by Regan Walker
“Yes, I’ve heard the story,” said Martin, “though I was not in England when the events transpired.”
“Well, according to our…er, contacts…it seems hundreds of the unhappy weavers were marching in the rain to London to harass the Prince Regent. Fortunately, many were arrested outside Stockport, and the rest turned back as they were about to enter Derbyshire. Sidmouth was certain they were gathering an army. Couldn’t have that now, could we?”
“An army?” echoed Ormond. “Hungry men carrying blankets through the cold rain?”
Martin knew his friend well enough to see his suppressed rage, but the two older men seemed oblivious to Ormond’s biting sarcasm.
“Well, it was the numbers don’t you know. So many. Sidmouth believes the seat of the rebellion is in the Midlands.” Castlereagh continued to pontificate, unaware of the reception of his words, while Eldon looked as if he were becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
“I do believe my wife will be looking for me,” the older man said abruptly, gazing toward the ballroom. “I’d best wish you gentlemen a good evening.”
As the Chancellor strode off, Castlereagh made his apologies and followed.
“Well,” said Ormond, “that was short but illuminating.”
“One cannot help but wonder just who their ‘contacts’ are,” Martin remarked. “And whether they hired them or used one of their fellow peers more willing to engage in such activities.”
“That question looms large in my mind as well,” said Ormond. “That was a bit awkward for Castlereagh, didn’t you think?”
“Quite. And I had the feeling Eldon was not at all at ease with the subject. Perhaps he is disquieted with all that Sidmouth is doing, especially if he is worried about being drawn into it.”
“Indeed. Well, at least you’ve now met some of those central to the government’s schemes. Your task will be to find the rest and learn all they are doing.” Ormond’s eyes suddenly darted toward the wide doorway into the ballroom and he said, “I had better see what my wife is up to. It is never wise to leave Mary alone for too long.”
It was most unusual for Ormond to be distracted, but Martin understood. A wife had changed many things in his friend’s life. And, Ormond was correct. The former Lady Mary could easily become involved in something controversial, though it seemed the hoyden had settled down a bit with her marriage. “I’ll join you.”
They stepped into the ballroom just as the orchestra stuck up a waltz—and Martin froze. Standing not twenty feet before him was the object of his long search, shimmering in a silver gown that reflected the lights above, her only other adornments her auburn tresses and a string of pearls. Even here, amidst the ton’s finery, she stood out, once again an ethereal creature.
“Kitten,” he muttered under his breath. She stood with two debutantes and an older man and woman, her back to the dancing couples. She appeared unaware of the attention she was drawing from the men around her, but Martin saw the looks they were giving her and felt a wave of jealousy sweep over him.
“What is it, Martin? Why did you stop? What are you staring at?”
“She is here. Just there.”
Out of the corner of his eye Martin saw Ormond’s head turn toward Kit. At the same time, Kit turned her face to the side and it became a mask of horror. Whatever she saw had shaken her badly.
A man. She was looking at a man.
“Who is that?” Martin said, gesturing for Ormond.
“That,” Ormond informed him, “is the man you have been asking about. The Earl of Rutledge.”
Chapter 7
Martin’s eyes were fixed on Kit as she hurriedly spoke to her companions then headed out of the ballroom—to, Martin assumed, the exit. Her quick strides and fluid movement caused her silver gown to shimmer as she hastened through the crowded room, and Rutledge’s head rose above those of his companions. Spotting Kit, he narrowed his eyes.
Martin took no time to excuse himself, he simply bolted after her. Over his shoulder he saw Rutledge moving in the same direction, but Martin was faster and closer. He intercepted Kit just as she reached the corridor. Seizing her wrist, he spoke in an urgent voice that told her there was no time to explain.
“Lady Egerton, come with me.”
She turned in panic and opened her mouth as if to object, then her blue eyes flared with recognition.
“Yes,” Martin said, “it is I. Come. I will get you away from him.”
