Lady Rogue (2 page)

Her father paled, for the first time looking truly angry. “Never,” he hissed.

“I don’t need a wet nurse,” Kit cut in. “I can take care of myself. And if Everton won’t aid us, then we don’t need him, Father.” They could find someone else for her to stay with in London—someone who didn’t have eyes as piercing as Alexander Cale’s.

“I’m afraid we do need him, Kit.” Stewart looked at Everton. “Do you wish me to beg you to honor your debt, my lord?”

The earl looked from one to the other of them again, then shook his head and let out a sigh. “I suppose not.
But I don’t have time to coddle the boy. I have some rather pressing duties and obligations of my own.”

“I don’t ask you to go out of your way for him.” Stewart looked at Kit for a moment. “Anything other than keeping him here safely is, of course, unnecessary. And as I said, it will only be till the end of the month. God willing, this madness will be over by then, anyway.”

The eyes turned to Kit again, though she couldn’t read the expression there. “God willing,” Alexander Cale repeated, then stood. “Very well. I’ll show you both to rooms.”

Stewart Brantley gave a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Everton.”

The earl shook his head. “As you said, a debt is a debt. But this
will
make us even. My father’s obligation to you is hereby settled.”

It seemed as much a threat as an insult, and Stewart’s jaw clenched before he nodded. “That is all I ask.”

The bedchamber the earl showed Kit to was splendid. Gold and peach wall hangings framed each of the two windows, and nearly a dozen pillows were piled at the head of the soft, quilt-covered bed. It made her cot in their
appartements
in Saint-Marcel in Paris look quite shabby. After Everton left, she ran her finger along the quilt, touching the soft, cool texture with some relish. With a regretful look at the warm blankets, she sat at the dressing table to wait. Everton had given in, when she had nearly been convinced he would not. His surprise capitulation left her even less at ease than had his bald suspicion.

Half an hour later the chamber door opened, and she turned. “What now, Father?” she asked softly, as he slipped inside.

He chuckled. “That was easier than I expected.”

Kit didn’t agree. “He nearly turned us out.”

“Nonsense.”

She took a breath, reluctant to argue with him. “Do you think I can convince him to introduce me about town?”

Stewart gave a brief smile. “My dear, your powers of persuasion are unmatched. And young Alexander’s contemporaries would be more likely to be involved in government trickeries than his father’s, anyway. This could not have worked out better if I’d planned it.”

“You did plan it, didn’t you, Father?” she returned, still unsettled and unable to resist needling him out of his self-confidence. “Except for Philip Cale’s being dead for four years.”

He glared at her. “Don’t be insolent, girl. You let me know which of these damned blue bloods is interfering with us, and we’ll teach him a little lesson.”

“Do you think it could be him?” Kit whispered, gesturing at the mansion surrounding them.

Her father squinted one eye, then shrugged. “From what I hear, he’s always been wild and a bit ramshackle. Hardly the sort old King George, unless he was having one of his mad fits, would have chosen to help uphold the proper British way of life.” He grinned. “Be glad he thinks you a boy. From what I hear, it takes women, drink, or gambling to catch Alex Cale’s interest. But be careful around him, just the same, until you’re certain.”

She would be careful around him, anyway. “I will.”

He nodded. “I’d best be off, then, in case he changes his mind after a night’s sleep. You remember where to meet me if you have news?” When she nodded, Stewart leaned closer. “You can do this. I need you to do this. For both our sakes.”

She took a breath, unable to resist balking one last time. “You’re certain Fouché can’t be put off?”

“I’ve told you, the greater the risk, the greater the profit. We’ll get his shipment through, and we’ll all be happy and wealthy.”

“It would be easier if I knew what we were shipping for him.”

“Best that you don’t,” he answered, as he had every time she’d asked.

“This is not for vegetables and blankets,” she stated, to see how he would react.

He didn’t. “I’ll see you in a few days. Trust your father, child.”

“I always have.”

He started for the door, then glanced over his shoulder at her and gave her a quick grin. “Good girl.”

Christine watched him leave, then sat on the edge of the fine bed and slowly shed her damp clothes. For only a fortnight, she could do this. She could meet the Earl of Everton’s precious blue-blooded cronies, and find out which of them had begun interfering with their affairs of commerce, just when the Comte de Fouché had offered her father a partnership too lucrative to resist. Everton might have beautiful eyes and a devilishly handsome face, but she could fool him for a fortnight, just as she fooled everyone else. And these English would never know how Stewart Brantley had managed to slip through their fingers again. Not until it was too late, and she and her father were long gone.

