Lady Rogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Leave off, Gerald,” the earl warned.

  “No, I won’t,” Gerald hissed, flushing. “I don’t know much about her, but I do know she’s no common bit, cousin. You will do right by her.”

  Apparently Kit had made yet another conquest. “I know,” Alex muttered, “you’re right. But it’s more complicated than you realize.”

  “Enlighten me,” Gerald demanded.

  Alex took a breath. “Her father is our weapons smuggler.”

  Gerald opened his mouth and then slowly shut it again, myriad emotions, including sympathy, running across his face. “Is she aware of that?” he finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” Alex said quietly, his heart beating a painful, hollow tattoo against his ribs. At least Gerald hadn’t asked how deeply she was involved, because he was swiftly reaching the point where further lies would gain him enemies.

  “Sweet…Damnation, Alex, are you trying to get yourself hanged?” his cousin pursued.

  “Oh, they almost never do that to nobles any longer,” Alex returned tiredly, rubbing at his temple.

  “Well, what—”

  “Listen to me,” Alex interrupted, glancing at Samuels. “I’m going north with James to confiscate those bloody weapons before they reach the coast.”

  “No you’re—”

  “I’ll send the lot I arrest, along with the guns, down to Prinny. That should keep him satisfied for a few days, until I can…settle this.”

  “And how do you plan to do that, pray tell?”

  The earl looked down. “I have an idea.”

  “Unless you tell me exactly what you’re up to, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Ah. And you can stop me, of course?”

  “I don’t wish to inherit Everton because you did something stupid,” Gerald snapped back at him.

  Alex paused to rub at his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You were right about Kit not being common. Her father is Stewart Brantley. Furth’s brother.”

  Gerald actually paled, quite a feat given the overheated flush of his cheeks. “Martin’s brother? She’s…” he said, pointing toward the closed door, “she’s his niece?”

  “Well, that would follow,” Alex said dryly, reaching for what remained of his sense of humor. “And that does not go beyond us,” he stated, his gaze taking in James and his cousin. When they both nodded, he took a breath. “So you see, this is a bit stickier than I’d originally anticipated.”

  “Furth needs to be told.”

  “I know.”

  “And—”

  “And so I’ll take care of it, Gerald. All you need do is tell Hanshaw and Furth that I’m going to retrieve those guns.” As for the rest, although Christine continued to refuse his protection, he had no intention of seeing her hang. Furth’s name would shield her, if Martin would agree to take her in. And if that was the only chance she had, Alex would see that she took it—whether she wanted to or not. However she might end up feeling about him, he didn’t want her left with nowhere to turn.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” Gerald muttered, apparently reading his expression.

  Alex glared at him. “Yes, we’re a vipers’ nest of deceit in this house,” he growled. “James, have Tybalt saddled and get yourself a fresh mount.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “Gerald, wait downstairs a moment.”

  Alex took a deep breath and pulled open his bedchamber door again. Kit sat on the edge of the bed, her slim body wrapped in the sheet, her expression as tense and serious as he had ever seen it. She was so beautiful.

  “What’s happened?” she asked quietly.

  Alex wished with all his heart that he could tell her. She might very well be as enamored of him as he was of her, but she also had the makings of the perfect decoy. For all he knew, she might have been distracting and delaying him on purpose. “Nothing serious,” he soothed. “I need to leave London for a few days.”

  “You’re not going to Belgium to fight Napoleon,” she stated, her face growing so pale that for a moment he was concerned she might faint.

  “No. Of course not. But I need to leave immediately.”

  “Then I’m going with you,” she said stubbornly, standing and running her hand down his arm to clasp his fingers.

  Damnation, he couldn’t resist her at all. Except in this one thing. He squeezed her hand, then released her. “No. You’ll stay with Gerald and Ivy.”

  “You’re going after my father, aren’t you?” she whispered.

  He shut his eyes for a moment. “I’m going after his shipment, yes,” he answered slowly. Fast as he and James Samuels would be moving, she’d never be able to get word to Stewart Brantley first.

