She rode eastward along the sands, then came up to the cliffs to make her way onto the anvil-shaped headland above Brancaster. Kit let Delia have her head along the pale sands where the Hunstanton Gang had run so many cargoes.
She found the body in the last shallow bay before the eastern point.
Pulling Delia up a few yards away, Kit stared at the sprawled figure at the water’s edge. Waves washed over his legs. He’d been thrown up on the beach by the retreating tide. Not a muscle moved; he was as still as death.
His black hair rang a bell.
Carefully, Kit dismounted and approached the body. When it was clear the man was incapable of proving a threat, she turned him on his back. Recognition was instant. The arrogant black brows and aristocratic features of Jack’s French spy met her wondering gaze. He was deathly pale but still alive—she could see the pulse beating shallowly at the base of his throat.
What had happened? More importantly, what should she do?
With a strangled sigh, Kit bent over her burden and locked her hands about his arms. She tugged him higher up the beach, to where the waves could no longer reach him. Then she sat down to think.
If he was a French spy, she should hand him over to the Revenue. What would Jack think of that? Not much—he wouldn’t be impressed. But surely, as a loyal English-woman, that was her duty? Which took precedence—duty to one’s husband or duty to one’s country? And were they really different, or was that merely an illusion Jack used for his own peculiar ends?
Kit groaned and drove her fingers through her curls. She wished her husband were here, not so he could take control but so she could vent her feelings and give him the piece of her mind he most certainly deserved.
But Jack wasn’t here, and she was alone. And his French friend needed help. His body was chilled; from the look of him, he’d been in the water for some time. He looked strong and healthy enough, but was probably exhausted. She needed to get him warm and dry as soon as possible.
Kit considered her options. It was early yet. If she moved him soon, there’d be less chance of anyone seeing him. The cottage was the closest safe place where he could be tended. She stood and examined her patient. Luckily, he was slighter than Jack. She’d found it easy enough to move him up the beach; she could probably support half his weight if necessary.
It took a moment to work out the details. Kit thanked her stars she’d trained Delia to all sorts of tricks. The mare obediently dropped to her knees beside the Frenchman. Kit tugged and pulled and pushed and strained and eventually got him into her saddle, leaning forward over the pommel, his cheek on Delia’s neck, his hands trailing the sands on either side of the horse. Satisfied, Kit scrambled on behind, drew a deep breath and gave Delia the signal to stand. She nearly lost him, but at the last moment, managed to haul his weight back onto the mare. Delia stood patiently until she’d settled him once more. Then they set off, as fast as she dared.
Dismounting was rather more rough-and-ready. Kit’s arms ached from the strain of holding him on. She slid to the ground, then eased the leaden weight over until, with a swoosh, he left the saddle to end in a sprawled heap before the door. Exasperated with his helplessness, Kit spared a moment to glare at him. She paused to tug him into a more comfortable position before going into the cottage to prepare the bed.
She found an old sheet and spread it on the bed. His clothes would have to come off, but not until she’d used them as handholds to get him up onto the mattress. Returning to her patient, she dragged him inside. Getting him up on the bed was a frustrating struggle, but eventually, he was laid out upon the sheet, long and slim and, Kit had to admit, handsome enough to make her notice.
Jack didn’t leave his knives lying about, but his sword still resided in the back of the wardrobe. Kit put it to good use, slicing the Frenchman’s clothes from him. She tried not to look as she peeled the material away, turning him over on his stomach as she went and pulling the muddy sheet from under him. There were bruises on his shoulders and arms, as if he’d been in a fight, and one purpling blotch on one hip, as if he’d struck something. She flicked the covers over him and tucked them in.
Glowing with pride in a job well-done, she set about lighting the fire and heating some bricks. Later, when her patient was as warm and dry as she could make him, she made some tea and settled down to wait.
It wasn’t long before, thawed by the warmth, he stirred and turned on his back. Kit approached the bed, confidently leaning across to lay a cool hand on his forehead.