A
lexander Cale was not in a good mood as he sat down to breakfast at half past eight. Debt of honor or not, Stewart Brantley might have waited for a decent hour before he came calling with his absurd demands. For the inconvenience alone, he should have declined to settle anything, handed them over some blunt, and sent them on their way. And he would have, except for the boy.

There was something about that one, something he’d sensed but hadn’t quite been able to discern. It had been there, in Kit Brantley’s eyes. They were dark green, he recalled quite clearly, and full of spirit. There had also been uneasiness, and unless he was mistaken, desire. Alex frowned and motioned for Wenton, the butler, to refill his teacup. The boy might be odd, but that didn’t explain his own reaction in the slightest. Obviously he’d merely been tired. The interruption had been considerably ill timed, after all.

Something broke in the direction of the kitchens, and he indicated that Wenton should investigate the damage. Before the butler could comply, the breakfast room door burst open. “My lord,” one of the kitchen maids panted, “there’s a terrible commotion in the stables.”

Wenton started out, but Alex pushed to his feet. “I’ll see to it,” he drawled, and followed the maid back through the kitchen, the quickest route to the stable yard. As he stepped out into the cold, damp morning, he re
alized that the girl hadn’t been exaggerating. From across the small yard, cheering and cursing and the sound of horses snorting and blowing were loud and unmistakable. He shoved open the double doors of the stable and stepped inside.

And paused. His houseguest, Mr. Kit Brantley, stood backed against the opposite wall with a lethal-looking pitchfork clutched in his hands, while Ben Conklin, the head groom, hung back a few feet and rubbed at a splendid welt forming across his jaw. The rest of the stable-boys and coachmen crowded in a loose half circle behind them, and they were the ones making most of the noise. “What’s this?” Alex queried, and the shouting and heckling stopped.

“This bantam nearly spitted me with the pitchfork, m’lord,” Conklin offered, watching the youth warily.

“You shouldn’t have jumped out at me and started yelling like that,” the boy growled, breathing hard.

“What, pray tell, are you doing in my stable?” Alex asked, far more amused than annoyed. Conklin rarely received the worst in a scrap, and this slightly built sprig hardly seemed the one to hand him his teeth.

“I’ll send for the constabulary,” Wenton offered, though Alex hadn’t been aware that the butler had followed him. Wenton rarely left his stated territory, that being the mansion. The yard, by some sort of mutual agreement, was Conklin’s.

“That won’t be necessary,” Alex replied, watching the boy’s face as sudden uneasiness dampened the anger in his expression. Interesting, that. “Why don’t you put your weapon down and come in for some breakfast, Mr. Brantley?” he suggested.

“I was only looking,” Kit returned hostilely. He glanced down at the pitchfork, then with obvious reluctance set it aside.

Instantly Conklin jumped him.

“Damnation,” Alex growled, and pushed through the jostling circle. “That’s enough!” he bellowed, shoving Conklin aside, then grabbing Kit about the arms and waist and hauling him backward. The boy was surpris
ingly light for his height. Light, and with a very slender waist and rounded hips, which immediately began squirming in a rather familiar-feeling manner as he pulled the lad closer against him. The feel of the slim, supple body startled him.

At the same time, Kit began to struggle more violently. Almost frantically. “Let me go, you stupid lout!” he shouted.

Alex blinked and then complied, dumping him to the ground.

The damp, straw-covered figure immediately scrambled to his feet, rounding on him with fists clenched in a quite accurate classical boxing stance. “Try that again,
imbécile
!” he growled, face flushed.

Alex looked at him for a long moment, several extremely odd thoughts crossing his mind and racing toward even odder conclusions. “Hmm,” he finally said, and turned on his heel. “Come inside.”

“Don’t order me—”

“Now!” Without glancing behind him, he crossed the yard again, went back through the kitchens, and into the breakfast room. “Wenton, have another plate brought in,” he ordered, as with a baleful look Kit entered the room behind him. Before the butler could answer, Alex shut the door in his face.

“Now. Good morning, Mr. Brantley,” he said, turning to face his guest again. “Care to have a seat?”