  “They’ll try to kill you,” she said almost soundlessly, her eyes holding his with an intensity he’d never seen in her before.

  Alex shook his head. “You’ve already told me your father’s in Calais, and Fouché’s back in France, as well.”

  “Please don’t go,” she said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms about his waist.

  He enfolded her in his arms. “I have to,” he murmured into her hair, surprised that she had accepted the news that he was going after her father’s shipment so calmly. “Go get dressed. Gerald will take you home with him.”

  Alex felt her ragged intake of breath, and then her nod against his shoulder.

  Afraid she would bolt, he sent Mrs. Hodges in with her while she changed. Then he hurriedly shaved and dressed. With typical efficiency, Antoine had packed Alex’s saddlebags for him by the time he was ready to head downstairs. Kit was standing in the hallway there, Gerald beside her.

  He took her hand and pulled her into the morning room. “I’ll be back soon, chit,” he said, “so behave yourself.”

  She pulled his face down to kiss him ferociously. “Be careful,” she murmured, running a trembling finger down his chest and hooking it through the buttonhole of his waistcoat.

  He touched his finger to the skin of her cheek. “I will,” he said softly, studying her face and fearing that she would never look at him that way again. Once he spoke to Furth about her, it was entirely possible that the next time he set eyes on her, she would hate him. Finally he pulled free of her grip and turned for the door.

  “Alex, je t’aime,” she whispered at his back. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  He stopped short as the quiet words resounded through him like thunder, wrenching something hard and painful loose in his chest. “Yes,” he said gruffly. She loved him. It was either a last effort to stop him from going, or she was telling the truth. If he turned around to look at Christine Brantley again, he would never be able to leave. Stiffly he made himself start walking again.

  “Take care of her,” he rasped at Gerald, who had enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Without waiting for an answer, he left Cale House for the stables, and a hard ride north.

  Christine wondered when precisely it had happened. A handful of days ago she had hated all Englishmen, and one in particular, though she didn’t yet know his identity. And suddenly she was ready to do anything to make certain that same English lord came through this safely. Her shift in loyalties made no sense. Her father would tell her she was a fool to risk her livelihood, and very likely her life, for someone like the Earl of Everton. He was everything she was supposed to detest; a blue-blooded rake who could ruin her, and worse, in a heartbeat.

  With Alex storming off somewhere after her father, she should be hurt, and furious, and seeking revenge. Her mind was so muddled where they were concerned, though, that to keep from going mad she deliberately turned her attention elsewhere with the rather weak excuse that eventually everything would sort itself out. If she knew anything about either of them, Alexander Cale and Stewart Brantley could take care of themselves. At least when they knew what they were facing. Fouché, Bonaparte, and one another.

  What worried her, though, was that there was something else. Something Alex apparently knew nothing about, and wanted t
o know nothing about. Someone had suggested that Fouché try to kill Reg Hanshaw, or perhaps even the Earl of Everton. And Augustus Devlin was meeting people in alleys in secret in the middle of the night.

  The Downings kept a close eye on her all day, undoubtedly having taken to heart Alex’s suggestion—hah, threat—to keep a close eye on her. And so she made a show of moping about glumly until she’d worn them to a frazzle, then suggested that they might all attend Mercia Cralling’s recital as a way to cheer themselves up. The speed with which Everton’s cousins agreed to the suggestion would have been amusing if she hadn’t been so concerned with where in damnation Alex was, and whether Augustus and whomever the viscount was in contact with knew he had gone.

  Several times during Mercia’s recital she heard people mention Lady Masquerade, and whether anyone had figured out who she was. She could wonder that herself. It was becoming difficult even for her, remembering that she was supposed to be a boy and acting accordingly, so she could only imagine how Alex was coping with it. She wished he would tell her. She wished he would stop shutting her out from himself, and let her know how he truly felt about her, whether he felt anything close to what she felt for him.

  And she was going to have to decide what, exactly, she was going to tell Stewart Brantley when he reappeared.

