“A devilish wise lot, they are, m’lord. Led by one of the more experienced men, I’d say.”
Jack suppressed a smile at the thought of what Kit would say to that. He made a mental note to tell her when she returned to the cottage. Listening with apparent interest to Tonkin’s summation, he was very aware that just the thought of that problematical female had been enough to instantly transform his body from listless lassitude to a state of semiarousal. Deliberately, he focused on Tonkin’s words.
A burly, barrel-chested individual, Tonkin’s coarse, blunt features were balanced by cauliflower ears. Since Tonkin’s reputation was murky, bordering on the vicious, Jack had sent the efficient Osborne out of the area of their operations, leaving Tonkin to bear any odium as a result of the continuing high level of traffic. “If we could just lay hands on one of this ’ere lot, m’lord, I’d wring the truth from ’im.” Tonkin’s beady eyes gleamed. “And then we’d string a few up on our gibbets—that’d teach ’em not to play games with the Revenue.”
“Indeed, Sergeant. We all agree this gang’s got to be stopped.” Jack leaned forward; his gaze transfixed Tonkin. “I suggest, as Osborne is engaged around Sheringham, you concentrate on the stretch of coast from Hunstanton to Lynn. I believe you said this particular gang operates only in that area?”
“Yes sir. We ain’t never got a whiff of ’em elsewheres.” Trapped beneath Jack’s penetrating stare, Tonkin shifted uneasily. “But if you’ll pardon the question, m’lord, if I’m to send my men down this way, who’s to watch the Brancaster beaches? I swear there’s a big gang operating thereabouts.”
Jack’s face expressed supercilious condescension. “One thing at a time, Tonkin. Lay the gang operating between Hunstanton and Lynn by the heels, then you may go baring off after your ‘big gang.’”
His insultingly cynical tones struck Tonkin like a slap. He came to attention and saluted. “Yes, m’lord. Is there anything else, m’lord?”
With Tonkin dismissed, Jack and George quitted the Custom House. Crossing the sunny cobbled square, George adjusted his stride to Jack’s limp.
Artistically wielding his cane, Jack struggled to ignore the stirrings of guilt. He hadn’t told George about Kit. Like Matthew, George would disapprove, insisting Kit be retired forthwith, somehow or other. Basically, Jack agreed with the sentiment—he just didn’t see what the “somehow or other” could be, and he was too experienced an officer to put the safety of a single woman before his mission.
The other matter troubling his conscience was a sinking feeling he should have behaved better with Kit, that he shouldn’t have stooped to sexual coercion. Henceforth, he’d ensure that his attitude toward her remained professional. At least until she retired from the gang. After that, she’d no longer be tangled in his mission, and he could deal with her as personally as she’d allow.
Fantasizing about dealing with her personally had kept him awake for much of last night.
“Lord Hendon, ain’t it?”
The barked greeting, coming from no more than a yard away, startled Jack from his reverie. He glanced up; a large man of advanced years was planted plumb in front of him. As his gaze took in the corona of curling white hair and the sharp eyes, washed out but still detectably violet-hued, Jack realized he was facing Spencer, Lord Cranmer, Kit’s grandfather.
Jack smiled and held out his hand. “Lord Cranmer?”
His hand was enveloped in a huge palm and crushed.
“Aye.” Spencer was pleased to have been recognized. “I knew your father well, m’boy. Marchmont spoke to me t’other day. If you need any help, you need only ask.”
Smoothly, Jack thanked him and introduced George, adding: “We were in the army together.”
Spencer wrung George’s hand. “Engaged to Amy Gresham, ain’t you? Think we missed your company, some nights back.”
“Er—yes.” George rolled an anguished eye at Jack.
Jack came to the rescue with consummate charm. “We were sorry to miss your dinner, but friends from London dropped by with news of our regiment.”
Spencer chuckled. “It’s not me you should be making your excuses to. It’s the ladies get their noses out of joint when eligible men don’t join the crowd.” His eyes twinkled. “A word of warning, seeing you’re Jake’s boy. You’d do well to weather the storm before it works itself into a frenzy. Fighting shy of the beldames won’t scare them off—they’ll just try harder. Best to let them have their try at you. Once they’re convinced you’re past praying for, they’ll start off on someone else.”
