Lady Rogue (30 page)

The baron frowned. “Augustus? Why would he—”

“Does he know, Reg?” she repeated firmly, wondering just how much she was willing to divulge. She was balancing on a very thin rail, and the wind was gusting. Falling on one side would kill Alex, and landing on the other would get her father, and likely herself, hanged.

“No. I never told him, at any rate. And Alex still isn’t
speaking to him. So no. I don’t see how he could.”

Kit gave a small sigh of relief and nodded. “Thank you.”

Before she could turn away, Reg grabbed her arm. “Why are you worried over Augustus?”

Looking into the serious blue eyes below his rakishly bandaged forehead, Kit realized that he had been playing a game all along, as well. Whimsical and a bit silly, perhaps, but only on the outside. On the inside, he was likely as formidable an opponent as she knew Alex to be. He was also the only one in London right now whom she could trust. If she dared. “I…saw him, the other day, talking to a Frenchman.”

Reg relaxed a fraction and released his hold on her sleeve. “There are some living in London,” he noted.

She swallowed. “He was in an alley at the time.”

The frown returned. “In an al—”

“At midnight.”

The frown remained on his face while he held her gaze, though his attention wasn’t on her. He was running calculations, possibilities, through his mind, she knew, trying to weigh what she’d said against what he knew about Augustus and the French smugglers they were after. Finally he blinked and shook his head. “No. I know you want to help, and that things have been a bit…exciting,” he offered, fingering his bandage, “but Augustus is not only our friend, he’s practically Everton’s family. This is important business, Kit. Don’t repeat what you’ve told me to anyone else, or you might get yourself, and Alex, into difficulties.”

He had no idea what she was risking, so of course, there was no real reason to believe a foolish young Irishman who’d been begging after an exciting royal appointment. “Reg, don’t be so stupid,” she said urgently. “Devlin knows what’s going on, and he hates Alex.”

“He does not hate Alex. He merely…says things when he’s cast away. They’ll be bosom cronies again in a week. It’s happened before.” Reg clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everton’ll be home tomorrow. Day after, at the latest. You can let him in on your sus
picions, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”

Kit shrugged free of his grip. “He already has.”

“Well, come and join us, then. We’re on our way to see the fireworks.”

“Thank you, no. I’ve got to get back.” She turned around, then bit her lower lip and faced the baron again. “Reg, don’t tell Devlin I said that about him.”

He looked at her oddly for a brief moment, then shook himself. “Don’t worry, Kit. I won’t.”

Hopefully that would keep Hanshaw safe until she could convince Alex—or, if she was left no other choice, take care of Devlin herself. “Good,” she muttered, hurrying back into the shadows.

Reg looked after her for a moment, then shook his head and turned to rejoin his party. “Couldn’t be,” he muttered. “Impossible.”

Bone-tired and cold, Alex climbed the shallow granite steps of Brantley House and struck the knocker against the door panel. A moment later Royce pulled open the door, and with a polite greeting and a distasteful look at his muddy boots, ushered him up to the drawing room. It had been over a year since Alex had last set foot inside these walls. Though he had known Martin Brantley for years, he found himself viewing the place with new eyes. The rooms all had the formal, stiff feel of unused furniture, which made sense considering the small amount of time the Brantleys, and particularly Martin, spent in London. Not until Caroline’s coming-out this Season had any of the family stayed more than a few days in town at one time.

He took a turn about the drawing room while Royce went to inform His Grace that he had a caller. Two walls of the room were lined with family portraits, including, surprisingly enough, one of a younger Martin Brantley and his brother astride a pair of bay hunters. Perhaps the anger between the brothers only ran in one direction.

There were several portraits of Caroline at varying ages, and he glanced over them with mild curiosity. He’d known her since she was twelve, likely the reason
he hadn’t become infatuated with the young beauty as Hanshaw and some of the other
ton
bucks had. One of the paintings close to the corner of the room caught his attention, and he stopped to examine it more closely. The girl, perhaps five years old and dressed in a high-waisted pink muslin, smiled as she dragged her bonnet along behind her while she strolled in front of a bed of daisies. Whoever the artist was, he had captured with stunning perfection the mischievous glint in the green eyes, and the grin that lighted her face. He smiled back and reached out to touch the child’s cheek gently with the back of one finger. “Kit,” he whispered.

“I trust you were successful?” Martin Brantley’s deep voice inquired from the hallway.

Alex lowered his hand and turned to face the duke. “We’ve stopped the weapons.”

“Thank God,” Furth said, letting out a breath as he stepped into the room and shut the door. “You had me damned worried, Alexander.”

