Captain Jack's Woman (27 page)

The look on Spencer’s face suggested he’d like to lock Tonkin in a dungeon and be done with it. Grudgingly, he asked: “So what do we do?”

“He’ll come asking questions, wanting to see Kit. The last person he’ll expect to see will be me. He needs my permission to go any farther than questions. The story we’ll tell is that I had dinner here this evening, with you and your granddaughter—a very private celebration of our betrothal. I remained until quite late, discussing the arrangements with Kit and you. Your health is uncertain, so the wedding will be a small affair, to be held as soon as possible.”

Spencer’s expression turned grim, but he said nothing. Jack continued: “Tomorrow morning, I’ll call early to see you alone, to discuss the settlements. That’s my reason for being here when Tonkin arrives.”

“What if he insists on seeing Kit?”

“I doubt he’ll insist, not if I’m here. But if he does, Kit will have gone to visit the Greshams, to tell her friend Amy the news.”

Spencer nodded slowly, mulling over the plan.

The door opened and Jenkins entered. “Dr. Thrushborne’s arrived, m’lord. He’s asking for Lord Hendon.”

Jack rose. Spencer started to rise with obvious difficulty; Jack waved him back. “Kit’s unconscious at the moment—there’s nothing you can do.” As Spencer sank back, softly wheezing, Jack added: “I’ll come and tell you what Thrushborne says.”

His face pale, his lips pinched, Spencer nodded. Jack returned the nod, then strode back to Kit’s chamber.

God—let her live!

Telling Spencer had been bad enough; he shared some part of the blame for Kit’s wildness. But Jack couldn’t excuse his own behavior; he should have acted earlier, more decisively, more effectively. He should have taken better care of her. At least Thrushborne was here. He had been treating Hendons and Cranmers for decades. He could be relied on not to talk. So far, so good. But there was a long way to go before they were out of the woods.

Jack entered Kit’s room without knocking. A small black whirlwind descended on him.

“Out!
Monsieur
we do not need you! You will be in the way. You’ll—”

“Elmina, do stop that. I asked Lord Hendon to come.” Dr. Thrushborne’s mild tones halted Elmina in mid-stride. Jack sidestepped about her. Thrushborne was wiping his hands on a clean towel. Beyond him, his intruments were laid out on a table drawn up by the bed.

Thrushborne regarded Jack. He waved at Kit’s still form and raised an inquiring brow. “I gather you know this lady rather well?”

Jack didn’t bother answering. “Will she live?” It was the only question he was interested in.

Thrushborne’s brows rose. “Oh, yes. I should think so. She’s a healthy young woman, as you doubtless know. She’ll do well enough, once we get that lump of metal out of her.”

Jack suspected Thrushborne was enjoying himself. It wasn’t often he had a Hendon at his mercy. But Jack couldn’t drag his gaze from the still figure on the bed. He didn’t care about anything—anyone—else.

Thrushborne cleared his throat. “I’ll need you to hold her while I pull the bullet out. She’s barely unconscious, but I don’t want to give her a sedative yet.”

Jack nodded, steeling his nerves for the coming ordeal. He obeyed Thrushborne’s orders implicitly, trying not to bruise Kit as he held her right shoulder and leaned on her left arm to immobilize her. When the doctor’s forceps probed deep, she gasped and struggled, furiously trying to pull away. Her whimpers shredded Jack’s nerves. When tears welled beneath her closed lids and a choked sob escaped her, his stomach clenched. Gritting his teeth, Jack mentally ran through every curse he’d ever learned—and concentrated on obeying orders. Elmina hovered, murmuring soothingly, holding Kit’s head through the worst, bathing her forehead with lavender water. As far as Jack could tell, Kit was oblivious to all but the pain.

Finally, Thrushborne straightened, flourishing his forceps. “Got it!” He beamed, then, dropping the forceps in a basin, gave his attention to staunching the blood, flowing freely again.

By the time Kit was bandaged and dosed with laudanum, Jack felt dizzy and weak.

About to leave, Thrushborne turned to him. “I take it I haven’t seen anything at all of Miss Kathryn?”

Gathering his wits, Jack shook his head. “No. You were called to see Spencer.”

The doctor frowned. “My housekeeper saw your servant come for me—why was that?”

“I was here when Spencer was taken badly and sent Matthew, rather than one of the Cranmer staff.”

Thrushborne nodded briskly. “I’ll call again in the morning—to see Spencer.”

