes, if you please, miss. The Lord Lieutenant and his lady be here. In the drawing room.”
Hiding a grimace, Kit headed indoors. She found Lady Marchmont ensconced on the chaise, listening with barely concealed boredom to the conversation between her husband and Spencer. At the sight of Kit, she perked up. “Kathryn, my dear!” Her ladyship surged up in a froth of soft lace.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Kit sat on the chaise. Lady Marchmont barely paused to draw breath. “We’ve just come from Castle Hendon, my dear.Such an impressive place but sadly in need of a woman’s touch these days. I do believe Jake hadn’t had the curtains shaken since Mary died.” Lady Marchmont patted Kit’s hand. “But I don’t suppose you remember the last Lady Hendon. She died when the new Lord Hendon was just a boy. Jake raised him.” Her ladyship paused; Kit waited politely.
“I thought I should pass the word on directly.” Lord Marchmont’s voice, lowered conspiratorially, came to Kit’s ears. She glanced to where Spencer and the Lord Lieutenant sat on chairs drawn together, the two grey heads close.
“Mind you, such being the case, it’s a wonder he’s not positively wild. Heaven knows, Jake was the devil himself in disguise, or so many of us thought.” Lady Marchmont made this startling revelation, a dreamy smile on her lips.
Kit nodded, her eyes on her ladyship’s face, her attention elsewhere.
“Hendon’s made it clear he’s not particularly interested in the commercial traffic, as he put it. He’s here after bigger game. Seems there’s word about that this area’s a target for those running cargo of a different sort.” Lord Marchmont paused meaningfully.
Spencer snorted. Kit caught the sharpness in his comment, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“But I dare say one shouldn’t judge a book by its binding.” Lady Marchmont raised her brows. “Perhaps, in this case, he really is a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
Kit smiled, but she hadn’t heard a word. She was far too concerned with learning what sort of cargo interested the new High Commissioner.
“Human cargo,” Lord Marchmont pronounced with heavy relish.
“Mind you, I’m not sure but what it’s better the other way around.” Lady Marchmont brightened.
“Seems they’ve blocked the routes out of Sussex and Kent, but they didn’t catch all the spies.” Lord Marchmont leaned closer to Spencer. “They think those left will try this coast next.”
“But just fancy, my dear. He keeps city hours down here. Doesn’t rise until noon.” An unladylike humph escaped Lady Marchmont. “He’ll have to change, of course. Needs someone to help him adjust. Must be hard to pick up country ways after so many years.”
A frown nagged at Kit’s brows. As Lady Marchmont’s bemused stare penetrated her daze, she wiped her expression clean and nodded seriously. “I dare say you’re right, ma’am.”
Her ladyship blinked. Kit realized she’d slipped somewhere and tried to focus on her ladyship’s words, rather than her lord’s.
Lady Marchmont’s face cleared. “Oh—are you imagining he’s a fop? Not a bit of it!” She waved one plump hand, and Kit’s mind slid away.
“Hendon suggested I quietly let the message get about. Just to the right people, y’know.” Lord Marchmont set down his teacup.
“His dress is very precise—the military influence, I dare say. But you’d know more about that than I, being so newly returned from the capital.” Lady Marchmont chewed one fat finger. “Elegant,” she pronounced. “You’d have to call him elegant.”
Kit’s eyes glazed. Her head was spinning.
“Did he now?” Spencer eyed Lord Marchmont shrewdly.
Lady Marchmont
leaned forward and whispered: “Lucy Cartwright’s got her eye on him for her eldest, Jane. But nothing’ll come of that.”
“Seemed to think he might need a bit of support if it came to a dustup,” Lord Marchmont said. “The Revenue are stretched thin these days.”
“He doesn’t strike me as being the sort of man who’d appreciate having a young girl to wife. He’s a serious man, thirty-five if he’s a day. A more mature woman would be much more useful to him. Being the Lady of Castle Hendon is a full-time occupation, not the place for a giddy girl.”
Spencer’s barking laugh echoed through the room. “That’s certainly true. Have you heard of the raids out Sheringham way?”
Her grandfather and his guest settled to review the latest exercises of the Revenue Office. Kit took the opportunity to catch up with her ladyship.
