Chapter 7
As soon as he opened his door, Stewart Brantley knew someone was in the rooms he had rented from the exceedingly uncurious Mrs. Henry Beacham just north of Covent Garden.
The sitting room was dark, the shutters still latched as he had left them earlier in the evening, but someone was in there with him. It might have been Mrs. Beacham’s son, Daniel, bringing in more wood for the evening, but he couldn’t imagine that stodgy boy doing so without a candle for light. It might also have been Kit, but she had no idea where he was staying.
As soon as he had the door shut, he slipped sideways and dug for the pistol in his pocket. His swift movement stirred the air, and the faint, expensive aroma of a men’s cologne reached him. He knew full well who used that scent, but it wasn’t until he heard the voice that he accepted who it must be.
“Bon soir, Stewart,” the Comte de Fouché said softly from the shadows, and a lamp was lit off to the left, by the window. Guillaume and Beloche stood at opposite ends of the room like mismatched bookends, hulking and dangerous.
Stewart stopped the grab for his weapon. “I thought the custom was to wait outside someone’s home for them to return,” he said coolly in French, wondering how the devil they’d found him. Fouché must be having him watched. “Or better yet, leaving a calling card is considered quite fashionable, I believe.”
“Old friends such as we hardly have need of calling cards,” the comte returned, stepping away from the lamp. “And your home is in Paris, after all.”
“In the middle of your damned war,” he replied stiffly, feeling sweat curling along his temples and resisting the impulse to wipe his face.
“Tsk, tsk, Stewart,” the comte admonished, watching him with dark, wary eyes. “I did not come here to debate politics. Only to find out where my muskets are. They will be needed sooner than was anticipated.”
Refusing to be interested in what Napoleon might be doing to cause him to need the weapons ahead of their scheduled delivery, Stewart strolled across the room to drop into the chair before the fireplace. “I have made arrangements to remove them from where they are being stored, but I don’t want to transfer them to the coast until I can be certain they won’t be intercepted.”
“Has Kit found our English fool yet?”
Stewart shook his head. “He, ah, she has several suspects, but if we are wrong, the complications…”
“I know the complications,” Fouché snapped. “Just make certain she doesn’t forget why she’s here. She enjoys London too much, I think. You should not have given such a task to a female.”
“Kit can hold her own.”
A slight frown creased Fouché’s brow. He sat on the edge of the couch, his dark eyes shadowed in the lamplight, a hawk on the hunt. “I hear that the cousin of the Earl of Everton is on his way to becoming the toast of London, and that this boy’s name happens to be Kit. Is this how you English discover your secrets? Turn your daughters into whores?”
“Everton has no idea what she is, who she is, or why she’s here. His father owed me a debt, and the son is making good on it.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, for Alexander Cale knew more of his personal family history than he would ever care to reveal to Jean-Paul Mercier, but it would suffice.
The comte narrowed his eyes. “I hope she realizes that a thin-blooded Englishman could never satisfy her.”
Brantley heard the comte’s jealousy and in the same moment decided against acknowledging it. “She is here to assist me. Nothing more.”
Fouché looked at him for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “Very well. But make certain she knows that we need that name before we can proceed.”
“We do have another option,” Stewart said slowly. “I think I may have the crates sent north, and take them across from Suffolk rather than Do—”
“I want no more delays!” Fouché interrupted.
“And I don’t want to be left with no options if Kit is unsuccessful,” Brantley countered sternly. “If they are taken, you will have nothing to show Napoleon.”
The comte examined his manicured fingernails. “Nothing except your head, Brantley.” He straightened and strolled for the door, Guillaume and Beloche falling in behind. “I have my own eyes open. But I suggest you and Kit not fail.” With that he left the room.
Stewart Brantley stood and walked over to open the shutters. He’d known when he began smuggling weapons that sacrifices would have to be made in return for the tremendous profit he would reap. Lying to Kit about the exact contents of the crates was a small worry. She would do her duty, but he didn’t wish to hear her arguments. Getting either of them killed in the process of this little game, however, was not part of the bargain. And at the moment, it appeared they had stepped into waters too deep to be easily waded out of. He shrugged. At least he and Kit were good swimmers.
