He was sitting at a table in the back, where he could observe everyone else’s comings and goings. He spied her immediately, and with a look she couldn’t quite read, he leaned forward and poured her a brandy. “Gerald and Ivy tied up in the cellar, I presume?” he murmured.
“Nonsense,” she returned, watching him carefully for any sign of what he might be thinking. “So my father…”
“Is God knows where, making life more difficult for the rest of us,” he finished, taking a heavy swallow of brandy and glancing over her shoulder toward the door.
She followed his gaze, but only the club regulars seemed to be about this early in the evening. “Is something wrong?” she asked quietly, wanting to run her fingers along his cheek.
“Well, not entirely,” he admitted, fiddling with the snifter and avoiding her gaze. “I did something that you may not—damnation, won’t like, but I want you to know that it is only because I want what’s best for you.”
She tilted her head at him. “What the deuce are you talking about?” she demanded, an uneasy chill running through her.
Alex glanced toward the door again, then shut his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “I have to ask you a question.”
She leaned forward. “Not that silly marital obligation mess, I hope,” she said under her breath. “This is hardly the place for it.”
He shook his head, his expression easing into humorous exasperation. “You truly play hell with a man’s ego, chit,” he muttered.
She gave a brief smile. “Why don’t we go back to Cale House, and I’ll make it up to you?” she suggested slyly.
“Wanton,” he whispered. “Don’t tempt me.” He sat forward, further closing the distance between them. “Do you know exactly what your father has been smuggling?”
She went still. “What did you find out?”
He reached out and gripped her fingers, which caused the gaggle of bucks at the neighboring table to begin nudging one another and chuckling. Either Alex didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. “Tell me the truth. Just for one damned time. Whatever your answer is, I swear I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She pulled her hand free. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “And I’ve already told you, over and over again, that I can take care of myself.”
“This isn’t about that,” he retorted. “Please. Tell me.”
“Ask me straight out, anything, and I’ll tell you,” she responded, his serious expression frightening her a little. “I won’t play at fishing.”
“All right.” He took a shallow breath, obviously reluctant to continue. “Are you aware that your father is smuggling weapons to Bonaparte?”
Kit could only stare at him. Gold, she’d thought all along, and hadn’t let herself dwell on what Napoleon might be purchasing with it. Not weapons. Her father wouldn’t do that. “Liar,” she spat, recoiling as he reached for her hand again.
“I am not lying.” Alex’s face was drawn and pale, no trace of amusement in his eyes. “Do you think I enjoyed knowing about this?”
“You are lying. My father would never—never—go that far.” She slammed her fist on the table.
“He has, Kit. I have witnesses. And some of them say you’re involved, as well.”
“You bastard,” she whispered. “I hate you.”
He leaned forward quickly, surprised dismay crossing his features before the proud, angry mask settled over his face. “I’m trying to help you, Christine,” he murmured roughly. “Don’t you understand what this means? Your father is wanted by the government of England for treason. I, I, had to give Prince George his name this morning. And I did not give him yours. Nothing will happen to you.” He held her gaze. “But I need to know, just between us, if you knew about this. If you knew about the weapons.”
“You’re mad,” she snarled, shoving to her feet. “How could you think—” She stopped herself, unable to continue the accusation. Of course he could think such a thing. From looking at the facts of her presence here, from the spying she’d been doing, there was no reason he should not. Unless he truly knew her, knew that she could never help kill anyone. Even British soldiers. But he didn’t know her. Not at all. “I’m leaving,” she whispered, wanting to flee before he said anything even more terrible. She turned around quickly, and slammed into someone. “Apologies,” she managed, backing up.
“My God,” a faintly familiar, faintly remembered voice said from directly in front of her. “It was you all along.”
She looked up, and froze. The Duke of Furth stood staring at her. There was gray in his hair now, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his face was a little less angular. But she’d heard his voice only days ago, and it could be no other. “You…” she began, stepping back and turning away from his gaze.
