“They set sail?” he asked sharply, leaning forward.
“No, Your Grace. The tide had turned. They stood about talking for a few minutes, then rode back to town like the devil was after them. I came straight back here to tell you.”
“So she’s gone back to Stewart,” Furth muttered darkly. “Damn Alexander for not telling her I would be there.” He was a little surprised that Alex had returned to London; it seemed he’d misinterpreted several things concerning Everton and Christine. Odd, that.
“Your Grace?”
“Nothing, Edmund. Go get some rest.”
The footman bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
It made sense that the earl would return to Cale House, and Furth was less than surprised when half an hour later his second footman appeared to give his report. “An old man came to the house, and then a few minutes later he and his lordship left again. His lordship was wearing old clothes, like a commoner.”
Martin Brantley watched his footman out the door and then sat back in his chair. “So he’s going to Calais after all,” he murmured. “And with a war on yet.” The Earl of Everton had been behaving in a rather uncharacteristically haphazard manner for the past few weeks, in fact, a circumstance that coincided with Christine’s arrival in London. Apparently he had been correct in his interpretation of Everton’s state of mind, after all. Displeased by events and yet at the same time slightly reassured, he stood and went to wake his butler. He had some preparations of his own to make.
Calais was in a worse state than it had been when Christine had departed France a little less than a month ago. Confident as she was in her ability to navigate the streets, the heavy portmanteau she carried, and the nearly two thousand pounds inside it, made her acutely conscious of the beggars and thieves and army deserters wandering the streets in profusion. She should have left the blunt behind, but it was dearer than lifeblood to her right now. Aside from the clothes, it was all of him that she had taken, and such a sum meant less than nothing to someone as wealthy as Alexander Cale.
Besides, Everton had brought in the Duke of Furth, knowing full well how much she detested her uncle. Damn Alex anyway, for deciding he needed to take care of her, as if she were some sort of weak-minded miss. She could fend for herself. She didn’t need him. And she didn’t miss him. And she didn’t care that Viscount Devlin wanted him dead, and that Everton hadn’t a clue.
Her father wasn’t at the tiny room they kept a short distance from the waterfront, but he obviously was living there, and she heaved a relieved sigh. At least Fouché hadn’t been lying about Stewart’s whereabouts or his well-being. She removed the money from the portmanteau, and then stuffed the bag under her cot. They’d been burglarized before, in Paris, and she would feel safer if the blunt stayed with her.
Relieved as she was at having caught up to her father, she hesitated a time before going out to seek him. He would be furious at her for returning on her own, and for the ruckus she had no doubt made in London upon her departure. She opened the small cupboard by the one and only door the shabby room boasted, and grimaced. As usual, there was nothing to eat. It startled her a little to realize that she had eaten nothing since dining with the Downings the night before, nearly twenty-four hours earlier. With another sigh, she made her way down in the gathering dark to one of the local taverns to get a meal.
The first person she encountered in the doorway of L’Ange Déchu was a large, drunk blacksmith, and as she elbowed him out of the way and stepped inside, she reflected with a slight grin that Francis Henning would be appalled at the company she was keeping.
“Kit!” Bertrand called from his usual spot behind the bar, and lifted a pair of mugs in her direction. “Welcome back, boy!”
Kit gave him a mock salute and dropped into a chair by the fire. “Thank you, Bertrand,” she returned in French, and requested a bowl of gravy and biscuits. After a month of thinking and speaking in English, except for a few choice insults to Alex, switching back to French felt odd. And in times such as these, making a slip would be dangerous. She would have to be careful.
“Kit!” Stewart Brantley’s jovial voice came from the doorway, and she looked up as he stepped into the tavern. “Welcome to Calais, my son.”
As Kit smiled and rose to receive a kiss on either cheek, she studied her father’s countenance, looking both for some sign that he was angry at her, and any indication that what Alex had told her about him was true. She saw nothing other than pleased welcome in his eyes, but that was no surprise. She’d played games of chance against him often enough to know how proficient he was at disguising his thoughts. She stepped back from her father, motioning him to take a seat, and called for a bottle of ale.