“Of course, there’s the limp, though it’s not seriously incapacitating. And he’s at least got the Hendon looks to compensate.”
Kit attempted to infuse some degree of mild interest into her features.
Lady Marchmont looked positively thrilled. “Well, Kathryn dear, we really must see what we can organize, don’t you think?”
The predatory gleam in her ladyship’s eyes set alarm bells ringing; Kit’s interest fled.Good God—she’s trying to marry me off to Lord Hendon!
To Kit’s immense relief, Jenkins chose that precise instant to enter with the tea tray. If not for the timely interruption, she’d never have stilled the heated denial that had risen, involuntarily, to her lips.
Conversation became general over the teacups. With the ease born of considerable practice in company far more demanding than the present, Kit contributed her share.
Suddenly, Spencer slapped his thigh. “Forgot!” He looked at Kit. “There’s a letter for you, m’dear. On the table there.” His nod indicated a small table by the window.
“For me?” Kit rose and went to fetch it.
Spencer nodded. “It’s from Julian. I got one, too.”
“Julian?” Kit returned to the chaise, examining the packet addressed in her youngest cousin’s unmistakable scrawl.
“Go on, read it. Lord and Lady Marchmont’ll excuse you, I’m sure.”
Lord Marchmont nodded benignly, his wife much more avidly. Kit broke the Cranmer seal and quickly scanned the lines, crossed and recrossed, with two blots for good measure. “He’s done it,” she breathed, as Julian’s meaning became clear. “He’s enlisted!”
Her face alight, Kit looked at Spencer and saw her happiness for Julian mirrored in his eyes. Spencer nodded. “Aye. About time he went his own road. It’ll be the making of him, I don’t doubt.”
Blinking, Kit nodded. Julian had wanted to join the army forever but, as the youngest of the Cranmer brood, he’d been protected and cosseted and steadfastly refused permission to break free. He’d reached his majority a fortnight ago and had signed up immediately. A passage toward the end of his letter sent a stab of sheer, painful pride through her.
You broke free, Kit. You made up your mind and went your own way. I decided to do the same. Wish me luck?
Her grandfather and Lord Marchmont were discussing the latest news from Europe; Lady Marchmont was eating a queen cake. With a happy sigh, Kit refolded the letter and laid it aside.
Jenkins returned, and the Marchmonts rose to take their leave, Lady Marchmont evolving plans for a ball to introduce the new Lord Hendon to his neighbors. “We haven’t given a ball in years. We’ll make it a large one—something special. A masquerade, perhaps? I’ll want your advice, my dear, so think about it.” With a wag of her chubby finger, Lady Marchmont sat back in her carriage.
On the steps, Kit smiled and waved. Beside her, Spencer clapped the Lord Lieuteneant on the shoulder. “About that other matter. Tell Hendon he can count on support from Cranmer if he needs it. The Cranmers have always stood shoulder to shoulder with the Hendons through the years—we’ll continue to do so. Particularly now we’ve one of our own at risk. Can’t let any spies endanger young Julian.” Spencer smiled. “Just as long as Hendon remembers he’s Norfolk born and bred, that is. I’ve no mind to give up my brandy.”
The twinkle in Spencer’s eye was pronounced. An answering gleam lit Lord Marchmont’s gaze. “No, b’God. Very true. But he keeps a fine cellar, just like Jake, so I doubt we’ll need to explain that to him.”
With a nod to Kit, Lord Marchmont climbed in beside his wife. The door shut, the coachman clicked the reins; the heavy coach lurched off.
Kit watched it disappear, then dropped a kiss on Spencer’s weathered cheek and hugged him hard before descending the steps. With a last wave to Spencer, she headed for the gardens for a last stroll before dinner.
The shrubbery welcomed her with cool green walls, leading to a secluded grove with a fountain in the middle. Kit sat on the stone surround of the pool, trailing her fingers in the water. Her pleasure at Julian’s news gradually faded, giving way to consideration of Lady Marchmont’s fixation.
It was inevitable that the local ladies would busy themselves over finding her a husband; they’d known her from birth and, naturally, not one approved of her present state. With the appearance of Lord Hendon, an apparently eligible bachelor, on the scene, they had the ingredients of exactly the sort of plot they collectively delighted in hatching.