“Great heavens! It sounds like a hunt.” Jack looked taken aback.
“It is a hunt, you may be sure.” Spencer grinned. “You’re in Norfolk now, not London. Here they play the game in earnest.”
“I’ll bear your warning in mind, m’lord.” Jack grinned back, a rogue unrepentant.
Spencer chuckled. “You do that, m’boy. Wouldn’t want to see you leg-shackled to some drab female who’s the dearest cousin of one of their ladyships, would we?” With that dire prediction, Spencer went on his way, chuckling to himself.
“The devil!” Jack heaved a sigh. “I’ve a nasty suspicion he’s right.” The memory of Kit’s words, uttered while she’d been sitting on his bed last night, echoed in his brain. “Fighting shy of society seemed a wise idea, but it looks like we’ll have to attend a few balls and dinners.”
“We’ll?” George turned, eyes wide. “Might I remind you I’ve had the good sense to get betrothed and so am no longer at risk? I don’t have to attend any such affairs.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You’d leave me to face the guns alone?”
“Dammit, Jack! You survived Corunna. Surely you can fight this engagement unsupported?”
“Ah, but we haven’t sighted the enemy yet, have we?” When George looked puzzled, Jack explained: “Lady Whatsit’s drab cousin. Just think how you’ll feel if I get caught in parson’s mousetrap, all because I didn’t have you to watch my back.”
George pulled back to eye the elegant figure of Lord Hendon, at thirty-five, a man of vast and, in George’s opinion, unparalleled experience of the fairer sex, consistent victor in the amphitheaters of tonnish ballrooms and bedrooms, a bona fide, fully certified rake of the first order. “Jack, in my humble opinion, the ladies of the district haven’t a hope in hell.”
There was no moon to light the clearing before the cottage door. Kit stopped Delia under the tree opposite and studied the scene. A chink of lamplight showed beneath one shutter. It was midnight. All was still. Kit slackened her reins and headed Delia toward the stable.
In the shadow of the stable entrance, she dismounted, drawing the reins over Delia’s head. The mare tossed her head sharply.
“Here. Let me.”
Kit jumped back, a curse on her lips. A large hand closed about hers, deftly removing the reins. Jack was no more than a dense shadow at her shoulder. Unnerved, her wits frazzled by his touch, Kit waited in silence while he stabled Delia in the dark.
Were there others about? She peered into the gloom.
“There’s no one else here.” Jack returned to her side. “Come inside.”
Kit had to hurry to keep up with Jack’s long strides. He reached the door and entered before her, heading straight for the table to take the chair on the far side. Irritated by such cavalier treatment, Kit bit her tongue. She closed the door carefully, then turned to survey him, pausing to take stock before sauntering across the floor to the chair facing his.
He was scowling again, but she wasn’t about to try for one of his smiles tonight. Pulling off her hat, she unwound her muffler, then sat.
“What’s your decision?” Jack asked the question as soon as her bottom made contact with the chair seat. He’d been steeling himself for this meeting for more than twenty-four hours; it was galling to find the time had been wasted. The instant she’d appeared on his horizon, the only thing he could think of was getting her back onto his bed. And what he’d do next. He wanted this m
eeting concluded, and her safely on her way, with all possible haste.
From her expression, he knew his frown didn’t meet with her approval. Right now, she didn’t meet with his. She was the cause of all his present afflictions. Aside from the physical ramifications of her presence, he was having to cope with untold guilt over his deliberate support of her hoax.
He hadn’t told Matthew or George. And now he was uncomfortably aware of Spencer, previously a shadowy figure he’d had no difficulty ignoring, transformed by their meeting into a flesh-and-blood man, presumably with real affection for his wayward granddaughter, even if she was illegitimate. Impossible to tell him, of course. What could he say? “A word in your ear, old man—your bastard granddaughter is masquerading as a smuggler”?
Dragging his gaze from Kit’s lamplight-sheened curls, Jack stared into her violet eyes, alike yet quite different from Spencer’s.
