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Authors: Mary Jo Putney

BOOK: Nowhere Near Respectable
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Despite his best speed, he was late. A new moon meant a dark night, and wind-chased clouds obscured even the starlight. Glad he had a lantern, he made his way down the rocky path to the cave.
He was relieved to smell a fire as he approached the entrance. Hawk was probably still waiting. He entered with the lantern held high, alert and hopeful that there would be benefit to this long ride. “Hawk?”
“Ah, ye made it! I was getting that worried.”
But the voice wasn’t Hawk’s. It was Howard, the angry smuggler who’d wanted Kiri. Mac instantly tried to retreat, but his exit was cut off by two more smugglers who’d been lurking by the entrance. They must have heard him coming and positioned themselves.
They leaped at him with clubs. Mac was fast enough to avoid the worst of their blows, but one grazed his skull hard enough to knock him down and scramble his wits for a few critical moments.
As he fell, Howard barked, “Don’t kill ’im. He’s worth more alive!”
By the time Mac’s head cleared, he’d been stripped and his pockets emptied. Then he was dragged across the cave and chained to the wall. Not with rusted manacles like the one used on Kiri, but two shiny new restraints, one for each wrist. They looked as if they’d been installed just for Mac.
As soon as Mac was secured, Howard came to stand before him, a shotgun ready in his hand as he kept outside of kicking range. “So the fancy London gentleman was stupid enough to believe my handwriting was Hawk’s. Mebbe I have a fine career as a forger ahead of me.”
Furious with himself for walking into a trap, Mac said coolly, “You’ve gone to a lot of effort to get me down here, Howard. Wouldn’t it have been easier to wait until my next regular visit?”
“We get a special price for producing you now. Plus, there’s no Hawk around at this time of the month to spoil the fun.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, was that slut you stole from me a good piece? I’ve been wondering.”
Mac’s rage was instant and annihilating, but he channeled it into icy contempt. “A man like you cannot even imagine how amazing and special such a woman is.”
Howard gave a harsh cackle of amusement. “So you weren’t able to get her on her back. You probably prefer molly boys.”
That was so absurd Mac had to smile. “Your insults are childish, Howard. Who paid you to lure me down here?”
Howard hesitated as if weighing whether to reply before he said, “An old army friend of yours named Swinnerton. Now that you’re caught, I’ll send a message to London to bring him down here right away. When he’s done with you, he’s promised you’ll be dead. I’m hoping he’ll let me do the honors.” Howard’s hand tightened on his pistol. “It’s like a bonus on top of what he’s payin’ us to catch you.”
Howard continued his taunts, but Mac stopped listening. Rupert Swinnerton. When they’d played cards at the Captain’s Club, he must have recognized Mac despite the disguise. He also had to be part of the conspiracy. The mastermind? Probably not—Rupert was no strategist. But he was tough and battle-hardened, and he must have been the leader of the men who had tried to kidnap the princess from Damian’s.
It was already night, so it would take two days to get the message to London and for Swinnerton to come down to Kent. It was likely that he wanted to learn how much the government knew of the conspiracy. He’d still have time to get back to London before the State Opening.
Mac surreptitiously tested his manacles. If he had tools, he could free himself, but he didn’t have so much as a diamond ring like Kiri’s. Until the situation changed, he was well and truly caught. He drew a deep, slow breath, then settled down against the wall as comfortably as he could.
If he was going to be a prisoner for two days, he hoped they’d at least feed him.
Chapter 37
Mackenzie was in trouble. Kiri knew that in her bones. Over two days had passed, long enough for him to reach the coast and return at the speed he traveled. In theory his business with Hawk might have taken more time, but she didn’t believe that. Any discussion with the smuggler captain would have been short, and probably required Mackenzie to head back to London at top speed.
Beyond that, her instincts were screaming that something was wrong. She was not a worrier by nature and she had faith in Mackenzie’s competence, so she trusted her intuition on this: Things had not gone as he had planned.
But what could she do about it? She had a good sense of direction and could probably find the smugglers’ cave again, but she wasn’t sure what she would do when she got there. Too many possibilities, starting with the likelihood that he wouldn’t be in the cave. And if he wasn’t, she hadn’t the least idea where to find him.
Starkly she forced herself to recognize that he could already be dead. This conspiracy had already cost lives. And if he was gone—she might never know how.
The two days he’d been gone felt like two weeks because she’d had so little to do. She could hardly go to gambling clubs and sniff the customers without him. So today she’d come to Mackenzie’s house, in theory to help with Kirkland, but mostly to keep herself busy. He was improving and his mind was back to its usual sharpness, but he was still so drained by the fever that he could barely walk from bed to wing chair.
She’d spent most of the morning quietly reading in his room, occasionally talking if he wanted to. Then his protective and unflappable valet had chased her out of the room so he could give Kirkland a bath. That gave Kiri an excuse to wander through the house, which was comfortable with a dash of eccentric. She could almost feel Mackenzie here, though it didn’t reduce her anxiety.