“Kit,” Alex’s voice came from behind her, more controlled now. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t expected it to happen this way. I meant to tell you first. I—”
She whipped around to face him. “You are the traitor here!” she shouted, unmindful of the astounded stir she was causing throughout the club. “And I will have nothing further to do with you!” She turned on her heel. “With any of you!”
Alex slammed to his feet as, with a look of furious contempt, Christine turned her back on him and strode from the room. “Kit!” he roared, as if volume would somehow make her turn around and come back to listen to reason. She disappeared from sight, and he rounded the table to go after her. Something had gone terribly wrong, and he had more than an inkling that he had made a grave error in judgment. He hoped with all his heart that he had. But she damned well wasn’t leaving until he was certain.
“Everton,” the Duke of Furth snarled from beside him.
Alex had forgotten his presence, and he spared the duke a quick glance. “Later,” he growled.
“Now,” Furth returned, and drove his fist full into Alex’s jaw.
Taken completely by surprise, the earl sat down hard on Kit’s chair, which thankfully she had left standing, or he would have ended up sprawled on the floor. His first impulse was to snap back to his feet and level Martin Brantley. Instead, he sat where he was and lifted a hand to rub at his jaw. “I assume you have a damned good explanation for that,” he growled.
“You knew all along that Kit Riley was my niece,” Furth hissed, sitting opposite him, his face white with fury. “And I have no doubt from what I witnessed at that bloody masquerade ball, and just now, that you have ruined her. By God, Alexander, I should kill you!”
Alex leaned forward, his own temper pushed as far as it could go without exploding. “She blames you for the death of her mother, and the very mention of your name makes her ill. You—”
“That is not—”
“You,” Alex hammered over the duke’s protest, “are here only because after we arrest your dear brother, I didn’t want her to leave my protection and have nowhere to turn.” He stood, still holding Furth’s angry gaze steadily. “At the moment, I don’t give a damn about your concerns. I am going to find Kit.” He turned for the door.
“I’m going with you,” came from behind him.
Alex spared a glance over his shoulder, though he didn’t slow down. “You can go to hell, Your Grace.”
Kit had, of course, absconded with Waddle and the coach, which he counted as a good sign. If she was stealing his things, perhaps she could still be reasoned with. As one of the club’s footmen flagged down a hack for him, he checked his pocket watch, and was rather amazed to realize that the entire argument and following debacle had only lasted twelve minutes. He ordered the coach to Cale House, reasoning that she would head where she felt most comfortable.
Wenton appeared surprised to see the master of the house returning in a hired hack, but claimed not to have seen Kit.
“Are you certain, blast it?” Alex growled, angry that he had guessed wrong. He’d been doing far too much of that this evening.
“Yes, my lord. I haven’t seen…him for several d
ays.”
“Damnation,” he said, then jabbed a finger at the butler. “If Kit appears, keep her here. I don’t care if you have to knock her out and tie her up to do it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” Wenton answered, a rather anticipatory gleam entering his eyes. “Quite clear.”
He sent the hack away and had Conklin saddle Tybalt, who was none too pleased at the short rest. Alex wasn’t, either. Weariness and tension tightened his shoulders as he pounded through Mayfair in the dark. If she wasn’t at the Downings’, he was going to wring her neck.
She was at the Downings’. He knew it as soon as he rode into the drive and saw Waddle sitting on his perch looking bewildered. Gerald was halfway onto his gray gelding, his expression frighteningly sober. “Alex, thank God,” he said, removing his foot from the stirrup and striding forward to grab Tybalt’s bridle.
“Where is she?”
“I was just riding to find you. What in God’s name did you say to that girl?” his cousin asked hotly.
Everyone in London appeared to be angry at him tonight, but only one woman’s feelings concerned him in the slightest. “None of your damned affair. Where is she?”
