by Regan Walker
“Very well. I will see to my lady and my breakfast and then join you.”
Kit scurried back to bed as Martin returned.
“Anything wrong?” she asked, hoping he would share with her his knowledge of what this man Oliver was about. Would he tell her about the meeting to plan a revolt?
“No, nothing wrong, Kitten,” Martin said as he leaned down to kiss her. “Just some business John and I must attend this afternoon.” Sitting next to her he added, “Much as I’d prefer to spend the morning in bed with you, we’d best get dressed and have some breakfast.”
He seemed distracted, and saddened by his vague answer Kit complied. But then, did she really expect him to confess his treachery?
As she dressed for the day, her thoughts scattered. Glancing at Martin as he pulled a shirt from his trunk, she watched his back muscles flex and remembered the feel of his skin, like satin over steel. How could he do this? And how could she not worry about the man she had married, the man she loved? He was an intelligent, resourceful man, not at all foolish. Why, his good friend was a marquess! Yet she could not dismiss how comfortable he was with weapons, how easily he had taken on the highwaymen and how blithely he had faced a maddened bull. Would he apply those same skills to treason? The whole situation seemed unbelievable and frightening.
Torn between love and what she had heard with her own ears, she wondered if she should tell someone. A magistrate, perhaps? But the idea of betraying her husband was a loathsome thought like a punch to her stomach. No, she could not do it. She could not reconcile the man she had known in London with the man he seemed here in the Midlands.
She tried to put the best light on the situation, tried to imagine a world where she could accept what he plotted. Perhaps by keeping her in the dark, Martin was trying to protect her from the consequences of his activities. But, she didn’t want to be protected and lose him, not to any criminal activity let alone treason. It wouldn’t just be prison. This would mean a traitor’s death. His might be one of those new graves in St. Matthew’s churchyard. The thought was terrifying.
Martin called her name, and setting aside her concerns Kit twisted her hair into a knot at her nape and rose to follow her husband to the inn’s common room where other guests lingered over breakfast. There a smiling George Weightman served up steaming bowls of his mother’s porridge with bits of dried fruit and nuts, accompanied by bread still warm from the oven.
Kit fought back a grimace as Martin exchanged a greeting with his co-conspirator. Then, as the handsome young lad hurried off to answer his mother’s call, Martin leaned in to whisper, “That young man’s quite enamored with you, Kitten. Whenever he looks at you, he reminds me of a lovesick swain. Should I be worried?” He raised a teasing black eyebrow, a devilish grin spreading across his face.
“Well, he does have the face of an angel,” Kit said, hoping her husband did not hear the anxiety in her voice. “I’ve sketched him along with others in the village. And he was nice to me when I dined alone.” Wondering if he’d admit their connection she asked, “Do you know him?”
“Only from some encounters with the men of the village. He is one of four brothers, but the others don’t seem to work at the inn. At least, I’ve not seen them about.”
He was too good at this! Encounters with men of the village, indeed. Of course Martin would never tell her he had discussed rebellion against the government with this same young man at the Dog Inn; he would never tell her anything. So, while they finished breakfast, Kit decided it was time to don the stable boy’s clothes Mary had given her. With all the men congregating at the barn, surely no one would notice a single lad. Perhaps she could learn more of their plans if she observed this next meeting.
Martin set down the newspaper George Weightman brought him, one that was shared around the village. “What will you do today, Kitten?”
“I thought perhaps I’d draw some of the cottages—”
“Do not wander far,” he interrupted. “I need to know you’ll be safe and remain close.”
“I cannot go far without a horse,” she said with a smile. “Or did you forget you forbade me to ride without you or John?”
“Stay close is all I ask,” he said with a voice of authority.
“I will.”
She consoled herself that her words weren’t a lie. She’d stay close to the village.
Chapter 18
Some hours later, Kit walked along the side of the road, her head down and her cap pulled so low she could barely see where to step. It had rained during the night, clearing the air, and though the path before her was quite muddy in places the entire village seemed cleaner. The scent of wet grass and soil, the smell of the country, was refreshing.
