Lady Rogue (32 page)

Kit blanched. “Papa,” she hissed, glancing about.

“—you suddenly became offended at the transgression and ran home,” he finished. The look he gave her was both annoyed and disappointed. “Or do I err?”

It wasn’t remotely what she had thought to hear. He’d expected it, perhaps even anticipated it, and had probably thought to use her connection with Everton to further
his own plans. “I didn’t run because of him,” she muttered between clenched jaws, abruptly very tired of being used. “He introduced me to someone last night.”

Stewart’s expression flicked into puzzlement for a bare moment. “Who?”

“It seems he was concerned enough about your failure to reappear for me in London that—”

“Oh, he was, was he?” her father murmured.

“He was concerned enough about my being without family that he introduced me to the Duke of Furth.”

It wasn’t strictly the truth, for she had a hunch that Alex had been motivated more by his continuing absurd desire to protect her from harm than by concern for her loneliness, but it had the intended effect. Her father’s face went white. He slammed to his feet, the bench overturning behind him. “You spoke to that…bastard?”

Kit delayed answering for a moment. He kept his eyes on her face, and she could feel his deep annoyance at her. Angry as she was, though, she’d never refused to answer him before, and she couldn’t do it now. He was her father, her only family. “Just long enough to take my leave and get out.”

Stewart held her gaze for another heartbeat, then let out his breath and turned to right the bench again. “Feel better now?” he queried.

“Not really. I’ve always trusted you. I don’t know why you won’t trust me. I’m not a wee babe anymore.”

“I know that. And so does Everton, I presume.” The tavern was filling as the night grew darker, and through the rising sounds around them, his low voice was barely audible. “You’ve become quite a dancer, Kit,” her father continued. “But never dance with me. Or, for your own sake, with Fouché.” He grimaced. “At least he’s still kicking his heels in London.”

“No, he’s not.”

Stewart blinked. “Damnation,” he hissed, in English. “You’re certain?” When she nodded, her father finished off his ale and stood. “In that case, I’ve something to attend to. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Why? Where are you going?” she asked, tossing a
few coins on the table and rising to follow him outside.

Though it was summer and the evening fairly warm, a few bonfires were scattered about the street corners, the citizens standing in their yellow light, laughing and passing bottles of cheap wine around. The groups were smaller than they had been before she’d left for London, and she could feel a faint line of tension in the air. Napoleon would have arrived in Belgium by now. The Duke of Wellington and the British army were there as well, and France was waiting, its breath held, to see what would happen next.

“There’s a shipment waiting here for me to collect,” her father was saying. “I’d thought to keep my distance for another few days, in case…you and Fouché were unsuccessful. But if Fouché’s here, he’ll be howling at my door for them.”

“For what?” she asked coolly. She would have her answer now. There would be no more secrets, no more lies, and no more pawns. She would know, or they would be through.

He stopped and turned to face her. “So, what do you think you know, daughter?” he queried, folding his arms over his chest, skepticism running across his features in the near darkness.

“I think you’re supplying weapons to Napoleon,” she answered slowly. “And I want to know why.”

“Because he’ll lose, and leave me wealthy,” her father replied easily. “And we won’t have to live in bloody, filthy Saint-Marcel any longer.”

“So you kill English soldiers to butter your bread,” she snapped. “With the profit for goods, I could understand your selling supplies to Bonaparte. But weapons? Against your own countrymen?”

“They are not my damned countrymen,” he snarled. “The entire island can sink into the cold North Sea, for all I care.”

Kit licked her lips, and self-consciously touched her coat above the pouch of currency she carried. “What if we didn’t have to sell weapons to be wealthy?”

“What’s your scheme then, girl?”

She hesitated, and lowered her hand. Eventually she would tell him about the blunt, but for tonight it would remain her secret. Hers and Alex Cale’s. “None. But what if it wasn’t necess—”

He grabbed her arm and shook it hard enough to jar her neck. “I do not have room or time for dreaming, Kit! And it is not your place to question me, or my motives, just because you’ve spent a few weeks in a grand mansion in London and got yourself bedded by an earl. You weren’t his first, and you won’t be his last.” He released her, taking a few stiff steps away and then turning back again. “
I
make the decisions for this family. Is that clear?”

