Clandestine (17 page)

Linwood swiveled his head back to Marc. “And you hesitated to do anything . . . rash?”

Yep. Definitely a smart arse.

“Precisely. I dislike anything to do with . . . rashness.”

Kit choked again across from Marc, looking primly down at her hands with her lips pressed firmly together.

Linwood blinked, sensing he was missing something in the conversation, but unable to put his finger on what that would be precisely. Only his fingers tapping against his thigh betrayed his agitation.

“So you can give me no information that would be helpful in tracking down these miscreants?” he asked.

Marc heaved his shoulders in a baffled sort of shrug. The kind that said he wished to helpful but didn’t know how to proceed. He most certainly didn’t want some innocent man to be fingered for this fictional robbery.

Though, perhaps, there was
one
piece of information that would be helpful. Would Arthur mind?

“Nothing really.” He tapped his chin, as if in thought. “Though I do distinctly remember the buttons on the coat of one man—brass with a raised crest embossed in the center, vines chasing through it. That is all, unfortunately.”

Arthur’s head instantly snapped up, shooting Marc a quelling look.

Marc shrugged faintly as if to say,
It’s no big deal
.

The more people who were on the lookout for that button, the better. Why not link it to his fictional robbery? The man in Duir Cottage certainly hadn’t been on the right side of the law. Arthur grimaced subtly, obviously not liking Marc’s interference.

Linwood regarded Marc for a moment, face impassive. Did the man even blink? He seemed almost more robot than human.

“A button. That is something . . . I suppose. If you remember anything else, I request you inform me immediately. I feel those involved with this robbery might strike again, and I wish to ensure safety for the good of all.”

Kit twisted slightly in her seat, catching Linwood’s eye. “Would you say the feeling is like an . . . an itch . . . that you wish to scratch?”

Marc nearly snorted, desperately trying to hold back a sudden laugh. Heaven help him!

She was utterly shameless.

Linwood raised another cool eyebrow, studying Kit. Obviously trying to understand why she would insert herself into the conversation.

“Indeed, Miss Ashton.” His voice all icy hauteur. “You might call it an itch that I feel must be indulged.”

Kit turned back to Marc as Linwood said this, her honey eyes dancing. The words hanging unsaid between them.

Due to my festering rash.

Marc managed to control his laugh just in time, while Kit forcefully bit her lip.

Oh yes. Miss Kit Ashton was an absolute delight.

Chapter 10

The parish church graveyard

Marfield

February 24, 1814

K
it pulled her heavy wool cloak tighter around her shoulders. Though sunny, a bitter winter wind stealthily crept around the Herefordshire hills, jumping out when she least expected it, snatching at her cloak and tugging her bonnet. Leaving her toes hopelessly chilled in her walking boots.

She shuddered but kept her chin up, restlessly searching. Darting glances up and down Marfield’s high street, thoroughly examining each and every man.

Five days. It had been five days since she had caught that glimpse of Daniel here in Marfield. But despite canvassing the village each time Lady Ruby sent her to fetch some bauble or collect the post, there was no sign of her brother.

Drat him.

She had dropped off another letter to be sent from the Old Boar Inn (again addressed to the impossibly dull-sounding Mrs. Boring of Quiet Street, Bath) and was now making the same tour of Marfield she had been doing all week. But with the colder weather, few people were out and about.

Biting back a hefty sigh, Kit found herself in front of the parish church, its gray stone half covered in moss. Only the flag-shaped weather vane atop the steeple tower glinted coppery and new.

Pushing open the gate, she wandered inside, welcoming the calm hush of the graveyard surrounding the church. Trees lined the perimeter of the fence, providing a sheltered respite from the wind.

She ambled through the gravestones, stopping in front of a more recent addition.

In loving memory of

James Richard Knight

Born May 23, 1781

Died Oct 15, 1812

Age 31 years

Beloved son and brother

Ah. Arthur’s older brother, James.

The one who died with (perhaps) Marc’s sister in that (perhaps) carriage accident. The reason (again, perhaps) behind Marc’s visit.

Life at Haldon Manor had certainly become more lively with Marc’s arrival.

Despite playing several more rounds of their word game, neither of them had laughed in company yet—the wagered secret still hanging in the balance. Though it had been a very near thing when the phrase was
after licking a toad
and Lady Ruby had said:
I had the most fanciful conversation with the vicar yesterday.

Despite spending time together laughing and teasing, Kit felt she was no closer to understanding who Marc really was.

The man definitely had his secrets. Where had he been before arriving at Haldon Manor? Was he truly a spy with his sister, like Linwood suspected? What was his purpose here?

He had skillfully dodged every question Kit had thrown his way, taunting her, telling her over and over that she had to win their silly word game before he would give up anything.

All the while, reducing her to weak-kneed laughter with his relentless flirting.

Marc, Kit realized, was a Meringue Man.

And she had
such
a love/hate relationship with Meringue Men.

She knew from experience that some men put up walls of steel and ice, like Lord Linwood. Cold, hard fortresses around their hearts that kept everyone shut out. Ice Men, she called them.

With Ice Men, you knew when you broke through. All their cold reserve would shatter spectacularly in an eruption of emotion. Their coldness could be off-putting, but at least you knew where you stood.

But other men put up walls of soft, sticky meringue. These men were sweet. Delicious to be around, eating up the delight of their company. And at first, Kit found the clever repartee of their company heady and intoxicating. It was flirting at its best. Like World Championship flirting.