It was quiet. She saw no men in the fields. While the women might be working in their homes, were all the men at the meeting? A chicken followed by her chicks picked at the sparse grass next to a cottage Kit hurried by.
She had gone a good distance before she noticed several men entering a barn next to a large cottage at the end of the village, on the edge of a field where wooly ewes grazed with their lambs in the sun. As the men disappeared into the worn wooden building, Kit followed silently behind, staying in back, hidden from view by a large plow. A circle of nearly twenty men sat in the middle of the wide space, all in heated conversation. A few stood at the edges leaning against wooden posts, listening. Martin and John were not among them.
“I say we must join with Oliver and let the government know the people are tired of the laws the rich lords force upon us,” said one man dressed in worn trousers and a woolen jacket. “We might send a petition to London.”
“Aye, Isaac,” said another. “We dinna have any say in them laws! ’Tis got to change, that.”
“Dear members of the country delegation,” said a man Kit recognized as Mr. Oliver. She vividly recalled his whiskered face and light red hair from the Dog Inn. “I represent the Radicals of London, as ye know. We argue for parliamentary reform that would change your circumstances for the better. But petitions will not bring the change you seek. There must be action! I have just come from Nottingham, from a meeting with our good Captain Brandreth and the others there who stand with us. They are prepared to fight. And my friend at the ironworks John Onion tells me there are many men at the factory who will join with us. The time is ripe to—”
A loud bang sounded as the door of the barn was thrown open, barely missing Kit where she lurked. She jerked away just as a portly man holding a pistol in his outstretched hand entered with two men behind him, one much taller and in the dark blue and white uniform of the King’s Hussars. The man with the pistol said, “I am the Sheffield magistrate, and this gathering plotting action against the government is at an end. You’re all under arrest!” The magistrate turned to the man in uniform. “General Byng, please place these men under arrest and transport them to Wakefield for questioning.”
The would-be revolutionaries scattered, fleeing in all directions like rats before a fire. One escaped through a side door, followed by another. Then another. The general and the man at his side began grabbing whomever they could lay their hands on.
Kit waited, pressed against the barn wall until she saw a chance to escape. Dashing out the front door, she looked frantically around, wondering where to run. A fleeing revolutionary knocked her to the ground.
“Kit!”
She recognized Martin’s voice, but before she could rise his strong arms lifted her from the ground. She twisted to stare into his anger-filled eyes, dark and menacing.
“Martin…”
“Come, I’ll get you out of here,” he growled. John ran up, and Martin said, “Hurry. Into that copse of trees,” indicating a cluster of birches a short distance away. “We’ll wait until they depart.”
The confrontations inside the barn were loud in Kit’s ears as Martin dragged her off. Just as he’d pushed her behind a large rock in the stand of birch trees, a pistol shot shattered the air. Kit’s heart pounded in her
chest, and she glanced at her husband. Anger was reflected in his tight jaw and furrowed brow, and he glared at her clothing.
John peered over the boulder and said, “They’ve rounded up some of the men.”
Martin continued to study Kit, his blue eyes so dark they appeared nearly black. His voice was low and harsh. “What are you doing here, Kit? And why are you dressed like that?”
Still panting, she spouted her prepared alibi. “I only wanted to be less noticeable as I sketched. Then I was drawn to the barn and the conversations of the men.” She glared back at him in defiance. “I was only observing.”
“You cause me to wonder,” he said with a frown. “Perhaps I should not have brought you here. You might have been arrested, or worse. For all that’s holy, the magistrate might have killed you with that pistol he was waving about.”
She tried to look contrite, but it clearly didn’t work. He said, “Perhaps I should send you back to London.”
London? Did she want to go back to London? Strangely, the thought did not appeal. She wanted to be with him, traitor though he was.