  A relieved round of applause began around her, and Kit blinked and swiftly joined in. Mercia stood up at the pianoforte and curtsied, and her mother trundled forward to congratulate her while the guests stood to stretch cramped legs and head for the refreshment tables.

  “May we go now?” Gerald queried in his wife’s ear, and she elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Not yet,” she answered with good-humored exasperation. “Unless you’d rather wander about the house keeping an eye on our guest.”

  Kit stifled a guilty frown. They’d done nothing but show kindness and concern for her, and she was about to cause them a fair measure of trouble. She glanced about the room, hoping her quarry might be in attendance so she wouldn’t have to search Mayfair for him in the dark.

  Gerald sighed and looked about, then straightened with a grin. “There’s Hanshaw. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Please,” Ivy agreed, waving him away. “Men,” she muttered to Kit, who raised an eyebrow, attempting to play along.

  “Beg pardon, cousin?” she asked innocently, tugging at her waistcoat.

  “Oh, not you, of course, Kit,” Ivy returned with a self-conscious smile.

  Thankfully Deborah Glover waylaid Ivy, and Kit was able to make her excuses and head for the refreshment tables, with the intention of walking straight past and out the door to find Viscount Devlin. She glanced back at Ivy to see her looking in her direction, and with a silent curse at Alex for making such effective threats, she paused to sample one of the ham biscuits.

  They were quite good, and she was helping herself to a second one when a gloved hand slid down her shoulder to her elbow, and curled around her arm. For a moment she thought it must be Mercia, and shrugged off her nervous impatience enough to turn and smile at the girl. The eyes that looked back at her, though, were far less innocent than Miss Cralling’s, and rather than being a porcelain blue, were black as a raven’s wing.

  “Lady Sinclair.” She grinned, trying not to choke on her biscuit, while her mind roiled to sort out a whole new set of complications she hadn’t been prepared for. Not tonight. And not with Alexander Cale’s mistress. Former mistress. “Ham biscuit, my lady?”

  “Don’t think you’re fooling me,” Barbara purred. “I know exactly what you are, you harlot.”

  As her father always said, when trapped, attack. “About deuced time you figured it out. What took you so long?” she mumbled around her mouthful, and lifted a glass of port from a nearby footman’s tray.

  For a moment Lady Sinclair just looked at her, her mouth open to make a response she could no longer use. “And what do you have to say?” she finally murmured.

  Kit raised an eyebrow and swallowed the biscuit. “Seems the price of barley’s going up this year,” she suggested, smiling again.

  Barbara kept her arm tightly gripped, which would make any escape attempt into a wrestling match. “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. I could flat ruin you in two seconds.”

  “And I could set you on the floor in half that time,” Kit responded promptly. “I’m a sterling boxer, you know.”

  Another hesitation followed, and Kit reflected that Barbara Sinclair was likely not used to being threatened with physical violence. “I don’t care what you are,” her ruby lips returned. “I only care that you leave London. Immediately.”

  Considering that was exactly what she should be doing, Christine found herself less than pleased at the suggestion. “Or?” she prompted.

  “Or everyone will know you’re Everton’s whore,” Barbara spat.

  “Odd accusation for you to be making, Barbara,” a male voice drawled from behind them. Augustus Devlin draped an arm over each of their shoulders and leaned forward between them. “Pot calling the kettle black and all that rot, you know.”

  “Get away from me, you sot,” Lady Sinclair snapped.

  “And you stay away from Everton,” Kit warned in the same tone, then smiled. “Remember, if everyone knows about me, there’s no reason he should marry you.”

  “And you’re a greater fool than I, if you think he’ll marry you,” Barbara murmured. “Where did he find you anyway, Covent Garden? Do you make him buy you things before you let him between your legs?” She looked Christine up and down. “Tall thing like you, what are you worth, a shilling a go?”

  Augustus chuckled. “More than what you’d earn humping knights and esquires on Regent Street, Barbara.” He leaned closer to Lady Sinclair. “Leave off the girl, which, or I’ll have to begin spreading tales about your fondness for the shepherd-and-the-lost-sheep game, shan’t I, now.”