“Myself, as well.” It was time for him to tell Furth what he knew, and to ask for his help in protecting Kit from the scandal and accusations that would follow. Still, he hesitated, for if what he had done so far hadn’t made an enemy of Christine, what he was about to do would ensure it. “I…have news, Your Grace. News you will not like hearing.”

The duke narrowed his eyes for a moment, then nodded and gestured. “Proceed.”

“I have the name of the smuggler we’ve been seeking.”

“You’ve had the name for some time, I believe,” Furth said dryly. “Or am I mistaken?”

Alex sighed, feeling rather like a student being censured by his headmaster. “You are not mistaken.” Furth waited. “As you know, this is the second time I’ve intercepted weapons meant for Napoleon. This is also the second time one of the smugglers named…Stewart Brantley as his contact in France.”

For a moment Martin Brantley’s expression froze. “Stewart Brantley,” he repeated almost soundlessly.
“Stewart…” He shut his eyes for a moment, then looked again at Alex. “You’re certain of this?” he demanded.

“Well, y—”

“No, no, of course you are, blast it, or you would never have said it in the first place. Damn, damn, damn!” Furth paced toward the window, then to the fireplace, then back to the window, and came to a stop. It was the most agitated Alex had ever seen him, and it didn’t bode well for the duke’s reception to the news yet to come.

“I would have said something sooner,” Alex offered, “but I wanted to be certain.”

Furth turned on him. “Afraid I would do something to stop you?” he accused.

Alex steadily held his gaze. “No.”

For a long moment Martin Brantley glared at him. Abruptly then, the duke seemed to deflate, and with a groan he dropped into a chair. “It’s my own bloody fault, I suppose,” he muttered, gazing down at his hands. “He hates me, and so he takes it out on the entire country.” He glanced up again. “You’ve already given the information to Prince George, then?”

Everton shook his head. “I rode straight here from Suffolk.” He gestured at his dust-covered clothes. “As you can see.”

“So I’m to be the one to deliver the delightful news.” Furth stood and walked over to survey the portraits, much as Alex had. “I knew he was doing some smuggling, actually, but it never seemed enough to warrant the scandal it would cause if I, or anyone else, were to expose him.” He sighed, then reached out to straighten the painting of Kit. “Though I would have preferred that scandal to the one this will bring down on my house.”

Alex took a quick breath, and resisted the urge to clench his hands together to keep them from trembling. “There was another reason I came here first,” he said slowly. “Your brother’s child is—”

The duke whipped around to face him. “Christine?”
he snapped, paling. “What have you heard about Christine?”

He hadn’t expected the anxiety he heard clearly in Furth’s voice, and it stopped him for a moment. “She…has apparently been living with him in Paris. I believe she has been assisting her father in his smuggling, though I’m not cert—”

“Never,” Furth snarled, turning back to look at the portrait of the sunlit child. “She would never.”

“With all due respect, Martin,” Alex said carefully, “you haven’t seen her since she was six.”

Furth slowly turned around. “And how do you know that?” he murmured, his green eyes on Alex’s face.

“I have met her,” Alex returned. “She told me.”

The duke went white. “You have arrested her?”

Alex shook his head. “No.”

“Thank God,” Furth whispered. “Did she happen to…mention me at all?”

Though the Duke of Furth was often aggravating and evasive, he always radiated a certain confidence, a sense that he knew exactly where he was headed, even though no one else had yet figured it out. This time, though, he was clearly stumbling, and Alex had to wonder why. The man was obviously fond of his niece, but it had been nearly fourteen years since he had last set eyes on her. Then again, Alex thought, glancing toward her portrait, once those green eyes smiled, they were difficult to forget. He was missing her himself, with a keen yearning that made it seem like weeks, rather than days, since they’d parted. “She didn’t wish to speak of you,” he answered, reaching for whatever truths were left him, “except to say that you had something to do with her mother’s death.”

“I didn’t,” Martin rasped, and sat heavily in the deep windowsill. “I didn’t.” He shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, looking old and used up. “Anne was a remarkable woman. I had, and still have, great admiration for her. I bear no grudge against Stewart, and certainly none against Christine.” Finally he glanced up at Alex. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

It was the hardest sentence he would ever utter. “Yes, I do.”

The duke rose and strode quickly in Alex’s direction. “Tell me.”

“Your Grace, I…Under the circumstances, I can do little to protect her,” he began, declining to mention that he had proposed marriage twice and been turned down both times. “But I thought your name would do what mine cannot.”

For a fleeting moment, hope entered the duke’s eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, of course. I will offer her the greatest protection my name affords. I could not do otherwise.”