“So, dear one,” Stewart murmured, sliding onto the bench opposite her. “Why have you left London and your cousin?”
“I was worried about you,” she replied in the same tone, reluctant to tell him the entire tale. “I expected you to collect me before you vanished.”
“You should know by now, child, that I can take care of myself quite adequately, and that I would come for you when I was ready for you to return.” He leaned forward, a displeased look crossing his features for the first time.
Kit nodded, angrier than she expected at his cool assumption that she would simply follow his lead, even not knowing where in God’s name he’d gotten to. “Forgive me for being concerned about you, then.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Angry, child? I thought you would be pleased to stay with your cousin another few days.”
There was the possibility, she realized, that he had known all along that Alexander Cale was his English spy. As she eyed him, though, it was impossible to tell whether he knew anything of Everton’s involvement. And if he didn’t know, she didn’t wish to tell him. He would ask too many questions, and it would hurt too much. She didn’t dare question her own silence beyond that. “Why would I want to spend more time with that arrogant bastard than I have to?”
Stewart Brantley motioned Bertrand for a plate of stew. “No reason.”
“By the by,” she added, “Fouché shot Lord Hanshaw before I could give him the name.” She leaned forward. “Which raises the question, if the comte had his own informant, what the deuce did you need me in London for?”
He looked at her for a moment, then lifted his mug and drank. “I refuse to put my monetary and physical well-being in the hands of the Comte de Fouché.” Stewart Brantley pursed his lips, brief humor lighting his characteristically hard features. “But neither do I care to put all of my proverbial eggs in one basket.”
So she was simply part of his plot. That wasn’t so unusual, though in the past he had at least told her the circumstances. Christine found that she didn’t like the idea of being one of his pawns. “Fouché knows…about me,” she commented, watching again for his reaction.
Stewart nodded, his cool, assessing gaze on her. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll be leaving France in another few days.” He took another swallow. “Whichever way this commotion ends, there’s more profit to be found elsewhere.”
Christine stirred at her gravy with one finger. Anywhere away from London, away from him, seemed both terrible and a tremendous relief. She wanted to be nowhere she might ever see him again, even by accident. “Good,” she muttered at her dinner.
There was silence for a moment. “So may I assume that Everton has satisfied his debt of honor to me?” her father murmured finally, looking into his mug.
“As much as such a man cares for honor,” she returned, the words difficult to force out through her tightening throat. “When do we leave?”
“Ah,” he breathed, sipping at his ale. “I see. He bedded you, and—”
Kit blanched. “Papa,” she hissed, glancing about.
“—you suddenly became offended at the transgression and ran home,” he finished. The look he gave her was both annoyed and disappointed. “Or do I err?”
It wasn’t remotely what she had thought to hear. He’d expected it, perhaps even ant
icipated it, and had probably thought to use her connection with Everton to further his own plans. “I didn’t run because of him,” she muttered between clenched jaws, abruptly very tired of being used. “He introduced me to someone last night.”
Stewart’s expression flicked into puzzlement for a bare moment. “Who?”
“It seems he was concerned enough about your failure to reappear for me in London that—”
“Oh, he was, was he?” her father murmured.
“He was concerned enough about my being without family that he introduced me to the Duke of Furth.”
It wasn’t strictly the truth, for she had a hunch that Alex had been motivated more by his continuing absurd desire to protect her from harm than by concern for her loneliness, but it had the intended effect. Her father’s face went white. He slammed to his feet, the bench overturning behind him. “You spoke to that…bastard?”
Kit delayed answering for a moment. He kept his eyes on her face, and she could feel his deep annoyance at her. Angry as she was, though, she’d never refused to answer him before, and she couldn’t do it now. He was her father, her only family. “Just long enough to take my leave and get out.”