John, who’d been keeping watch as Martin scolded her, cast Kit a sympathetic glance. Peering once more over the rock he took that moment to announce, “They’ve gone, sir. I think we can leave.”
* * *
“She could have been killed!”
Martin sat in a nearby tavern with John, each man holding a tankard of ale. Much as he disliked the taste, he was downing the liquid just to calm his nerves. The tavern keeper had just told them that ten men, including William Oliver, had been arrested and taken to Wakefield for questioning, but Oliver was seen walking free in town not a half hour later. The others had yet to be released.
An ache gripped his chest at the thought of losing Kit. He couldn’t imagine being without her. His wife. His kitten. His life. The redheaded vixen had captured his heart, so now he must protect her—even from her own foolishness, it seemed. He’d left her in their room with instructions to stay there.
At the moment he was so angry he’d had to leave, unable to remain with her for fear he would shake her until her brain rattled. The memory of Kit on the ground had been all too familiar, a vivid reminder of Elise lying on that Paris street so long ago, of the nightmare he’d had in London. It had been the specter of harm to Kit that he had dreaded from the beginning. This was why he’d brought her with him, to protect her, though he was clearly failing. Again.
“Aye, ’tis possible,” John said. “The magistrate seemed the excitable sort.”
“It was reckless for her to be there. I wonder too what she heard of the men’s conversations. I’d prefer she knew nothing of what may lie ahead.”
“She did not tell ye?”
“No. She only spoke of men arguing as the magistrate and General Byng arrived. I do not think she was there long.” He glanced up from his ale and added, “Oliver’s quick freedom after the arrest confirms he is working with the magistrate. There is no other explanation for why he is loose and the others still held.”
“’Tis not surprising,” John said. “He had that letter from Sidmouth’s brother introducing him to all the local magistrates. ’Twould seem he’s made use of it.”
“This part of England is a pot ready to boil,” Martin said. “It won’t be long before something happens.”
“Aye,” John agreed. “Brandreth will see to that.”
“We must do something to prevent it. I have a few ideas—”
“Oh, ye remind me, sir. A message arrived from London,” John said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a letter bearing the seal of the Marquess of Ormond.
Martin tore it open. “I hope this is the answer I’ve been looking for, the chance for us to intervene. If Brandreth and Oliver are working toward the date they’ve set for their march on London, I am hopeful we…” He read the message and his heart sank. Staring at his tankard of ale, he saw nothing and let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Not the news ye were looking for, sir?” John inquired.
“Damnation. No, it isn’t. The Prince Regent does not want me to confront Oliver directly or make our identity known. We are just to observe, working only from behind the scenes if we wish to discourage the villagers from participating.” He crumpled the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. “I suspect Prinny is curious to know how far this will go, content to watch, knowing he has the power to quash any rebellion.”
“’Tis frustratin’,” murmured John. “To be forced to watch while Oliver’s wolf approaches the sheep.”
“Yes, Brandreth is a wolf. While I find myself having some pity for him, pauper that he is, he is more worrisome even than his leader. Find out who manages the ironworks in Ripley, John. It’s time we paid the man a visit.”
* * *
Badly shaken by the debacle at the barn and the argument with Martin that followed, Kit tried to settle her mind by finishing her sketch of the man called the Nottingham Captain. She worked from memory, her pencil moving quickly over the paper as she focused on recreating his eyes. The intensity of that gaze had been unusual, striking. Perhaps even a little frightening. And as she captured his eyes in the sketch, her mind strayed to the last words she’d exchanged with Martin.
“You disobeyed me, Kit. It might have cost you your life. Can you not see it is dangerous for you to go about the village dressed as a lad and hiding out in barns where men are meeting? Are you perchance aping Lady Ormond? Did the idea for this masquerade come from her?”
Dismayed, she’d lowered her head. “No. It was my idea. Of course, you are right. I did not realize it would be dangerous.”
