“Ye ready, m’lord?” Hanton inquired, crouching down with him among the gray, weather-worn rocks where they’d been waiting for the past three hours to finally move against their quarry.
Alex rested his chin on his arm and looked down at the smugglers in the cove below. The boat had put in a little over an hour ago, but the men appeared to be in no hurry to load the crates. It made sense. There was still some time before the tide turned, and heavy, dark clouds were rumbling in from the northeast. In all likelihood they would wait for the first tide of the morning before they crossed the length of the Channel to Calais.
“May as well,” he muttered, sliding back away from the crest of the hill.
“Ye sound like you’re plannin’ a funeral, m’lord,” Hanton commented in his thick Scots brogue, his breath clouding in the cold air.
“It feels like it,” Alex admitted darkly, climbing to his feet and brushing at his breeches.
“Ye used t’enjoy this part, as I recall,” Hanton continued, following him back down the hill toward James Samuels and their waiting horses. “Ye’d be riding down on ’em like Lucifer himself, firing your pistols and bellowin’.”
“Yes, well, I’m much older and wiser now,” the earl retorted, grabbing his reins and swinging up into the saddle.
“Your da used t’hate those damned meetings, too, ye know,” Hanton said, mounting beside him. “Used t’say how much he envied that ye could go out and do something ’sides sit on yer arse and talk. Like ye have to do now, I mean.”
“You still play the bagpipes, Hanton?” Alex returned, kneeing Tybalt into a canter.
“Aye, m’lord. Why d’ye ask?”
“You have the wind for it. That’s for damned certain.”
On his other side Samuels gave a short laugh. “He’s got wind enough to play one under each arm.”
“Shut up, ye damned English,” Hanton retorted. “Should never’ve let me one daughter marry ye.”
The earl smiled at the exchange. It had been a year since he had last seen Hanton McAndrews, and better than three since he had last ridden with the Scot. Back then, the French had been raiding the coast and “confiscating” British goods, under Napoleon’s so-called Decree of Fontainebleau. Prince George had assigned Furth, Hanshaw, and the Cales to put a stop to it. After his father’s death, Alex had listened to Gerald and had stayed in London, to keep his precious Cale blood from being spilled in something as mundane as service to his country. Despite his frustration at not being able to take direct action, he had played politics, become bored, and played at being a rakehell again. It had taken Christine Brantley to drive him back out into the cold wet. And as he kicked Tybalt into a gallop to charge down into the cove, he was loving every minute of it.
Almost as much as he loved the spy waiting for him back in London. Alex took a ragged breath, surprised he had let himself admit to it, and surprised he had lasted for as long as he had without doing so.
A shot cracked sharply in the rocks around them as the smugglers spotted them, and Hanton shouldered his gelding into Alex’s black. “Keep your bloody head down, yer lordship!” he bellowed, firing a return round.
Alex shook himself, and motioned for Samuels and the two men pounding behind him to take the lead. While Hanton and his crew rode around the back of the cove to flank any escape attempt to the west or north, Alex and his men turned sharply east along the water to cut the smugglers off from the boat and the Channel as they bolted toward the sea.
“Stop right there!” he bellowed, pulling Tybalt up so short that they both nearly went down. He yanked his pistol free of his belt and pointed it at the head of the nearest man, while his associates moved to flank him on either side. At the sight of the weapons, the smugglers stopped and dropped their own arms.
“Got ’em, m’lord!” Hanton’s brogue came from the direction of the wagons. “Thirty crates, at least!”
Alex gave a short, relieved grin. They’d been in time. English soldiers weren’t going to die because he’d been a fool. “All right,” he said, urging Tybalt forward a few steps, “whom do these wagons belong to?”
No one stepped forward, though in truth he hadn’t expected anyone to do so. Hanton McAndrews made his way over beside him to hold Tybalt’s head while Alex dismounted. “No volunteers, eh?” the Scotsman scoffed.