With a weary but grateful half smile, Jack shook hands. Thrushborne departed; Elmina followed, taking the bloody rags to be burned. Alone with Kit, Jack stretched, easing his aching back. He’d have to see Spencer and make sure the servants, both here and at Castle Hendon, understood their story sufficiently well to play their parts. He didn’t doubt they’d do it. The Hendons and Cranmers were served by locals whose families lived and worked on the estates; all would rally to the cause. Tonkin was thoroughly disliked by all who knew him; the Revenue in general were favorites with no one. With care and forethought, all would be well. With a long-drawn sigh, Jack turned to the bed.

Kit lay stretched out primly, not wantonly asprawl as he was used to seeing her. It would be some time before he saw her like that again. How long? Three weeks, maybe four? Jack contemplated the wait, by dint of sheer determination holding back the thought that he might never see her like that again. She would live—she had to. He couldn’t live without her. The space beside her looked inviting, but Spencer was waiting, and Elmina would soon be back. With a wrenching sigh, Jack gazed down at the silent beauty. Her chest rose and fell beneath the sheet, her breathing shallow but steady. Jack put out a hand to brush a silky curl from her smooth brow, then bent to gently kiss her pale lips.

He dragged himself away. Elmina had said she’d watch Kit for what was left of the night, and Spencer was still waiting.

“Sergeant Tonkin, my lord.” Jenkins held the library door wide, an expression of supercilious condescension on his face.

Stepping over the threshold, Sergeant Tonkin hesitated, his regulation hat clutched in his hands. Spying Spencer behind the desk, Tonkin headed in that direction, his stride firmly confident.

Spencer watched him approach, an expression of calm boredom on his aristocratic features. From an armchair halfway down the long room, Jack studied Tonkin’s face. The sergeant hadn’t seen him, so focused was he on his goal. An air of smug belligerence hung about Tonkin as he halted on the rug before the desk and saluted.

“My lord,” Tonkin began. “I was a-wondering if I might have a word with Miss Cranmer, sir.”

Spencer’s shaggy brows lowered. “With my granddaughter? What for?”

The barked question, so direct, made Tonkin blink. He shifted his weight. “We have reason to believe, m’lord, that Miss Cranmer might be able to help us with our investigations.”

“How the devil do you suppose Kathryn could know anything of your business?”

Tonkin stiffened. He shot Spencer a swift glance, then puffed out his chest. In a portentous tone, he stated: “Some of my men were chasing a smugglers’ leader last night. The man…that is, this leader…was shot. I found the fellow—the leader—in the quarries.”

“So?” Spencer’s gaze turned impatient. “If you’ve got the man, what’s the problem?”

Tonkin colored. With one finger, he tugged at his collar. “But we haven’t got him—that’s to say, this leader.”

“You
haven’t
?” Spencer leaned forward. “The man was wounded and you let him get away?”

Watching, Jack sensed the moment when Tonkin’s obsession came to his rescue. Instead of wilting under the heat of Spencer’s glare, his backbone straightened like a poker, his beady eyes suddenly intent. “Before others of the gang knocked me out, I managed to get a good look at the fellow’s—that is…” Gritting his teeth, Tonkin drew a deep breath then continued: “I got a good look at the leader’s face. Red curls, my lord,” Tonkin pronounced with relish. “And a pale, delicate-looking face with a small pointy chin.” When Spencer merely looked blank, Tonkin added: “A
female
face, my lord.”

Silence filled the library.

When Spencer frowned, Tonkin nodded decisively. “Exactly, m’lord. If I hadn’t seen it with me own two eyes, I’d have laughed the idea aside, too.”

Spencer’s expression turned openly puzzled. “But I still don’t see, Sergeant, what this has to do with my granddaughter. You can’t seriously imagine she’ll be able to help you?”

Tonkin’s face fell; a second later, crafty suspicion gleamed in his small eyes. He opened his mouth.

Jack smoothly intervened. “I really think, Sergeant, that you’ll have to explain why you imagine Miss Cranmer would be more help to you in identifying and locating a Cranmer…connection than Lord Cranmer himself. I must tell you such matters are not normally the province of the ladies.”

Tonkin whirled, his expression, unguarded for an instant, a medley of fury and rampant suspicion. With the next breath, his unlovely mask fell back into place; he drew himself up and saluted. “Good morning, m’lord. Didn’t see you there, sir.” Then the implication of Jack’s words registered.
“Connection,
m’lord?”

Jack raised a bored brow.

