After Kit Brantley had exploded into his life, he’d spent every night alone, with his impractical single pillow, and the mornings had been the least lonely ones he had ever known. The extraordinary chit bursting into his bedchamber and wanting to learn how to shave, or insulting him in French, or devouring everything in sight, left him happier than he had been since before his parents had died and left him alone.
But she was still a traitor. He should never have let her get this close, even if he had never wanted something, someone, so badly in his life. His only excuse had been that she would be gone after today, but last night had tangled even that one definite into a mishmash he didn’t care to delve into too deeply. He raised up onto his elbow and brushed his lips across her forehead. If he told nothing of what he knew, British soldiers could pay the price of his selfishness with their lives. If he did his duty, as the daughter of Stewart Brantley, she could face hanging, imprisonment, or at best, exile to Australia. Alex drew a quick breath. Unless she wasn’t considered to be Stewart Brantley’s daughter any longer. He closed his eyes, nervous tension running through him as he contemplated doing what he’d sworn never to do again.
“If you’re pretending to be asleep, you shouldn’t have your head propped up like that,” Christine murmured, and he opened his eyes again.
“Thank you,” he said. “Obviously I lack your skills at prevarication.”
The easy amusement in her eyes changed to suspicion in an instant. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked with her typical bold attack in the face of accusation.
He wasn’t ready to confront her. “Only that you’ve been fooling the world about your gender for nearly fourteen years.” He lifted an eyebrow. “What did you think I meant?”
She hesitated for a moment. “I didn’t know. That’s why I was angry.”
Alex frowned, uncertain of exactly how he wished to proceed, especially in the face of her mercurial temperament. “I won’t be able to ride to Canterbury until this afternoon,” he said to himself, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.
Kit sat up beside him and kissed his shoulder. “Whatever are you going to Canterbury for?”
“For a special license, of course. Unraveling your tale will take some doing, but I think we can manage it.”
She had become very still, but he kept his gaze locked on the bedpost. “What are you talking about?” she finally whispered.
“Our marriage, of course, goose,” he returned brusquely. It was easier to say than he’d expected, especially as he had meant never to utter the word in connection with himself again.
He could feel her emerald stare burning into him. “We are not getting married,” she stated.
“Of course we are.” He took a breath. Soon, probably within the next day or so, he was going to have to confront her about her loyalties, but first he wanted her under the protection of his name. “You may be pregnant.”
She swallowed, her eyes narrowing. “I am not.”
“I didn’t take any precautions, and I doubt you are skilled in methods of preventing conception.” He forced himself to look straight at her. “Are you?”
Slowly she shook her head, her expression fleetingly uncertain.
“Well, it’s settled, then. It’ll take a few donations to the church, but we can be married by tomorrow evening.”
“No.”
He had expected her to balk, but had no intention of letting it stop him. “You have no choice, Kit. There’s no—”
“I said no, Alex.”
“Christine—”
“I did not do this to trap you into marriage, Everton. In a few days I’ll be back in Paris, and you won’t—”
“I will not have my by-blow wandering about Paris,” he growled with what he hoped was the correct degree of anger, “and I would not leave you unmarried with a child.”
She glared at him, as stubborn as he. “And I won’t have you loathing me the way you did Mary because I can’t be what you want in a w—”
That shook him. “You are not like Mary. And I—”
“I don’t want to talk about it any longer.” She shoved the sheets aside and rose, naked, to stalk over to the window. “You’re already engaged, anyway.”
“I am no such thing, damn it.” Good Lord, she was lovely. And too blasted distracting. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “At least tell me when you last bled.” Any other woman, he could browbeat into a marriage—wouldn’t have to do more than suggest it, in fact. If that. But not this one. And stupid and absurd as it seemed, especially given his reason for proposing it, he wanted her to want to be wed to him.
She turned to look at him, splendid in the filtered sunlight. “A few days ago,” she replied, clearly embarrassed.
“How many days ago?” he insisted, finding that her answer somewhat disappointed him. It might have been an excuse, but any reason to keep her there with him would do.
“Three or four.”
“Not more than that?”
“No! Bâtard,” she grumbled.
“All right,” he acquiesced reluctantly, damning his sense of fair play. Truth where she was involved, though, seemed of the utmost importance now. “You are probably not pregnant.”
“Why didn’t you ask me that in the first place, then?” she demanded. “We could have avoided this entire stupid conversation.”
Alex looked at her. She truly didn’t wish to marry him. “Damned stubborn Irish chit,” he muttered.
“And don’t speak of it again,” she ordered, jabbing a finger in his direction.
“I bloody well will speak—” The clock on the landing began chiming, and didn’t stop until it reached ten. “Damnation!” He flung the remainder of the bedsheets aside and stormed to his feet, striding over to the dressing table.
“What now?” she demanded, her expression sliding from furious to concerned.
“I am late.”
She put her hands on her hips, obviously still displeased with him. “Do you wish me to hide under the bed while Antoine assists you?”