“Doesn’t appear that way,” he replied. “I suppose they’d rather talk to the jailers in Old Bailey.” He pursed his lips for show, though real anger coursed through him at the thought of what would have happened if Hanton had been slower in tracking down the muskets. “Or better yet, Mr. Samuels, why don’t you bring us some rope?”
That produced an unsettled grumbling. A moment later, a gray-haired man with a round gut and bad teeth, whom he’d already pegged as the group’s leader, spat onto the rocks at his feet and slouched forward sullenly. “Will Debner,” he grunted in a thick Yorkshire accent. “They ain’t my wagons.”
Alex nodded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Debner. Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
With Samuels watching the others and Hanton trailing a few steps behind them, they clambered over the rough rocks around the point. Once they were out of sight and earshot, Alex turned around again. “Tell me how you came to acquire those weapons,” he said, grateful for his caped greatcoat. Out of the protection of the cove, the storm winds gusted hard and wet from the north.
Debner spat again and folded his arms. “And what do I get, then?”
“How about we don’t string ye up right here, ye bloody traitor?” Hanton snarled.
The earl raised a hand, and the Scotsman subsided. “I can put in a word to keep you from hanging.”
“For pulling some damned crates about?” the smuggler returned, his deep-set eyes shifting warily between Alex and the Scot.
“For smuggling weapons to the enemy during wartime,” Alex corrected succinctly. “That’s treason. Punishable by death.” He stepped forward and shoved Debner hard into a boulder, wondering if he was going to have to say those same words to Kit. “Where did you get the muskets?”
The smuggler rubbed at his chest. “You’ll keep me alive, yer lordship?”
“I’ll not let them hang you,” Alex corrected, wondering if the man understood the distinction. Even with a handful of supposedly more humane ordinances in place, there was still a wide variety of ways to put a criminal to death.
Debner scowled, narrowed his eyes, and shifted his feet on the stones. “I know a gentleman, in France. An ex-English blue blood, he is.”
“His name?” Alex insisted, hoping the smuggler couldn’t read his expression.
“Brantley, he calls himself. Stewart Brantley. He sent word that I was to go to York, and those wagons would be waiting for me in an old barn. And they were. And here I am. Hardly worth a hangin’ at all, wouldn’t you say?”
Alex ignored the appeal. “Once you loaded them on the boat, where were the crates to go?”
He felt rather than saw Hanton holding his breath. This was the critical question. Because they’d seized the crates before they left English soil, no real crime but theft had been committed. Unless they got an admission of one.
“Brantley was t’meet us in Calais ’n a few days. We started for the coast early because of the damned foul weather.”
The earl glanced at Hanton, who nodded. He started forward to lead the smuggler back to the others, but Alex put an arm across his barrel chest and stopped him.
“You’ve worked with this Brantley before, I assume?” Alex continued, every part of him wishing not to. But he had to know.
“Aye,” Debner admitted, squinting his good eye. “But I ain’t confessing to nothing you don’t already know about.”
“Quite right.” Alex nodded, keeping his frustration hidden behind a neutral expression and clenched fists. “I was wondering, though, if you’ve had dealings with any other English, ah, blue bloods.”
The smuggler spat again. “And what’ll this get me?”
; “The best I can manage for you,” Alex snarled, what remained of his patience seeping away in cold and agonizing uncertainty. Hanton was alert beside him, obviously curious at the questions. “Which is a great deal. Answer the damned question.”
“Aye. Skinny, light-haired fellow. Sharp, ’e was, and pretty in that blue-blood way o’ yours. Ain’t seen ’im for maybe a year, though.”
Alex’s mouth was so dry, he had to swallow before he could speak. “I’ll do what I can for you.”
With a slow breath, he turned around to face the sea. Without a word Hanton marched past him and shoved Will Debner back in the direction of the cove. Alex heard them leave, but didn’t turn. For a long time he stood looking out at the rough, wind-scalloped waters of the Channel. France was there, out of sight behind a wall of clouds to the south, Belgium and Wellington slightly farther east. And Napoleon Bonaparte was somewhere between the two.