That wasn’t quite true. She did know if she were to enter a barn full of men plotting treason there was the possibility of danger, which was the reason she’d gone disguised. And because she would not have been admitted otherwise.
“That is why I confined you to the village and the inn, Kit. Much is going on in the Midlands just now. I am trying to keep you safe. You must trust me.”
She’d seen his exasperation. And, she realized, anger. Perhaps like Ormond’s for his wife, the emotion had an origin in a need to protect what was dear. Did he love her? She had given Martin her love. Could she give him her trust?
“I do want to trust you, Martin,” she said. But there is so much I do not understand.
“I wonder if you do. Perhaps I should send you back to London,” he repeated. “At least there Ormond has the resources to see to your safety.”
He’d stormed out, leaving her shaking. Would he send her away? She couldn’t imagine being sent from him, now that she realized she loved him, now that she wanted his love. No, she would not go. She would stay with him. Perhaps she could persuade him to leave off this treachery. Deep within her she believed he was a good man. But she had trusted her father to care for her and Anne, had trusted Baron Egerton to provide for her, had trusted Lord Rutledge to be honorable. She could not trust so easily now.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. Rising, she opened it to find a smiling George Weightman carrying a tray.
“Yer husband has sent ye tea, ma’am. And he’s ordered a bath for ye, which the boys are bringing behind me.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting aside her sketch. “Tea and a bath would be lovely.”
It was a marvel, really, Martin’s kindness. He’d been so angry stomping out of their rooms. Or was this bath to prepare her to leave for London? Fear and anger warred within her. He’d confined her to their rooms and might be sending her back to London. Casting her away like an unruly child. Hadn’t he been at the barn where the men were meeting? Likely it was only luck that he wasn’t inside when the magistrate arrived. He, too, could have been arrested or shot. But, of course he’d refused to tell her why he was there when she’d asked, though he insisted on knowing all she had done that morning. She had not been candid in telling him how she’d discovered the meeting, but then what could she say—that she worried the man she loved was a traitor to the C
rown?
An hour later, Kit had bathed and was dressed in a blue day gown. Her nerves much calmer, she had just set down her empty teacup when Nanny Weightman appeared at the door to tell her she had a visitor, a solicitor named John Highmore. Kit knew no man by that name, and she could not imagine what business a solicitor might have with her, but she thought it best to learn why he had come.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weightman. Could you send him up and arrange for more tea?”
The proprietress graciously agreed, and soon there was another knock at the door.
Kit welcomed the older gentleman into the sitting room as he handed her his card. Dressed like a country squire, in a soft brown wool jacket and tan trousers, the slight man with silver hair seemed frail. His face was kindly, however, and just now it bore a smile as if he were greatly pleased with himself.
She accepted his card and directed him to one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace. “Mr. Highmore, please be comfortable. I’ve ordered some tea. Have you come far?”
“Thank you, Lady Powell. It’s been a long journey.” Setting down the case he carried, he focused on her with a satisfied look. “It’s taken me a long time and many inquiries to find you.”
Kit was surprised. Everyone in Pentridge knew her as Mrs. Donet. “Sir, how do you know me?”
“Oh, I have known of you for years, my lady. You see, I represented your late husband, Lord Egerton.”
“The baron?” No one had mentioned her first husband since she and Mary discussed him briefly in London.
The older man nodded and leaned down to open his case.
“How did you know to find me here?”
“Ah…that, too, is a Canterbury story,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “After several inquiries that led nowhere, and remembering the baron once remarked you and your sister had a nanny named Abigail Darkin, I searched for her. That took some time. When I finally found her, she was quite guarded. When I managed to convince her I only meant you good, she sent me to Lady Ormond. Now, there’s a smart one. Lady Ormond demanded to see all the records. Fearing I would not find you without her assistance but being assured of your friendship with the marchioness, I complied. She was the one who told me I could find the former Lady Egerton at the White Horse Inn under the name Katherine Donet. Mrs. Donet to be precise.”
