Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

Chapter 7

By the time they reached the cottage that night, Jack didn’t know what he thought of Young Kit. They’d learned the lad’s name from the smugglers, but it was clear the men knew little else of their leader. They were sensible, solid fishermen, forced into the trade. It seemed unlikely such men, many fathers themselves, rigidly conservative as only the ignorant could be, would give loyalty and unquestioning obedience to Young Kit if he was other than he pretended to be.

Leaving Matthew to see to the horses, Jack strode into the cottage. George followed. Halting by the table, Jack unbuckled his sword belt and scabbard. Turning, he went to the wardrobe, opened it, and thrust the scabbard to the very back, then shut the door firmly. “That’s the end of that little conceit.” Hinging himself into a chair, Jack rested both elbows on the table and ran his hands over his face. “God! I might have killed the whelp.”

“Or he might have killed you.” George slumped into another chair. “He seemed to know what he was about.”

Jack waved dismissively. “He’s been taught well enough, but he’d no strength to him.”

George chuckled. “We can’t all be six-foot-two and strong enough to run up cathedral belltowers with a wench under each arm.”

Jack snorted at the reminder of one of his more outrageous exploits.

When he remained silent, George ventured, “What made you think of a merger? I thought we were just there to spy out the opposition.”

“The opposition proved devilishly well organized. If it hadn’t been for Champion, we wouldn’t have found them. There didn’t seem much point in walking away again. And I’ve no taste for killing wet-behind-the-ear whelps.”

A short silence descended. Jack’s gaze remained fixed in space. “Who do you think he is?”

“Young Kit?” George blinked sleepily. “One of our neighbors’ sons, I should think. Where else the horse?”

Jack nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know of any such whelp hereabouts. Morgan’s sons are too old-they’d be nearer thirty, surely? And Henry Fair-clough’s boys are too young. Kit must be about sixteen.”

George frowned. “I can’t recall anyone that fits, either. But perhaps he’s a nephew come to spend time on the family acres? Who knows?” He shrugged. “Could be anyone.”

“Can’t be just anyone. Young Kit knows this district like the back of his hand. Think of the chase he led us, the way he rode across those fields. He knew every fence, every tree. And according to Noah, Kit was the one who knew about the quarries.”

George yawned. “Well, we knew about the quarries, too. We just hadn’t thought of using them.”

Jack looked disgusted. “Lack of sleep has addled your wits. That’s precisely what I mean. We know the area because we grew up here. Kit’s grown up here, too. Which means he should be easy enough to track down.”

“And then what?” mumbled George, around another yawn.

“And then,” Jack replied, getting to his feet and hauling George to his, “we’ll have to decide what to do with the whelp. Because if he is someone’s son, the chances are he’ll recognize me, if not both of us.” Propelling George to the door, he added: “And we can’t trust Young Kit with that information.”

What with seeing the somnolent George on his way before riding home with Matthew and stabling Champion, it was close to dawn before Jack finally lay between cool sheets and stared at the shadow patterns on his ceiling.

Neither George nor Matthew had found anything especially odd about Young Kit. Questioned on the way home, Matthew’s estimation had mirrored George’s. Kit was the son of a neighboring landowner, sire unknown. There was, of course, the possibility that Kit was an illegitimate sprig of some local lordly tree. The horse might have been a gift, in light of the boy’s equestrian abilities, or alternatively, might be “borrowed” from his sire’s stables. Whatever, the horse provided the best clue to Young Kit’s identity.

Jack sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Kit’s identity was only one of his problems and certainly the easier to solve. His odd reaction to the boy was a worry. Why had it happened? It had been decades since any sight had affected him so dramatically. But, for whatever incomprehensible reason, the slim, black-garbed figure of Young Kit had acted as a powerful aphrodisiac, sending his body into a state of immediate readiness. He’d been as horny as Champion on the trail of the black mare!

With a snort, Jack turned and burrowed his stubbled cheek into the pillow. He tried to blot the entire business from his mind. When that didn’t work, he searched for some explanation, however insubstantial, for the episode. If he could find a reason, hopefully that would be the end of it. There was a strong possibility that it might prove necessary to include Young Kit in the Gang. The idea of having the young whelp continuously about, wreaking havoc with his manly reactions, was simply too hideous to contemplate.

Could it have been some similarity to one of his long-discarded mistresses, popping up to waylay him when he least expected it? Perhaps it was simply the effect of unusual abstinence?

Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part? Jack grinned. He couldn’t deny that a nice, wild woman, the sort who might lead a smuggling gang, would make a welcome addition to his current lifestyle. Elsewise, the only sport to be had in the vicinity consisted of virtuous maids, whom he avoided on principle, and dowagers old enough to be his mother. Ever fertile, his brain developed his fantasy. The tension in his shoulders slowly eased.

Insidiously, sleep crawled from his feet to his calves to his knees to his hips, ever upward to claim him. Just before he succumbed, Jack hit on his cure. He’d unmask Young Kit-that was it. The sensation would disappear once Kit was revealed as the male he had to be. George was sure of it, Matthew was sure of it. Most importantly, the smugglers who followed Kit were sure of it, and surely they must know?

The problem was, he was far from sure of it.

Kit spent the following day in a distracted daze. Even the simplest task was beyond her; her attention constantly drifted, lured in fascinated horror to contemplation of her dreadful dilemma.

After incorrectly mixing a potion for the parlor maid’s sore throat, twice, she gave up in disgust and headed for the gazebo at the end of the rose garden. The morning had cleared to a fine afternoon; she hoped the brisk breeze would blow away her mental cobwebs.

The little gazebo, with its view of the rose beds, was a favorite retreat. With a weary sigh, Kit sank onto the wooden bench. She was caught, trapped, squarely between the devil and the deep blue sea. On the one hand, prudence urged that she accept Captain Jack’s proposal for her crew and decline it for herself, slipping cautiously into the mists, letting Young Kit disappear. Unfortunately, neither her men nor Captain Jack would be satisfied with that. She knew them-knew them far better than they knew her. She didn’t, in truth, know Captain Jack, and if she was intent on following prudence’s dictates, she never would.

Coward! sneered her other self.

“Did you see him?” Kit asked, annoyed when her heartbeat accelerated at the memory.

Oh, yes! came the thoroughly smitten answer.

Kit snorted. “Even in moonlight he looked like he could give the London rakes lessons.”

Indubitably. And just think what lessons he could give you.

Kit blushed. “I’m not interested.”

Like hell you’re not. You, my girl, turned a delicate shade of green when Amy was describing her experiences. Now fate hands you a gilded first-ever opportunity to do a little experiencing of your own and what do you do? Run away before that gorgeous specimen gets a chance to raise your temperature. What’s happened to your wild Cranmer blood?

Kit grimaced. “I’ve still got you to remind me I haven’t lost it.”

Putting a lid on her wilder self, Kit brooded on her folly in getting involved with smugglers. That didn’t last long. She’d enjoyed the past weeks too much to dissemble, even to herself. The excitement, the thrills, the highs and lows of tension and relief had become a staple in her diet, an addictive ingredient she was loath to forego. How else would she fill in her time?

The alternative to disappearing grew increasingly attractive.

Resolutely, she shook her head. “I can’t risk it. He’s suspicious already. Men can’t be trusted-and men like Captain Jack are even less trustworthy than the rest.”

Who said anything about trust? If he realizes Young Kit’s not all he seems, well and good. You might even learn what you’re dying to know-what price a little experience against the years of lonely spinsterhood ahead? You know you’ll never marry, so what good is your closely guarded virtue? And who’s to know? You can always disappear, once your men have settled in with his.

“And what happens if I get caught, if things don’t go as planned?” Kit waited, but her wild self remained prudently silent. She sighed, then frowned as she saw a maid looking this way and that amongst the rosebushes. With a rustle of starched petticoats, Kit rose. “Dorcas? What’s amiss?”

“Oh! There you be, miss. Jenkins said as you might be out ’ere.”

“Yes. Here I am.” Kit stepped down from her retreat.

“Am I wanted?”

“Oh, yes, if you please, miss. The Lord Lieutenant and his lady be here. In the drawing room.”

Hiding a grimace, Kit headed indoors. She found Lady Marchmont ensconced on the chaise, listening with barely concealed boredom to the conversation between her husband and Spencer. At the sight of Kit, she perked up. “Kathryn, my dear!” Her ladyship surged up in a froth of soft lace.

After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Kit sat on the chaise. Lady Marchmont barely paused to draw breath. “We’ve just come from Castle Hendon, my dear.Such an impressive place but sadly in need of a woman’s touch these days. I do believe Jake hadn’t had the curtains shaken since Mary died.” Lady Marchmont patted Kit’s hand. “But I don’t suppose you remember the last Lady Hendon. She died when the new Lord Hendon was just a boy. Jake raised him.” Her ladyship paused; Kit waited politely.