He felt somewhere between the two himself. He’d known already that Kit had been involved with her father’s small-coin smuggling, and he didn’t really care much about that. Napoleon had been on Elba then, and hungry people would be fed, one way or another. It was the guns that concerned him. Debner’s not seeing the skinny, pretty blond boy for a year didn’t mean that she hadn’t been involved. Or it might. Alex grimaced and ran a hand through his windblown hair. Enough was enough. He’d played the game against too many opponents who were supposed to be his allies, and it was time he let at least one of them in on what was happening.
“It’ll be dark soon, m’lord,” Hanton said from behind him, and Alex nodded.
“Everyone ready to go?” he asked without turning around.
“Aye. Everybody wrapped up nice and tight for ’Is Majesty.” The Scot stood silently on the rocks for a moment. “This skinny boy. Ye know him,” he stated finally.
“I do.” He sighed and turned around. “You’d best get the crates and horses to shelter before the storm breaks, and then head south in the morning.”
“And you, Master Alex?”
“I’m headed back to London tonight.”
Christine squatted down in the bushes along the main path at Vauxhall Gardens and waited. The ground was damp and cold, and with the fog having rolled in, the leaves and twigs pricking into her arms were already picking up a share of nightly dew. Ivy and Gerald would be furious if they discovered her absence, but then if they wanted to keep her inside, they shouldn’t have given her a room with a window and a convenient rose trellis outside. In fact, she had planned to return before now, in case Gerald decided to try to cheer her up with a game of billiards as he had done last evening. And she would have been back at Downing House already if Reg Hanshaw had bothered to be home when she went calling. But he hadn’t been, and this was the direction his stuffy butler had given, and so she waited.
Prowling about Vauxhall might have been more productive, except that her loathsome uncle was still in London, and Reg was just as likely to be in the company of the entire damned Brantley clan as to be alone with Caroline. In truth, hating Caroline was somewhat more difficult than she had expected. Resolving her feelings toward her cousin, however, was not her reason for hiding in the bushes. She wasn’t exactly certain why she was there, for presumably if Augustus Devlin was working with Fouché and she was working with Stewart Brantley, they were on the same side. Except that Fouché would kill the Earl of Everton if he could arrange it, and she would do anything, anything, to keep that from happening.
Finally, while strolling about the fountains in the company of Lord Bandwyth and after nearly having her hand stepped on by Lady Julia Penston, she spied Reg over by the gazebo. Caroline was with him, but so were Mercia Cralling, Celeste Montgomery, Francis Henning, and Lord Andrew Grambush. Kit took a moment to wonder when Mercia had begun seeing Grambush behind her back, then shook herself, rose, brushed off her coat, and strolled over to greet them.
“Kit.” Reg grinned, stepping forward as he spied her approaching. “Thought you’d be back in Ireland by now.” He put out his hand, and Kit shook it.
He was genuinely pleased to see her. Alex then really had told him nothing about her. “Father was delayed. I’ll be going in a day or two.”
“I do wish you could persuade him to let you stay the remainder of the Season, Mr. Riley,” Caroline cajoled with an enchanting smile.
Kit smiled back at her a bit absently, and returned her attention to Reg. “Might I have a word with you?” she requested, trying to make the query meaningful to him, but innocent to everyone else in the party.
The baron looked at her speculatively for a moment, then nodded. “Grambush, do buy the ladies some ices,” he suggested. “Kit and I will be along in a bit.”
Grambush offered an arm each to Mercia and Caroline, while Francis and Miss Montgomery fell in behind. “Take your time, gentlemen.”
When the rest of the party had made their way down the path, Reg turned to look at her. “If you’re wondering where Everton’s gone, I can’t—”
“No, no,” she cut him off, shaking her head. “I know it’s secret state’s business and all that rot. What I want to know is, does Augustus know where he’s gone?”
The baron frowned. “Augustus? Why would he—”
“Does he know, Reg?” she repeated firmly, wondering just how much she was willing to divulge. She was balancing on a very thin rail, and the wind was gusting. Falling on one side would kill Alex, and landing on the other would get her father, and likely herself, hanged.