“No,” Kit grumbled, backing toward the hallway door. “I should go get cleaned up.”

Green eyes slid between the earl and the door, while Alex watched with intent curiosity. What he was beginning to suspect simply wasn’t possible, but it was a better explanation than that he was suddenly finding young boys exceptionally attractive. “What were you doing in my stable?” he queried.

“Looking, just like I said,” the boy answered defensively. “Your pair of bays is sterling. But I wasn’t going to steal anything.”

“Thank you, and I didn’t say you were.”

“Well, good. Because I wasn’t.”

“Is your father also not stealing from my stable? Or is he still to bed?”

“My father had to return to Paris. He has business concerns th—”

“He left you here?” Alex interrupted, frowning. If what he suspected was true, Brantley’s leaving was a tremendous surprise.

“Well, yes. You did agr—”

“That was rather impolite of him, don’t you think? He might have said thank you and good-bye, at least.”

“That’s not his way,” the boy answered, shrugging. For just a moment, though, a fleeting look of what might have been loneliness crossed his features. And then Kit Brantley unthinkingly, unconsciously, raised one hand to pull a straying strand of blond hair back from his face.

That gentle, hesitant motion made everything very clear. “Sweet Lucifer,” the Earl of Everton muttered, and the green eyes looked over at him. “You’re a bloody female!”

If he’d doubted it at all, Kit’s reaction would have settled the issue. She went white, then gave a forced laugh and raised an eyebrow. “I believe you’ve been drinking, Everton,” she commented, her voice quavering just a little.

He strode forward, stopping directly in front of her. Without giving her time to protest, he reached out and removed the hat from her head. The band that had been holding the hair in its tail dropped to the floor, and stable straw and a short mop of curling blond hair tumbled around her face and down to her shoulders. It all made sense now. That rich, low lilt had been no schoolboy’s voice; that light, supple body, no man’s. And the long eyelashes, the expressive green eyes that were now looking at him in alarm, could never possibly belong to a male.

“I—”

“Don’t deny it, unless you wish me to take further measures to discover the truth,” Alex warned, conscious of the abrupt desire to peel this damp and dirty thing out of her wet clothes, and see exactly what lay beneath.

She lifted her chin. “Very well, Everton. I am a female.”

“By God,” he exclaimed, her confession not lessening in the slightest his desire to undress her. “What a neat trick. You do this often then, chit—whatever your name is?”

“It’s Christine,” she said. “And Stewart Brantley
is
my father. The only lie last night was my gender. And that was for good reason, I assure you.”

By all rights he should have been furious at being taken for a fool. Instead, though, he found that while he was mightily annoyed, he was equally curious and intrigued. Alexander leaned back against the edge of the table and looked at her all over again. She was apparently flat-chested, but with the ratty coat, waistcoat, and breeches, it was difficult to tell much else, except that she was slender and had long legs. Exceptionally long legs.

Kit stood still, her face flushed, during his scrutiny.

“Forgive my obtuseness,” he said after a moment, “but if your father wished to avoid having you drafted into Bonaparte’s mad army, couldn’t you have simply donned skirts?”

“I do not find it necessary to explain my life or my circumstances to you,” she retorted.

“Your father gave you to me for a fortnight,” he responded. “You must understand my considerable…curiosity at finding myself hosting a female when I had expected something else entirely.” He ran his gaze down the length of her again, and smiled slowly. “This should be much more interesting.”

Kit glared up at him, her jaw clenched and her eyes flashing emerald. “Go find a sheep,” she snapped, grabbing her beaver hat out of his hands and jamming it on her head again. “You were to satisfy a debt of honor. Not your carnal urges. Good day, Everton.”

“I don’t…” Alex stopped in mid-retort as she strode out of the breakfast room and slammed the door shut behind her. A scattering of stable mud and drying hay drifted to the floor in her wake. Alex looked back at the
door, a reluctant, admiring smile tugging at his lips, then stepped forward and pulled it open.

“You are the most absurd thing I’ve ever set eyes on,” he said to the girl’s back, already halfway out the front door. No doubt she intended on walking all the way back to Dover and then swimming on to Calais.

“I’m so pleased I’ve been able to amuse you,” she retorted, stopping just long enough to turn and glare at him one final time. “It is why I came all this way.”

“Good morning, Alexander,” a soft voice cooed from the landing. With a rustle of skirts, the house’s other guest stepped down to join them.

