Anthony’s tale suggested that the French were desperate for information. The news that there were only two traitors left was music to Jack’s ears. “We’ve got them.” Quickly, he filled Anthony in on the happenings on the beach after he’d taken ship, referring to Kit only as another member of the Gang.
“George said something about that,” Anthony said. “But he said he’d leave it to you to elaborate as you ‘had a deeper interest in Belville’s death.’ What on earth did he mean?”
Jack had the grace to blush. “Don’t ask.”
Anthony threw him a look of mock surprise. “Keeping secrets from your friends, Jack m’lad, is most unwise.”
“You’ll meet this secret eventually so I wouldn’t repine.” At the intrigued look on Anthony’s, face, Jack continued quickly: “Whitley thinks Belville’s Henry, whom we believe is Sir Henry Colebourne, will be behind bars in a few days at most. Which, together with your information, means the end is nigh. We’ll have got them all.”
Anthony lay back on his pillows with a deep sigh. “However will they get along without us, now we’ve all sold out?”
“I’m sure they’ll manage. Personally, I’ve got fresh fields to plow, so to speak.” Jack’s smile of anticipation was transparent.
Anthony’s gaze descended from the ceiling to examine the odd sight of Jack’s eagerness for civilian life. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “your newfound liking for peaceful endeavors has anything to do with the redheaded lad who brought me here?” At Jack’s arrested expression, Anthony quietly added: “Taken to the other side, Jack?”
Jack bit back a distinctly rude reply. His eyes gleamed. “From which comment I take it my wife was wearing breeches when she brought you here?”
“Your wife?” Anthony’s exclamation brought on a fit of coughing. When he’d recovered, he lay back on his pillows and fixed Jack with an astonished stare. “Wife?”
Jack nodded, unable to contain his smile. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Kathryn, Lady Hendon, better known as Kit.” He paused, then shrugged. “It was she who shot Belville.”
“Oh.” Anthony struggled to match fact with memory. “How on earth did that slip of a thing get me from the beach to here?”
Jack stood. “Probably sheer determination. It’s a quality she has in abundance. I’ll leave you now, Tony.” He walked forward to drop a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I’ll send Matthew in the morning with a horse to move you up to the Castle. Rest assured I’ll get your news to Whitley as soon as possible. He’ll be relieved to know we’ve got them all.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Anthony lay quiet on his pillows and watched Jack walk to the door. “But why the hurry to leave?”
Jack paused. “A little matter of propriety I have to discuss with my wife. Not something a rake like you would understand.”
Closing the door on his friend’s “Oh-ho!”, Jack strode to the stable. He hadn’t actually caught her in her breeches, but it was close enough, surely?
Anticipation was riding high by the time he reached the house. He entered through the side door, picking up the single candle to light his way. He went straight to his wife’s room.
And stopped short when the light from his candle revealed an undisturbed expanse of green satin, with no deliciously curved form snuggling beneath.
For a moment, he simply stared, unable to think. Then, his heart thumping oddly, he went through to his own room. She was not in his bed, either. The sight of the simple white square propped against his pillow caused his hand to shake, spilling wax to the floor.
Drawing a deep breath, Jack put the candle down on the table by the bed and, sinking onto the mattress, picked up the letter. Kit’s delicate script declared it was for Jonathon, Lord Hendon. The sight of his proper given name was warning enough.
His lips set in a grim line, Jack tore open the missive.
Her formality had apparently been reserved for the title. Inside, her message was direct and succinct.
Dear Jack,
I’ve had enough. I’m leaving. If you wish to explain anything, I’m sure you’ll know where to find me. Your devoted, loving, and dutiful wife,
Kit
His first thought was that she’d omitted the obedient, obviously realizing his imagination wouldn’t stretch that far. Then he read it again, and decided he couldn’t, in all honesty, take exception to the adjectives she had claimed.
He sat on his bed as the clock in the hall ticked on and struggled to make sense of what the letter actually meant. He couldn’t believe Lovis had given him George’s message but forgotten to tell him his wife had left him. Trying to ignore the empty void that was expanding inside his chest, threatening to crush his heart, he read the letter again. Then he lay back on his bed, hands locked behind his head, and started to think.
She was annoyed he hadn’t told her the details of his mission. He tried to imagine George telling Amy and felt a glow of justification warm him. Abruptly, it dissipated, as Kit’s image overlaid Amy’s. All right-so she wasn’t the same sort of wife, theirs wasn’t the same sort of marriage.
He and his mission were deeply in her debt-he knew that well enough. That she yearned for excitement and would follow wherever it led was a characteristic he recognized. He could understand her pique that he wouldn’t involve her in his schemes. But to leave him like this-to walk out on him-was the sort of emotional blackmail to which he’d never succumb. Christ, if he didn’t know she was safe at Cranmer Hall, he’d be frantic! No doubt she expected him to come running, eager to win her back, willing to promise anything.
He wouldn’t do it.
At least, not yet. He had to go back to London tomorrow, to convey Anthony’s news to Lord Whitley. He’d leave Kit to stew, caught in a trap of her own devising. Then, when he came back, he’d go and see her and they could discuss their relationship calmly and rationally.
Jack tried to imagine having a calm and rational discussion with his wife. He fell asleep before he succeeded.
Chapter 29
Heaving a sigh of relief and anxiety combined, Kit plied the knocker on her cousin Geoffrey’s door. The narrow house in Jermyn Street was home to her Uncle Frederick’s three sons whenever they were in London. She hoped at least one of them was there now.
The door was opened by Hemmings, Geoffrey’s gentleman’s gentleman. He’d been with the family for years and knew her well. Even so, given her costume, a long moment passed before she saw his eyes widen in recognition.
“Good evening, Hemmings. Are my cousins in?” Kit pressed past the stunned man. Brought to a sense of his place, Hemmings rapidly shut the door. Then he turned to stare at her again.
Kit sighed. “I know. But it was safer this way. Is Geoffrey here?”
Hemmings swallowed. “Master Geoffrey’s out to dinner, miss, along with Master Julian.”
“Julian’s home?”
When Hemmings nodded, Kit’s spirits lurched upward for the first time that day. Julian must be home on furlough; seeing him would be an unlooked-for bonus in this thus-far-sorry affair.
She’d left Castle Hendon on Sunday afternoon, more than twenty-four hours ago, dressed as Lady Hendon with no incriminating luggage beyond a small black bag. She’d told Lovis she’d been called to visit a sick friend whose brother would meet her in Lynn. The note she’d left for her husband would, she’d assured him, explain all. She’d had Josh drive her into Lynn and leave her at the King’s Arms. When the night stage had left for London at eight that evening, a slim, elegant youth muffled to the ears had been on it.
The stage had been impossibly slow, reaching the capital well after midday. From the coaching inn, she’d had to walk some distance before she’d been able to hail a sufficiently clean hackney. And the hackney had dawdled, caught in the London traffic. Now it was past six and she was exhausted.