However, after a while, all that sweet meringue became a little cloying. It was a sticky defense that bounced back at you. No matter how far you sunk into it, you were never sure when you were through to the heart of the matter. Meringue Men usually didn’t explode. They just kept hiding emotions and feelings in increasingly complex layers of jokes, leaving you wondering which was truth and which was deflection.

Why, oh why, did she have to have such a
thing
for Meringue Men? Why did she have to love the language of flirt so well?

It all doomed her to one shallow relationship after another. Meringue Men were the best secret-hiders. They buried everything important so deep inside no one would ever reach the center. Even if you found out one secret, you were still left wondering what other secrets they were keeping from you . . .

Granted, it wasn’t as if she had been all that forthcoming with her own secrets. But
her
secrets were truly monumental.

Marc’s just involved a deceased sister who might have been a spy with him. Obviously, she could see how being a spy would make you extra secretive, but still . . .

She needed to find Daniel. She wondered for the twentieth time if she shouldn’t tell Marc about her brother. With his probable experience as a covert agent, Marc would be just the person to help her.

But . . . it was all the follow-up questions about Daniel she dreaded. Those she wouldn’t answer. Though maybe, if she stated the matter obliquely enough, Marc could help her.

Kit was on her third circuit of the graveyard, when a hand suddenly closed over her mouth from behind.

Hard and swift. Kit instantly stiffened.

“Don’t scream.”

She sagged with relief at the all too familiar voice in her ear. Every last thought of Marc instantly evaporated.

Daniel.
Hallelujah!

Jerking her head free, she rounded on her younger brother, throwing her hands around his neck, giving him a fierce hug. His arms wrapped around her, squeezing her in return.

She held him for a moment, relief washing over and through her, wave after wave.

At last! He was here. Together, they could sort this out, stop whatever horrid plan he might have set in motion, find a solution. Go home with no one the wiser. Everything would be okay.

With one last embrace, she released him and stepped back.

He looked . . . well . . . like Daniel. A bit taller than herself, hair two shades darker but glinting with red undertones. Dressed in a long, worn greatcoat over the same blue coat she had seen him in before, a little rumpled and worse for wear. A far cry from his preferred attire but still the same old Daniel. It figured this extreme change in their normal lifestyle wouldn’t affect him as much as her.

Stupid man.

They regarded each other for a few moments, Daniel taking in her brown cloak and the drab gray of her gown underneath. Hair peeking out from under her shapeless bonnet.

“Well . . . Kit . . .” He stared. “You, erm, look . . . great.”

She did not.

“I barely recognized you in that dress.” Daniel, being his typical self, didn’t know when to stop. “I thought I saw you come out of the Old Boar Inn, but I just couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve been following you for the last little while just to be sure. You’re here! I have no idea how or why . . . but . . . but here you are! You just look so different . . .”

Suddenly, all of Kit’s relief morphed into rage. After everything that had happened, the impossibly stupid things Daniel had done—this latest scrape being the last in an incredibly long line of frustration-inducing behavior—

And all he could focus on was her attire?

She swatted his shoulder, only barely controlling an urge to full-on punch him. “You idiot!” she hissed.

Daniel wrinkled his brow. “Happy to see you too, sister dearest.”

Gah! He had to be about the most clueless, daft, imbecilic—

Kit growled, attempting to control her swelling anger.

She stabbed a furious finger into his chest. “How could you?! How
could
you get us into this mess?”

Gaze instantly shuttered, Daniel batted her finger away.

“Us?” He pointed a similar accusing finger at her. “
You
aren’t supposed to be here.
You
were supposed to stay at home.”

“Right. Stay home. And what? Deal with the horrid aftermath of your disappearance? Sit around wondering what you planned to do and how much it would affect . . .
everything
? Somehow just give up caring about what happened to you?”

“Kit, I left you that long letter
specifically
to explain everything—”

“What letter? I didn’t get a silly letter. All I found were those papers you left in the study in Whitmoor which lead me here. I know you, and I am sure you have something planned—”

“Of course I have a plan. Something I have been working on for nearly a year now. Things just got a little . . . sidetracked . . . shall we say? But I am back on course.”

Kit stared at him for a moment. Would there ever be a time when she wouldn’t worry about Daniel? Concern for her younger brother was one of the constants of her life.

Like English rain and mud on new shoes, she could always count on Daniel to need rescuing.

“It’s not your job to rescue me.” Daniel’s gaze pinned her down.

Ah, so
that’s
how he was going to play.

“No. It’s just my job to mop up the messes you make. And this mess”—she spread her arms expansively—“is truly spectacular. I know you think it a fun lark, but this particular adventure of yours could have ghastly repercussions.”

They regarded each other. Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and bounced a leg. Restless and bounding with energy. That had always been Daniel’s problem. Constant motion—an almost pathological inability to sit still. He needed to be doing, moving from place to place, scrape to scrape.

He swallowed. “Well, I have never asked you to clean up after me—”

“When a disaster of this proportion looms, someone has to—”

“Why don’t you let me live my life? Why do you always interfere?”

Kit clenched her jaw. “Daniel, this isn’t just about
you
. Why can you not
think
beyond yourself?”

“Don’t you
dare
throw this back at me.” Anger flared in his eyes. “Just because you don’t like my decisions, doesn’t mean they’re not right. I’m not accountable for your happiness.”

So typical,
Wicked Angel muttered.
He
never
takes responsibility for anything. Remember the time he got ridiculously sloshed, drove himself home and careened into that ditch—