Stewart held her gaze for another heartbeat, then let out his breath and turned to right the bench again. “Feel better now?” he queried.
“Not really. I’ve always trusted you. I don’t know why you won’t trust me. I’m not a wee babe anymore.”
“I know that. And so does Everton, I presume.” The tavern was filling as the night grew darker, and through the rising sounds around them, his low voice was barely audible. “You’ve become quite a dancer, Kit,” her father continued. “But never dance with me. Or, for your own sake, with Fouché.” He grimaced. “At least he’s still kicking his heels in London.”
“No, he’s not.”
Stewart blinked. “Damnation,” he hissed, in English. “You’re certain?” When she nodded, her father finished off his ale and stood. “In that case, I’ve something to attend to. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Why? Where are you going?” she asked, tossing a few coins on the table and rising to follow him outside.
Though it was summer and the evening fairly warm, a few bonfires were scattered about the street corners, the citizens standing in their yellow light, laughing and passing bottles of cheap wine around. The groups were smaller than they had been before she’d left for London, and she could feel a faint line of tension in the air. Napoleon would have arrived in Belgium by now. The Duke of Wellington and the British army were there as well, and France was waiting, its breath held, to see what would happen next.
“There’s a shipment waiting here for me to collect,” her father was saying. “I’d thought to keep my distance for another few days, in case…you and Fouché were unsuccessful. But if Fouché’s here, he’ll be howling at my door for them.”
“For what?” she asked coolly. She would have her answer now. There would be no more secrets, no more lies, and no more pawns. She would know, or they would be through.
He stopped and turned to face her. “So, what do you think you know, daughter?” he queried, folding his arms over his chest, skepticism running across his features in the near darkness.
“I think you’re supplying weapons to Napoleon,” she answered slowly. “And I want to know why.”
“Because he’ll lose, and leave me wealthy,” her father replied easily. “And we won’t have to live in bloody, filthy Saint-Marcel any longer.”
“So you kill English soldiers to butter your bread,” she snapped. “With the profit for goods, I could understand your selling supplies to Bonaparte. But weapons? Against your own countrymen?”
“They are not my damned countrymen,” he snarled. “The entire island can sink into the cold North Sea, for all I care.”
Kit licked her lips, and self-consciously touched her coat above the pouch of currency she carried. “What if we didn’t have to sell weapons to be wealthy?”
“What’s your scheme then, girl?”
She hesitated, and lowered her hand. Eventually she would tell him about the blunt, but for tonight it would remain her secret. Hers and Alex Cale’s. “None. But what if it wasn’t necess—”
He grabbed her arm and shook it hard enough to jar her neck. “I do not have room or time for dreaming, Kit! And it is not your place to question me, or my motives, just because you’ve spent a few weeks in a grand mansion in London and got yourself bedded by an earl. You weren’t his first, and you won’t be his last.” He released her, taking a few stiff steps away and then turning back again. “I make the decisions for this family. Is that clear?”
Kit looked at him. Because he’d lied to her, she’d run away from the only chance, slim though it might have been, to have a happy life. She’d run away from someone she loved more dearly than she had ever thought or hoped to. But Stewart Brantley’s lies and schemes were what had kept them alive for thirteen years and through a handful of wars. And, quite simply, there was nowhere else she could go. “Yes, Papa.” She nodded slowly.
“Good girl. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
She shook her head, refusing to be left in the blind any longer. “I’m going with you.”
“Ah, a child after my own heart,” he cooed, and motioned for her to precede him up the stairs.
“I’m not a child any longer,” she said almost soundlessly, wiping at the tears gathering in her eyes. The Earl of Everton thought her a traitor. She might as well become one.
Chapter 20
“Calm down now, Master Alex,” Hanton McAndrews soothed. The Scotsman squatted and tugged at the ropes keeping the smuggler Will Debner in their company. Satisfied that the bindings remained tight, he faced the earl again. “Ye’ll have the local constabulary down on us, ye keep bellowing like that.”