He gave a reluctant chuckle. “If you can dress on your own, so can I.” Alex burrowed into his wardrobe and pulled out a shirt, which he tossed back to her. “And put some clothes on before we end up back in bed.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” she replied, catching the shirt. When he determinedly ignored her, she sighed and pulled the soft lawn over her disheveled head. “I’ll shave you, then,” she offered in what was obviously her version of an apology for their argument.
Alex remembered all too well what had nearly happened the last time she had interrupted him. “Absolutely not,” he countered. “The gentleman I’m to meet would not be pleased if I kept him waiting.” Neither would the other three gentlemen accompanying him, to whom he would have to lie one last time.
She scowled, then perched in the windowsill to watch him dress and shave. “You look quite…conservative this morning,” she noted as he tied his cravat in a simple, rather severe knot. “Who are you meeting with?”
There was really no reason not to tell her. “Prince George.”
She sat up straight. “Prinny? Really? If I hurry and dress, may I go?”
“No!” he returned sharply. For both the Regent’s sake and her own, he wanted her nowhere near Buckingham Palace.
She pouted, her eyes cool. “Don’t you trust me?”
He turned to look at her, searching her expression. “No, I do not.” Alex took a breath. “But we’ll discuss that when I return. Agreed?”
Christine swallowed, her eyes darting down to her clasped hands. Finally she met his gaze again. “Agreed.”
“And, Kit, I want you to promise me something.”
“What is it?” she asked slowly.
“That you won’t disappear with your father until after I see you again.”
Before she could answer, Wenton scratched at the door with the morning edition of the London Times. Alex retrieved the paper and then shut the door in the butler�
�s face. Quickly he perused the front page, and its panicked suppositions that Napoleon would leave Paris for Calais, and from there would land in Dover with his army by the fifteenth.
“Anything interesting?”
“Not really.” He set the paper aside and strolled up to stand in front of her. “Promise me,” he repeated, reaching out to caress her cheek with his palm.
She leaned her face into his hand, her eyes holding his. “Alex—”
“I will tie you to this bed and put armed outriders all around the house if you say no,” he warned her.
Evidently he was serious. “I won’t leave until we’ve spoken again,” she whispered, then forced a smile and a sigh. “Stubborn Englishman. May I meet you somewhere for luncheon, or should I go find Reg and Francis?”
Everton found that he was less than pleased with the idea of her spending time with any of his male friends. Just as he could no longer fool himself for a moment into thinking her an ill-mannered boy, neither did he relish the thought of her enjoying some other man’s company, even in friendship. “The Navy at one, say?” He pulled on his boots. “We’ll leave word for your father with Wenton, in case he should arrive before we return.”
She nodded again. “All right.”
Perhaps she disliked the half-truths and the lies and distrust as much as he did, Alex thought. There would be no more lies between them.
He walked to the door, opened it, then shut it again and strode back to her side. Putting an arm about her waist, he pulled her against him and leaned down to touch her lips with his. “Be good,” he said, tugging on her hair and then turning away again. “I’ll see you at one, chit.”
Thankfully, Alex had thought to send all the servants downstairs so she could sneak into her own bedchamber without anyone spying her. She sat on the edge of her bed for a time, reluctant to remove his shirt from her skin. She pulled her hands back into the overlong sleeves and lifted the material to her face. It smelled like him, and unable to help herself, she lay back on the bed and laughed and kicked her bare legs in the air. Being female wasn’t nearly as bad as she had supposed. At least not while she could be with Alexander Cale.
He’d said they would talk later, and she wondered how much she dared tell him. Nothing that would hurt her father, but she was tired of all the lies, and even more tired of lying to Alex.
Finally she dressed and made her way downstairs to eat. The beaded mask was still in her greatcoat pocket, and she retrieved it before Wenton or any of the other servants could notice it. There was room for it in the satchel she had packed for her return to Paris, so with a glance at the grandfather clock to check the time, she returned upstairs and closed her door. She knelt and unbuckled the two straps keeping the portmanteau closed. Kit started to slip the mask in under one of her shirts, then paused as her fingers touched something unfamiliar.
A slender leather pouch had been slipped deep into the middle of the bag, and with a slight frown she pulled it free and untied the knot holding it shut. And gasped. It was filled with paper currency, both French and English, in varying denominations. Altogether it must have been nearly two thousand pounds. A note was tucked against one side, and with shaking fingers she pulled it free. In Alex’s familiar scrawl it read, “Take care of yourself, cousin. Fondly, Everton.” The note was dated two days earlier; he must have stowed it away while she was at the Downings’.
Even considering that he enjoyed her company, it was an astoundingly generous gift to give. Tears ran down her cheeks. With this, she and her father could stop smuggling, could move into Saint-Germain, or even out of France altogether. And Alex had asked her to marry him, even if it was out of some stupid, misguided sense of duty and he really wanted no such entanglements.
Except that she did want to marry him, did want to stay with him. But first she needed to know that she could trust him, even after he knew exactly what she was. And then she needed him to ask her again, not because he was simply doing what was expected, but because he loved her.