“I thought I should pass the word on directly.” Lord Marchmont’s voice, lowered conspiratorially, came to Kit’s ears. She glanced to where Spencer and the Lord Lieutenant sat on chairs drawn together, the two grey heads close.

“Mind you, such being the case, it’s a wonder he’s not positively wild. Heaven knows, Jake was the devil himself in disguise, or so many of us thought.” Lady Marchmont made this startling revelation, a dreamy smile on her lips.

Kit nodded, her eyes on her ladyship’s face, her attention elsewhere.

“Hendon’s made it clear he’s not particularly interested in the commercial traffic, as he put it. He’s here after bigger game. Seems there’s word about that this area’s a target for those running cargo of a different sort.” Lord Marchmont paused meaningfully.

Spencer snorted. Kit caught the sharpness in his comment, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“But I dare say one shouldn’t judge a book by its binding.” Lady Marchmont raised her brows. “Perhaps, in this case, he really is a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

Kit smiled, but she hadn’t heard a word. She was far too concerned with learning what sort of cargo interested the new High Commissioner.

“Human cargo,” Lord Marchmont pronounced with heavy relish.

“Mind you, I’m not sure but what it’s better the other way around.” Lady Marchmont brightened.

“Seems they’ve blocked the routes out of Sussex and Kent, but they didn’t catch all the spies.” Lord Marchmont leaned closer to Spencer. “They think those left will try this coast next.”

“But just fancy, my dear. He keeps city hours down here. Doesn’t rise until noon.” An unladylike humph escaped Lady Marchmont. “He’ll have to change, of course. Needs someone to help him adjust. Must be hard to pick up country ways after so many years.”

A frown nagged at Kit’s brows. As Lady Marchmont’s bemused stare penetrated her daze, she wiped her expression clean and nodded seriously. “I dare say you’re right, ma’am.”

Her ladyship blinked. Kit realized she’d slipped somewhere and tried to focus on her ladyship’s words, rather than her lord’s.

Lady Marchmont’s face cleared. “Oh-are you imagining he’s a fop? Not a bit of it!” She waved one plump hand, and Kit’s mind slid away.

“Hendon suggested I quietly let the message get about. Just to the right people, y’know.” Lord Marchmont set down his teacup.

“His dress is very precise-the military influence, I dare say. But you’d know more about that than I, being so newly returned from the capital.” Lady Marchmont chewed one fat finger. “Elegant,” she pronounced. “You’d have to call him elegant.”

Kit’s eyes glazed. Her head was spinning.

“Did he now?” Spencer eyed Lord Marchmont shrewdly.

Lady Marchmont leaned forward and whispered: “Lucy Cartwright’s got her eye on him for her eldest, Jane. But nothing’ll come of that.”

“Seemed to think he might need a bit of support if it came to a dustup,” Lord Marchmont said. “The Revenue are stretched thin these days.”

“He doesn’t strike me as being the sort of man who’d appreciate having a young girl to wife. He’s a serious man, thirty-five if he’s a day. A more mature woman would be much more useful to him. Being the Lady of Castle Hendon is a full-time occupation, not the place for a giddy girl.”

Spencer’s barking laugh echoed through the room. “That’s certainly true. Have you heard of the raids out Sheringham way?”

Her grandfather and his guest settled to review the latest exercises of the Revenue Office. Kit took the opportunity to catch up with her ladyship.

“Of course, there’s the limp, though it’s not seriously incapacitating. And he’s at least got the Hendon looks to compensate.”

Kit attempted to infuse some degree of mild interest into her features.

Lady Marchmont looked positively thrilled. “Well, Kathryn dear, we really must see what we can organize, don’t you think?”

The predatory gleam in her ladyship’s eyes set alarm bells ringing; Kit’s interest fled.Good God-she’s trying to marry me off to Lord Hendon!

To Kit’s immense relief, Jenkins chose that precise instant to enter with the tea tray. If not for the timely interruption, she’d never have stilled the heated denial that had risen, involuntarily, to her lips.

Conversation became general over the teacups. With the ease born of considerable practice in company far more demanding than the present, Kit contributed her share.