Kit looked at him. Because he’d lied to her, she’d run away from the only chance, slim though it might have been, to have a happy life. She’d run away from someone she loved more dearly than she had ever thought or hoped to. But Stewart Brantley’s lies and schemes were what had kept them alive for thirteen years and through a handful of wars. And, quite simply, there was nowhere else she could go. “Yes, Papa.” She nodded slowly.

“Good girl. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She shook her head, refusing to be left in the blind any longer. “I’m going with you.”

“Ah, a child after my own heart,” he cooed, and motioned for her to precede him up the stairs.

“I’m not a child any longer,” she said almost soundlessly, wiping at the tears gathering in her eyes. The Earl of Everton thought her a traitor. She might as well become one.

“C
alm down now, Master Alex,” Hanton McAndrews soothed. The Scotsman squatted and tugged at the ropes keeping the smuggler Will Debner in their company. Satisfied that the bindings remained tight, he faced the earl again. “Ye’ll have the local constabulary down on us, ye keep bellowing like that.”

“I’m not bellowing,” Alex retorted, rising and stalking over to the nearest window. Like the half dozen others in the old warehouse, it was shuttered, but the wood was half-rotted from age and damp, and splintered twilight scattered over the dirt at his feet. With no air circulating, it was warm and close inside, but they didn’t dare open a window for ventilation. Not with the French, growing more agitated by the moment, all around them. Even now, the faint sounds of a street rally reverberated down the narrow alleyway the warehouse backed up to. The
citoyens
were working themselves into a fine lather as battle loomed between Napoleon and the British, and Alex had no wish to be at the receiving end of their hostility. “I’m merely concerned.” He scowled. “Extremely concerned.”

“Our boys’ll make a go of it yet, m’lord. Ye’ll see,” Hanton returned confidently. “They stopped him before, and they’ll do it again.”

“But you heard the news before we sailed, the same as I did,” the earl argued hotly, frustrated and worried
about a certain chit who could very easily be half a hundred miles away on the road to Paris, even as he kicked his heels, waiting for her father’s arrival. “Bonaparte’s running Blücher down. As soon as he does, he’ll cut off Wellington and—”

“It’ll never happen,” McAndrews interrupted, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall.

“I admire your optimism. But it looks like a rout to me.” Alex returned to the stacks of crates piled against the far wall, and sank down on the nearest one. “And Prinny thanks me for stopping a few bloody crates of muskets.”

“Ye have other obligations. And ye’ve done more than most.”

Alex looked over at him. “I’m not looking for sympathy, old man.”

Hanton gave him a crooked grin. “I know. I just remember how little your father wanted ye involved in any o’ this. But he’d be bloody proud of ye, Master Alex.”

The earl sighed and chased a dust ball about the floor with the toe of one boot. “He’d think I’m behaving like an idiot.”

“Aye,” the Scot agreed easily. “And I’ve a wish to meet this girl, could send ye marching into France in the middle of a war.”

Alex grunted noncommittally, in no mood to explain himself to McAndrews—especially when he wasn’t certain how, exactly, Christine Brantley had become so precious to him that he was willing to risk his life for a chance to apologize to her. It wouldn’t stop there, though, if he had any say at all. He wanted her back, wanted her with an ache that hurt too much to even dwell on.

Gerald had tried to convince him that it was simply because he’d never been turned down before, and that the rejection had bruised his ego. His cousin, though, had failed to remember that Mary had done a fair job of rejecting him, and that given the circumstances, it had been unfortunate and unpleasant and regrettable, but nothing he hadn’t been able to recover from. What he
felt toward Kit was a raging hurricane, to the stiff breeze of Mary Devlin Cale. There was no one like Kit anywhere in his experience, and the intensity of what he felt had left him with no option but to follow her and to find her. Wherever she was. And however long it took.

He stepped on the dust ball and turned to face their captive. “You’re certain Brantley will come to take the shipment himself?” Alex patted the crate he was seated upon.

Carting the crates to the ship, offloading them at the Calais harbor, taking them by wagon to the warehouse Debner had indicated, and then unloading them a final time had been annoyingly dirty and tiring work, and more than a little dangerous. But it was the best and only bait they had. He only hoped that the Duke of Furth and Prince George never discovered the details of exactly what he was up to, though he had a fair hunch His Grace would come calling to demand an explanation.

“Aye,” Debner answered. “When he’ll do that, though, I ain’t certain. Particular fellow, Stewart Brantley.”

