Lady Rogue (27 page)

She pouted, her eyes cool. “Don’t you trust me?”

He turned to look at her, searching her expression. “No, I do not.” Alex took a breath. “But we’ll discuss that when I return. Agreed?”

Christine swallowed, her eyes darting down to her clasped hands. Finally she met his gaze again. “Agreed.”

“And, Kit, I want you to promise me something.”

“What is it?” she asked slowly.

“That you won’t disappear with your father until after I see you again.”

Before she could answer, Wenton scratched at the door with the morning edition of the
London Times
. Alex retrieved the paper and then shut the door in the butler’s face. Quickly he perused the front page, and its panicked suppositions that Napoleon would leave Paris for Calais, and from there would land in Dover with his army by the fifteenth.

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really.” He set the paper aside and strolled up to stand in front of her. “Promise me,” he repeated, reaching out to caress her cheek with his palm.

She leaned her face into his hand, her eyes holding his. “Alex—”

“I will tie you to this bed and put armed outriders all around the house if you say no,” he warned her.

Evidently he was serious. “I won’t leave until we’ve spoken again,” she whispered, then forced a smile and a sigh. “Stubborn Englishman. May I meet you somewhere for luncheon, or should I go find Reg and Francis?”

Everton found that he was less than pleased with the idea of her spending time with any of his male friends. Just as he could no longer fool himself for a moment into thinking her an ill-mannered boy, neither did he relish the thought of her enjoying some other man’s company, even in friendship. “The Navy at one, say?” He pulled on his boots. “We’ll leave word for your father with Wenton, in case he should arrive before we return.”

She nodded again. “All right.”

Perhaps she disliked the half-truths and the lies and distrust as much as he did, Alex thought. There would be no more lies between them.

He walked to the door, opened it, then shut it again and strode back to her side. Putting an arm about her waist, he pulled her against him and leaned down to touch her lips with his. “Be good,” he said, tugging on her hair and then turning away again. “I’ll see you at one, chit.”

Thankfully, Alex had thought to send all the servants downstairs so she could sneak into her own bedchamber without anyone spying her. She sat on the edge of her bed for a time, reluctant to remove his shirt from her skin. She pulled her hands back into the overlong sleeves and lifted the material to her face. It smelled like him, and unable to help herself, she lay back on the bed and laughed and kicked her bare legs in the air. Being female wasn’t nearly as bad as she had supposed. At least not while she could be with Alexander Cale.

He’d said they would talk later, and she wondered how much she dared tell him. Nothing that would hurt her father, but she was tired of all the lies, and even more tired of lying to Alex.

Finally she dressed and made her way downstairs to eat. The beaded mask was still in her greatcoat pocket, and she retrieved it before Wenton or any of the other servants could notice it. There was room for it in the satchel she had packed for her return to Paris, so with a glance at the grandfather clock to check the time, she
returned upstairs and closed her door. She knelt and unbuckled the two straps keeping the portmanteau closed. Kit started to slip the mask in under one of her shirts, then paused as her fingers touched something unfamiliar.

A slender leather pouch had been slipped deep into the middle of the bag, and with a slight frown she pulled it free and untied the knot holding it shut. And gasped. It was filled with paper currency, both French and English, in varying denominations. Altogether it must have been nearly two thousand pounds. A note was tucked against one side, and with shaking fingers she pulled it free. In Alex’s familiar scrawl it read, “Take care of yourself, cousin. Fondly, Everton.” The note was dated two days earlier; he must have stowed it away while she was at the Downings’.

Even considering that he enjoyed her company, it was an astoundingly generous gift to give. Tears ran down her cheeks. With this, she and her father could stop smuggling, could move into Saint-Germain, or even out of France altogether. And Alex had asked her to marry him, even if it was out of some stupid, misguided sense of duty and he really wanted no such entanglements.

Except that she did want to marry him, did want to stay with him. But first she needed to know that she could trust him, even after he knew exactly what she was. And then she needed him to ask her again, not because he was simply doing what was expected, but because he loved her.