“I’m not bellowing,” Alex retorted, rising and stalking over to the nearest window. Like the half dozen others in the old warehouse, it was shuttered, but the wood was half-rotted from age and damp, and splintered twilight scattered over the dirt at his feet. With no air circulating, it was warm and close inside, but they didn’t dare open a window for ventilation. Not with the French, growing more agitated by the moment, all around them. Even now, the faint sounds of a street rally reverberated down the narrow alleyway the warehouse backed up to. The citoyens were working themselves into a fine lather as battle loomed between Napoleon and the British, and Alex had no wish to be at the receiving end of their hostility. “I’m merely concerned.” He scowled. “Extremely concerned.”
“Our boys’ll make a go of it yet, m’lord. Ye’ll see,” Hanton returned confidently. “They stopped him before, and they’ll do it again.”
“But you heard the news before we sailed, the same as I did,” the earl argued hotly, frustrated and worried about a certain chit who could very easily be half a hundred miles away on the road to Paris, even as he kicked his heels, waiting for her father’s arrival. “Bonaparte’s running Blücher down. As soon as he does, he’ll cut off Wellington and—”
“It’ll never happen,” McAndrews interrupted, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall.
“I admire your optimism. But it looks like a rout to me.” Alex returned to the stacks of crates piled against the far wall, and sank down on the nearest one. “And Prinny thanks me for stopping a few bloody crates of muskets.”
“Ye have other obligations. And ye’ve done more than most.”
Alex looked over at him. “I’m not looking for sympathy, old man.”
Hanton gave him a crooked grin. “I know. I just remember how little your father wanted ye involved in any o’ this. But he’d be bloody proud of ye, Master Alex.”
The earl sighed and chased a dust ball about the floor with the toe of one boot. “He’d think I’m behaving like an idiot.”
“Aye,” the Scot agreed easily. “And I’ve a wish to meet this girl, could send ye marching into France in the middle of a war.”
; Alex grunted noncommittally, in no mood to explain himself to McAndrews—especially when he wasn’t certain how, exactly, Christine Brantley had become so precious to him that he was willing to risk his life for a chance to apologize to her. It wouldn’t stop there, though, if he had any say at all. He wanted her back, wanted her with an ache that hurt too much to even dwell on.
Gerald had tried to convince him that it was simply because he’d never been turned down before, and that the rejection had bruised his ego. His cousin, though, had failed to remember that Mary had done a fair job of rejecting him, and that given the circumstances, it had been unfortunate and unpleasant and regrettable, but nothing he hadn’t been able to recover from. What he felt toward Kit was a raging hurricane, to the stiff breeze of Mary Devlin Cale. There was no one like Kit anywhere in his experience, and the intensity of what he felt had left him with no option but to follow her and to find her. Wherever she was. And however long it took.
He stepped on the dust ball and turned to face their captive. “You’re certain Brantley will come to take the shipment himself?” Alex patted the crate he was seated upon.
Carting the crates to the ship, offloading them at the Calais harbor, taking them by wagon to the warehouse Debner had indicated, and then unloading them a final time had been annoyingly dirty and tiring work, and more than a little dangerous. But it was the best and only bait they had. He only hoped that the Duke of Furth and Prince George never discovered the details of exactly what he was up to, though he had a fair hunch His Grace would come calling to demand an explanation.
“Aye,” Debner answered. “When he’ll do that, though, I ain’t certain. Particular fellow, Stewart Brantley.”
Alex had decided against gagging their prisoner; the French would be as happy to hang Debner for setting foot in Calais as they would himself and Hanton. The smuggler apparently realized this as well, for though he groused about the ropes and the heat, he kept his silence whenever anyone came too near the old structure. At this point Alex could only hope that Prince George would be willing to overlook the fact that he had borrowed Debner from his cell in Old Bailey without receiving permission to do so. He supposed, though, that the degree of the Prince’s generosity and forgiveness would depend more on Wellington’s successes than on his own.
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