She was in the drawing room when the knocker sounded. Wondering if it was Cassie or Carmichael, she moved into the front hall as Mac’s footman opened the door.
Silhouetted against the light was a familiar tall, broad-shouldered figure. “Mackenzie!” She hurled herself across the hall and into his arms. “I’ve been so worried!”
As he caught her arms, she froze. Something wasn’t right. She pulled away when a surprised voice said, “Lady Kiri? I didn’t realize you knew my brother.”
She looked up, then swallowed hard as her heart sank. “Lord Masterson. I thought you were in Spain.”
“I was already heading home when I read of my brother’s death.” He dismissed the footman with a glance and took Kiri’s arm to lead her into the drawing room. “I headed straight for Kirkland’s house when I reached London, and his butler sent me here.” Masterson closed the door so they were private. “Things are often complicated where Mac is concerned. You . . . you didn’t act as if you thought him dead.”
Masterson’s tense expression could not conceal the desperate hope in his eyes. “As of two days ago, he was alive and well, Lord Masterson,” she said swiftly.
“Thank
God!
” His eyes squeezed shut and Kiri suspected that he was fighting back tears.
When he had regained control, he opened his eyes and asked, “What has been going on? Why are you in my brother’s house? Are you and Kirkland . . . ?” His words trailed off as if he couldn’t mentally bring them together.
He started again. “If this has anything to do with Kirkland’s government work, I’m fully aware of it, and I’ve sent him information when anything useful came my way.”
“In that case, let’s both sit down and I’ll explain. Kirkland is recovering from a bad bout of fever and tires easily, so better you have a good idea of what’s going on before you see him.”
“Admirably efficient,” Masterson murmured. “I’m all ears, Lady Kiri.”
Kiri took a chair, spent a moment organizing her thoughts, and began to talk. She started with her being captured by the kidnappers, moved to Damian’s and the attempt to kidnap Princess Charlotte. Then she described what they knew of the conspiracy, and how they were trying to stop it before major damage was done.
Masterson listened without interrupting, absorbing every word. When Kiri was done, he said, “I understand why Mac thought it best to seem dead. I just wish I’d known that he was all right.”
“Kirkland wrote you the next day and used a government courier to get the letter to you as quickly as possible,” Kiri said.
“The letter is probably waiting for me back with my regiment. I didn’t decide to come home for winter until quite recently, so Kirkland’s best attempts didn’t work out.” Masterson got to his feet. “I’d like to see Kirkland now if he’s awake.”
“You need to check what I’ve told you against what he has to say,” Kiri agreed.
“I’m not testing you,” Masterson said swiftly.
“I know. But I am an amateur at spying, and my understanding might be poor.”
“Actually, you seem very like Ashton,” Masterson said. “Very clear and fair in your thinking.”
Kiri almost blushed. “Thank you. That’s a high compliment.”
“It’s meant to be.” Masterson paused at the door. “Are you coming up with me to see Kirkland?”
“It will be easier for you to talk without another person present.”
He nodded and left. Kiri stayed in the drawing room and . . . plotted.
It wasn’t long before Lord Masterson returned. Again Kiri was struck by the general similarity of the brothers. Since they were both tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, it would be easy to confuse them at a distance if a person didn’t know them well. Even their features had a similar cast, though Mackenzie had the mismatched eyes and more auburn in his hair.
The real difference was in their personalities. Mackenzie had an irresistible sparkle of mischief and charm, while Masterson had a deep, quiet calm that gave the impression that he could handle anything. She guessed that the two men might have become either enemies who drove each other crazy, or friends who balanced each other. She was glad they had become friends.
Masterson was looking sober, his initial exhilaration at his brother’s survival superseded by concern. “Kirkland looks like a herd of horses ran over him. I suffered a similar fever in Spain last year, and it took weeks to get my strength back. His thinking is clear, though, and he confirmed everything you said. I’m glad I came back. If there’s going to be trouble at the State Opening of Parliament, I should take my seat in the Lords and be prepared to help if necessary.”
“We may need all the help we can get,” she said glumly. “We’ve not had much luck with finding the conspirators, and time is running out.”
“Why were you so concerned for Mac that you threw yourself into my arms?” A smile lurked in Masterson’s eyes. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but your reaction did suggest serious anxiety.”
“I’ve been worried ever since he got a letter from the smuggler captain asking him to go down to Kent.” She sighed in frustration. “I had no reason to be so concerned. It just felt dangerous from the beginning. Now that he’s later than expected, my stomach is tied in knots.”
“I’ve learned not to discount intuition,” Masterson said slowly. “I started feeling concerned about my brother in Spain. It was a major reason I decided to return to England when we went into winter quarters. While I’m vastly relieved that Mac wasn’t killed at his club, I find that I still feel some concern.”
They regarded each other thoughtfully. “You must be tired of traveling, Lord Masterson,” Kiri said in her most persuasive voice. “But . . . would you be willing to accompany me down to Kent? I have been wanting to go but wasn’t sure I could do anything on my own.”