Grimacing, Kit shook the water from her fingers. They could hatch and plot to their hearts’ content—she was past the age of innocent gullibility. Doubtless, despite his eligibility, Lord Hendon would prove to be another earl of Roberts. No—he couldn’t be that old, not if Jake had been his father. Fortyish, a dessicated old stick but not quite old enough to be her father.
With a sigh, Kit stood and shook out her skirts. Unfortunately for Lady Marchmont, she hadn’t escaped London—and her aunts’ coils—to fall victim to the schemes of the local grandes dames.
The sun dipped beneath the horizon. Kit turned back toward the house. As she passed through the hedged walks, she shivered. Were spies run through the Norfolk surf? On that subject, her opinions matched Spencer’s. The trade was tolerable, as long as it was just trade. But spying was treason. Did the Hunstanton Gang run “human cargo”?
Kit frowned; her temples throbbed. The day had gone and she was no nearer to solving her dilemma. Worse, she now had potential treason to avoid.
Or avert.
Chapter 8
A quiet dinner with Spencer did not advance Kit’s thoughts on Captain Jack’s offer. She retired early, intending to spend a few clear hours pondering the pros and cons. But once in her bedroom, the fidgets caught her. In desperation, she threw on her masculine clothes and slipped down the back stairs.
She’d become adept at bridling and saddling Delia in the dark. Soon, she was galloping over fields intermittently lit by a setting moon, half-hidden by low, scudding clouds. On horseback, with the breeze whistling about her ears, she relaxed. Now, she could think.
Try as she might, she couldn’t see a way off the carousel. If Young Kit simply disappeared, then riding alone dressed as a youth, by day or by night, became dangerous in the extreme. Young Kit would have to die in truth. Of course, Miss Kathryn Cranmer could still ride sedately about the countryside. Miss Kathryn Cranmer snorted derisively. She’d be dammed if she’d give up her freedom so tamely. That left the option of joining Captain Jack.
Perhaps she could retire? Individual members often withdrew from the gangs. As long as the fraternity knew who their ex-brothers were, no one minded. “I’ll need to develop an identity,” Kit mused. “There must be some place on Cranmer I could call home—some family with whom the smugglers have no contact.” An old mother hysterical over the wildness of her youngest son, the last of three left to her…Grimly, Kit nodded. She would need to concoct a convincing reason for Young Kit’s early retirement.
Which brought her to the last, nagging worry, a hovering ghost in the shadows of her mind. Were the Hunstanton Gang aiding and abetting spies?
If they are running spies,
shouldn’t you find out? If you join them for a few runs and see nothing, well and good. But if they do make arrangements to run “human cargo,” you can inform Lord Hendon.
Kit humphed. Lord Hendon—wonderful! She supposed she’d have to meet the man sometime.
She turned Delia northeast, toward Scolt Head, a dense blur on the dark water. The sound of the surf grew louder as she approached the beaches east of Brancaster. She’d ridden north from Cranmer, passing in the lee of Castle Hendon, an imposing edifice built of local Carr stone on a hill sufficiently high to give it sweeping views in all directions.
Delia snuffed at the sea breeze. Kit allowed her to lengthen her stride.
Surely it was her duty to join the Hunstanton Gang and discover their involvement, if any, with spying? Particularly now that Julian had joined the army.
The ground ahead disappeared into blackness. At the edge of the cliff, Kit reined in and looked down. It was dim and dark on the sands. The surf boomed; the crash of waves and the slurping suck of the tide filled her ears.
A muffled shout reached her, followed by a second.
The moon escaped the clouds and Kit understood. The Hunstanton Gang was running a cargo on Brancaster beach.
Blanketing arms recaptured the moon, but she’d seen enough to be sure. The figure of Captain Jack had been clearly visible at the head of one boat. The two men who’d been with him the other night were there, too.
Kit drew Delia back from the cliff edge into the protection of a stand of stunted trees. The gang was nearly through unloading the boat; soon, they’d be heading…where? In an instant, Kit’s mind was made up. She turned Delia, scouting for a better vantage point, one from which she could see without being seen. She eventually took refuge on a small tussocky hill in the scraggy remnants of an old coppice. Once safely concealed, she settled to wait, straining eyes trained on the cliff’s edge.
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