[GOD08] The Lost Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  * * *

  She stood by the window of that bedchamber, as she had done so many times before, looking out into a darkness that mirrored all that was closing around her.

  Kit’s words of earlier that day seemed to whisper in her ear. Wendell loved you...he wanted you and your children to be happy and healthy and safe.

  Wendell. She looked down at his ring on her finger, as worn and faded as his image in her memory. A vow was a vow. To stay true to him always. There was so much love in her heart for him and for Kit. How could so much love hurt so badly? She knew that she was breaking Kit’s heart as surely as she was breaking her own.

  ‘Oh, Wendell.’ She whispered his name in the darkness and closed her eyes as the tears spilled to roll down her cheeks. ‘What am I to do?’

  In the chill of the night darkness she felt a warmth envelop her and a feeling of peace and reassurance descend upon her. And in that darkness she thought she caught the fleeting scent of Wendell, so strong and real that she opened her eyes without a single doubt that he would be standing before her.

  But the room was empty and the scent was gone.

  ‘Wendell?’ she whispered his name and, closing her eyes, tried to sense his presence as she had done so often in the early days of losing him. But there was nothing left any more. He was gone. And she was alone.

  She looked up at the star-scattered sky, like diamond angels in the deep dark blue of the heavens, and as she watched one of the stars shot across the sky to disappear elsewhere.

  And she understood in that moment. She knew she had her answer.

  Wendell loved you...he wanted you and your children to be happy and healthy and safe.

  She had stayed true to him. She always would. By being happy, by living, by loving.

  Kit was right, it was what Wendell would have wanted, for her and their children.

  Wendell had stayed by her side long enough to weather the grief and deliver her the right man. The vow had stopped her being forced into marriage. It had made her test Kit and herself, in every way that was possible. And it had proved that their love was real and true.

  She eased the worn gold band from her finger and placed a tender kiss upon it before stowing it safely in her sea chest. Then she took Kit’s ring from her pocket and slipped it on to her finger.

  She stripped off her black dress of mourning and donned the white nightdress.

  The connecting door between their bedchambers was not locked. She closed it quietly behind her and climbed beneath the covers of her husband’s bed to wait for him in the darkness.

  There were things she had to tell him before he left to face Devlin. Important things, before Gunner came the day after tomorrow.

  * * *

  Kate opened her eyes and realised that she had must have fallen asleep for a few minutes. But the blackness of the night was beginning to fade. Across the room the window showed that the inky hue of the sky had lightened to a deep blue. In the far corner of the heavens the first hint of day bleached it lighter still. A chill ran over her scalp. Her heart gave a stutter.

  She glanced at the other side of the bed where Kit should be and saw the smooth undisturbed sheets. Her heart raced off at a hard frenzied gallop. The bedcovers were thrown aside and she was off running down the stairs, barefoot, her hair and white nightdress flowing long behind her.

  ‘Kit!’ she shouted his name. ‘Kit!’ so loud that it echoed all the way down the stairs and around the hallway. But the drawing room was empty just as she had known it would be. Two empty glasses sat there, one still containing some lemonade, the other drained of brandy.

  Her heart was hammering so hard she felt sick.

  She glanced up to find Matthews, the butler, standing there. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.

  ‘Captain North and Mr Hunter left some fifteen minutes ago on horseback.’

  ‘Have the carriage made ready immediately.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  Even if she left right now, just as she was, she would not catch him. By the time she got there he would already be bare-knuckle fighting with Devlin. For her and her honour. Fighting for a woman who had refused him as her husband, who he believed was going to sail away and leave him.

  She had seen the look in Devlin’s eyes when he looked at Kit. And she knew that he was a man trained in using his fists. Her blood ran cold with fear for her husband, for all that she had not told him, for all that he still believed.

  She stared at the two glasses, so like another two glasses aboard a ship on a night that now seemed a lifetime ago. And then she smiled and went upstairs to ready herself for the journey to Hounslow Heath.

  * * *

  Dawn was only just creeping across the sky above the burnt oak on Hounslow Heath, but Devlin was already waiting there, along with half the crowd from Arlesford’s ballroom.

  Kit smiled grimly to himself at the sight of all those expectant faces. They were about to see a whole lot more than they had bargained for.

  No matter who Devlin was, no matter what Kit had done, no matter humiliation and shame, and dishonour that could never be undone, there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty—he was not getting out of that ring, he was not going to stop fighting, he was never going to walk away until Devlin had withdrawn his insult to Kate. He had no honour left to fight for. But for her honour he would give his life.

  With Hunter by his side he walked right up to Devlin and Bullford until he stood close enough that none of the crowd could hear the words exchanged.

  ‘You are not alone, Hunter? My, my, I thought young Northcote here would have been halfway across England by now,’ sneered Devlin.

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Hunter. ‘You insulted his wife, damn it!’

  ‘And he insulted every damn one of us!’

  ‘This is not about that.’

  ‘Is it not?’ said Devlin softly, then spoke to Kit. ‘You have had this coming to you for over three years, Northcote.’

  ‘I have,’ Kit said. ‘But you will apologise to Kate or I will punch the life out of you until you do.’