T
he Earl of Everton kept his expression aloof and his eyes to the front as he forced himself to stroll calmly out of Buckingham Palace, when he truly wanted to call Prince George a fat oaf and put a vase through the lovely paned windows. Grateful that Furth at least had remained behind in conference, he avoided looking at his companions until the three of them were off the palace grounds and well onto the Mall. Only after he waved Waddle off and sent him home did he let out an explosive breath. “Arrogant, bloated buffoon,” he snarled, slamming his fist into his thigh hard enough to bruise.

His companions shared an uneasy glance. “What did you expect, Alex?” Gerald Downing said in a voice obviously intended to calm his cousin down. “He wants someone to hang. Now.”

“I can’t give him what I don’t have,” Alex snapped, looking down the street.

“Well, forgive me if I’m being insensitive, but you’ve been on this little committee for what, six years? And before now, I’ve never known you to have contraband seized without being able to discover who’s behind the shipment,” Reg Hanshaw put in from his other side. “That was likely Prinny’s, and His Grace’s, line of thinking as well, I would ima—”

“I stopped the damned weapons, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” the baron agreed. “The first load of
them, anyway. None of us has heard much about the sec—”

“He practically accused me of lying.”

Gerald fiddled with his walking cane. “You were, weren’t you?”

Alex snapped his gaze to his cousin’s face. “Yes.”

“But why?” Reg demanded. “Do you know how much trouble you may just have brought down on yourself?”

He knew quite well. “Just leave off, both of you,” he growled. “I have my reasons.” The major one being that he was trying to find a way to protect a spy before he turned her father’s name over to the authorities.

Reg sighed and stopped to purchase a posy from a street vendor. He tucked the flower into his lapel, and shook his head. “Alex—”

A shot rang out across the street. In the same heartbeat, something burned past Alex’s cheek, and Reg crashed backward into the Duchess of Devenbroke.

She promptly fainted, and in the ensuing hysteria of the most distinguished members of the
ton
flinging one another out of the way and diving for cover, Alex couldn’t tell where the shot had come from, much less who had fired it. “Reg!” he bellowed, shoving through the crowd to his companion’s side.

Gerald was already there, helping the baron to his feet. “I’m all right,” Hanshaw said, fingering the graze across his temple. “Who the devil’s shooting at me?”

“I don’t know,” Alex snarled, rubbing at his own singed cheek, his eyes darting across the rooftops and touching the alleys on the far side of the street. There were far too many places to hide, and too many avenues of escape. Behind him Lord Bandwyth and Lady Julia Penston were fanning the duchess’s face, and she was already making promising groans. “You certain you’re all right?” he queried, turning back to the baron.

Reg nodded and squinted one eye shut, obviously hurting. “Yes. You?”

“Splendid.”

“I assume someone doesn’t appreciate our med
dling,” Hanshaw continued. “Or Furth really doesn’t like me at all anymore.” He gave a weak grin and staggered sideways while Gerald kept hold of him.

“Gerald, get him tended to,” Alex ordered. “And let Martin know what’s happened.”

His cousin nodded. “And you?”

Alex felt his jaw clench. “I have to follow up on a hunch.”

“You be careful,” Gerald suggested, looking at him closely and indicating his face. “We don’t know who the target was.”

“I intend to find that out,” he returned, and strode up the street.

What he had done this morning, in denying knowledge of the identity of the weapons smuggler, had been treason. Prinny was angry at him, and whatever sort of buffoon he was reputed to be, Prince George was not a complete fool. Martin Brantley knew for a certainty that he was hiding something, and would not let it remain a secret for much longer. And he knew what Hanshaw and Gerald would say, that he was thinking with something other than his head. He had managed to let himself overlook the fact that Kit, in all likelihood, had partners. Partners who would have a stake in getting those weapons to France, and who, it seemed, were willing to kill over the issue.

The Navy came into sight up ahead, and he glanced down at his pocket watch. He was only a little early, and hopefully she would be there already. Unless she had pulled the trigger herself, and was elsewhere hiding the evidence. His mind would travel no further, though, on that road. It couldn’t have been her. He wouldn’t let it be her. In the cloakroom he was accosted by Francis on his way out.

“Everton,” Francis greeted, accepting his gloves from a footman, “did you find out who she was?”