Strong fingers encirled her wrist. Heavy lids rose to reveal black eyes, hazed with fever. The man stared wildly up at her, his eyes searching her face. “Qui est-ce vous êtes?” The black eyes raked the cottage, then returned to her face. “Où sont-nous?”
The questions demanded an answer. Kit gave it in French. “You’re quite safe. You must rest.” She tried to ease her hand from his hold, but his fingers tightened instead. Irritated by this show of brute male strength when it was least helpful, Kit added with distinct asperity: “If you bruise the goods, Jack won’t be pleased.”
The mention of her husband’s name saw her instantly released. The black eyes scanned her, more confused than ever. “You are…acquainted with…Captain Jack?”
Kit nodded. “You could say that. I’ll get you something to drink.”
To her relief, her patient behaved himself although he continued to study her. He drank the weak tea without complaint. Almost immediately, he sank back into sleep. But his rest was disturbed.
Kit bit her lip as she watched him twist in the bed. He was muttering in French. She drew closer, to the foot of the bed. In his present state, she wasn’t certain how clear his mind was. Getting too close might not be wise.
Suddenly, he turned on his back and his breathing relaxed. To her surprise, he started speaking quite lucidly in perfect English. “There are only two of them—only two more of the bastards left. But Hardinges drank too fast—the cretin passed out before I could get anything more out of him, blast his ignorant hide.” He paused, a frown dragging the elegant black brows down. “No. Wait. There was one more clue—though God knows it’s not much to go on. Hardinges kept using the phrase ‘the sons of dukes.’ I think it means one of the two we’re after is a duke’s son, but I can’t be sure. However, I wouldn’t have thought Hardinges was given to poetic illusion.” A brief smile flickered over the dark face. “Well, Jack m’lad, I’m afraid that’s all I could learn. So you’d better get on that grey terror of yours and fly the news back to London. Whatever they do, they’ll have to do it fast. The vultures are closing in—they know something’s in the wind our side, and they’re determined to extract the ore by whatever means possible. If there’s a rat still left in our nest, they’ll find him.” The long speech seemed to have drained the man’s strength. After a pause, he asked: “Jack?”
Startled, Kit shook off her daze. “Jack’s on his way.”
The man sighed and sank deeper into the pillows. His lips formed the word “Good.” The next instant he was asleep.
With gentle snores punctuating the stillness, Kit sat and put the latest pieces of the jigsaw of her husband’s activities into place. He was the High Commissioner for North Norfolk—he’d been specifically entrusted with stamping out the smuggling of spies. It now appeared as if, not content with chasing spies on this side of the Channel, Jack had been instrumental in sending some of their own to France.
All of which was very well, but why couldn’t he have told her?
Kit paced before the fire, shooting glances every now and then at her patient. There was no reason why Jack couldn’t have entrusted her with the details of his mission, particularly not after her sterling service to the cause, albeit given in ignorance. It was patently clear that her husband harbored some archaic idea of her place in his life. It was a place she had no intention of being satisfied with.
She wanted to share his life, not forever be a peripheral part of it, an adjunct held at arms’ distance by the
simple device of information control.
Kit’s eyes glittered; her lips thinned. It was time she devoted more of her energies to her husband’s education.
It was late morning before she felt comfortable in leaving the Frenchman—who was clearly no Frenchman at all. There was no possiblity of hiding her male garb, so she didn’t try. She rode straight to the Castle stables and dismounted elegantly as Martins ran up, his eyes all but popping from his head.
“Take care of Delia, Martins. You can return her to the back paddock later and bring up the chestnut. I’ll not be riding again today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kit marched to the house, stripping off her gloves as she went. Lovis was in the hall when she entered. Kit sent one defiant glance his way. To his credit, not a muscle quivered as he came forward, his stately demeanor unimpaired by a sight which, Kit suspected, sorely tried his conservative soul.