  Devlin laughed. ‘You think because you have built yourself a few muscles you are a match for me?’

  ‘No. I am a match for you because Kate is my wife and I am not going to walk away until you apologise to her.’

  Devlin did not laugh at that. His old friend just looked at him as if he did not believe the words. But he would believe them soon enough.

  ‘Ready yourself, gentlemen.’ Gentleman Jackson, the man who had built his wealth and position out of bare-knuckle fighting and was the acclaimed authority on it, came to stand between them.

  Devlin walked to one corner of the makeshift ring, Kit to the opposite.

  Devlin removed his hat and gloves and passed them to Fallingham, before Bullford helped him to remove his coat and the subsequent layers beneath.

  Kit, like Devlin and most of the others present, was still wearing last night’s clothes. He began to strip off his guise as a gentleman—the black tailcoat, the white waistcoat, the white neckcloth, passing each item to Hunter. Without pausing he pulled his shirt off over his head.

  The gasps sounded all around. Fingers pointed. A woman screamed. Another fainted. Voices whispered.

  Kit ignored it all and walked into the ring to face Devlin.

  Devlin’s gaze dropped lower, wandering over the scars that marred Kit’s body. Dawn was here in truth, leaving nothing of the night to obscure them.

  ‘Apologise,’ said Kit grimly.

  Devlin just looked at him. ‘Make me.’

  Kit put his fists up and went for him.

  * * *

  Kate squeezed her way through the crowd that seemed out of place here in the remote spot on a wind-blown heath at the break of day. They did not step aside for her; they
barely noticed her. All their attention was riveted ahead with a macabre fascination and excitement that disgusted her. She could hear the sickening punches—the thuds and crunches and grunts that made her stomach drop and quiver with dread. Part of her knew that the backs of too many tall, dark-coated gentlemen and black-caped ladies that blocked her view were a mercy, but she had to get to the front.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She pushed her way through until she caught sight of the men in a fighting ring. And the sight stopped her dead.

  They were both stripped to the waist and knocking hell out of each other. Despite the chill in the air their bodies glistened with sweat and with smears of blood, neither fluid obscuring Kit’s tattoo of scars with the fresh one on his shoulder, a warrior pattern more magical and meaningful than any ink could ever be, exposing him for what he was—strong, fearless, honourable. His expression was all cold, relaxed, relentless focus, just as it had been that first day on Raven. North and Northcote, one and the same. Tragedy and suffering had burnished away the weakness and the boy to leave only the strength and the man.

  The blows were relentless and delivered with a violence that shocked even her, who had been a pirate captain. Grinding a man down with fists was so much closer and more personal than a bullet or a blade. It took something extra to use yourself as the weapon to deliver the punishment.

  Devlin was taller with a longer reach and he had the finesse of training, but finesse and training and height counted for nothing against full-hearted, rock-solid determination. Kit did not even attempt to avoid Devlin’s fists. It looked as though he stepped right up to them, into them, almost as if Devlin was not punching him, as if he were not a man but a training sandbag that felt nothing, was nothing, but an automaton coming in close to deliver deadly punch after punch to Devlin’s body.

  Devlin’s right fist landed again hard against Kit’s mouth, the splatter of blood from it spraying those who were ahead of her in the crowd, making some of the women shriek with a terror and delight that repulsed Kate. Devlin followed fast with a left hook that drove her husband down on to his knees before walking to his own corner of the ring as if he had won.

  But Kit got back on his feet and wiped the blood from his eyes. ‘Apologise,’ he said to Devlin.

  Devlin glanced behind him and saw Kit standing there.

  A strange expression crossed the viscount’s face. He looked at Kit for a moment longer, holding his gaze as if really seeing him for the first time. Then he gave a nod of acknowledgement and came again at him with his fists.

  Devlin held nothing back. But Kit was relentless, soaking up punch after punch as if they were nothing, and driving his own fists hard against Devlin’s body and face as if his arms would never tire.

  Devlin knocked him down again.

  Kit got back up. Came back at Devlin, swinging his left hook up into the viscount’s nose. Punching and being punched.

  The blood was everywhere.

  Bone-crunching thuds—each one Devlin landed on Kit’s body was as if it had struck Kate’s heart. It was intolerable, unbearable. But still it went on.

  She pushed her way through the remaining bodies to get to the front. Wanting to be there for him. Needing to support him. But Kit’s focus was complete, honed, sharp upon Devlin.

  ‘Apologise,’ he demanded, his breaths ragged as Devlin’s.

  And the fight continued.

  * * *

  Devlin leaned against him as much as Kit leaned on Devlin. The two of them supporting one another in that fist-against-ribs hold, like two dogs with jaws locked together.

  Their gazes fused, neither backing down.

  But something was different in the way that Devlin was looking at him.

  ‘North, after all,’ said Devlin with grudging respect.

  Kit smiled. ‘Northcote,’ he said.

  Gentleman Jackson pulled them apart, warning them to keep the punches clear.

  Devlin got his fists up.

  Kit went in again until this time it was Devlin down on his knees.

  Kit walked up to the man who had been his friend and, reaching down to him, helped him up.