Kit paused in the doorway, looking toward the stairs, one slim hand still on the door handle. A look of swift surprise crossed her features, then vanished.

“Barbara,” Everton answered, strolling to the bottom of the stairs and granting his mistress an absurdly chaste kiss on the cheek.

Her dark eyes glanced sideways at him, then turned back to regard the waif studying them from the entryway. “Taking in orphans now, are you?” she asked, reaching up to finger one of the dark curls piled in artistic profusion on her head. “Who are you, boy?”

Alex looked from one to the other, and in an instant made his decision. He wasn’t ready to let this odd creature out of his sight just yet. Not until he’d learned a bit more about her. There was more to this visit of hers than just safety, or he was a complete idiot. This one wouldn’t have come begging for protection. “Barbara, may I present Kit—”

“Riley,” the waif supplied smoothly before he could finish, returning to the hallway to take Barbara’s hand and bring it with practiced ease to her lips. “My cousin has difficulty acknowledging my Irish ancestry.”

“Cousin?” Barbara said faintly, raising a carefully shaped eyebrow and gazing with some skepticism between the blond youth and the dark-haired earl.

Amazed at both the change in the chit and at her audacity, Alex took another step forward. “Kit, Lady Sinclair.”

“Lady Sinclair.” Kit nodded, smiling as she released the other woman’s hand. “Charmed to the bone.”

“Mr. Riley,” Barbara noted with a faint smile of her own. “I don’t recall Alex ever mentioning you.”

“Well, I’m from the poor side of the family,” the waif supplied, glancing at Alex with hilarity hooded in her eyes.

Barbara turned to Alex. “I didn’t realize your family had a poor side.”

“Just the one we don’t talk about,” he said absently, tilting his head to regard his newfound relation.

“And Kit is short for…”

“Christian,” Alex supplied. The thoughts running through his head were hardly of a familial bent, but Kit had hit on a commendable explanation for her presence.

“How delightful.” Lady Sinclair laughed, a light, airy chuckle. “My devil has a Christian for a cousin.”

Alex frowned and belatedly returned his attention to his mistress. “Kit, for short.”

Barbara stepped forward and slipped her arm around Kit’s. “But why are you so…dirty?”

“I arrived quite late last night, and didn’t want to disturb anyone,” Kit answered smoothly, allowing herself to be led back toward the interior of the house.

Barbara looked over her shoulder at Alex. “Then who dragged you out of bed last night at such an…inconvenient moment?”

“Oh, that was me,” Kit cut in again, apparently undisturbed by Barbara’s implication. “I’m afraid my ‘quiet’ was enough to pull my cousin out of bed, and then he told me I could damned well sleep out in the stables if I couldn’t arrive at a decent hour.” She shrugged. “So I did.”

She lied like a damned actor, Alex thought. He couldn’t help but admire the skill with which she wove her tale; even Edmund Kean would have been impressed. He would make a point of remembering that he couldn’t trust a word she said.

“Alex, how awful, even for you,” Barbara chastised. The grandfather clock on the landing began striking
nine, and she stopped. “Oh, lud, you’ve nearly made me forget my dressmaker’s appointment. I must go.” She smiled. “I am having a dinner party this evening, and I would love for you to come, Mr. Riley.”

She released Kit and took Alex’s arm to pull him into the entryway. “Do bring him,” she cajoled. “Caroline and Lady Driscoll will think he’s divine.”

“We’ll see,” he answered gruffly, displeased with the suggestion.

Barbara pulled his face down for an openmouthed kiss, reminding him that despite her occasional snobberies, she did have her uses. With her maid following behind, burdened with her mistress’s overnight necessities, Lady Sinclair allowed Wenton to help her on with her shawl and then stepped out into the drive to her waiting carriage.

When Alex made his way back to the breakfast room, the chit had already devoured half the contents of her plate and was stealing slices of ham from his. As he entered, she released the meat and sat up straight.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, motioning at her to help herself. “I don’t want it now that you’ve had your grubby fingers all over it.”

“My fingers aren’t grubby,” she declared, reaching out again for his plate, apparently interpreting his gesture as an invitation to eat everything that remained. “Is Lady Sinclair your mistress?”

Alex seated himself. “How old are you, anyway?” he queried, studying her as she wolfed down a biscuit lathered in honey.