Grateful for his habit of noting places to hide, cubbyholes hidden from obvious view, Martin pulled Kit along toward an alcove he’d earlier committed to memory. They entered the small space only moments before Rutledge stomped past, his heels a pounding thunder on the wooden floor.
The alcove was clothed in darkness, the only light from one small candle, that seeping in below a heavy velvet curtain. Martin held Kit close. Her breath came in pants, her breasts pressed into his chest. Relieved to have her finally back in his arms, it was all Martin could do to not to give his passion free rein. Her familiar scent of roses swirled about his head. God, he’d missed this woman. But when he felt her shiver, the need to protect was the only emotion he allowed himself and he tightened his arms around her in comfort.
“Not dead,” she murmured, her forehead nearly touching his lips.
“No, Kit. You did not kill him. And though I certainly want to see the man dead for what he did to you, I thought it best for your reputation he not be confronted here.”
“You know?” She tilted her head upward, her lips within an inch of his. It was all he could do not to claim them.
“Yes. Miss Abby.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Her body tensed. “I must leave.”
She began to pull away, but he held her firmly against his chest.
“But he will be after me.” Even in the dim light he could see the desperation in her eyes.
“No, my kitten.”
She pushed hard against his chest. “I’m not your kitten! I’m not anyone’s…anything.”
He allowed her to step back. Her voice reflected unshed tears and a vulnerability that pulled at his heartstrings. A feeling of tenderness swept over him. Damnation, she was his kitten, and he was not giving her up.
“Shh,” he said, pulling her gently back into his arms. She came without protest, rested her head on his shoulder. The alcove had taken on an eerie light.
“I must leave here,” she whispered as Martin held her, content to have her close but wanting so much more. She seemed calmer now.
“No, Kit. Not yet. For weeks I’ve been combing the streets of London for you, and now that I’ve found you, you’ll not be escaping me only to risk being caught by an enraged Rutledge. We must wait a few minutes at least.”
“But I cannot stay here.” Her voice was soft, almost a whimper, and it made him want to hold her, to protect her. To have, once again, these soft curves and warm skin pressed against his flesh. God, he was hungry for her.
“You will come with me,” he said.
“No! I cannot.”
“Yes, you can and you will.” He bent his head to look directly into her eyes, hoping she would see his desire to protect her, his resolve. She would not be getting away.
“But I don’t know you. Not even your name.”
Martin would have been amused under other circumstances. She knew him quite well. They had made beautiful, passionate love together, and held each other through the night. But he would remind her of that later.
“If you must have a name, it is Martin Powell.”
She raised her head, studying him in the pale light of the alcove. It reminded Martin of the night at Willow House when the only light they shared came from the moon and the dying fire. It was enough.
“Martin Powell,” she said aloud, as if trying the name out to see how it fit.
“We will wait just a bit longer and then I’ll get you to safety.”
“Where?”
“Trust me.”
The look on her face said she far f
rom trusted him, but he knew she would come nonetheless. She had few options if she wanted to escape the earl. Martin could not protect her if she returned to her friends or left on her own. He had survived the years in France by his wits and the cloak of stealth he could wrap around himself in an instant. Surely he could do the same for her. But into his mind came the unbidden memory of a night when he failed to safeguard another woman, a woman who had even greater claim to his protection.
With a deep sigh and a resolution that belied his fear for Kit’s safety, he silently stepped toward the curtain. “Come.”
He would get her out of Claremont House unseen.
* * *
It was after midnight, and rain had begun to fall when the carriage stopped in front of a house in the area of London known as Adelphi Terrace. Just south of Somerset House on the Thames, the neighborhood was familiar to Kit as one of her tutors had lived near there. Though more of the ton lived in Mayfair and Albany, Adelphi was home to many prominent people, and she knew the homes to be costly. Whatever this man Martin’s status in London society, he had to be a man of means. But then, had not Abby promised Willow House catered only to the wellborn and their friends?
