“I’m hardly a mystery.” She chuckled, and the azure gaze flicked for a bare moment in her direction before returning to the viscount. “I’ve merely been attempting to avoid stepping on Reg’s toes.”
“Ah, how gallant, dear boy,” Augustus congratulated. “Would that we all possessed such powers of restraint. You could learn a lesson from your cousin, Everton.”
“Speaking of lessons,” Reg put in, just a little too quickly, “I thought you were teaching Barbara one, Alex. Why so friendly the other evening?”
“Oh, you know me,” Everton returned absently, his gaze remaining on Devlin, “never one to burn bridges.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Is something bothering you, Augustus?” he murmured, and Kit couldn’t mistake the anger in his tone.
“Me, my boy? Nothing at all.” Devlin slowly refilled his glass, the amber liquid swirling toward the curved brim. “It’s odd, though,” he said, speaking to the brandy, “how different Reg’s courtship is from yours. He must actually woo, and not merely the female, but the entire family.”
“Augustus,” Reg murmured, looking with some anxiety in Alex’s direction.
Kit, though, was becoming more interested in the conversation. Lately the details of Alex’s brief marriage had been occupying more of her thoughts than they should. She glanced at Devlin, to find his gray eyes on her, apparently reading her curiosity.
“Don’t know the story, lad? Allow me, then. Reg must work for his lady, but not our Alexander,” the viscount continued. “Already had me, and he was the future Earl of almighty Everton, don’t you know. Alexander Lawrence Bennett Cale, who could have had any, any female he wanted, chose my sister.” Devlin gave a drunken rattle of a laugh. “And she, by God, hated him.”
“That’s enough, Augustus,” Alex warned. His expression was set and unreadable, his eyes gazing at the darkness outside the window. And he was furious. It was in every line of his taut, muscular frame.
“Oh, please, Everton. Reg and I know, and Christian is family, after all.” The viscount’s eyes took her in again. “They were married for six months, and every moment of it was hell. Ask him if it’s not so.”
“Sweet Jesus, Augustus,” Reg muttered, and stood. He faced Alex. “I don’t know what set him off, but he’s been like this all evening. I’ll see him home.”
Devlin shrugged his arm free of the baron’s grip, and chuckled again. “I believe he made her…uneasy, you know. They had so little to do with one another that she had the fever for three days before he even knew about it. Then you waited, what, another day, was it, before you sent for a doctor?”
“She insisted that I not.” Alex’s eyes were cold and remote, and Kit found herself on her feet.
“Come, cousin,” she said, avoiding Augustus’s faint smile. “He’s too drunk to realize that in insulting you, he also insults Mary.”
“Do I?” the viscount asked, tilting back his glass to finish it. “That was not my intention. Oh, dear me, no.”
With the grating of wood against wood, Alex shoved his chair back and stood. “If you weren’t already dead, Augustus,” he snarled, “I’d call you out. As it is, you’re not worth the lead.” Everton spun on his heel and strode for the door.
Kit turned after him.
“Christian!” Augustus called after her.
She paused. The viscount would talk to her, she sensed, looking for a friend when he’d driven one away. And drunk as he was, it wouldn’t even be that difficult to get information out of him. She took a breath, glancing toward the doorway and Everton and the night beyond. “I have nothing to say to you, Devlin,” she returned, and left.
Alex was seated in the phaeton, his gaze fixed on Mercutio’s ears, when she emerged from the club. As she climbed up beside him, he glanced at her. “Damned unpleasant way to end the evening, I’d say,” he growled, and snapped the reins to start off the team.
“Tomorrow he won’t even remember he said anything,” she offered, watching his expression carefully.
“Oh, he’ll remember it, all right,” the earl returned. “Damned muckworm has a memory nearly as good as yours.” He drew a slow breath. “Thing of it is, he was right.”
“It’s none of my affair,” she said quietly, though she keenly wanted to know what had transpired between him and his late wife. Just as keenly she wished to see the look of frustrated anger and pain leave his lean, sensitive face.
Despite the late hour and the chill in the air, an orange girl stood at the street corner, and Alex pulled up the phaeton and motioned to her. She rushed out into the street at his summons, and Alex gave her a florin in exchange for two oranges. Wordlessly he handed one of them over to Kit. Her eyes on his face, she pulled out her boot knife and slowly peeled it as Alex set the horses in motion again.
“My father had just died, you know,” he said after a moment, his eyes and apparently his attention on the evening traffic around them. “He and my mother wanted grandchildren to spoil, had teased me about it since I can remember. But after she died, he never mentioned it again.” Alex glanced at her, but quickly returned his gaze to the street. “When he died, it started me thinking that I was all there was to the Cale line, and that I was failing miserably in passing on the birthright of the earls before me. I became…obsessed with the absurd notion that I needed to get an heir. Immediately.”
“And you fell in love with Mary Devlin,” Kit supplied quietly, fiddling with the orange in her hands, and bothered by the absurd notion that she was jealous of a dead woman for being the one to catch Alex’s heart.