“No. I never told him, at any rate. And Alex still isn’t speaking to him. So no. I don’t see how he could.”
Kit gave a small sigh of relief and nodded. “Thank you.”
Before she could turn away, Reg grabbed her arm. “Why are you worried over Augustus?”
Looking into the serious blue eyes below his rakishly bandaged forehead, Kit realized that he had been playing a game all along, as well. Whimsical and a bit silly, perhaps, but only on the outside. On the inside, he was likely as formidable an opponent as she knew Alex to be. He was also the only one in London right now whom she could trust. If she dared. “I…saw him, the other day, talking to a Frenchman.”
Reg relaxed a fraction and released his hold on her sleeve. “There are some living in London,” he noted.
She swallowed. “He was in an alley at the time.”
The frown returned. “In an al—”
“At midnight.”
The frown remained on his face while he held her gaze, though his attention wasn’t on her. He was running calculations, possibilities, through his mind, she knew, trying to weigh what she’d said against what he knew about Augustus and the French smugglers they were after. Finally he blinked and shook his head. “No. I know you want to help, and that things have been a bit…exciting,” he offered, fingering his bandage, “but Augustus is not only our friend, he’s practically Everton’s family. This is important business, Kit. Don’t repeat what you’ve told me to anyone else, or you might get yourself, and Alex, into difficulties.”
He had no idea what she was risking, so of course, there was no real reason to believe a foolish young Irishman who’d been begging after an exciting royal appointment. “Reg, don’t be so stupid,” she said urgently. “Devlin knows what’s going on, and he hates Alex.”
“He does not hate Alex. He merely…says things when he’s cast away. They’ll be bosom cronies again in a week. It’s happened before.” Reg clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everton’ll be home tomorrow. Day after, at the latest. You can let him in on your suspicions, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”
Kit shrugged free of his grip. “He already has.”
“Well, come and join us, then. We’re on our way to see the fireworks.”
“Thank you, no. I’ve got to get back.” She turned around, then bit her lower lip and faced the baron again. “Reg, don’t tell Devlin I said that about him.”
He looked at her oddly for a brief moment, then shook himself. “Don’
t worry, Kit. I won’t.”
Hopefully that would keep Hanshaw safe until she could convince Alex—or, if she was left no other choice, take care of Devlin herself. “Good,” she muttered, hurrying back into the shadows.
Reg looked after her for a moment, then shook his head and turned to rejoin his party. “Couldn’t be,” he muttered. “Impossible.”
Bone-tired and cold, Alex climbed the shallow granite steps of Brantley House and struck the knocker against the door panel. A moment later Royce pulled open the door, and with a polite greeting and a distasteful look at his muddy boots, ushered him up to the drawing room. It had been over a year since Alex had last set foot inside these walls. Though he had known Martin Brantley for years, he found himself viewing the place with new eyes. The rooms all had the formal, stiff feel of unused furniture, which made sense considering the small amount of time the Brantleys, and particularly Martin, spent in London. Not until Caroline’s coming-out this Season had any of the family stayed more than a few days in town at one time.
He took a turn about the drawing room while Royce went to inform His Grace that he had a caller. Two walls of the room were lined with family portraits, including, surprisingly enough, one of a younger Martin Brantley and his brother astride a pair of bay hunters. Perhaps the anger between the brothers only ran in one direction.
There were several portraits of Caroline at varying ages, and he glanced over them with mild curiosity. He’d known her since she was twelve, likely the reason he hadn’t become infatuated with the young beauty as Hanshaw and some of the other ton bucks had. One of the paintings close to the corner of the room caught his attention, and he stopped to examine it more closely. The girl, perhaps five years old and dressed in a high-waisted pink muslin, smiled as she dragged her bonnet along behind her while she strolled in front of a bed of daisies. Whoever the artist was, he had captured with stunning perfection the mischievous glint in the green eyes, and the grin that lighted her face. He smiled back and reached out to touch the child’s cheek gently with the back of one finger. “Kit,” he whispered.
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