The silver fabric of her gown was thin, but her rescuer had given her his coat to protect her from the cold. There had been no time to gather her cloak, no time even to bid the de Courtenays goodbye before she fled. It seemed to Kit she was always saying goodbye to someone she held dear. Now all she had was a man she considered a stranger.
The warm superfine wool wrapped around Kit retained the heat of her supposed rescuer’s body, and it was much appreciated. Drawing the warm coat around her, she inhaled the scent of him. Martin Powell, he’d called himself. The coat was almost like having his body next to her again, for it brought back the memory of that night she lay in his arms.
“This is my family’s residence,” Mr. Powell explained as they reached the door. “I have not returned in more than a year, even for a visit, so we’ll be finding out together who is at home tonight.” He must have seen the concern on her face because he added, “Not to worry, you will be welcome.”
He took a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. As the door opened, he whispered to her, “Just as well it is late. The servants will be asleep.”
Tiptoeing across the threshold, he took her hand and guided her into the entrance hall. Kit could see it was beautiful, even in the faint light. A brass chandelier above reflected a crackling fire from a room off to the right.
Someone is awake.
A thick rug cushioned her slippers as she took a few steps. Ahead, a wide stairway curved up to the next floor. Mr. Powell tugged her toward it. Kit wasn’t certain she wanted to go upstairs, where she knew the bedrooms would be located, but she had come this far so she followed. Could she trust this man whom she did not know? He was a man whose very presence, she reminded herself, made her heart flutter like the wings of a bird against a cage.
As they climbed the first steps, heavy footfalls sounded behind them. A deep voice very much like her rescuer’s asked gruffly, “Martin, is that you?”
Mr. Powell backed down the staircase, pulling her along. His quick reaction protectively thrust her behind him, but his posture was relaxed. He recognized the voice.
“Ah…Nick. Thank God it’s you. I thought perhaps Mother and Father would be gone, as they usually are, but I’d rather not deal with servants or our younger brothers tonight.”
Kit peeked around Mr. Powell’s shoulder to see the man named Nick staring intently at her. He resembled Mr. Powell with his disheveled ebony hair, though he was perhaps a bit older, a bit taller. His face, even in the dim light, was bronzed and weathered as if he spent a great deal of time in the sun. She could not discern his eye color. It was obvious to Kit he had not been expecting company.
She had never seen a pirate, but this man surely looked the part; the only thing missing was the golden earring. He wore a linen shirt, open at the neck, and black breeches tucked into tall boots. There was something of the gypsy about him, too, a suggestion of another place and another time.
“You’ll not be facing the family soon, brother,” Mr. Powell’s kin said as he leaned against the doorpost to what had to be a study, the source of the firelight. Crossing his arms over his chest, he casually slipped one booted foot over the other. “Mater has sailed with Pater, and our two younger siblings have tagged along as crew. The great run to the east for tea, you know. They will be gone for months. The only ones here tonight are Cook, a new maid, and our old butler Morris. All of them retired for the night. It’s a skeleton crew with the parents at sea.”
“Just as well. I’ll deal with the servants in the morning,” said Mr. Powell.
Glancing at Kit the brother said, “I’ll be gone when you greet the day. I’m taking the Raven out.”
“Oh? Where?”
“To the Caribbean, then up to Baltimore.” Nick’s eyes darted from Kit back to his brother, lips twitching up at the ends. “You will have the place to yourself.” The light was dim, but Kit didn’t miss his white teeth and wolfish grin as he added, “I see you brought home another stray—a beautiful one.”
“Stray?” Kit repeated, her eyes narrowing.
“Oh, he’s always bringing home strays,” the man explained. Then, to Mr. Powell: “Remember the time you rescued the cabin boy? The one who had fleas?”
Kit was annoyed at being compared to a boy with fleas, and she returned the pirate a glare. He just laughed and said, “Mater never let you forget that escapade.”
