Clandestine (6 page)

The Old Boar Inn

Marfield, Herefordshire

February 19, 1814

Lady Ruby’s instructions had been extremely clear:

Take this letter straight to Mr. Millet at the Old Boar Inn to be posted. My nephew’s butler has shifty eyes and is not to be trusted with my correspondence.

Kit had stared at the letter as she drove the Knight’s gig into the nearby town of Marfield.

Firstly, the Knight’s butler, Finley, seemed a perfectly fine fellow with nary a hint of shiftiness about his person.

Secondly, Kit could not imagine—even if the butler
were
shifty—why he would be interested in letters to a Mrs. Boring of Quiet Street, Bath.

Yes. That
really
was the address, neat and plain. Mrs. Boring. Quiet Street. Bath.

It was fairly ridiculous.

But nearly every day, Lady Ruby sent Kit into Marfield on some errand or another.

“Poor Jedediah is in need of more blacking for his boots. Off with you.”

“See that Mr. Millet posts this letter to Plymouth. And be sure to ask if any correspondence has arrived for me.”

“The feathers in my purple velvet turban have quite drooped. I believe the haberdasher has some lovely peacock ones you can fetch.”

Kit had become quite adept at navigating the few miles between Haldon Manor and Marfield in the gig. Fortunately, the roads were well-maintained, allowing for easy travel despite the gloomy February weather.

Today, the sun broke through the ever-present clouds.

Away, away, away,
Wicked Angel whispered.
Let’s fly away. Just take a ring or two from Lady Ruby, hitch up the gig and we’ll be in the next county before anyone realizes you’re not coming back.

Do
not
listen to her.
That was Virtuous Angel.
First of all, you are not going to add theft to your growing list of crimes. Second, they would catch you. Third, where would you go? You can’t go home without Daniel, and home is the only place you want to go. You have to find your brother, which means remaining at Haldon Manor. He has to be around here somewhere.

But despite her constant searching, Kit still hadn’t found him.

Was
Daniel here? And if so, what were his exact plans? The snippet of discussion she had overheard between Arthur and Linwood had only fanned the flame of her worry. It was
exactly
the thing she feared.

Secrets. Always secrets. She was so eternally weary of them.

Kit just wanted her brother. She had practically raised him after their mother left and their father buried himself in grief and his books. Six years her junior, Daniel hadn’t understood or even seemed to care that he had no mother. And just like their mother, wanderlust gripped him. Daniel could never stay in the same place for more than a month or two.

With their father’s death the previous year, Daniel was all the family she had left. Without Daniel, she would have no one.
He
would have no one. Who would bail him out of his scrapes, if not her?

And if he continued down this path, she wouldn’t have a roof over her head to return to.

They
needed
each other. Didn’t Daniel see that?

Kit stepped out of the Old Boar Inn—the letter having been safely delivered into the hands of Mr. Millet—and tilted her head back, attempting to dispel her anxiety by basking in the warm sun.

Well, warmish-for-February sun. It still felt lovely and helped banish some of the chill which seeped through her winter pelisse and wool cloak.

With a sigh, she walked over to the gig. How long she could stall before returning to Haldon Manor? Lady Ruby would expect her back promptly. And then there was the matter of Jedediah Knight, who had become more aggressive, always appearing where least expected.

“Miss Ashton, how surprising to find you here,” he’d said, cornering her in the still room off the scullery, blocking the door. “And all alone. If I didn’t know better, I would say you have been waiting for me.”

She hadn’t. And she had seen how both scullery maids and the cook had ducked out of sight as soon as they heard his voice.

“Mr. Knight,” she replied with a bobbed curtsy. “I was just fetching some dried lavender for your mother. If you will excuse me, I am sure she is waiting for it.”

He crowded her into the small workspace, forcing her to shoulder her way past him to escape. He took full advantage of the proximity to press against her. Kit jabbed a seemingly accidental elbow sharply into his ribs, causing him to fall back with a grunt.

“Have a care, Miss Ashton,” he had hissed. “You will not always be able to escape.”

A shy, smaller, more retiring woman would have caved to his pressure by now or run off in fear.

Fortunately,
shy
and
retiring
had never been words in her vocabulary. And at her age—thirty, last November, firmly
on the shelf
as Daniel kept reminding her—she had no patience with such men. Bullies always raised her hackles.

So far, her sharp tongue and even sharper elbows and knees had kept him at bay. Men the likes of Jedediah Knight would never cow her. But without her place in society to protect her, she had few other resources beyond quick wits and even quicker reflexes. And, really, it was only a matter of time before she offended him enough to put her position in jeopardy.

Lady Ruby would hardly side with Kit over her wayward son. And Kit could ill afford being tossed into the street.

So she just bottled it all up. Swallowed the scathing retorts. The hissing comebacks. Crammed, stuffed and squeezed it back inside her until she threatened to burst.

A couple rings and the gig. I’m telling you—it’s a good plan.
Wicked Angel wouldn’t stop tempting her.

She was not naive. She knew that the game—the thrill of the chase—was a large part of the fun for men like Jedediah. Her life before Haldon Manor had been filled with parties and dinners and never ending socializing. She was no stranger to aristocratic men and their machinations.

Fortunately, standing in the middle of Marfield with her gig, she remembered she had no worries about running into Jedediah today. Arthur and his cousin had strode off that morning in the woods, rifles slung over their shoulders—gamekeeper, servants and a pack of hounds in tow.

She tugged her plain bonnet loose, allowing it to hang on its ribbons. Again, tilting her head back and feeling the sunshine on her face. She righted her head and made a studious show of petting the horse hitched to the gig, putting off returning to Haldon Manor for at least a few more minutes.