Suddenly, Spencer slapped his thigh. “Forgot!” He looked at Kit. “There’s a letter for you, m’dear. On the table there.” His nod indicated a small table by the window.

“For me?” Kit rose and went to fetch it.

Spencer nodded. “It’s from Julian. I got one, too.”

“Julian?” Kit returned to the chaise, examining the packet addressed in her youngest cousin’s unmistakable scrawl.

“Go on, read it. Lord and Lady Marchmont’ll excuse you, I’m sure.”

Lord Marchmont nodded benignly, his wife much more avidly. Kit broke the Cranmer seal and quickly scanned the lines, crossed and recrossed, with two blots for good measure. “He’s done it,” she breathed, as Julian’s meaning became clear. “He’s enlisted!”

Her face alight, Kit looked at Spencer and saw her happiness for Julian mirrored in his eyes. Spencer nodded. “Aye. About time he went his own road. It’ll be the making of him, I don’t doubt.”

Blinking, Kit nodded. Julian had wanted to join the army forever but, as the youngest of the Cranmer brood, he’d been protected and cosseted and steadfastly refused permission to break free. He’d reached his majority a fortnight ago and had signed up immediately. A passage toward the end of his letter sent a stab of sheer, painful pride through her.

You broke free, Kit. You made up your mind and went your own way. I decided to do the same. Wish me luck?

Her grandfather and Lord Marchmont were discussing the latest news from Europe; Lady Marchmont was eating a queen cake. With a happy sigh, Kit refolded the letter and laid it aside.

Jenkins returned, and the Marchmonts rose to take their leave, Lady Marchmont evolving plans for a ball to introduce the new Lord Hendon to his neighbors. “We haven’t given a ball in years. We’ll make it a large one-something special. A masquerade, perhaps? I’ll want your advice, my dear, so think about it.” With a wag of her chubby finger, Lady Marchmont sat back in her carriage.

On the steps, Kit smiled and waved. Beside her, Spencer clapped the Lord Lieuteneant on the shoulder. “About that other matter. Tell Hendon he can count on support from Cranmer if he needs it. The Cranmers have always stood shoulder to shoulder with the Hendons through the years-we’ll continue to do so. Particularly now we’ve one of our own at risk. Can’t let any spies endanger young Julian.” Spencer smiled. “Just as long as Hendon remembers he’s Norfolk born and bred, that is. I’ve no mind to give up my brandy.”

The twinkle in Spencer’s eye was pronounced. An answering gleam lit Lord Marchmont’s gaze. “No, b’God. Very true. But he keeps a fine cellar, just like Jake, so I doubt we’ll need to explain that to him.”

With a nod to Kit, Lord Marchmont climbed in beside his wife. The door shut, the coachman clicked the reins; the heavy coach lurched off.

Kit watched it disappear, then dropped a kiss on Spencer’s weathered cheek and hugged him hard before descending the steps. With a last wave to Spencer, she headed for the gardens for a last stroll before dinner.

The shrubbery welcomed her with cool green walls, leading to a secluded grove with a fountain in the middle. Kit sat on the stone surround of the pool, trailing her fingers in the water. Her pleasure at Julian’s news gradually faded, giving way to consideration of Lady Marchmont’s fixation.

It was inevitable that the local ladies would busy themselves over finding her a husband; they’d known her from birth and, naturally, not one approved of her present state. With the appearance of Lord Hendon, an apparently eligible bachelor, on the scene, they had the ingredients of exactly the sort of plot they collectively delighted in hatching.

Grimacing, Kit shook the water from her fingers. They could hatch and plot to their hearts’ content-she was past the age of innocent gullibility. Doubtless, despite his eligibility, Lord Hendon would prove to be another earl of Roberts. No-he couldn’t be that old, not if Jake had been his father. Fortyish, a dessicated old stick but not quite old enough to be her father.

With a sigh, Kit stood and shook out her skirts. Unfortunately for Lady Marchmont, she hadn’t escaped London-and her aunts’ coils-to fall victim to the schemes of the local grandes dames.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon. Kit turned back toward the house. As she passed through the hedged walks, she shivered. Were spies run through the Norfolk surf? On that subject, her opinions matched Spencer’s. The trade was tolerable, as long as it was just trade. But spying was treason. Did the Hunstanton Gang run “human cargo”?

Kit frowned; her temples throbbed. The day had gone and she was no nearer to solving her dilemma. Worse, she now had potential treason to avoid.

Or avert.