Sergeant Tonkin simply stared, speechless. His gaze flicked to Jack, then to Spencer, then, surreptitiously, he darted a glance at Kit, dwelling on her left shoulder.
Aware of his scrutiny, Kit held herself erect, her expression relaxed and open, waiting for Tonkin to state his business. Her grasp on Spencer’s shoulder was nothing less than a death grip; luckily, Spencer had put up his hand to cover hers, the warmth of his large palm imparting strength and support enough to anchor her to consciousness. Kit drew on it unashamedly.
From where she stood, Kit could see Spencer’s expression, arrogantly supercilious as he stared at Tonkin. A peculiar hiatus held them all.
Jack broke it, strolling casually forward to Kit’s side.
The instant he moved, he drew Kit’s gaze. Lips slightly parted to ease her increasingly painful breathing, Kit watched him approach. Her wits were slowing, becoming more sluggish. They’d said Lord Hendon was with Spencer. There was no one else in the room except Jack. And it was Jack, for all that he was far more elegantly dressed than she’d ever seen him, moving with a languid grace she recognized instantly. The man approaching her was a rake of the first order, one who’d learned his recreational habits in the hothouse of the ton. The man approaching her was Jack. Confusion welled; Kit resisted the urge to close her eyes against it.
Jack stopped by her side; she looked into his eyes and saw his concern and his strength. He reached for her right hand, lifting it from Spencer’s shoulder. She let him, relief spreading through her at the comfort in his touch. His other arm slid about her waist, a very real support.
Aware of the picture he was creating for Tonkin, Jack raised Kit’s fingers to his lips. “The sergeant thought he saw you last night, my dear. Your grandfather and I were just explaining that he must have been mistaken.” Jack smiled reassuringly into wide amethyst eyes, hazed and dull with pain. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve given you an alibi. Even one so earnest as Sergeant Tonkin will have to accept that while you were having dinner with me, and later discussing our wedding, you couldn’t possibly have been simultaneously riding the hills.”
“Oh?” It was no effort to infuse the syllable with bewilderment. Kit dragged her eyes from Jack’s to gaze in confusion at Sergeant Tonkin. Dinner?Wedding? Her faintness intensified. The arm about her waist tightened possessively, protectively.
Kit’s obvious confusion dispelled the last vestige of Tonkin’s certainty. Jack could see it in his eyes, in the sudden slackness of his features. The pugnacity that had kept him going drained away, leaving him off-balance.
Swallowing, Tonkin half saluted. “I can see as you don’t know nothing about it, miss.” He glanced warily at Jack, then Spencer. “If it’s all right with you, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”
Jack nodded; Spencer simply glared.
With a last salute, Tonkin turned and quickly left the room.
As soon as the door shut, Spencer turned in his chair, anxiety and relief flooding out in a fiercely whispered: “And what’s the meaning of all this, miss?”
Kit didn’t answer. As the door clicked shut, she’d leaned back against Jack’s arm and shut her eyes. The willpower that had kept her going abruptly faded. She felt Jack’s arms close about her. She was safe; they were all safe.
She heard Spencer’s question as if from a distance, muffled by cold mists. With a little sigh, she surrendered to the oblivion that beckoned, beyond pain, beyond confusion.
Chapter 23
During the next week, the servants of Cranmer Hall and Castle Hendon struggled to preserve a facade of normality in the absence of their masters. Lord Cranmer was seriously ill and took to his bed. Miss Kathryn Cranmer stayed by his bedside, unable because of the exigencies of her nursing to see anyone. Lord Hendon was as mysteriously elusive as ever.
Behind the scenes, Spencer remained in his rooms, too worried to be of much practical use. Jack spent most of his time with Kit, helping to nurse her. Her shoulder wound healed well, but in her weakened state the cold she’d caught in the quarries rapidly developed into something worse. As the week progressed, Kit’s fever mounted. Only Jack had the strength to hold her easily, to cajole and if necessary force her to drink the drafts the doctor prepared. Only his voice penetrated the fogs Kit wandered through, dazed, weak, and confused.
Dr. Thrushborne called every morning and afternoon, worried by Kit’s state. “It’s the combination of things,” he explained to Jack. “The chill coming on top of a massive loss of blood. All we can do is keep her warm and quiet and let Nature work for us.”
Two grim days later, he answered an exhausted Jack’s unvoiced question: “The fact she’s still with us is the brightest sign. She’s a slip of a thing, but all the Cranmers are as stubborn as hell. I don’t think she plans to leave us just yet.”
Jack couldn’t even summon a smile. His world centered on the room at the end of the wing. Other than an obligatory visit to Hunstanton to follow up Tonkin’s suspicions, and an equally obligatory appearance at the church at Docking on Sunday, he’d not left the Hall. Matthew acted as his go-between, relaying his orders to Castle Hendon and supplying him with clothes, as well as taking messages to George, who’d temporarily assumed the leadership of the Gang. The bed in the room next to Kit’s had been made up, so he could grab a few hours’ sleep whenever exhaustion forced him to yield his place to Elmina.
It wasn’t that he distrusted Elmina; he’d learned she’d been maid to Kit’s mother and had been with her petite since her birth. However, like Spencer, she was incapable of exerting any control over her erstwhile charge. On the second night, he’d fallen into exhausted slumber, stretched, fully dressed, on the bed next door. He’d been awoken by a high-pitched altercation. In Kit’s room, he’d come upon the staggering sight of Kit, out of bed, rummaging through her wardrobe, while Elmina remonstrated helplessly. He’d walked in and picked Kit up, ignoring her struggles and the curses she’d laid about his ears. He’d discovered she was fluent in two languages.
Even when he’d put her back in bed, she’d fought him, but eventually yielded to his greater strength. Delirious, she hadn’t known who he was; her confusion that someone existed who could deny her had been obvious. The conviction that his kitten had gone her own way ever since she’d set foot from her cradle took firm root in Jack’s mind.
And when her fever mounted, draining what little strength she still possessed, leaving him to watch, impotent, as death fought to claim her, he made a solemn vow that if she was spared, he’d keep her safe for the rest of her life. Without her, his life would be worthless-he knew that now. His vulnerability angered him, but he couldn’t deny it. Nor could he walk away from his own part in her ill-fated masquerade. When all this was over, she’d be his responsibility-a responsibility he’d take more seriously than any other in his life.
For Kit, the week passed in a peculiar haze, lucid moments submerged in mists of confusion. Her body went from chilled shivering to heated dampness; her brain hurt dreadfully whenever she tried to think. Throughout it all, she was aware of a protective presence at her side, of a rock which remained steady within her whirling world. In the few scattered moments when she was fully conscious, she recognized that presence as Jack. Why he was in her bedroom was beyond her; she could only be grateful.