“I’d known Augustus since Cambridge. He, of course, introduced me to his sister when she came out. Mary was graceful, quiet-spoken, elegant, and completely proper.” He sighed. “Exactly what a young idiot looks for when trying to find a woman to bear him children.”
“But you said she was perfect,” Kit commented, studying his profile.
“Oh, she was. I was the one found lacking.”
“You?” she returned, raising an eyebrow. “But you’re…” She trailed off. Magnificent, she wanted to say, but didn’t dare.
He grimaced. “As I said, she didn’t much care for faro or billiards or brandy, and was of the school which held that women who read or had any sort of political interests were bluestockings, which left us little common ground. And my…passions left her somewhat appalled, I believe. Letting me touch her was her wifely duty, so long as the sole purpose was to beget children. It was never anything more to her, and believe me, I did my damndest to make it pleasant.”
For a long moment Kit looked at him, unable to imagine how Mary Cale could possibly have turned away from him. “Lud,” she finally said.
His eyes flicked in her direction, and he gave a short laugh. “Apologies, chit,” he murmured. “It’s your own fault, for listening.”
“She was wrong, Alex,” Kit said firmly. And Mary had also been a fool, though she decided against voicing that opinion.
“So say you. All I know is that within weeks, our marriage, if it could even be called such, had deteriorated to the point that I only saw her when we were supposed to appear somewhere together. She spent her days in the morning room with her tittering, waspish friends. Her bedchamber wasn’t even on the same floor as mine. That’s why she was feverish for three days before I even knew she was ill.” He looked down at his hands, clenching the ribbons so tightly, his knuckles stood out. “I didn’t wish her dead, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that part of me was relieved. I can’t imagine a lifetime of that misery. It wasn’t even that she was content to ignore me, you know. Augustus was right. She loved being the Countess of Everton, but she flat out hated me.” He gave a brief, humorless smile. “At least I can tell my ancestors I’ve done my part, and they can go to hell if they expect me to go through it again.”
That last part bothered her more than the rest. It wasn’t that she imagined any sort of future with him, for of course, that was ridiculous. But Alex had left nothing for himself. Not
hing but wasted time with Barbara Sinclair, or whichever woman caught his fancy for a night. “That’s very sad,” she murmured, wanting to move closer beside him, put her arm around his waist, and tuck her head against his shoulder. “But I don’t think every marriage is like that.”
He looked over at her. “Ah. You think I should give it another try?”
There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone, but neither could she ignore the fleeting loneliness that touched his eyes. “Your parents had a good marriage, yes?”
He pursed his lips, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes. Which makes mine doubly a failure, wouldn’t you say?”
Kit shook her head. “You’re missing the point.”
Again he gave a short laugh, the sound brittle. “Well, I beg your pardon, but I believe that’s enough marital advice from a virgin chit dressed like a boy and wielding a knife.”
“I was only trying to help, cochon,” she snapped, and slammed the knife back into her boot.
“Where did you get that damned thing, anyway?”
“I’ve had it for years. And go duel with Devlin,” she suggested. “Not me. I’ve been very pleasant this evening.”
His jaw clenched, then he took a breath and rolled his shoulders to relax the tension there. “Do tell,” he returned in a more even tone. “I appreciate your pointing that out. I wouldn’t want to miss it by mistake.”
“I’m going to go see Ivy in the morning,” Kit announced, mostly to see if he would let her go. And she needed to check once more to see if her father was at the Hanging Crow. At any rate, being around Alex was far too distracting, when she still had to decide what to do about him and Reg and Augustus.
Surprisingly, he didn’t argue, but only nodded. After a moment he glanced around and turned the phaeton north. “We seem to have run out before eating again,” he noted. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
He laughed. “Boodles?”
“If you’re buying,” she suggested, absurdly relieved that his somber mood seemed to have lifted.
“I’m always buying, chit.”
Chapter 13
Stewart Brantley was not at the Hanging Crow when Kit strolled in.
She had waited outside the establishment for an hour in the pale sunlight, making certain that Fouché and his men were absent, before she entered. As she took a quick turn about the large, dim tavern and then exited again, she was aware of being somewhat relieved. She’d done her duty by trying to contact her father, and at the same time, his absence gave her time to come up with her own plan of how to deal with her English lord and his cronies, before he could decide on something less pleasant. The idea of killing a peer over an intercepted cargo was both absurd and dangerous, but Stewart had seemed so serious about the entire game. It hadn’t bothered her before, but over the last few days, the consequences of her task in London had begun to concern her more than she was prepared for.
Lingering about Covent Garden with Jean-Paul Mercier in the vicinity was less than wise, and she was glad to make her way to the comfortable town house of Gerald and Ivy Downing. Ivy even seemed genuinely pleased to see her as the butler showed her into the morning room.
“Kit!” she exclaimed, setting aside her pen and rising to pull her illusionary cousin into a warm embrace. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Alex is in mee—”
“Meetings,” Ivy finished with a grimace. “I know. Gerald, too.” She shut the door and turned around to lean back against it. “That awful Frenchman’s fault, no doubt.” She gave a slight grin. “So. I am glad for your company this morning, my dear, but what truly brings you here today?”