Mr. Powell gritted out, “The boy would have been beaten if he’d returned to his ship. I could not allow that to happen.”
His brother flashed white teeth in another smile, this one aimed at Kit. “I say, brother, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“I’d rather not, but I suppose I must. And, please keep this encounter to yourself. These are unusual circumstances.” Mr. Powell reached back to pull Kit next to him, but he kept his arm protectively around her waist, the intimacy of the posture making her uncomfortable. “My lady, may I present my older brother, Captain Jean Nicholas Powell. Nick, the Dowager Baroness of Egerton.”
Nick stepped away from the doorway and came toward her. Though there was nothing proper about being alone with two men in near darkness, Kit held out her hand in proper fashion. The sides of the coat she wore fell away to reveal a slice of her expensive silver gown.
Nick bowed over her hand. Glancing up to see the scowl on his brother’s face, Nick gave his brother a teasing smirk and refrained from touching his lips to her fingers, which Kit was certain had been his intention. He rose and said, “My pleasure, Lady Egerton, and please forgive my comment about the stray. It was aimed at my brother, not you.”
“I forgive you, Captain Powell,” she said, as graciously as she could under the circumstances.
When it appeared his brother might continue the conversation, Mr. Powell said, “Ask no questions, Nick. Just tell me if the far guest room is unoccupied.”
Captain Powell nodded. “’Tis. And of course your room is always kept waiting for you, though you do not live here any longer. The Mater will have it no other way, though the Pater keeps insisting you’re gone for good.”
“Thank God for Mother.”
“A frequent saying of our sire,” the captain offered Kit as an aside.
“If I don’t see you before you sail, have a safe voyage.” Mr. Powell announced. “Oh, and I’m home to stay.”
Captain Powell reached out a hand, which Mr. Powell clasped with both of his own. “Happy to hear it, brother. Truly. The Mater will be pleased to know you’ve managed to survive the Corsican. She worries, you see.”
Kit had no idea what Mr. Powell’s brother referred to, but she suspected it was the war with France. She did know the Corsican was Napoleon. So, Martin Powell had been on the Continent? Had he fought with Wellington at Waterloo? He did not seem a soldier, more quick and lithe than strong and
sturdy. There was nothing military in his bearing. But a long sojourn in France would explain his accent, which she’d noticed that first night they spent together. Then there were the French words he’d whispered as he made love to her. Yes, he was quite comfortable with the French language. Her body quivered at the memory.
As they left the entry hall and Mr. Powell pulled her up the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder to see his brother once again leaning against the doorpost, still watching, smiling like he had a great secret. She hoped he would not share it. She could only imagine what he would say. But hope stirred when she recalled he was leaving in the morning for the Caribbean. And the parents had sailed east.
Mr. Powell never let go of her hand, entwining his fingers with hers as his long strides ate up the corridor. Though she rather liked the feel, and while she remembered well that same hand caressing her body, she was becoming concerned about their destination and was tired of being treated like an errant child.
“You needn’t pull me so. I can walk.”
Ignoring her plea, he tugged her behind him. “Perhaps, but I am anxious to be alone with you.”
A feeling of nervous anticipation gripped her stomach. What was he planning? Then her thinking strayed again to the man they had left at the bottom of the staircase. Would he hear this exchange? “Your brother is a man of the sea?”
“Aye, my whole family. Merchant seamen.”
Ah. If Mr. Powell’s father and brothers were seamen, it explained why they lived so close to the Thames. From the Adelphi Terrace, one could easily travel by small boat to the ships docked further down the river. “And you?”
“Not for a long time. But yes, I once captained one of my father’s ships…for a brief while.”
Finally they arrived at the end of the corridor. Mr. Powell pushed down on the door handle and waved Kit ahead. With some trepidation, she went. Stepping over the threshold into a large bedchamber, she could see soft tones of subdued elegance even in the pale light from the windows. A large canopy bed with pale gold and blue bed curtains stood prominently before her. Her anxiety increased.