Visibly girding his loins, Tonkin shook his head. “No, sir.” Chin up, at attention, he spoke to the air above Jack’s head. “I know what I saw, sir. This woman rode a magnificent black horse. I saw with my own eyes the hole my men blew in her shoulder.” Tonkin pressed his lips tightly together against the impulse to explain
whose
shoulder; meeting his eyes, Jack understood. Fanatical determination flared in those beady orbs as Tonkin, his chin pugnaciously square, glanced sideways at Spencer.

Jack smothered the urge to strangle the man. “Perhaps, Sergeant, if you’d tell us exactly what happened, his lordship might be able to clarify matters for you?”

Tonkin hesitated, eyes going from Jack to Spencer and back again before, very slowly, he nodded. And determinedly began his tale.

In her bed abovestairs, Kit lay flat on her back and tried to remember how she’d got there. Her shoulder was on fire; one minute she felt flushed, the next as cold as ice. Eyes closed against the light, she heard the door open and shut.

“Sergeant Tonkin’s ’ere, miss.” Kit identified the whisperer as Emily, one of the upstairs maids. “Jenkins just showed ’im into the library.”

“This is the Revenue man, yes?” Elmina answered from the direction of the fireplace. Kit frowned. The Revenue?
Here?

“He’s a terrible bully, that one,” Emily explained. “He’s asking to see Miss Kathryn. Jenkins said as he’d seen her face.”

Elmina’s response was dismissive. “His lordship will take care of it. And Lord Hendon is there, too, is he not? Rest assured, all will be well.”

“Elmina!” Kit struggled onto her good elbow, wincing at the pain in her left shoulder. Her weak call brought both Elmina and Emily rushing to the bed. “Get me my dove grey gown. Quickly.”

Her face a mask of horror, Elmina remained rooted to the spot. “No, no,
petite!
You are much too weak to get up! You will reopen your wound.”

“If I don’t go down and let Tonkin see me, I might not live to heal anyway.” Gritting her teeth, Kit managed to sit on the edge of the bed. Suddenly, she remembered all too well. Closing her eyes, she willed her dizziness away. “Dammit, Elmina! Don’t argue—or I’ll do it myself.”

The threat worked, as it usually did; muttering, Elmina hurried to the wardrobe. Returning within minutes with the grey dress and Kit’s underclothes, she ventured: “Lord Hendon is downstairs.”

“So I heard.” Kit looked at her clothes and wondered how she was going to cope. Lifting her left arm was to be avoided at all costs. She was wearing a fine linen nightgown with a high frilly neck. She’d chosen the grey gown because of its neckline, round and high enough to conceal her bandages. If she wore the dress on top of the nightgown, hopefully Tonkin wouldn’t notice.

Battling dizziness, she stood; in a voice devoid of all unnecessary strength, she directed Elmina in helping her into the dress and easing the bodice up over her injured shoulder. She felt weak as a newborn kitten—just standing was an effort. While Elmina quickly laced the gown, Kit considered what might be transpiring downstairs. If Tonkin had seen her face, she doubted he’d go away without laying eyes on her. She hoped Spencer wouldn’t lose his temper before she got down. The most puzzling aspect was why the elusive High Commissioner had chosen this particular day to pay a morning visit. Perhaps, if she could think straight enough, she might be able to enlist his aid in getting rid of Tonkin. Then, later, she could tell him about Jack and ask for his help in that matter, too.

How she was to manage that with Spencer looking on was beyond her at present. She’d worry about that once Tonkin was gone.

Elmina finished lacing the dress and hurried to get Kit’s brushes. Kit looked down. The room swayed and she quickly raised her head. Fixing her gaze on her mirror across the room, she tried a step or two. It was going to be dicey, but she’d do it if it killed her. Her chin went up. She hadn’t done anything she was ashamed of; she wasn’t going to let a bully of a sergeant drag the Cranmer name through the mud.

Downstairs, Tonkin was struggling to keep his head above water. At Jack’s artful prompting, he’d explained what had happened, in detail. When retold in such a way, his night’s efforts lost much of their glory.

With that accomplished, Jack sat back and calmly engaged Spencer in a detailed discussion of all the Cranmer “connections” currently known. Throughout, he kept a careful eye on Tonkin, noting the sergeant’s rising impatience—and his increasing irritation. Despite being subjected to considerable discouragement, Tonkin wasn’t about to let go. When Spencer came to the end of the list of his sons’ acknowledged bastards, Jack quietly put in: “But I believe the Sergeant said the face he saw was distinctly feminine. Is that right, Tonkin?”