A group of day laborers strode up the high street, jackets dusty, sledgehammers over their shoulders. Two servant girls passed them, giggling and whispering.

And then a figure down the street just past the apothecary caught her eye. A taller man, lean with close-cropped hair in a dark blue coat and gleaming boots, turning to walk down the alleyway between two buildings. He came into profile as he turned, nodding a greeting to the laborers.

And in that second, Kit’s heart stopped.

She would know that profile anywhere.

Daniel
.

Hallelujah. At last!

He watched the laborers, never fully turning his head toward her. Too far away for her to yell and capture his attention.

Drat.

He hadn’t seen her. And even if he had, how likely was he to recognize her? Heaven knew Daniel had never seen her dressed in a gown like this.

Suddenly, he pivoted entirely and disappeared down the alley. Frantic to reach him, Kit darted across the street, lifting up her long skirts as she picked her way toward the alley.

So her brother really
was
here. That note she found had been right. But
why
was he here? What was his connection with Haldon Manor? And please, oh please, let it have nothing to do with French spies and the current war with Napoleon.

Jumping over a pile of manure as she passed the apothecary shop, she realized it didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t care why he was here, what had driven him. He just needed to come home.

If he came home without doing damage, everything would be all right. Their lives would go on just as they had before.

She was almost to the alleyway when a now-familiar voice accosted her.

“Miss Ashton, how delightful to see you.”

Kit turned to the gloved hand touching her arm and the round, smiling face of the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Smith.

Drat, drat and triple
drat
!

Kit owed the miniature Mrs. Smith a tremendous debt of gratitude. She and her husband had welcomed Kit into their home when she had nothing more than the clothing on her back. In fact, Kit’s current serviceable brown dress, pelisse and cloak had belonged to the vicar’s late sister—fortunately a taller woman for Kit’s sake. The second-hand skirts were only a little short on her.

Even with Daniel perhaps lurking around the corner, every ounce of gratitude and politeness and good breeding in her soul knew that she could not snub Mrs. Smith.

Argh!

More’s the pity.

With one longing look to the corner where Daniel had just disappeared, Kit bobbed a polite curtsy in greeting.

“And you too, Mrs. Smith.”

Mrs. Smith was one of those tiny humans, the kind who made Kit feel just that much larger. As if nature had laughed when it made two women so impossibly different.

And so Kit found herself looking down, down, down into Mrs. Smith’s kind brown eyes. The vicar and his wife made an odd pair—him tall and gangly, his wife tiny and round. The top of Mrs. Smith’s head barely reached her husband’s ribcage.

“You look well, Miss Ashton.” Mrs. Smith appraised Kit’s clothing. “I take it Lady Ruby and Haldon Manor agree with you.”

Mrs. Smith, it seemed, took great pride in having helped Kit become placed as Lady Ruby’s companion. As though Kit and Lady Ruby had been courting, and Mrs. Smith had facilitated a match.

It was oddly disconcerting.

Biting back her impatience, Kit responded to Mrs. Smith’s inquiries.

Kit was well. Lady Ruby was well. Baby Isabel was a dear little thing. Haldon Manor was a lovely home. Yes, the Knights did employ an excellent cook.

And then, she moved on to give polite replies to Mrs. Smith’s worries. How terrible that Mrs. Croft had still not forgiven Mr. Smith for that incident involving his heifer and her vegetable garden. Yes, Kit would try to attend the next meeting of the Marfield Temperance Society. Indeed, liquor was the Devil’s own brew.

Wicked Angel snickered at that.

All the while, Kit prayed that Daniel was still down that alleyway, that she would be able to find him.

Her foot wanted to
tap-tap-tap
with impatience.

Though I deeply appreciate her and all that she has done, Mrs. Smith needs to move along.
Virtuous Angel murmured.

Indeed. Doesn’t she have some do-gooder stuff to attend to?
Wicked Angel asked.

It was a sign of her impatience and desperation when both angels concurred on anything.

Finally after Kit agreed to give a speech on the deleterious dangers of whiskey (causing more snickering from Wicked Angel), Mrs. Smith hurried off to chat with Mrs. Millet at the Old Boar Inn about the evils of ale.

Kit wished her luck and ducked down the alleyway.

But she had taken too long; the alley was decidedly empty. Just a pile of refuse and an old barrel. Nothing more. She walked through the narrow corridor, which opened up to another small street leading to the village green.

No Daniel in sight.

Kit sighed and leaned against the alleyway wall, resisting the urge to slowly pound her head into the brick.

It figured. The man
had
been Daniel. She would know her brother anywhere. Even here.

Frustrated, Kit spent the next thirty minutes walking the length of town, finally looping back to the gig and her patiently waiting horse.

Still no Daniel.

Had she truly seen him? Or was she just so desperate to find him that she was now imagining things?

And she had to get back to Haldon Manor before she lost her post. Chewing her cheek in frustration, Kit patted the horse again, forcing agitated tears back. She
never
cried. Crying solved nothing and would only give her a headache. She took in several lungfuls of air, trying to center her breathing.

In, out . . . in, out.

Giving the horse one more affectionate pat, she climbed into the gig.

Daniel was here. He was. She
had
seen him. She refused to doubt it.

She would find him, remove him from whatever nonsense he had gotten himself into and return home. End of story.

Chapter 4

The cellar

Duir Cottage

February 19, 1814

T
he pounding in Marc’s head pulsed viciously. Like someone playing whack-a-mole with his eyeballs. Groggily, he opened his eyes to a spinning world.

And then promptly shut them again as bile rose in his throat.