Chapter 16
The Earl of Everton kept his expression aloof and his eyes to the front as he forced himself to stroll calmly out of Buckingham Palace, when he truly wanted to call Prince George a fat oaf and put a vase through the lovely paned windows. Grateful that Furth at least had remained behind in conference, he avoided looking at his companions until the three of them were off the palace grounds and well onto the Mall. Only after he waved Waddle off and sent him home did he let out an explosive breath. “Arrogant, bloated buffoon,” he snarled, slamming his fist into his thigh hard enough to bruise.
His companions shared an uneasy glance. “What did you expect, Alex?” Gerald Downing said in a voice obviously intended to calm his cousin down. “He wants someone to hang. Now.”
“I can’t give him what I don’t have,” Alex snapped, looking down the street.
“Well, forgive me if I’m being insensitive, but you’ve been on this little committee for what, six years? And before now, I’ve never known you to have contraband seized without being able to discover who’s behind the shipment,” Reg Hanshaw put in from his other side. “That was likely Prinny’s, and His Grace’s, line of thinking as well, I would ima—”
“I stopped the damned weapons, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” the baron agreed. “The first load of them, anyway. None of us has heard much about the sec—”
“He practically accused me of lying.”
Gerald fiddled with his walking cane. “You were, weren’t you?”
Alex snapped his gaze to his cousin’s face. “Yes.”
“But why?” Reg demanded. “Do you know how much trouble you may just have brought down on yourself?”
He knew quite well. “Just leave off, both of you,” he growled. “I have my reasons.” The major one being that he was trying to find a way to protect a spy before he turned her father’s name over to the authorities.
Reg sighed and stopped to purchase a posy from a street vendor. He tucked the flower into his lapel, and shook his head. “Alex—”
A shot rang out across the street. In the same heartbeat, something burned past Alex’s cheek, and Reg crashed backward into the Duchess of Devenbroke.
She promptly fainted, and in the ensuing hysteria of the most distinguished members of the ton flinging one another out of the way and diving for cover, Alex couldn’t tell where the shot had come from, much less who had fired it. “Reg!” he bellowed, shoving through the crowd to his companion’s side.
Gerald was already there, helping the baron to his feet. “I’m all right,” Hanshaw said, fingering the graze across his temple. “Who the devil’s shooting at me?”
“I don’t know,” Alex snarled, rubbing at his own singed cheek, his eyes darting across the rooftops and touching the alleys on the far side of the street. There were far too many places to hide, and too many avenues of escape. Behind him Lord Bandwyth and Lady Julia Penston were fanning the duchess’s face, and she was already making promising groans. “You certain you’re all right?” he queried, turning back to the baron.
Reg nodded and squinted one eye shut, obviously hurting. “Yes. You?”
“Splendid.”
“I assume someone doesn’t appreciate our meddling,” Hanshaw continued. “Or Furth really doesn’t like me at all anymore.” He gave a weak grin and staggered sideways while Gerald kept hold of him.
“Gerald, get him tended to,” Alex ordered. “And let Martin know what’s happened.”
His cousin nodded. “And you?”
Alex felt his jaw clench. “I have to follow up on a hunch.”
“You be careful,” Gerald suggested, looking at him closely and indicating his face. “We don’t know who the target was.”
“I intend to find that out,” he returned, and strode up the street.
What he had done this morning, in denying knowledge of the identity of the weapons smuggler, had been treason. Prinny was angry at him, and whatever sort of buffoon he was reputed to b
e, Prince George was not a complete fool. Martin Brantley knew for a certainty that he was hiding something, and would not let it remain a secret for much longer. And he knew what Hanshaw and Gerald would say, that he was thinking with something other than his head. He had managed to let himself overlook the fact that Kit, in all likelihood, had partners. Partners who would have a stake in getting those weapons to France, and who, it seemed, were willing to kill over the issue.
The Navy came into sight up ahead, and he glanced down at his pocket watch. He was only a little early, and hopefully she would be there already. Unless she had pulled the trigger herself, and was elsewhere hiding the evidence. His mind would travel no further, though, on that road. It couldn’t have been her. He wouldn’t let it be her. In the cloakroom he was accosted by Francis on his way out.
“Everton,” Francis greeted, accepting his gloves from a footman, “did you find out who she was?”
“Who who was?” Alex answered shortly, removing his hat and tossing it at a second startled servant.
“The girl, last night. Lady Masquerade. Whole town’s talking about her, you know. Gibson thinks she’s a Russian princess.”
“Sounds plausible,” the earl agreed, attempting to make his way into the parlor.
“Come, Alex, the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off one another. Barbara was screeching like a barn owl in the powder room, Lady Putney said. So who is she, old boy?”
“She is Lady Masquerade.” Alex gave a curt nod of dismissal, but Francis refused to release his sleeve. “Francis, I don’t know,” he continued impatiently. “She is as much a mystery to me as she is to you.” That part, anyway, was true. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Kit said you denied knowing anything about the chit as well, but I think he was merely trying to be rid of me, so he could go on babbling with that other fellow.”
Alex’s heart turned to ice. “What other fellow?”
“The one in the billiards room with him. They’ve been gabbing like old friends. Sounds more like French than Irish, but all babbling sounds fairly much the same to me. I say, are you going to Vauxhall with—”
Lady Rogue Page 27