Kit’s response to Jack’s abrupt question had been to pull off her riding gloves, with infinite slowness, before glancing up to meet his gaze. “My men have agreed.” She’d met her little band earlier that evening. “We’ll join you as of now, provided you let us know what the cargoes are beforehand.” It was her condition; the fishermen had been only too glad to accept Jack’s offer.
Impassivity overtook Jack’s scowl. Why the hell did she want to know that? His mind ranged over the possibilities but could find none that fit. “No.” He kept the answer short and waited for her reaction.
“No?” she echoed. Then she shrugged. “All right. But I thought you wanted us to join you.” She started to draw her gloves back on.
Jack abandoned impassivity. “What you ask is impossible. How can I run a gang if I have to check with you before I accept a cargo? There can be only one leader, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m it.”
Kit leaned one elbow on the table and cupped her chin in that hand, keeping her eyes on his face. It was a very strong face, with its powerful brow line and high cheekbones. “You should be able to understand that I feel responsible for my little band. How can I tell if you’re doing right by them if I don’t know what cargoes you’re accepting or declining?”
Jack’s exasperation grew. She’d hit on the one argument he couldn’t, in all honesty, counter. If she’d been a man, he’d have applauded such a reason—it was the right attitude for a leader, of however small a troop. But Kit wasn’t a man, a fact he was in no danger of forgetting.
Artfully, Kit continued. “I can see it might prove difficult to keep an agent waiting for confirmation. But if I was with you when you arranged the cargoes, there’d be no time lost.”
Jack shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous. It’s one thing to fool semicivilized fishermen; our contacts are not of that ilk. They’re too likely to penetrate your “disguise—God only knows what they’ll make of it.”
Kit received the assessment coolly, drawing her gloves through her fingers. “But you deal mostly with Nolan, don’t you?”
Jack nodded. Nolan was his primary source of cargoes although there were three other agents in the area.
“I’ve already met Nolan without mishap, so I doubt there’s any real danger there. He’ll accept me as Young Kit. Seeing me with you will confirm we’ve joined forces, so he won’t go trying to contact my men behind your back. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it—a monopoly on this coast?”
Jack made no comment. There wasn’t any he could make; she was dead on target with her reasoning, damn her.
Kit smiled. “So. Where and when do you make contact?”
Jack’s expression turned grim. He’d been maneuvered into a corner and he didn’t like it one bit. Their meeting place had been expressly chosen to be as unilluminated as possible, to ensure Nolan and his brethren had little chance of recognizing him, or George or Matthew. He was most at risk—he’d learned long ago that effectively disguising the streaks in his hair was impossible—so they’d found a venue where the light was always bad and keeping their hats on raised no eyebrows. But taking Kit to a hedge tavern frequented by local cutthroats and thieves was inconceivable.
“It’s out of the question.” Jack sat up and leaned both elbows on the table, the better to impress Kit with the madness of her suggestion.
“Why?” Kit fixed him with a determined stare.
“Because it would be the height of lunacy to take a woman, however well disguised, into a den of thieves.” Jack’s growl was barely restrained.
“Quite,” Kit affirmed. “So no one will imagine Young Kit to be anything other than a lad.”
“Christ!” Jack ran long fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t give a sou for Young Kit’s safety in that place—male or female.”
For a minute, Kit stared at him, incomprehension stamped on her fine features. Then she blushed delicately. Determined not to lower her head, she let her gaze slide to a consideration of the brandy bottle. “But you’ll be there. There’s no reason why any of them should…”
“Proposition you?” Jack kept his voice hard and matter-of-fact. If there was any possibility of scaring her off, he’d take it. “Allow me to inform you, my dear, that even I don’t frequent such places alone. George and Matthew always accompany me.”
Kit perked up. “So much the better. If there’s four of us, and the three of you are large, then the danger will be minimal.” She cocked an eyebrow at Jack, waiting for his next argument.
Her attitude, of patiently awaiting his next quibble in the calm certainty that she’d top it, brought a wry and entirely spontaneous grin to Jack’s lips. Damn it—she was so cock-sure she could pull the thing off, he’d half a mind to let her try. She wouldn’t find the Blackbird at all to her liking; maybe, after her first trip there, she’d be content to let him manage their contacts on his own.
