Captain Jack's Woman (34 page)

“I feel sure that you, being so much more in Jack’s confidence, will know better than I how best to proceed.”

Kit signed the note with a flourish, a grim smile on her lips. Perhaps it was unfair to make George squirm, but she was beyond feeling amiable toward those who’d helped her husband attain his present state of arrogance. She addressed the missive, confident it would send George posthaste to his friend’s help. He could take subsequent responsibility.

She rang the bell and gave the note to Lovis to speed on its way.

For the next twenty minutes, she barely stirred, her mind engrossed with forming and discarding various options for bringing Jack’s shortcomings to his attention.

When it came to it, she could think of only one way to proceed. There was no point in any complex maneuvers—he was far more expert in manipulation than she. In truth, she had little idea of how to go about bringing him to her heels in true feminine fashion. If she went that route, she’d a shrewd suspicion she’d end on her back, beneath him, leaving him as arrogant as ever. And as unwilling as ever to make concessions. The best she could hope to do was to make a statement—something dramatic enough to make him sit up and take notice, something definite enough for him to be forced to at least acknowledge her point of view.

Determination beating steady in her veins, Kit set out another sheet of paper and settled to write a letter to her errant spouse.

*     *     *

Jack arrived home on Monday evening. He’d had to wait until that morning to speak to Lord Whitley. Various schemes were already afoot to flush out the man they believed was Belville’s Henry. All that remained was to wait for Anthony’s return, to see if there were any more traitors to track down. They were nearly there.

With a deep sigh, Jack climbed the steps to his front door. Lovis opened it to him.

“My lord. Mr. Smeaton asked you be given this the instant you crossed the threshold.”

Jack tore open the single sheet. George’s writing took a moment to decipher. Then Jack heaved a weary sigh. He hesitated, wondering whether to send a message up to Kit. He wouldn’t be back in time for dinner. It was doubtful he’d be back before she was abed. With a slow grin, he went back out the door. Much better to take her by surprise. “I’ll return later tonight, Lovis. No need to tell anyone I was here.”

At the cottage, he was greeted by a much-improved Sir Anthony. George was not there to hear the recounting of Antoine’s adventures; he’d been summoned to a Gresham dinner.

“One of the trials of an affianced man.” Grinning, Jack pulled up a chair, straddling it. It transpired that the French had tracked Antoine down, not out of suspicion, but in order to interrogate him in case he knew more than he’d yet revealed. He’d escaped by stowing away aboard a lighter bound for Boston on the other side of the Wash. Unfortunately, it had also turned out to be a smugglers’ vessel. Smugglers did not like stowaways; he’d had to fight his way off, throwing himself overboard before they’d skewered him.

Anthony’s tale suggested that the French were desperate for information. The news that there were only two traitors left was music to Jack’s ears. “We’ve got them.” Quickly, he filled Anthony in on the happenings on the beach after he’d taken ship, referring to Kit only as another member of the Gang.

“George said something about that,” Anthony said. “But he said he’d leave it to you to elaborate as you ‘had a deeper interest in Belville’s death.’ What on earth did he mean?”

Jack had the grace to blush. “Don’t ask.”

Anthony threw him a look of mock surprise. “Keeping secrets from your friends, Jack m’lad, is most unwise.”

“You’ll meet this secret eventually so I wouldn’t repine.” At the intrigued look on Anthony’s, face, Jack continued quickly: “Whitley thinks Belville’s Henry, whom we believe is Sir Henry Colebourne, will be behind bars in a few days at most. Which, together with your information, means the end is nigh. We’ll have got them all.”

Anthony lay back on his pillows with a deep sigh. “However will they get along without us, now we’ve all sold out?”

“I’m sure they’ll manage. Personally, I’ve got fresh fields to plow, so to speak.” Jack’s smile of anticipation was transparent.

Anthony’s gaze descended from the ceiling to examine the odd sight of Jack’s eagerness for civilian life. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “your newfound liking for peaceful endeavors has anything to do with the redheaded lad who brought me here?” At Jack’s arrested expression, Anthony quietly added: “Taken to the other side, Jack?”