Alex touched his heels to the ribs of his black, Tybalt, and rocked back a little in the saddle as the animal’s gait flowed into a smooth canter. His contented sigh fogged in the early morning’s cool air. At this hour Hyde Park was nearly deserted, Rotten Row completely so. It was generally his favorite time of the day, coming as it did after he’d escaped from whatever late-night entanglements he’d been involved in, and before the tiresome day at Parliament began. This morning, though, something felt lacking, and it took little to realize what it was. Kit had been still to bed when he’d risen, and he’d sternly resisted the temptation to wake her so she could accompany him. He was becoming entirely too distracted by the chit’s mysteries, and welcomed the opportunity to clear his head.
“Everton!”
Alex glanced up to see Thadius Naring and several of his cronies approaching on horseback, and he stifled a grimace. Bootlicks and toadies, all of them, and he couldn’t imagine why Naring would ever hail him. Which was why he pulled Tybalt up and awaited their arrival.
“Good morning, Everton.” Naring smiled, putting out his hand in a familiar manner.
Alex shook it, keeping his expression aloof and bored. “Naring.” He nodded. He had no wish to be toad-eaten on such a splendid morning. And if he didn’t return to Cale House soon, he’d miss sharing breakfast with his houseguest.
Thadius Naring’s smile wavered a little. “Everton, I was just wondering if your cousin was about this morning.”
“Kit?” Alex rejoined, raising an eyebrow. “Not yet. Why?”
Naring shrugged, becoming less confident in the face of the earl’s coolness. “Well, it was just that he won twenty quid off me last night, and Palgrave and Traven are putting together a jaunt tonight. I wondered if he’d give me a chance to win it back.”
Kit had said she’d been at the Traveller’s with Francis Henning. Alex pursed his lips. “You seeking revenge over twenty quid, Naring?”
The laugh was strained, as well. “Heavens, no. It’s merely that Mr. Riley’s an amusing fellow, though he does ask the oddest questions.”
“Well, he is a bit rough around the edges,” Alex offered with a smile, alarm bells going off in his skull. What sort of odd questions was his houseguest bandying about town? “What’s he after this time? Addresses to the local brothels and gaming hells?”
Apparently emboldened by the earl’s query, Naring glanced at his fellows as if to boast of his conquest. “That didn’t come up, no. And I certainly wouldn’t pass on such information to a youngster.”
“Quite high-minded of you, Naring,” Alex returned, running out of patience. “So what did he ask you?”
The smile faded again. “Oh, simply about government appointments and such. I believe he had heard I have several and was curious. The boy—lad—kept me out till nearly dawn.”
Alex studied Tybalt’s left ear. “Dawn, you say?” That meant she’d gone out after they’d said good night. “And where was this encounter?”
“We started out at the Traveller’s, and ended up at the Navy.” Naring cleared his throat. “Is there some problem?”
“I’m merely having difficulty keeping track of
the boy,” Alex replied. “I thank you for the news.” He urged Tybalt a few steps closer. “And for your sake I do recommend that you not tell him of this conversation. Kit wouldn’t take kindly to being informed upon.”
“Oh, of course not, Everton. Wouldn’t think of it.”
“Splendid,” Alex continued, favoring Naring with a smile. “My cronies and I are having a bit of a jaunt at White’s next week, if you’d care to join us.”
“Well, yes…you…of…well, of course,” Naring sputtered, doing a poor job of disguising his delight.
It would make for a dull evening, but it would keep him from turning the tale back to Kit. “Good day, gentlemen.” Alex nodded, and kneed Tybalt back toward Park Lane.
His good humor had dimmed considerably. He had no idea why Kit Brantley would slip out in the middle of the night to ask about government appointments, but the damned chit was up to something. Something she didn’t wish him to know about. Which meant that he would have to find out what it was, and the sooner the better.