  The two men looked at one another in silence, before Devlin gave a nod and Kit hit him again, the effort almost costing him his balance.

  Devlin staggered.

  The two of them were still on their feet, just, but bent over, panting with exhaustion, leaning their hands on their knees, their eyes still fixed on the other.

  ‘I was wrong about you,’ said Devlin.

  Kit said nothing. Just waited for Devlin to recover enough to hit him again.

  Devlin stood upright.

  Kit stepped forward, fists at the ready.

  But Devlin raised a hand to stop him, his eyes holding Kit’s as he spoke the words loud and clear between his ragged breaths. ‘I take back my words of last night and apologise for any insult dealt.’

  ‘It is not me you have to apologise to, Devlin,’ he said and let himself look at Kate for the first time since her arrival on the heath.

  She was standing at the edge of the ring. There was blood in his eyes but nothing would have obscured her. For she stood there in that crowd of dark coats and capes in a dress of bright yellow silk, a ray of Caribbean sunshine in the gloom of a London day. The dress he had bought for her from the Antiguan dressmaker. The dress that was nothing of mourning and all of celebration.

  Devlin staggered over to stand before her. He bowed. ‘Mrs North.’

  ‘Mrs Northcote,’ she corrected him, saying Kit’s name with pride.

  Devlin gave a nod. ‘Mrs Northcote,’ he said. ‘I most humbly beg your forgiveness, madam.’

  ‘I accept your apology, Lord Devlin.’

  Devlin bowed again and came back to Kit, offering a handshake.

  Kit accepted.

  Devlin gave him a gruff clasp. ‘Welcome back, Kit, in truth.’

  Kit gave a nod.

  Bullford hurried in and, putting a shoulder beneath Devlin’s armpit, helped him away.

  ‘A moment, please,’ said Kit quietly to Hunter who stood ready by his side to offer the same service.

  And then he walked to stand before his wife.

  Their eyes held and hers were wet with love and pride and tenderness.

  He let his gaze move down over the bright yellow dress, where the wind moulded it to her body, before coming back up to her eyes once more.

  She reached out her left hand and he accepted it, taking her slender fingers in his swollen-knuckled, bloodstained ones, touching the wedding band there as she had done so many times. His eyes caressed the thick, heavy, new band and how it gleamed upon her skin. And he smiled as he raised his eyes to hers again.

  She was smiling, too. ‘You should get dressed, Mr Northcote,’ she said. ‘At least until we get home.’

  He laughed and, relinquishing her hand with some reluctance, turned away to where Hunter was waiting, to do as his wife bid.

  * * *

  In the privacy of Kit’s bedchamber, Kate stripped off her husband’s clothes and washed away the blood and bathed the cuts and the discoloured bruises that were already beginning to show.

  ‘Kit Northcote...’ she whispered as she gently held a cold damp cloth against the swelling of a cut on his eyebrow, her eyes holding his.

  ‘Kate Northcote.’ He took the cloth from her and set it aside, pulling her gently into his arms.

  Neither of them offered another word of explanation. They did not need to.

  He just kissed her and undressed her so that they stood naked and exposed in the full glare of the daylight, not a single barrier remaining between them.

  She reached out and, taking hold of his bruised hand within hers, placed it over her naked breast. ‘My heart is all yours...if you want it.’

&nbs
p; He smiled and slid his hand up in a gentle caress to capture her to him.

  ‘I want it,’ he murmured and kissed her again. ‘You have no idea how I want it.’ And then he lifted her up and laid her down gently on top of his bed, and there, in the bright sunlight of the London morning, he loved her, filling her body with his, taking them both to a place of sweet union, looking into each other’s eyes as she softly cried out his name, as he spilled his seed within her, as their souls became joined in truth.

  Afterwards, as they lay in each other’s arms, skin to skin, he took her hand in his, looking at his ring upon it again in wonder and happiness.

  ‘It was time to let him go,’ she said softly.

  He nodded, his eyes holding hers.

  ‘I think he would have liked you, Kit Northcote— pirate hunter, Englishman and all.’

  ‘I think I would have liked him, pirate, American and all.’

  She smiled. ‘My heart was hurting with loss, now it is full of love for you.’

  He kissed her with such love and tenderness. ‘You do know that I am never going to let you go.’

  The tears prickled in her eyes. ‘Gunner is coming tomorrow and we both know I cannot stay here. My children...my home...the war between our countries...’ She stared into his eyes. ‘What are we going to do, Kit?’

  He smiled and kissed her fingers. ‘There is nothing here in London for me anymore, Kate. I have done what I came back to do. I am stripped bare of armour and pretence. I am Kit Northcote and everything I am, flawed and damaged as it is, I offer to you. To be your husband and father to your children and Tom, and any others that come along. To be yours wholly and in all ways, for ever, and live out our lives in Louisiana...if you will have me.’

  The tears were spilling from her eyes in earnest now, for this man whom she loved so much. ‘But an Englishman in Louisiana at this time of war...it would not be easy for you.’

  ‘Nothing worthwhile ever is,’ he said with a smile. ‘So, will you have me, Kate Northcote?’ he asked softly.