Jack bit back a distinctly rude reply. His eyes gleamed. “From which comment I take it my wife was wearing breeches when she brought you here?”

“
Your wife
?” Anthony’s exclamation brought on a fit of coughing. When he’d recovered, he lay back on his pillows and fixed Jack with an astonished stare. “Wife?”

Jack nodded, unable to contain his smile. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Kathryn, Lady Hendon, better known as Kit.” He paused, then shrugged. “It was she who shot Belville.”

“Oh.” Anthony struggled to match fact with memory. “How on earth did that slip of a thing get me from the beach to here?”

Jack stood. “Probably sheer determination. It’s a quality she has in abundance. I’ll leave you now, Tony.” He walked forward to drop a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I’ll send Matthew in the morning with a horse to move you up to the Castle. Rest assured I’ll get your news to Whitley as soon as possible. He’ll be relieved to know we’ve got them all.”

“Thanks, Jack.” Anthony lay quiet on his pillows and watched Jack walk to the door. “But why the hurry to leave?”

Jack paused. “A little matter of propriety I have to discuss with my wife. Not something a rake like you would understand.”

Closing the door on his friend’s “Oh-ho!”, Jack strode to the stable. He hadn’t actually caught her in her breeches, but it was close enough, surely?

Anticipation was riding high by the time he reached the house. He entered through the side door, picking up the single candle to light his way. He went straight to his wife’s room.

And stopped short when the light from his candle revealed an undisturbed expanse of green satin, with no deliciously curved form snuggling beneath.

For a moment, he simply stared, unable to think. Then, his heart thumping oddly, he went through to his own room. She was not in his bed, either. The sight of the simple white square propped against his pillow caused his hand to shake, spilling wax to the floor.

Drawing a deep breath, Jack put the candle down on the table by the bed and, sinking onto the mattress, picked up the letter. Kit’s delicate script declared it was for Jonathon, Lord Hendon. The sight of his proper given name was warning enough.

His lips set in a grim line, Jack tore open the missive.

Her formality had apparently been reserved for the title. Inside, her message was direct and succinct.

His first thought was that she’d omitted the obedient, obviously realizing his imagination wouldn’t stretch that far. Then he read it again, and decided he couldn’t, in all honesty, take exception to the adjectives she had claimed.

He sat on his bed as the clock in the hall ticked on and struggled to make sense of what the letter actually meant. He couldn’t believe Lovis had given him George’s message but forgotten to tell him his wife had left him. Trying to ignore the empty void that was expanding inside his chest, threatening to crush his heart, he read the letter again. Then he lay back on his bed, hands locked behind his head, and started to think.

She was annoyed he hadn’t told her the details of his mission. He tried to imagine George telling Amy and felt a glow of justification warm him. Abruptly, it dissipated, as Kit’s image overlaid Amy’s. All right—so she wasn’t the same sort of wife, theirs wasn’t the same sort of marriage.

He and his mission were deeply in her debt—he knew that well enough. That she yearned for excitement and would follow wherever it led was a characteristic he recognized. He could understand her pique that he wouldn’t involve her in his schemes. But to leave him like this—to walk out on him—was the sort of emotional blackmail to which he’d never succumb. Christ, if he didn’t know she was safe at Cranmer Hall, he’d be frantic! No doubt she expected him to come running, eager to win her back, willing to promise anything.

He wouldn’t do it.

At least, not yet. He had to go back to London tomorrow, to convey Anthony’s news to Lord Whitley. He’d leave Kit to stew, caught in a trap of her own devising. Then, when he came back, he’d go and see her and they could discuss their relationship calmly and rationally.

Jack tried to imagine having a calm and rational discussion with his wife. He fell asleep before he succeeded.

H
eaving a sigh of relief and anxiety combined, Kit plied the knocker on her cousin Geoffrey’s door. The narrow house in Jermyn Street was home to her Uncle Frederick’s three sons whenever they were in London. She hoped at least one of them was there now.

The door was opened by Hemmings, Geoffrey’s gentleman’s gentleman. He’d been with the family for years and knew her well. Even so, given her costume, a long moment passed before she saw his eyes widen in recognition.