The words Furth spoke seemed to echo in Alex’s chest with the same longing and concern he felt for her himself. “She won’t like what I’ve done here,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Is she in London?”

“Yes.”

The duke pounced on the word hungrily. “Where? Where is she? Everton, I demand to see her at once.”

“Friends though we may be, Martin,” Alex said stiffly, “I place her wishes far above your demands.” It was what he had come for, but now that it was time, he was reluctant to relinquish his secret, or her.

The duke looked considerably intrigued, but he was wise enough not to pry. “Alexander—Alex, please tell me.”

He hadn’t expected Furth to beg. “All right.” It would have to be someplace public, where she would be concerned enough about keeping her disguise intact that she could be induced to sit still long enough to listen to reason. In private she would likely shoot the two of them and be done with it. “I’ll need to speak to her first. I’ll meet you at the Traveller’s at eight tonight. I can’t promise anything further than that, Martin.”

Slowly the Duke of Furth nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Now let’s go see Prinny.”

“I
vy,” Kit said firmly, “I do not wish to learn how to embroider.”

Fond as she had become of the Downings over the past few weeks, Kit was nearing the end of her patience, and her sanity. They had no inkling that she’d slipped out to meet Reg last evening, but for some reason Ivy had gotten it into her head that their houseguest would sink into an unsurvivable depression if she wasn’t entertained for every solid moment of the day. Their concern was touching, but the constant surveillance made it impossible for her to hunt down Augustus Devlin and at least determine whether he was still in London. What she would do after that, she hadn’t yet decided.

Part of her still liked the viscount, and all things taken, Devlin wasn’t all that different from her. Whatever their individual motivations, they’d both chosen to side against the English in the war against Bonaparte. Except that she’d changed her mind, and Augustus hadn’t. In fact, if Alex’s safety hadn’t factored into the equation, she would have had no qualms about leaving him be. Business, her father always said, was business. Until someone she loved happened to be involved.

“All proper young ladies learn to embroider,” Ivy commented with a slightly strained smile.

At least she seemed to be suffering from the prolonged captivity, as well. “I’m not proper,” Kit pointed out, edging away in some horror from the embroidery
hoop on the couch beside her. Gerald had made his escape from the morning room half an hour ago, and skinning him again at billiards, though hardly a challenge, was seeming more attractive by the moment.

“Yes, well, Alex will be required to address that problem when he returns.” Ivy scowled. “For heaven’s sake. Mauling you out on the balcony at the Thornhills’ as though you were a…” She blushed. “Well, you know.”

“Whore?” Kit suggested. “And he was not mauling me.”

“He was, according to the Duke of Furth.”

Just barely, she resisted the temptation to give her own description of Martin Brantley. It would have been very colorful, but circumspect as Ivy generally was, it would no doubt shock her. “No one knew it was me.”

“I knew. And his behavior will be suitably answered for.”

It was fairly easy to decipher to what her hostess was referring, and Kit frowned. Saving the reputation of a breeches-wearing smuggler was hardly a sound reason for a marriage, nor would it make it any less a trap and an obligation for Alex. She’d already turned him down in the face of a better excuse than her reputation. And part of her did wish she might be bearing his child. Then she would have part of him, a precious part of him, with her when this was done with. “Ivy, I’m not so certain pressing him on that would be a wise—”

“Kit?” a familiar voice came from the direction of the entryway.

Christine shot to her feet, her breath catching. “Alex!” She ran for the doorway.

He reached it just as she did. He looked down at her for the space of a dozen heartbeats, then grabbed her arm and glanced at Ivy in the room behind her. “Excuse us for a moment,” he said, and yanked her around the corner.

His kiss was hard and ferocious, and his hands pulled her to him hungrily. She threw her arms around his
waist, surprised at her own abrupt desire to cry in relief that he was back, safe, with her.

“I’m pleased to see you haven’t sold the house out from under my cousin.” He smiled, holding her close, and she wondered at the tired, troubled expression hiding behind his eyes.

He was dirty, splattered with mud and covered with a thin layer of dirt and dust from the road. “The market’s terrible,” she answered. “And you’re ruining my waistcoat, Everton.”

“I’ll buy you another,” he responded, kissing her again.

“Speaking of being ruined,” Ivy said from the doorway, “I think we need to have a little chat, Alexander.”

The earl furrowed his brow. “All right,” he returned, reluctantly freeing Kit from his embrace.

“No, no, no,” Kit argued, shoving at him to head him toward the stairs. “It’s no worry.”