  Barbara pulled free of his grip, her face white. “You’ll never have him,” she whispered fiercely at Kit. “I’ll see you gone and his band on my finger by the end of the Season.”

  Augustus smiled. “Baa, baa.” When Lady Sinclair turned her back on them and stormed from the room, he turned his gaze on Kit. “Best watch her,” he commented, reaching past her for a sweet tart. “Not much for witty repartee, but some say she put a candlestick to the back of her late husband’s skull, the night she found him playing lost sheep with the upstairs maid.”

  Kit stood looking at him. He’d had the appearance of a specter before, but now his flesh had acquired an alabaster, paper-thin look to it, as if he might simply tear into small pieces and drift away in the next breeze. “I appreciate the warning,” she returned, wondering whether Fouché had suggested the viscount keep an eye on her, or if the meeting had been a coincidence. It saved her the trouble of tracking him down, but neither was she ready to confront him about his loyalties at Mercia Cralling’s recital.

  “Not at all, Kit.” He paused, lowering the tart. “What is your name, by the by?”

  There had been little doubt that he knew, but it was still jarring to hear the question. “Christine,” she said quietly.

  He nodded. “You were stunning at the ball the other night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can see why Alex has kept you to himself.”

  He was far more dangerous than Barbara Sinclair, Kit sensed, because he had far less to lose. Augustus Devlin was dying, with no family, and no heirs to speak of. If it suited him to do so, he would bandy her tale throughout London. If he knew enough about her, he could effectively ruin Alex’s reputation in the political arena, even get him arrested for harboring her under the noses of the ton. “It was necessary,” she answered in a low voice.

  “How much would you pay someone else to keep your secret, I wonder?” he continued, looking her slowly up and down. In the face of his sharp gaze, she realized that for once he was completely sober. “Or secrets, should I say? Would you lift your heels for me, Christine?”

 
; “I’ll tell Alex what you are, is what I’ll do,” she murmured, furious and uneasy.

  “He’ll never believe you.” Slowly he shook his head, his eyes holding hers. “You have no proof of anything, my dear. And a ramshackle girl like yourself, lovely as you may be, would hardly be the one to convince anyone else.”

  “But why do you hate Alex?” she whispered. She’d been the one raised to hate the English; he’d been raised as one of their elite.

  “That’s personal,” he returned softly.

  “I won’t let you hurt him,” she retorted fiercely.

  “Such loyalty,” he approved with a cynical smile. “But you’d be much wiser to simply stay out of it. And much safer.” The gray specter’s eyes held hers for another moment, then he slowly reached out and briefly touched her cheek with cool fingers. “Do tell Everton to make you come once, for me,” Lord Devlin murmured. “If he has another chance.”

  “Go to hell,” she said flatly, and turned on her heel, not wanting him to see that she was afraid for Alex.

  For a long moment he stood looking after her, his expression unreadable, then gestured at the footman to bring him a brandy. A large one.

  Chapter 17

  Suffolk was cold and wet, and Alex was grateful for it. The poor weather and the bad roads kept his mind from wandering. Hanton McAndrews left word for them at several posts along the way, and from their brevity it was obvious that the Scot was moving fast to keep up with the smugglers. Yet neither the knowledge that time was short, nor that a very serious task lay ahead, was enough to keep Alex’s thoughts from flying back to London—to Kit—every time he and Samuels stopped to rest the horses and ask for news.

  Kit had accepted the fact that he was going after her father with a surprising degree of restraint. Undoubtedly she expected that Stewart Brantley would be able to elude him, as he had done in the past. Alex had no intention of turning his back so completely on his duty, however, whatever he might secretly wish. And when he did catch their smuggler, he would lose Kit. And that was what haunted him.

  A day later and three miles from the sea, Alex and Samuels caught up to Hanton and the crates of weapons he was trailing. Despite his best efforts, Alex still had no idea whether Stewart Brantley had returned from Calais to personally escort the muskets.