“Alex?” Ivy’s voice came from the doorway.
The worried, uneasy feeling that had been building inside him since Christine had run out of the Traveller’s edged into full-fledged panic. He jumped out of the saddle and made his way around the Downings and into the house. “Kit!” he bellowed, shoving past Fender and making for the stairs. “Kit, I’m sorry! Let me explain!”
“Alex!” Gerald’s sharp voice came from behind him.
“What?” he snarled, taking the steps two at a time.
“She’s not here.”
He froze. One hand gripping the railing, he shut his eyes. “Where did she go?”
“She came running in,” Ivy’s voice took up, “though how she got out, I don’t know. She never—”
“Where did she go?” Alex repeated harshly, opening his eyes and turning to look down at his cousin.
“She said she was going to join her father.”
Alex slowly sat down on the stairs. It felt as though the air had been knocked out of his lungs, and it took him a moment before he could even say the words aloud. “She’s gone back to France,” he whispered.
“We tried to stop her,” Gerald offered, “but she was quite angry.”
The earl lurched to his feet again. “She’s a damned female, Gerald,” he rasped, vaulting back down the stairs. “You could have stopped her.”
He made his way outside again, the Downings trailing behind him, both wearing deeply wounded expressions. “Alex, I’m sorry,” Gerald repeated.
“Don’t be,” he said shortly, swinging up onto Tybalt again. “She’s not going anywhere. Not until I get a chance to straighten this out.”
“She took my best hunter,” his cousin pointed out.
“Over half an hour ago,” Ivy added.
“I’ll catch her in Dover,” Alex insisted, trying not to listen.
“I know you’re fond of her,” Ivy commented, obviously trying to soothe him. “Gerald and I are, too. Quite fond. But she couldn’t stay here any longer, anyway. You know that. Perhaps she’ll be better off in Paris, after—”
“No!” Tybalt skittered beneath him at the outburst, and Alex yanked him back around.
“Alex, you—”
“No! She’s not leaving me this easily. Not without one bloody hell of a fight.” He kicked the stallion and rode out into the dark.
Chapter 19
Alex paced angrily at the end of Dover pier, while Gerald engaged in a lengthy and cumbersome interrogation of an increasingly suspicious ferryman. After what felt like hours, but must have been no more than a few minutes, his cousin handed the man a few shillings and tipped his hat. With a last look at him, the ferryman strolled off, whistling, to his shanty.
“Is he certain it was she?” Alex asked impatiently, stalking over to where Gerald stood looking out over the water.
“He nearly wouldn’t talk to me at all, with you standing there glowering like a gargoyle,” his cousin grumbled.
“Was she on the ship?” Alex insisted, not interested in his cousin’s commentary.
“Tall, well-featured, yellow-haired boy with a portmanteau, tipped well, and wouldn’t talk to anyone,” Gerald returned, ticking off each point on his fingers.
“Except for the not talking, it sounds like her,” Alex admitted reluctantly, alarm over her safety tearing through him with each pulse of the waters carrying her away. “And of course, she just made the tide, which puts her another twelve hours ahead of me, at the least.” He slapped his hand against the pilings. “Bloody chit has the luck of the Irish, that’s for damned certain.”
“Precisely what do you mean, ‘ahead of you’?” Gerald asked slowly.
“She’s not escaping that easily,” Alex stated, glancing at his pocket watch for the fiftieth time since they’d left London.
His cousin began shaking his head. “No. You are not going to France, Alexander.”
“Yes, I am.”
“There’s a war on, damn it!”
“I know that. And Christine Brantley’s going to be right in the middle of it. And it’s my fault.” That was what troubled him most. Whatever she felt about him, he wanted her to be safe.
“What exactly is it that you did, to make her flee the country?”
Alex glared at his cousin for a moment. “I had Furth meet us at the Traveller’s,” he admitted reluctantly.
Gerald looked at him. “Why, pray tell?” he queried faintly.