“Who who was?” Alex answered shortly, removing his hat and tossing it at a second startled servant.

“The girl, last night. Lady Masquerade. Whole town’s
talking about her, you know. Gibson thinks she’s a Russian princess.”

“Sounds plausible,” the earl agreed, attempting to make his way into the parlor.

“Come, Alex, the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off one another. Barbara was screeching like a barn owl in the powder room, Lady Putney said. So who is she, old boy?”

“She is Lady Masquerade.” Alex gave a curt nod of dismissal, but Francis refused to release his sleeve. “Francis, I don’t know,” he continued impatiently. “She is as much a mystery to me as she is to you.” That part, anyway, was true. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Kit said you denied knowing anything about the chit as well, but I think he was merely trying to be rid of me, so he could go on babbling with that other fellow.”

Alex’s heart turned to ice. “What other fellow?”

“The one in the billiards room with him. They’ve been gabbing like old friends. Sounds more like French than Irish, but all babbling sounds fairly much the same to me. I say, are you going to Vauxhall with—”

Alex ignored the rest of Francis’s yammering as he strode through the wide parlor, dodged Lord Ranley and an inquiry as to his feelings about the army’s drain on the economy, and stepped into the billiards room. It couldn’t be her father, he told himself as he glanced about. Stewart Brantley would never show his face in a club, not in the middle of Mayfair, and not when he was selling weapons to enemies of England. For a bare moment, though, Alex hesitated. If it was Brantley in there, he would have to arrest him. He would have to arrest both of them.

He didn’t see her for a moment as he pushed past an eager Thadius Naring, scarcely noting the man and his bootlick greeting. When he finally found her, leaning over a table toward the back of the room, breath returned to him with a tight shudder. It wasn’t Brantley beside her. The gentleman leaning at her elbow was the same handsome, dark-haired stranger who had stopped her
outside Cale House, and Alex’s eyes narrowed.

“Kit,” he said, stepping forward and clenching his hands to keep from grabbing her, “apologies if I’ve kept you waiting.”

She looked up, the surprise in her green eyes swiftly replaced by a warm, welcome look that did little to ease his disquiet. “No, you’re early,” she responded in her low lilt, and glanced over at her companion. “Alex, have you met Jean-Paul Mercier, the Comte de Fouché? Jean-Paul, my cousin Alexander Cale, the Earl of Everton.”

“
Enchanté
,” the comte said, studying him with hawk’s eyes.

Kit had described Fouché’s eyes as mysterious, but Alex would have termed the other’s expression wary. This was the man whose nose she had bloodied, he recalled, yet Fouché appeared to have forgiven her. Forgiven her enough to seek her out in an exclusive London club and speak to her in the language of an enemy country.

“Good afternoon,” the earl returned mildly, holding out his hand. “Kit mentioned that he had met you in Paris, I believe.”

“Ah, I hope his words about me were kind,” the comte said in a heavy French accent, gripping Alex’s hand for a moment. There was no powder stain, and there was no cause to suspect him for reasons other than his presence and his association with Kit, but Alex continued to watch him warily.

“Of course, Jean-Paul,” Kit said, her eyes returning to Alex. “What happened to you?” She reached up a finger to her own cheek, then motioned at his.

“Carriage kicked up a stone,” he answered, searching her voice and eyes for any indication that she knew how he had acquired the wound.

Fouché set aside his billiards cue and nodded at Kit. “As I said, I only wanted to give you my farewell.” The dark eyes glanced at Alex. “I am returning to France this evening,” he explained.

Then he likely was involved, and was supposed to leave with Kit and her father. Quick panic touched Alex
again at the thought of her going. “Ah,” he commented, furrowing his brow with what he hoped was an expression of mild concern. “That seems a dangerous place to be, at the moment.”

Fouché gave him a patient smile. “Not if one is careful. Which we always are, are we not,
mon ami
?”

“
Bien entendu
,” Kit answered absently, her eyes on Alex. “Of course.”

The comte sketched a quick, elegant bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Everton,” he said. He gripped Kit’s shoulder in a gesture that seemed altogether too friendly. “
Je te verrai encore bientôt
.”