Alex had decided against gagging their prisoner; the French would be as happy to hang Debner for setting foot in Calais as they would himself and Hanton. The smuggler apparently realized this as well, for though he groused about the ropes and the heat, he kept his silence whenever anyone came too near the old structure. At this point Alex could only hope that Prince George would be willing to overlook the fact that he had borrowed Debner from his cell in Old Bailey without receiving permission to do so. He supposed, though, that the degree of the Prince’s generosity and forgiveness would depend more on Wellington’s successes than on his own.

“Well, I hope Brantley comes soon,” Hanton grumbled, “because win or lose, I don’t want to be about when the Frenchies hear the news. They’re agitated enough, not knowing. And either way, they’re likely to skewer us for amusement.”

“I told you to leave when the ship did,” Alex reminded him darkly.

“I couldnae abandon ye, lad,” the Scotsman said. “Damn me if I ever did.”

Alex cleared his throat, moved despite himself. “Thank you, Hanton. But I want you to know, if Stewart Brantley doesn’t appear in the next twenty-four hours, I’m heading for Paris to look for her.”

Finally McAndrews looked annoyed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but are ye completely mad?”

“As a March hare,” Alex agreed mildly.

“I ain’t going to Paris,” Debner grumbled.

The earl ignored him. He’d known from the moment he’d decided to go after Christine that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop his search until he found her. Not until he’d fallen in love with Kit had he realized what the word meant, how much it meant. And he was absolutely certain he would never feel this way again. She was the one. If he couldn’t make her forgive him…He shook his head. He
would
make her listen. There was nothing else he could contemplate.

The Scot sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll be going with ye, lad.”

As it turned out, they didn’t need to travel to Paris. It had been dark for a few hours, and already two separate crowds of marchers had stormed past, shouting slogans and damning the English as they went. It would only get worse, Alex knew, and he sent up a quick prayer that Kit was somewhere safe. At half past ten, Hanton, gazing outside from between the warped shutter slats, straightened and gestured at him. “Wagon stopped outside,” the Scot murmured at him as he approached. “Two men, heading this way. One of ’em has a pistol.”

He stepped aside as, heart hammering against his ribs, Alex took his place at the window. Through the gaps in the shutters he could see only parts, but he had memorized all of her, and it was enough to know. The side of her face with her high cheekbones, her left hand and
slender, graceful fingers, her thigh in the blue breeches he’d had made for her. “Thank God,” he whispered.

“That them?” Hanton muttered at his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“We’d best get you hidden then, m’lord.”

Reluctantly Everton turned away from the window. McAndrews was already across the room, kneeling in front of Will Debner and slitting the ropes that bound his legs. “You remember our agreement,” Alex warned, stopping before the smuggler. “You assist us, and we’ll lose you somewhere on the road back to London.”

Debner groaned and climbed to his feet. “Aye, my lord.”

With another glance at the door, Alex made his way across the uneven floor to the stack of crates. Swiftly he clambered up the boxes and edged out onto one of the wide beams supporting the roof. Debner and Hanton could pass for smugglers, but both Brantleys knew him. He would have to wait, and watch. A pistol rested in his greatcoat pocket, but he had no intention of shooting either of them, and he left it where it was.

Only secondarily was he concerned over her reasons for being there, and the realization surprised him. It was as if his heart had somehow grasped how desperately unhappy and lonely he would be in a lifetime without her. If she was a spy and a traitor to England, they wouldn’t return there. He owned a small estate in Spain, thanks to his grandmother, and the crown could never touch either of them there.

Hanton returned to the door, while Debner moved over to the crates and Everton settled himself carefully along one of the dusty beams. A fist rapped softly at the door, and Alex fanned a cobweb from his face and forced himself to take a slow breath.

With a glance up at him, Hanton nodded and pulled open the door. Alex found himself holding the breath he had taken as Stewart Brantley and his daughter greeted Debner and, more cautiously, Hanton, and strolled into the warehouse. Christine glanced about, her eyes tired
and uninterested as they took in the dirty surroundings. It seemed a lifetime longer than a day since he had last beheld her, and the defeated resignation in her eyes was heartbreaking.

“Apologies for the delay, Mr. Debner,” Stewart Brantley said, as he walked over to nudge one of the crates with the toe of his boot, “but I’ll make it worth your time.”

The smuggler nodded. “Not as though there was anywhere I could go with them, anyway.”