Alex planted his feet, his tall strength surprising as he turned and caught her hands in his own. “What’s no worry, brat?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she stated, glaring at Ivy. His return had just rattled her out of one disaster, and she wanted more than the space of a breath before they were tumbled into another. And she wanted to ask him about her father, and whether he’d finally come to the same conclusion as she about Devlin. “Alex,” she pleaded.

“You’ll tell me now,” he ordered, his expression becoming steadily less amused as she continued to try to nudge him from the doorway. “And stop shoving at me, chit.”

Kit took a step back and folded her arms. “
Cochon
,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose at him.

Surprisingly enough, that brought a slight smile to his face. He looked at her, obviously trying to decipher what was going on, then turned to Ivy. “Well?”

“I should like to know what you intend to do about Christine,” Ivy enunciated, tapping her fingers along her thigh.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t the faintest,” he replied dryly, glancing at Kit before he returned his attention to his cousin-in-law. “Though I presume that you have a suggestion, as you brought it up.”

“You did ruin her, you know.”

“Ah,” the earl murmured, his expression cooling further. “Innocent in assisting the whole thing along, then, are you?”

“That’s enough, Alex,” Gerald said from the landing.

“Yes, stop arguing,” Kit seconded, grateful to hear another reasonable voice.

Gerald stepped down to stand beside his wife. “What’s done is done. But Ivy’s correct. You’ve broken the rules.” His gaze at Alex was angry and concerned at the same time. “In more ways than one. It becomes a question of who will pay the price.”

“If there’s a price, Gerald,” Alex returned shortly, “I’ll pay it. Happily. Leave be.”

The cousins spent a moment glaring at one another, but Kit wasn’t surprised when Gerald was the first to glance away. “Damnation, Alex,” he muttered. “Someday all this will catch up to you.”

“Sooner than you think,” he replied flatly. “Come, chit.” He held out his hand, and she wrapped her fingers around his.

“Absolutely not,” Ivy stated, the energetic tapping of her fingers increasing. “The two of you may be content, but it can’t continue like this. Someone will be hurt.” Her gaze settled on Alex. “And I doubt you’ll suffer the more. Barbara Sinclair won’t—”

“Damn Barbara Sinclair,” Alex retorted. “I’ll see her in Jericho before I let her hurt Christine.”

“It would only take one sentence,” Ivy insisted. “And the damage would be more than even you could undo.”

Kit frowned. Ivy was correct, but there seemed to be little to be done about it. As long as Kit remained in England, Barbara could name her price. Lady Sinclair might not know the particulars of Kit’s visit, but she
knew that Alex wished to protect her secret. And that would be enough to keep him at Barbara’s heel indefinitely.

“I think we should shoot her,” Kit announced.

Alex turned to look down at her, one eyebrow raised. “You are a bloodthirsty chit after all, aren’t you?”

“Just practical,” she replied.

Slowly he smiled, then shook his head. “I told you, I won’t let Barbara hurt—”

“I’m not worried about me, Everton.”

He squeezed her fingers. “So gallant. But we can’t go about murdering people—bad form, don’t you know. Do give me a little credit in this, my dear. And trust me, just a little.”

Kit searched his expression, seeing uncertainty in his eyes again, but she nodded. “I’ll get my things.”

“No, you won’t,” Ivy and Gerald said in unison.

“If you return to Cale House, there will be no salvaging anything, Kit,” Ivy continued. “You deserve more than that.”

They were worried about all the wrong things. “I already said that I—”

Furtively Alex shook his head at her.

“—appreciate what you’ve done for me,” she finished, stifling her curious glance at the earl. “I can stay here until we figure something out.”

Gerald nodded. “Very good.” He cleared his throat and looked over at his cousin. “Care to stay for a brandy and tell me your news?”

Alex sighed. “Thank you, no.” His gaze flicked for a bare moment in Kit’s direction. “I can tell you that the news is good, for all concerned.”

Her father had escaped him, then. And Alex considered that news good. He’d been after Stewart Brantley for months, she well knew. It seemed that her own loyalties weren’t the only ones being tested. But the Earl of Everton had considerably more to risk than she did.

“Splendid,” Gerald said, relaxing into a faint smile. “Thank God.”

“Well, I’d best be off. I need to change, I believe.” He looked at Kit. “You know what they say; travelers need to be in by eight, or they shut the gate.”

“They say no such thing,” Gerald returned, furrowing his brow.

“They don’t?” Alex responded absently. “Well, they should.” His eyes still on Kit, he stepped forward and took her hand again, bringing it slowly to his lips. It was an unexpected, sensual gesture, and she felt herself flush. “I’ll come see you in the morning, chit,” he murmured.