“
Adieu
,” Kit returned, nodding as he turned and strolled away from them.

“What did he say?” Alex asked quietly.

She shrugged. “Just to be careful,” she replied.

Alex wanted to shake her, to inform her that
I’ll see you soon
sounded nothing like
be careful
in any language, but instead he took the cue out of her hand and placed it on the table. “Come with me,” he murmured.

After a close look at his face, she nodded and turned to follow him. He led her back to the coatroom and waited while they were given their things, then headed outside and had a footman hail them a coach.

“Where’s Waddle?” Kit asked, pulling on her hat.

“Sent him home,” he returned, concentrating on breathing calmly. A hack stopped beside them, and Alex motioned her to climb in. “Twelve Park Lane,” he told the driver.

As soon as the door shut, the driver sent the team off. “Alex,” Kit said from beside him, “what’s wro—”

He grabbed her hands, yanked them up to his face, and breathed in deeply. They smelled of chalk, not gunpowder, and he relaxed a fraction. At least she hadn’t been the assassin. He truly hadn’t thought her capable of such a thing, but he wasn’t thinking clearly where she was concerned.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulling her hands back to examine them when he released her.

“What were you and that damned Frenchman talking about?” he demanded.

“Jean-Paul?” she faltered. “Nothing really. Just—”

“Tell me, Christine!” he roared, beyond patience, beyond any sort of subtlety, beyond anything but a desperate, splintering need to be with her and to be able to trust her.

“He…he just told me that he’d spoken to my father. Papa had unexpected business in Calais, and was delayed another few days.”

No doubt that business had something to do with an expected weapons shipment. Time was even shorter than he had realized. “How did you and your father make a living in Paris?” he continued, his hands tight around her upper arms.

“Alex, you’re hurting me,” she protested, struggling.

“And you’re hurting me, damn it. Answer my bloody question, Christine.”

She shrugged. “However we could.”

He shook his head, yanking her closer beside him. “You will tell me the truth,” he snarled. “No more lies.”

“What’s happened?” she asked, her expression growing alarmed.

“Someone shot Reg a few moments ago.”

Christine went still, her face turning an alarming shade of white. “What?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his singed cheek. Her fingers jumped, and she sagged to cover her face with her hands. “No, no, no.”

He pulled her hands away from her face, reminding himself that she was a superb actress, and that he couldn’t trust her. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Is he…” she began, then took a quick breath, as though to steady herself. “Is he dead?”

“No. The ball grazed his skull. Luckily he has a hard head.” He slid his hands on both sides of her face, compelling her to look him in the eye. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Yes,” she answered almost soundlessly, a single tear
running down her cheek. “But I didn’t—”

Alex shook her hard, trying to ignore the sensation of his world shredding around him. “You tell me exactly what I need to know. How did you and your father make your living in Paris?”

She took another shaky breath. “Papa gambled, and I did a little, as well. After Napoleon, and I suppose before, though I was too young to pay much attention, he smuggled.”

“Smuggled what?”

“Whatever he could. Fresh fruit, vegetables, blankets, flour, silver, gold.” Her words were coming more quickly, as though now that she had begun, she was anxious to tell the whole story. “Once the British set up their blockade, he couldn’t do it on his own anymore. That’s when he started working with Jean-Paul.”

“The Comte de Fouché.” So he was involved after all. And Alex had let him walk free as well, because of the woman beside him.

She nodded. “Yes. Over the last few months, Fouché found a new buyer. Papa kept saying it was some eccentric old lord, and whatever odd things he occasionally wanted, he paid well enough for us to get them for him. He kept pretending it was nothing, but…I knew it wasn’t vegetables.”

“And Reg?” Alex prompted quietly, hating every answer she was giving. “Why was he shot?”

She wrapped her hands around his, keeping him close to her. “Someone stopped the last shipment the old man wanted. Apparently he was furious, and threatened to…have Jean-Paul kill Papa if he failed again. So Papa and I came here. I was to help him find out who was behind all the trouble, so he could bribe whoever it was, give him a cut.” Her green eyes held his steadily, while he searched her face for any sign she was lying. Another tear ran down her cheek. “Only it was you, wasn’t it?”