“Oh, there’s always somewhere one can go,” Brantley returned with a cynical half smile, obviously pleased with himself. He toed the crates again. “Well, let’s open one and check my wares, and then get them loaded. They’ll be starting for Belgium tonight.”

Hanton and Debner dragged the crate off the stack and onto the floor. Kit stood behind the men, her expression altering a little as she looked at the mound of crates. She shut her eyes for a moment, then stepped over beside her father.

“Papa,” she said quietly, so that Alex had to strain to hear the familiar low lilt, “please don’t do this. We can hide them until after the war, and then sell them to whomever we wish.”

A brief look of impatience crossed Stewart’s face. “For half the profit.”

“What if I had the means to support us for a time?” she offered.

“Do you have ten thousand pounds?” he queried, lifting an eyebrow. “Because that is what we owe the Comte de Fouché.”

“But you’re killing men,” Kit insisted. “It’s blood money you’ll be making.”

“Not our blood,” he returned shortly, and stepped away from her.

She’d been telling the truth, then, about the weapons. She hadn’t known. A smuggler, she might be, but not a traitor. Just barely, Alex resisted the urge to jump down from the rafters and pull her into his arms. He dared not,
though, until he found time and a quiet place to convince her that he was merely an idiot, and that he loved her. She’d trusted him, far more than he’d allowed himself to trust her, and that was a great deal to make amends for.

They pried the lid off the crate. Brantley leaned forward and pushed the top layer of straw aside—and cursed, the gaze he shot toward Debner hard as winter. “What the devil is this?”

A faint, pungent odor drifted up toward the rafters. Kit stepped forward to peer over her father’s shoulder. A stunned expression crossed her sensitive features, suspicion swiftly following. Her expressive lips twitched, and she sent a glance in her father’s direction. “Onions, smells like.” She took a step backward and looked about the warehouse again, her gaze lingering this time on Hanton McAndrews, who was busily looking puzzled.

You’re not the only one who can play games, Alex said to himself, resting his chin on one hand as he gazed down at Stewart Brantley’s infuriated expression. Let’s see how much you like being played for a fool.

Her father spun around to glare at her. “Did you know about this?”

She frowned and returned her attention to him. “How could I have?”

“You knew I was shipping weapons! How?”

She hesitated. “He told me.”

“Who, Furth?” he demanded.

“Everton.”

“Ev…Sweet Lucifer,” her father murmured, looking at her intently. “It was him all along.”

She folded her arms, defiant and uncertain. “Yes, it was. And I knew he was after you, but I didn’t know he’d found your shipment.” Kit drew a breath. “But if this was his doing, I’m glad of it.”

“So now, after everything I’ve done for you, you turn on me?” Brantley asked cynically. “What a shame, then, that you left your lover in London.” He leaned
forward, taking her chin in his fingers. “And you’re in France, with a shipment of onions and a debt of ten thousand pounds to the Comte de Fouché. It seems, my dear, that the Earl of Everton has saved some English soldiers and gotten both of us killed.”

“A shame indeed,” a third voice said in French, and Jean-Paul Mercier stepped through the doorway. “Especially considering that the muskets were meant for French reinforcements even now gathering at the Belgian border.” The comte’s jaw clenched. “And someone
will
pay, believe me.” Two other men stepped in behind him, both armed. Fouché moved sideways and pulled a brace of pistols from his belt.

From up above, Alex tried to attract Hanton’s attention, but it was already too late. The Scot grabbed the crate lid and swung it into the stomach of the nearest of Fouché’s men. The wood split with a loud crack, and the gunman dropped to the ground without so much as a grunt. The comte and the other man both turned on McAndrews. With a quick curse, Alex drew himself up onto his haunches and leaped. He hit Fouché in the chest, his momentum knocking both of them to the floor.

A pistol went off, close enough that stinging powder burned the side of his face. He rolled sideways and came to his feet to find himself looking straight into Christine’s beautiful, astounded gaze. “Hello, my love,” he said jauntily.

Her eyes flicked sideways, and he threw himself in the opposite direction as Fouché’s man came at him, swinging the spent pistol like a club. Alex ducked and threw a quick, hard jab. With a windless curse, the smuggler hit the floor on his backside.

Hanton was doing a fine job of keeping his own opponent leveled. Fouché remained crumpled against the wall. Everton turned to find Kit again. A fist flew at his face, catching him flush on the jaw before he could dodge.