“Good evening, Hemmings. Are my cousins in?” Kit pressed past the stunned man. Brought to a sense of his place, Hemmings rapidly shut the door. Then he turned to stare at her again.

Kit sighed. “I know. But it was safer this way. Is Geoffrey here?”

Hemmings swallowed. “Master Geoffrey’s out to dinner, miss, along with Master Julian.”

“Julian’s home?”

When Hemmings nodded, Kit’s spirits lurched upward for the first time that day. Julian must be home on furlough; seeing him would be an unlooked-for bonus in this thus-far-sorry affair.

She’d left Castle Hendon on Sunday afternoon, more than twenty-four hours ago, dressed as Lady Hendon with no incriminating luggage beyond a small black bag. She’d told Lovis she’d been called to visit a sick friend whose brother would meet her in Lynn. The note she’d left for her husband would, she’d assured him, explain all. She’d had Josh drive her into Lynn and leave her at the King’s Arms. When the night stage had left for London at eight that evening, a slim, elegant youth muffled to the ears had been on it.

The stage had been impossibly slow, reaching the capital well after midday. From the coaching inn, she’d had to walk some distance before she’d been able to hail a sufficiently clean hackney. And the hackney had dawdled, caught in the London traffic. Now it was past six and she was exhausted.

“Master Bertrand’s away in the country for the week, miss. Should I make up his bed for you?”

Kit smiled wearily. “That would be wonderful, Hemmings. And if you could put together the most simple meal, I would be doubly grateful.”

“Naturally, miss. If you’ll just seat yourself in the parlor?”

Shown into the parlor and left blissfully alone, Kit tidied the magazines littering every piece of furniture before selecting an armchair to collapse in. She’d no idea how long she lay there, one hand over her eyes, fighting down the uncharacteristic queasiness that had overcome her the instant she’d woken that morning, brought on, no doubt, by the ponderous rocking of the stage. She hadn’t eaten all day, but could barely summon sufficient appetite to do justice to the meal Hemmings eventually placed before her.

As soon as she’d finished, she went upstairs. She washed her face and stripped off her clothes, wryly wondering what it was Jack had intended to do if he found her in such attire. The thought brought a soft smile to her lips. It slowly faded.

Had she done the right thing in leaving him? Heaven only knew. Her uncomfortable trip had succeeded in dampening her temper but her determination was undimmed. Jack had to be made to take notice—her disappearance would accomplish that. And he would follow, of that she was sure. But what she wasn’t at all sure of, what she couldn’t even guess, was what he’d do then.

Somehow, in the heat of the moment, she’d not considered that vital point.

With a toss of her curls, Kit flung her clothes aside and climbed between the clean sheets. At least tonight she’d be able to sleep undisturbed by the snorts and snores of other passengers. Then, tomorrow, when she could think straight again, she’d worry about Jack and his reactions.

If the worst came to the worst,
she
could always explain.

She was at the breakfast table the next morning, neatly attired in Young Kit’s best, when Geoffrey pushed open the door and idly wandered in. He cut a rakish figure in a multicolored silk robe, a cravat neatly folded about his neck. One look at his stunned face told Kit that Hemmings had left her to break her own news.

“Good morning, Geoffrey.” Kit took a sip of her coffee and watched her cousin over the rim of the cup.

Geoffrey wasn’t slow. As his gaze took in her attire, his expression settled into dazed incredulity. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I decided a week or so away from Castle Hendon was in order.” Kit smiled. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Dash it, Kit, you know I am. But…” Geoffrey ran a harassed hand through his dark locks. “Where the hell’s your husband?”

Abruptly, Kit dropped her pose. “Coming after me, I hope.”

Geoffrey stared. Abruptly, he reached for the coffeepot. “Cut line, my girl. Start from the beginning. What kind of dangerous game are you playing?”

“It’s no game.” Kit sighed and leaned both elbows on the table. Geoffrey drew up a chair. When he waved at her to continue, Kit related her story. In the cold light of morning, it didn’t sound particularly sane. And trying to explain to Geoffrey why she felt as she did was even more futile. She wasn’t surprised when he showed every indication of taking Jack’s part.

“You’ve run mad,” was Geoffrey’s verdict. “What the hell do you suppose he’s going to do when he finds you?”