She nodded and gave a knowing smile. “Once they open the gate.”

He grinned in return. “Thought you’d heard of that saying,” he approved. With a wink at her and nod for his cousins, he turned for the door.

“I think he may have received a blow to the head,” Gerald offered, strolling for the gaming room.

“I hope I wasn’t too hard on him,” Ivy said after a moment, “but sometimes he’s so stubborn, I simply want to bloody his nose.”

Kit chuckled and followed Gerald. If she behaved for the remainder of the afternoon, it wouldn’t be all that difficult to claim a headache and slip out the back way in time to meet Alex at the Traveller’s by eight. Before they shut the gate, as he’d said. “Gerald, how about a game?”

“Haven’t I suffered enough at your hands?” he answered with a good-humored scowl.

“No.” She grinned.

It took only three games until he was more than happy to stop for an early dinner. Ivy had apparently given up on teaching her embroidery for the evening, and when Kit made a show of selecting a book from the library, the Downings allowed her to escape upstairs. Ten minutes later, she was in a hack on her way to the club.

It was odd that he’d wanted to meet her there, she decided as she flipped the driver a coin, then strolled into the club’s dimly lit parlor. Cale House would have been a much more pleasantly private place to meet with
Alex after three days apart. She had missed his touch, his laugh, his knowing azure eyes, with a keen longing she’d never felt before. It was almost frightening, the way she could so intensely crave his nearness.

He was sitting at a table in the back, where he could observe everyone else’s comings and goings. He spied her immediately, and with a look she couldn’t quite read, he leaned forward and poured her a brandy. “Gerald and Ivy tied up in the cellar, I presume?” he murmured.

“Nonsense,” she returned, watching him carefully for any sign of what he might be thinking. “So my father…”

“Is God knows where, making life more difficult for the rest of us,” he finished, taking a heavy swallow of brandy and glancing over her shoulder toward the door.

She followed his gaze, but only the club regulars seemed to be about this early in the evening. “Is something wrong?” she asked quietly, wanting to run her fingers along his cheek.

“Well, not entirely,” he admitted, fiddling with the snifter and avoiding her gaze. “I did something that you may not—damnation, won’t like, but I want you to know that it is only because I want what’s best for you.”

She tilted her head at him. “What the deuce are you talking about?” she demanded, an uneasy chill running through her.

Alex glanced toward the door again, then shut his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “I have to ask you a question.”

She leaned forward. “Not that silly marital obligation mess, I hope,” she said under her breath. “This is hardly the place for it.”

He shook his head, his expression easing into humorous exasperation. “You truly play hell with a man’s ego, chit,” he muttered.

She gave a brief smile. “Why don’t we go back to Cale House, and I’ll make it up to you?” she suggested slyly.

“Wanton,” he whispered. “Don’t tempt me.” He sat
forward, further closing the distance between them. “Do you know exactly what your father has been smuggling?”

She went still. “What did you find out?”

He reached out and gripped her fingers, which caused the gaggle of bucks at the neighboring table to begin nudging one another and chuckling. Either Alex didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. “Tell me the truth. Just for one damned time. Whatever your answer is, I swear I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She pulled her hand free. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “And I’ve already told you, over and over again, that I can take care of myself.”

“This isn’t about that,” he retorted. “Please. Tell me.”

“Ask me straight out, anything, and I’ll tell you,” she responded, his serious expression frightening her a little. “I won’t play at fishing.”

“All right.” He took a shallow breath, obviously reluctant to continue. “Are you aware that your father is smuggling weapons to Bonaparte?”

Kit could only stare at him. Gold, she’d thought all along, and hadn’t let herself dwell on what Napoleon might be purchasing with it. Not weapons. Her father wouldn’t do that. “Liar,” she spat, recoiling as he reached for her hand again.

“I am not lying.” Alex’s face was drawn and pale, no trace of amusement in his eyes. “Do you think I enjoyed knowing about this?”

“You are lying. My father would never—
never
—go that far.” She slammed her fist on the table.

“He has, Kit. I have witnesses. And some of them say you’re involved, as well.”

“You bastard,” she whispered. “I hate you.”

He leaned forward quickly, surprised dismay crossing his features before the proud, angry mask settled over his face. “I’m trying to help you, Christine,” he murmured roughly. “Don’t you understand what this means? Your father is wanted by the government of En
gland for treason. I,
I
, had to give Prince George his name this morning. And I did not give him yours. Nothing will happen to you.” He held her gaze. “But I need to know, just between us, if you knew about this. If you knew about the weapons.”