“If we decided to go down to Kent to prove our worries groundless, do you have a chaperone who might travel with us?”
She grinned. “Lord Masterson, I have been living outside the rules for long enough that I see no reason to worry about respectability now. Let’s just
go.
”
Blessedly imperturbable, he said, “If we’re going to run away together, Lady Kiri, you should call me Will.”
“And I’m Kiri.” She bounced from her chair. “I need to return to the house Kirkland keeps for his agents. 11 Exeter Street, near Covent Garden. I’ll change to more practical garments and be ready to go. Is there anything you need to do?”
“I’ll leave my gear here, hire a post chaise, and come collect you.”
“Done!” Kiri swept from the room to ask the footman to call a carriage for her. She’d always thought well of Will Masterson in their casual meetings at her brother’s house. Now she decided that he was
wonderful.
Mac did get fed, though the cheese, dry bread, and water were barely enough to sustain life. One manacle was undone so that he could eat and take care of sanitation needs, but with his other wrist still chained and an armed man always watching him, there were no opportunities for escape.
The worse part was having nothing to do but listen to the endless sloshing of the waves. Thinking about Kiri helped, because she was never dull even in memory. After the first day ended, he was uneasily aware that she would be starting to worry.
By the time the two days had passed and Rupert Swinnerton arrived, Mac was ready for a confrontation just to end the boredom. Probably it would end with Mac’s death—and wouldn’t that be an adventure to discover what, if anything, came next! But from what he knew of Swinnerton, the man might want to indulge in some exotic way of killing Mac that would enable him to feel superior. If that meant unchaining Mac from the wall, he might just have a chance.
Howard heard Swinnerton’s approach along the path and went out to meet him. Mac mentally prepared himself. After two days of confinement, he was cold and . . . afraid, though he hated to admit it. Since he was officially dead already, he ought to be able to handle the real thing.
No amount of joking could completely eliminate the fear, though. He loved life, loved where he was in it—and he loved Kiri. With the end imminent, he admitted that to himself, for there was no more time for evasion or denial.
Swinnerton entered with the swagger of a man who knew he held a winning hand. That was as Mac expected—but he wasn’t prepared for the man who walked beside Swinnerton and carried a lantern.
The man wasn’t prepared for him, either. “Mackenzie!” The lantern shook in Baptiste’s hand, the flames flaring wildly. “But you were killed! I saw your body. . . .” He stared, his eyes black and incredulous.
Baptiste.
Mac had known someone at Damian’s must have cooperated with the kidnappers, and told himself that no one was above suspicion. Even so—he had never dreamed it was Baptiste, who had been his friend as well as his most trusted employee.
Swinnerton laughed, and Mac realized that the bastard had been looking forward to Baptiste’s shock. He enjoyed pain.
Concealing his own shock, Mac drawled, “You took your time getting here, Rupert. Jean-Claude, I’m disappointed in you. Wasn’t I paying you enough?”
Face pale, Baptiste said, “I was told they only wanted to retrieve a runaway girl before she could ruin herself. Nothing criminal, and no one would be hurt. And then”—his face worked—“you and another man died.”
“If you’re going to let yourself be corrupted, you should be more careful who you allow to do the corrupting.” Mac’s gaze shifted to Swinnerton. “I assume my disguise wasn’t quite as good as I thought the night we played cards.”
“You almost fooled me,” Swinnerton admitted. “But I wondered why a diamond of the first water would hang on the arm of such a boring man, so I looked more closely. When I saw you spread your cards in a particular way, I realized who you were.” His thin lips twisted with anticipation. “Now I will learn what you and your friends know about our plans.”
Mac thought swiftly. Swinnerton knew they had some sense of the plot, so there was no point in pretending complete ignorance. It was reasonable that he and “his friends” had figured out that there was a plot aimed at the British royals, but he mustn’t give away that they were sure the State Opening would be the focus. If Swinnerton realized that, there would be time for him and his cohorts to change their plans.
Therefore, Mac could admit to some knowledge, but he couldn’t reveal that too easily or Swinnerton would be suspicious. “Why would I want to tell you anything?”
“
This
is why!” Swinnerton lifted a short riding whip that hadn’t been visible in the shadowy cave and slashed at Mac’s eyes,
Acting on pure reflex, Mac jerked away and ducked his head. The lash blazed across his left temple, but the pain was nothing compared to the panic triggered by memories of the near-lethal lashing he’d received in the army. He’d nearly died in agony, and now, as then, his wrists were secured so he couldn’t avoid the blows.
Swinnerton slashed at Mac’s throat. Again he was only partially successful, but the lash left an arc of choking fire. Since Mac planned to talk anyhow, he let a cry of pain escape. A third lash followed, and he cowered away. “For God’s sake. Swinnerton! What do you want to know?”
A fourth stroke followed. “I knew you’d break easily,” Swinnerton said with vicious satisfaction. “After that army flogging, showing a whip should be enough to make you turn craven.” He struck again.

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