Kit shrugged, dreaming of the moment.

Geoffrey stiffened. “Did you tell him you’d be here?”

Kit’s shaking head let him breathe again. “But he’ll figure it out.”

Geoffrey stared at her. That wasn’t the assurance he’d wanted. He studied Kit, then asked: “You’re not breeding, are you?”

It was Kit’s turn to stare. “Of course not!”

“All right, all right.” Geoffrey held up both hands placatingly. “I just thought it might be a good excuse to have handy when Hendon makes his entrance. Everyone knows women do strange things at such times.”

Incensed, Kit glared at him. “That’s not the point! I want him to realize I won’t be put aside, tucked safely away in some niche, every time he decides what he’s doing is not…not suitable for me to be involved in.”

Geoffrey clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, my God!”

The door opened to admit Julian, the youngest of the three brothers, the only one younger than Kit. Geoffrey sat, staring into his coffee while Julian and Kit exchanged joyful greetings over his head, and Kit filled Julian in on the reasons for her present excursion. When they finally turned their attention to their breakfasts, Geoffrey spoke. “Kit, you can’t stay here.”

Her face fell. “Oh.”

“It’s not that I mind, personally,” Geoffrey assured her, ignoring the dark look his brother was throwing him. “But can you please try to understand how your husband is going to feel if he arrives here to find you cavorting about Jermyn Street in breeches?” Geoffrey paused, then added: “On second thought, rescind that ‘personally.’ I
do
mind, because it’s
my
hide he’ll be after.”

“I’ve got a dress with me.”

Geoffrey cast his eyes to the ceiling. “With all due respect, Kit, trotting about Jermyn Street in a dress is likely to prove even more dangerous to your reputation than the other.”

Kit grimaced, knowing he was right. She’d lived in London long enough to know the rules. Jermyn Street was the haunt of the well-to-do bachelors of the
ton.
Women of her standing definitely did not live in Jermyn Street. “But where can I go? And for God’s sake, don’t suggest your parents.”

“I’m a coward, not daft,” returned Geoffrey.

The three cousins sat considering their acquaintance. None of it was suitable. Then Julian bounced to life.

“Jenny—Jenny MacKillop!”

Miss Jennifer MacKillop had been governess to Frederick Cranmer’s sons and had filled in a few years more as governess-companion to Kit until the time of Kit’s first Season. Subsequently, she’d retired to look after her aging brother in Southampton.

“I had a letter from her a few months back,” said Kit. “Her brother died and left her the house. She thought she’d stay there for the rest of the year, before making up her mind what to do.”

“Then that’s where you’ll go.” Geoffrey sat up. He studied Kit sternly. “How far behind you do you suppose Hendon is?”

Kit looked uneasy. “I don’t know.”

Geoffrey sighed. “Very well. I’d better wait here in case he arrives, breathing fire. No!” he said, as Julian opened his lips. “From everything I’ve heard about Jonathon Hendon, he’d eat you alive before he paused to ask questions. At least I’ll have my wits to help me. You may escort our lovely cousin to Southampton.”

Julian beamed. “May I use your curricle?”

Geoffrey’s sigh was heartfelt. “If I find a scratch on it, you’ll be painting it with your eyelashes.”

Julian whooped.

Geoffrey raised his brows. “You wouldn’t think he shaves yet, would you?”

Kit giggled.

Geoffrey smiled. “That’s better. I’d started to wonder if you’d forgotten how.”

“Oh, Geoffrey.” Kit put out a hand to clasp his.

Geoffrey gripped her fingers. “Yes, well, I suggest you leave as soon as possible. You should be able to make it by nightfall if Julian keeps a proper eye on the cattle. It sounds as if Jenny will be able to put you both up.”

Her immediate future decided, Kit poured herself another cup of coffee. She didn’t want to go to Southampton. It was too far away from Castle Hendon. But she had to agree with Geoffrey’s reasoning. Jack wouldn’t be pleased to find her frequenting a bachelors’ residence. And she would enjoy seeing Jenny again. Perhaps catching up with her old mentor would distract her from the problems of her new role.