“Oh, do be quiet, Kit,” Augustus drawled, putting his hands over his ears in protest as they strolled down St. James Street toward Pall Mall. “You’re making my head ache.”
“I thought that would be the bottle of brandy you consumed last night,” Hanshaw suggested.
“I was only pointing out that if you took better care of yourself, you wouldn’t feel so deuced awful all the time,” Kit protested, glaring at the viscount. She’d had little sleep last night, and Devlin’s foul mood wasn’t helping her own disposition in the slightest. Neither had Alex’s being gone when she’d risen, and her own rather rash decision to skip breakfast. Staying clear of Everton, and the confusion of feelings he aroused in her, would seem to be the only way she was going to get anything accomplished.
“Why in the world would I want to pamper myself and waste away slowly, when I can amuse myself and go out in a glorious blaze?” Devlin returned mildly.
“Or a glorious haze,” Lord Hanshaw countered.
“Well, I intend to live to a ripe old age,” Kit declared.
The viscount chuckled, then raised a kerchief and coughed into it. “I have never understood the juxtaposition of ‘ripe’ and ‘old,’” he commented. “I think rather that you shall live to a shriveled old age, dear boy.”
“I’d be in for wealthy old age, if you’d get me a deuced royal appointment,” Francis complained.
Reg snorted. “Leave off with that, will you, Francis? I keep telling you, it doesn’t pay well. The way Prinny spends government funds, it’s a duty, not a stipend.”
Kit was grateful that Francis hadn’t mentioned that they’d been discussing that very thing last evening. Hopefully he didn’t remember much about the conversation at all. “What sort of duty?” she queried.
Reg gave her a jaunty smile. “A damned dull one. Not even worth discussing.” He gestured across the street. “I need a new pair of Wellingtons.”
“Is that Hoby’s?” Kit asked, somewhat in awe. Even her father had no ill words for Hoby’s footwear.
“It is. And I, for one,” Augustus commented, “refuse to waste my day on boots. Do what you like, my dears. I’m getting an ale.”
“I want a pair of Hoby’s,” Kit declared, unwilling to part from Hanshaw until she discovered what sort of government appointment he’d been given. “Hessians, I think.”
Reg chuckled. “Alex will think you’re aping him.”
“And you’d best hope he pays for them,” Francis seconded.
“I can convince him,” Kit said confidently.
“No doubt,” Augustus said, looking at her sideways. “Everton seems quite willing to do whatever you wish.”
Kit smiled, though she wasn’t entirely certain of Devlin’s meaning. “It’s my natural charm.”
He nodded. “Then you must be the most charming individual alive,” he said cryptically. With a salute, he sauntered off toward the clubs.
She glanced at Reg, who looked after Devlin for a moment, then shrugged at her and turned across the street. As Kit passed the front of a clothing shop, she glanced into the window. And stopped. Draped over a mannequin was the loveliest gown she had ever set eyes upon, sewn from a patterned rose silk. Ivory lace frothed at the sleeves and bordered the plunging neckline, and trailed down the skirt in graceful loops gathered at the waist.
“What’s so enticing?” Hanshaw queried, putting an elbow on her shoulder and leaning forward to look into the window.
“I, ah, was just wondering,” Kit stumbled, trying not to blush, “how it is that females can tolerate being enclosed in such intricate monstrosities.”
The baron chuckled and slipped his arm around hers to turn her back toward Hoby’s. “Getting them out of those things is the devil of a bother, as well.”
Kit offered an unfelt smile. “I would say so.” She looked over her shoulder at the dress, then sighed. She’d lived her life in the easy company of men, with scarcely a tremble of her heart. She’d only known Alexander Cale for a week, and she was drooling over fine gowns and lace like a half-wit. “I say, Reg,” she said with forced gaiety, “do you think you might get me a government appointment? Something exciting. You know, spies or smuggling or pirates or such.”