“I wanted him to protect her. I’d thought to cushion the blow first, but being my usual ham-fisted self, I managed to start an argument with her over her father, instead.”
“Even so, cousin, she’s the one who decided to leave.”
“She said she wouldn’t,” Alex insisted, knowing he was being stubborn and unreasonable and irrational.
“Don’t you think you’re being rather, how shall I say…obsessive?” Gerald asked carefully.
Alex looked out over the dark waters of the Channel, and at the lights of Calais glowing faintly through the mist just under the horizon. Somewhere between here and there was Christine. Weariness, frustration, anger, and loneliness hit him in succession, as they had when Ivy first announced that Kit had left him. “I love her, Gerald,” he murmured.
For a long moment Gerald just looked at him. “I’ll go with you,” he said finally.
Alex shook his head. “If something happens to me, you are the end of the Cale-Downing bloodline. Besides that, Ivy would murder me if I let you go. You stay here.”
“You are not going alone,” Gerald protested, though he appeared somewhat relieved to be excluded. Alex didn’t blame him. For anyone but Christine, he wouldn’t for a moment consider making the journey himself. A captured Englishman, especially one in the employ of His Majesty, would be a dead Englishman.
“I’ll be fine,” he returned, turning back to the head of the pier for Tybalt and the hunter Kit had left behind. With almost twelve hours before the tide changed again, he would just have time to ride back to London, gather some essentials, and return to Dover to take the next ship to Calais.
“If I may pose a question?” Gerald asked, falling in behind him.
“What?”
“How will you find her once you get to France?”
Alex stopped. By the time he put in at Calais, she would have twelve hours on him. All he knew of her whereabouts in Paris was that she and her father lived in Saint-Marcel, if that wasn’t another lie. Beyond that it would be hunches and guesswork, which under the circumstances would be neither the fastest nor the safest route to follow. Not that it mattered, for he would do whatever was necessary to find her. He started to answer that he would manage somehow, when it abruptly occurred to him that he might have an easier time of it than he’d imagined. “She’ll come to me.”
“And how will you m
anage that feat, when she’s already crossed the Channel to get away from you?” Gerald asked skeptically.
“I told you, it was a misunderstanding,” Alex growled.
“The size of Yorkshire,” his cousin added.
“Shut up, Gerald.” Alex swung into the saddle.
“Angry as you may be, cousin,” Gerald persisted, “you’re not leaving England without telling me what you’re planning.”
“Stewart Brantley is expecting a shipment of weapons to arrive in Calais any time now,” he returned impatiently as his cousin mounted up beside him. “He’ll be waiting there for them. And he’ll take me to her, or I’ll kill him.”
“Saints bless us, Alexander,” his cousin said resignedly as they started back on the road to London. “You’re going to get us all in one hell of a lot of trouble.”
Alex gave a brief grin, grateful to have something to do besides worry. “I already have. But you’re right. I’m certain it will get worse.”
The Duke of Furth paced in his study, unmindful that it was several hours past midnight, and that his wife and daughter had retired to their respective bedchambers some time ago. Despite Everton’s plainly voiced wishes, he had followed the earl to Gerald Downing’s town house. While he had been unable to overhear the conversation, from the speed at which Everton, followed by his cousin, had departed, they were in pursuit of someone, and it took little deductive reasoning to guess who it might be. It had taken even less effort to return to Brantley House and dispatch one of his more trustworthy footmen to Cale House to watch for Alex Cale, and another to Dover.
He would not let events slip away from him again. And as Everton seemed to have the best idea of what was going on, keeping an eye on the earl seemed the wisest decision. And so Martin Brantley was still pacing an hour later when the man he had dispatched to Dover returned, tired and breathless. “Out with it,” he snapped, seating himself behind his desk.
“The Earl of Everton and Mr. Downing went to Dover, all right, but they weren’t there for long.”
Lady Rogue Page 32