“Lovis, I want to send a message immediately to Mr. Smeaton. I’ll write a note; I want one of the men ready to carry it to Smeaton Hall as soon as I’ve finished.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Lovis moved to open the library door for her. “Martins’s son will be waiting.”
Pulling the chair up to her husband’s desk, Kit drew a clean sheet of paper toward her. The note to George was easy, suggesting he go immediately to the aid of his “French” friend, whom she’d left in the cottage, somewhat hors de combat. She paused, then penned a final sentence.
“I feel sure that you, being so much more in Jack’s confidence, will know better than I how best to proceed.”
Kit signed the note with a flourish, a grim smile on her lips. Perhaps it was unfair to make George squirm, but she was beyond feeling amiable toward those who’d helped her husband attain his present state of arrogance. She addressed the missive, confident it would send George posthaste to his friend’s help. He could take subsequent responsibility.
She rang the bell and gave the note to Lovis to speed on its way.
For the next twenty minutes, she barely stirred, her mind engrossed with forming and discarding various options for bringing Jack’s shortcomings to his attention.
When it came to it, she could think of only one way to proceed. There was no point in any complex maneuvers—he was far more expert in manipulation than she. In truth, she had little idea of how to go about bringing him to her heels in true feminine fashion. If she went that route, she’d a shrewd suspicion she’d end on her back, beneath him, leaving him as arrogant as ever. And as unwilling as ever to make concessions. The best she could hope to do was to make a statement—something dramatic enough to make him sit up and take notice, something definite enough for him to be forced to at least acknowledge her point of view.
Determination beating steady in her veins, Kit set out another sheet of paper and settled to write a letter to her errant spouse.
Jack arrived home on Monday evening. He’d had to wait until that morning to speak to Lord Whitley. Various schemes were already afoot to flush out the man they believed was Belville’s Henry. All that remained was to wait for Anthony’s return, to see if there were any more traitors to track down. They were nearly there.
With a deep sigh, Jack climbed the steps to his front door. Lovis opened it to him.
“My lord. Mr. Smeaton asked you be given this the instant you crossed the threshold.”
Jack tore open the single sheet. George’s writing took a moment to decipher. Then Jack heaved a weary sigh. He hesitated, wondering whether to send a message up to Kit. He wouldn’t be back in time for dinner. It was doubtful he’d be back before she was abed. With a slow grin, he went back out the door. Much better to take her by surprise. “I’ll return later tonight, Lovis. No need to tell anyone I was here.”
At the cottage, he was greeted by a much-improved Sir Anthony. George was not there to hear the recounting of Antoine’s adventures; he’d been summoned to a Gresham dinner.
“One of the trials of an affianced man.” Grinning, Jack pulled up a chair, straddling it. It transpired that the French had tracked Antoine down, not out of suspicion, but in order to interrogate him in case he knew more than he’d yet revealed. He’d escaped by stowing away aboard a lighter bound for Boston on the other side of the Wash. Unfortunately, it had also turned out to be a smugglers’ vessel. Smugglers did not like stowaways; he’d had to fight his way off, throwing himself overboard before they’d skewered him.
Anthony’s tale suggested that the French were desperate for information. The news that there were only two traitors left was music to Jack’s ears. “We’ve got them.” Quickly, he filled Anthony in on the happenings on the beach after he’d taken ship, referring to Kit only as another member of the Gang.
“George said something about that,” Anthony said. “But he said he’d leave it to you to elaborate as you ‘had a deeper interest in Belville’s death.’ What on earth did he mean?”
Jack had the grace to blush. “Don’t ask.”
Anthony threw him a look of mock surprise. “Keeping secrets from your friends, Jack m’lad, is most unwise.”
“You’ll meet this secret eventually so I wouldn’t repine.” At the intrigued look on Anthony’s, face, Jack continued quickly: “Whitley thinks Belville’s Henry, whom we believe is Sir Henry Colebourne, will be behind bars in a few days at most. Which, together with your information, means the end is nigh. We’ll have got them all.”
Anthony lay back on his pillows with a deep sigh. “However will they get along without us, now we’ve all sold out?”