“I only wanted to visit with y—”
“No, no,” Ivy returned dryly, stepping forward to lead her guest over to the couch and taking a seat at one end, “when one is given the means to travel anywhere in London on a fine, sunny day, this is not where one goes.”
It was, if that was the lie one had told. “But I like your company.”
“I don’t believe you, but you know, I’m glad you came to see me.” She tilted her head to eye Kit speculatively. “We received an invitation yesterday, and it struck me as very interesting.”
“What sort of invitation?” Kit asked, intrigued.
“The Thornhills are hosting a masquerade ball on Wednesday.”
“I know,” Kit answered. “Alex was invited…” All at once it occurred to her what Ivy must be suggesting, and she flushed. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Why ever not? Everyone will be in costumes and masks. It would be perfect, Kit. And the only chance you’ll have to be a female in London.”
It could be the only chance she would ever have to be a female. And for Alex to see her as one. “It’s only a few days away,” she protested weakly, her mind already running far ahead of her tongue. “I have nothing to wear.”
“Of course, we’ll have to get you a proper gown, and perhaps try a few lessons in female etiquette…”
“A thousand lessons,” she returned nervously.
“I can see to that, if you wish. For of course, it must be up to you.”
“Oh, lud,” Kit breathed, finally beginning to see the merits of the word. “Yes, I would like to do it.”
By the time she left the Downings, there were so many things spinning in her head that she didn’t notice the familiar figure leaning against a lamppost in front of Cale House until after she stepped down from the hired hack and started up the drive.
“Kit.”
She jumped and whipped around. “Jean-Paul!” she exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, and stepped forward to grip his hand. “What brings you to London?”
“I am here to assist your papa, of course,” the comte answered, and gestured toward Cale House. “As are you, yes?”
“Yes.” She nodded, watching him warily for anything that might reveal his true motive for being in England.
“I had hoped you would have news for me,” Fouché prompted, his dark eyes searching hers with the same intensity that had made her uneasy the last few times they had encountered one another. “A name, perhaps.”
She wrinkled her brow, pretending ignorance, though she knew exactly what he was asking. It would have been difficult enough to tell her father and beg his understanding in her wavering loyalties. Fouché, though, had little compassion that she had ever seen.
“We will all be ruined if the shipment is intercepted again,” he pushed. “And your father already owes me and my associates ten thousand pounds. If you tell me who will move against us, I can make the next few days…difficult, to keep him from interfering.”
Kit shook her head, wondering with a shudder what “difficulty” would keep Alex Cale from his duties. “I was only supposed to inform my father. He had something planned.”
“Yes, I know. I was what he had planned.” He regarded her, his dark eyes almost luminous in his lean, olive-complexioned face, and took a step closer. “I have kept secrets for you before, belle chère, perhaps without you even knowing.”
He knew. Alex had been right. Fouché knew her secret. And that left her more uneasy than the Earl of Everton’s knowing ever could. “I—”
“Give me a name, Kit.” He glanced toward the mansion again. “Is it him?”
“Of course not,” she stammered, abruptly deciding. She couldn’t turn Alex over to this man. “I’m here only by coincidence.”
He gave a slow smile. “Then give me a name. We French are a jealous breed, you know.” Fouché reached out slowly toward her face and caressed her cheek. “I could keep you far safer and give you far more pleasure than a thin-blooded Englishman.”
Kit swallowed, her skin crawling where he had touched her. “What has that to do with our task?” she countered, taking a step backward to put a little distance between them, trusting her supposed ally less than her known enemy. Alex could touch her like that, but no one else.
He moved forward to match her. “Give me a name, m’amoureuse.”
“I
don’t have one,” she muttered, and took a quick breath when he scowled. “I thought I did,” she continued quickly, “but just this morning I discovered that it could not be him. There are some other possibilities, but it will take me the rest of my time here to be certain.” His frown didn’t abate, and she pulled a grimace on her own face. “That is why my father set a fortnight for the task, after all. To make a mistake could be fatal for all of us.”
Initially she didn’t think he believed her, but after a moment Jean-Paul nodded. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I will be nearby.”
With a nod and another deep breath, Kit excused herself from him and walked up the drive to Cale House. Her father didn’t trust Fouché either, but he knew the comte was in London and hadn’t bothered to inform her, which implied that they were working together. And so she had lied to both of them, to protect Alexander Cale. And she was growing so tired of lying.
Alex released the curtain and stepped back from the window of his study as Kit’s acquaintance looked up toward the house again, and then with a slight smile turned and strolled down the street. The cut of his coat and the style of his hair were unmistakably French, and whoever he might be, Kit had bloody well let him paw at her enough to make him more than a casual acquaintance.
Wenton pulled the front door open, and Alex quickly returned across the hall to the library and dropped into the nearest chair. “How were my, er, our cousins?” he queried as she entered the room and curled into the seat opposite him.
“Ivy’s splendid. Gerald was out,” the chit answered easily, craning her neck to look at the book sitting beneath the stack of papers at his elbow. “Are you reading my Byron?” she demanded, a soft blush touching her cheeks.
“Your Byron?” he replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, you know what I mean,” she said, looking as though she would like to snatch it off the table and abscond with it.
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