Lord Hanshaw laughed and shook his head, showing no sign that she’d hit even remotely close to the mark. “Alex’s got far more influence over such things than I do. Ask him.”
“But is yours exciting?” she pursued.
He shook his head. “Dull as warping wood, Kit.”
For the moment, she would have to be satisfied with that. Thadius Naring was such a self-centered ass that he couldn’t possibly be the peer who’d ruffled her father’s and Fouché’s feathers so. Hanshaw, though, was another tale entirely. He did have a royal appointment, and he wouldn’t talk about it, which would imply that it was at least mildly important. Despite his connection with Caroline, it was a good beginning, and if the middle was as promising, she would need to look no further. Nor did she wish to. Eliminating Everton as a suspect would suit her quite well.
They met up with Devlin again in the afternoon, and though his mood had become even more foul, they decided to go off to the races. When Reg won thirty quid, that led to dinner and a game of hazard at the Army club. By the time Kit hired a hack to take her back to Cale House, it was well after midnight, and she had added yet another ten pounds to her collection.
“Evening, Wenton.” She grinned as the butler pulled the door open to admit her. “Alex is out, I suppose?”
Solemnly the butler accepted her hat and gloves and splendid new greatcoat. “Lord Everton is in his study, and does not wish to be disturbed.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll just be in the library, if he needs me.”
All day long she’d been thinking of that poem he’d quoted her, and she wished to read it for herself—until she heard two male voices coming from behind his door. With a glance back at Wenton she dragged one foot behind her, bunching up the Persian carpet on the edge, then stumbled over the mound she’d created. Letting herself lose her balance, she lurched against the study door. It was unlocked, and seemingly of its own accord the handle turned and the door fell open with her attached to it.
Kit stumbled into the study and grabbed the back of the nearest chair to catch her balance. “Apologies. I—”
Alex had been facing the fireplace, but at her entrance he whipped around to face her. His eyes were angry and distant, and they stopped her apology in her throat. A moment later he turned his back and accepted an emptied snifter of brandy from the man who stood by the window. “Thank you for your help,” he said curtly.
“My pleasure, milord, as always.” The visitor, sandy-haired with wind-burned cheeks and a rough-spun, dark overcoat, glanced at Kit and then leaned over to pick up a hat and gloves from the chair she still clutched. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“I would appreciate it.” Alex motioned his guest toward the door, and followed him into the hallway. “
Don’t move,” he warned Kit out of the side of his mouth as he passed by. He never looked in her direction.
Kit stayed where she was. It abruptly occurred to her that she had never seen Alex angry before. And she wondered what, exactly, his visitor was supposed to find out for him. Her entrance had stopped the conversation cold, and though she was, of course, less than intimate with his personal affairs, she was certain they hadn’t been discussing hay rakes.
A moment later he stepped back into the room, where she stood facing away from him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
Behind her the door shut, and Everton brushed her shoulder as he returned to pick up the brandy he had set down. He lifted it to his lips and took a swallow, pushing the window curtains aside a little with his other hand and glancing out into the darkness of his garden and the street beyond.
“I was heading for the library,” she continued, disliking the silence, “and I tripped. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s rather unimaginative,” he interrupted, letting the curtain slide back through his fingers. “Why don’t you try another?”
She scowled and released the back of the chair. “I tripped. You’re the one who left your bloody door unlocked, so don’t blame me.” When caught in a lie, attack. Throw the enemy off balance. Kit watched his profile, for he still wouldn’t look at her, and tried to decide whether he was the enemy.
“Where were you this evening?”
“Winning five pounds off Reg at hazard,” she replied shortly, deflating the figure in case he attempted to relieve her of her funds again. “Why do you let strangers share brandy with you when you won’t drink it with me?”
Finally he looked at her. “He’s not a stranger. And chits don’t drink brandy.”
Kit frowned. “I—”
He raised a hand. “Beg pardon. You’re not a chit, are you? Very well. Have a seat.” He gestured at the open door on the far side of the room.
Lady Rogue Page 12