“I’m sure they’ll manage. Personally, I’ve got fresh fields to plow, so to speak.” Jack’s smile of anticipation was transparent.
Anthony’s gaze descended from the ceiling to examine the odd sight of Jack’s eagerness for civilian life. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “your newfound liking for peaceful endeavors has anything to do with the redheaded lad who brought me here?” At Jack’s arrested expression, Anthony quietly added: “Taken to the other side, Jack?”
Jack bit back a distinctly rude reply. His eyes gleamed. “From which comment I take it my wife was wearing breeches when she brought you here?”
“Your wife?” Anthony’s exclamation brought on a fit of coughing. When he’d recovered, he lay back on his pillows and fixed Jack with an astonished stare. “Wife?”
Jack nodded, unable to contain his smile. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Kathryn, Lady Hendon, better known as Kit.” He paused, then shrugged. “It was she who shot Belville.”
“Oh.” Anthony struggled to match fact with memory. “How on earth did that slip of a thing get me from the beach to here?”
Jack stood. “Probably sheer determination. It’s a quality she has in abundance. I’ll leave you now, Tony.” He walked forward to drop a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I’ll send Matthew in the morning with a horse to move you up to the Castle. Rest assured I’ll get your news to Whitley as soon as possible. He’ll be relieved to know we’ve got them all.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Anthony lay quiet on his pillows and watched Jack walk to the door. “But why the hurry to leave?”
Jack paused. “A little matter of propriety I have to discuss with my wife. Not something a rake like you would understand.”
Closing the door on his friend’s “Oh-ho!”, Jack strode to the stable. He hadn’t actually caught her in her breeches, but it was close enough, surely?
Anticipation was riding high by the time he reached the house. He entered through the side door, picking up the single candle to light his way. He went straight to his wife’s room.
And stopped short when the light from his candle revealed an undisturbed expanse of green satin, with no deliciously curved form snuggling beneath.
For a moment, he simply stared, unable to think. Then, his heart thumping oddly, he went through to his own room. She was not in his bed, either. The sight of the simple white square propped against his pillow caused his hand to shake, spilling wax to the floor.
&
nbsp; Drawing a deep breath, Jack put the candle down on the table by the bed and, sinking onto the mattress, picked up the letter. Kit’s delicate script declared it was for Jonathon, Lord Hendon. The sight of his proper given name was warning enough.
His lips set in a grim line, Jack tore open the missive.
Her formality had apparently been reserved for the title. Inside, her message was direct and succinct.
Dear Jack,
I’ve had enough. I’m leaving. If you wish to explain anything, I’m sure you’ll know where to find me. Your devoted, loving, and dutiful wife,
Kit
His first thought was that she’d omitted the obedient, obviously realizing his imagination wouldn’t stretch that far. Then he read it again, and decided he couldn’t, in all honesty, take exception to the adjectives she had claimed.
He sat on his bed as the clock in the hall ticked on and struggled to make sense of what the letter actually meant. He couldn’t believe Lovis had given him George’s message but forgotten to tell him his wife had left him. Trying to ignore the empty void that was expanding inside his chest, threatening to crush his heart, he read the letter again. Then he lay back on his bed, hands locked behind his head, and started to think.
She was annoyed he hadn’t told her the details of his mission. He tried to imagine George telling Amy and felt a glow of justification warm him. Abruptly, it dissipated, as Kit’s image overlaid Amy’s. All right—so she wasn’t the same sort of wife, theirs wasn’t the same sort of marriage.
He and his mission were deeply in her debt—he knew that well enough. That she yearned for excitement and would follow wherever it led was a characteristic he recognized. He could understand her pique that he wouldn’t involve her in his schemes. But to leave him like this—to walk out on him—was the sort of emotional blackmail to which he’d never succumb. Christ, if he didn’t know she was safe at Cranmer Hall, he’d be frantic! No doubt she expected him to come running, eager to win her back, willing to promise anything.
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