His thoughts reached Kit. She smiled, only to be treated immediately to a scowl.
Hell and the devil! He was going mad. Jack fought the impulse to groan and bury his head in his hands. The effort of ignoring his besotted senses, and the pressure in his loins, was sapping his will. If only she was angry or frightened or flustered, he could cope. Instead, she was calm and in control, perfectly prepared to sit smiling at him, trading logic until he capitulated. He could render her witless easily enough, but only by unleashing something he was no longer sure he could reharness.
“All right.” His jaw set uncompromisingly. “You can come with us next Wednesday night provided you do exactly as I say. Only I know your little secret. I suggest we keep it that way.”
Content with having gained her immediate goal, Kit nodded. She was perfectly prepared to do as Jack said, as long as she could learn, firsthand, of the cargoes on offer. If there was any “human cargo,” she’d have time to sound the alarm without risking her little troop, and, if possible, without endangering Captain Jack or his men, either.
Pleased, she reached for her hat. “Where do we meet?”
Engaged in an inventory of all the dangers attendant on taking Kit to the Blackbird, Jack shot her a decidedly malevolent glare. “Here. At eleven.”
Kit grinned, then hid her face with her muffler. Her mood was buoyant; she wished she dared tease him from his grouchy attitude, but her instinct for self-preservation hadn’t completely deserted her.
Jack slouched in his chair. This wasn’t how this meeting was supposed to have gone, but at least she was leaving. He watched her assume her disguise and decided against going to the stable to help her with her horse. She could saddle her own damned mare if she was so keen on playing the lad. He acknowledged her flippant bow with something close to a snarl, which didn’t affect her in the least. She seemed impervious to his bad temper—thrilled, no doubt, to have got her way. The door shut behind her, and he was alone.
Jack stretched but didn’t relax until the sound of the mare’s hooves died. He wasn’t looking forward to Wednesday—the potential horrors were mind-numbing. To cap it all, he’d have to watch over her without letting on it was a her he was watching. Freed of Kit’
s inhibiting presence, Jack groaned.
Chapter 11
Kit’s initiation into the dim world of the Blackbird Tavern was every bit as harrowing as Jack had anticipated. Sidelong, he studied the top of her hat, all he could see of her head as she sat at the rough trestle beside him, her nose buried in a tankard of ale. He hoped she wasn’t drinking the stuff; it was home brewed and potent. He had no idea if she was wise to the danger. The fact that he wasn’t sure of her past experience only further complicated his role as her protector. And Young Kit certainly needed a protector, even if the blasted woman didn’t know it.
She’d seemed oblivious of the stir her appearance at his elbow had caused. Garbed in severe black, her slim form drew considering glances. Luckily, the Blackbird’s patrons were not given to overt gestures. He and George had made straight for their usual table, taking Kit with them. He’d wedged her between the wall and his own solid bulk. The curiosity of the motley crew who’d taken shelter within the Blackbird’s dingy walls on this drizzily June night washed over them, Young Kit its focus.
“Where the hell’s Nolan?” George growled. Sitting opposite Kit, he nervously eyed the section of the room within his orbit.
Jack grimaced. “He’ll be here soon enough.” He’d warned both George and Matthew of Kit’s heritage but continued to keep her sex a secret. Her coloring was so obvious it was impossible not to comment; to them, she was Christopher Cranmer’s bastard son who lived at the Hall under Spencer’s wing. Over “the stripling’s” wish to join them in negotiations over cargoes, George’s tendency to watch over youngsters had been of unexpected help.
He’d agreed Kit should accompany them. “If the place serves to put the lad off smuggling, so much the better,” he’d said. “At least in our company he’ll see a bit more of life in greater safety than might otherwise be afforded him.”
It was a view that had not occurred to Jack—he wasn’t sure he agreed with it. Certainly, George had not foreseen the interest Young Kit would provoke. Like him, both George and Matthew were edgy, nerves at full stretch. The only one of their company apparently unaffected by the tension in the room was its cause.