Jack woke on Friday morning feeling thoroughly disgruntled. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, his eyes devoid of expression. Life, full to brimming but short days before, had taken on a greyish hue.

He missed his wife.

Not only did he miss her, he couldn’t seem to function, knowing she wasn’t here, where she belonged. He couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t recall what he’d eaten for the last three days. His faculties were enmeshed in a constant retreading of their last encounters, of the opportunities he’d missed to read her mind and head off her startling, but characteristic action.

It had been a mistake to leave her at Cranmer Hall. He saw that now. But he hadn’t known then how much the thought of her would prey on his mind.

With a half groan, he pushed back the covers and hauled himself upright. Without more ado, he’d rectify his error. He’d ridden in from London late the previous night, his hope that Kit might have reassessed her objectives and returned home dashed by the sight of her empty bed. His empty bed had proved even less inspiring.

He dressed with unusual care, choosing a morning coat of simple elegance, determined to impress his wife with every facet of his personality. He knew exactly what he’d do. After greeting her coolly, he’d insist on seeing her alone. Then, he’d
explain
to her why her action in leaving him was unacceptable behavior in Lady Hendon, why no circumstance on earth could excuse her absence from the safety of his hearth. Then he’d kiss the damned woman witless and bring her home. Simple.

He grabbed a cup of coffee and ordered Champion brought around.

*     *     *

“If she’s not here, where the devil
is
she?” Jack ran an agitated hand through his hair, dragging golden strands loose to fly in wisps about his haggard face. He paced the Gresham’s morning room like a caged and wounded tiger.

Amy watched him, sheer amazement in her face.

“Perhaps, my dear, you should get us some refreshment.” George smiled reassuringly into Amy’s eyes. Drawing her to her feet, he steered her to the door and held it for her.

Once Amy had escaped, George shut the door and fixed Jack with a stern eye. “I told you not to leave Kit alone.” His voice held a note of decided censure. “And if you left without explaining what was going on, I’m not surprised she’s left you.”

Jack paused to stare at him.

George grimaced and rummaged in his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, holding out the note Kit had sent him. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t need to show you this, but obviously your wife knows your stubbornness even better than I.”

Puzzled, Jack took the note and smoothed it out.

“Read the last sentence,” said George helpfully.

Jack did.
I feel sure that you, being so much more in Jack’s confidence, will know better than I how to proceed.
Crushing the note in his hand, Jack swore. “How the hell was I supposed to know she felt that strongly over it?” He glared at George.

George was unimpressed. “You knew damn well she wanted to know. Dash it—she
deserved
to know, after what she did that night on the beach. And as for her recent efforts in the cause—all I can say is she’s been damned understanding.”

Jack was taken aback. “You don’t even approve of her!”

“I know. She’s wild beyond excuse. But that doesn’t excuse you.”

Hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed and smoky grey, Jack glared at George. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve told Amy of our mission?”

Unaffected by Jack’s belligerence, George sat on the
chaise.
“No, of course not. But the point is, Kit’s not Amy.”

Jack’s lips twisted in a pained grimace. He fell to pacing once more, his brow furrowed. “If I’d told her, God knows what she’d have got up to. Our dealings were too dangerous—I couldn’t expose her to such risks.”

George sighed. “Hell, Jack—you knew, what she was like from the start. Why the devil did you marry her, if you weren’t prepared to accept those risks?”

“I married her because I love her, dammit!”

“Well, if that’s the case, then the rest should come easily.”

Jack shot him a suspicious glance. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” said George, “that you wanted her for what she was—what she is. You can’t start changing bits and pieces, expecting her to change in some ways but not in others. Would you be pleased if she turned into another Amy?”

Jack bit back his retort, his lips compressed with the effort to hold back the unflattering reply.

George grinned. “Precisely. Not your cup of tea. Thankfully, she is mine.” The door opened at that moment; George looked up, smiling warmly as Amy entered, preceding her butler, who bore a tray burdened with a variety of strong liquors in addition to the teapot. Dismissing the butler, Amy poured tea for George and herself while George poured Jack a hefty glass of brandy. “Now that we’ve resolved your differences of opinion, what exactly has happened?”