Clandestine (4 page)

Secrets were thieves, stealing joy.

Kit Ashton
hated
secrets.

Hypocrite
, Virtuous Angel murmured.

Kit bit her lip. Despising herself a little.

She had deserved that bit of recrimination.

For someone who abhorred deception, she did have rather more than her share of secrets currently. Fairly riddled with them.

She
was
the worst sort of hypocrite.

Though if her mother’s secret had been something of
this
magnitude, Kit might have felt more pity for the woman.

She finished rifling through the drawer, resisting the urge to slam it shut. Nothing. She swallowed tightly and pulled out the next one.

Gah. She never thought about her mother. With both her father and mother now dead, it was pointless to dwell on the past.

It was probably just this room with its dark paneling and large, stone fireplace. Her father’s study was like this. She could practically smell his musky cologne lingering in the air.

Both rooms even sported a similar painting of a lynx over the mantle.

It sees hidden truths, the lynx does. All ancient cultures believed so, the Greeks, the Norse . . .
She could almost hear her father’s voice—calm, quiet, withdrawn. Reciting historical facts. Asking questions about his research had been her only way of connecting with him.

She felt the cat’s eyes on her now. Accusing.

Kit shook her head, banishing the maudlin thoughts. They wouldn’t help her achieve her current goals.

Determined to drag her brother out of his current mess and back to home, she had followed Daniel’s cryptic note to Marfield, arriving a little over a week ago. But she hadn’t planned ahead—long story there—and had found herself penniless and wardrobe-less in an unfamiliar village. Bless the kind-hearted vicar and his wife for taking her in and, even more, arranging an interview for a post.

All of which had resulted in Kit being hired earlier in the week as a companion to Lady Ruby Knight—Arthur Knight’s aunt visiting from Shropshire—when the woman’s previous companion had unexpectedly resigned her post. The daughter of an earl, Lady Ruby had married decidedly down in life when she eloped with the younger son of an untitled gentleman, Arthur’s now-deceased uncle.

If Lady Ruby found her reduced circumstances a trial, it was hard to say. The lady had a mercurial temperament. No situation was so grand that Lady Ruby couldn’t find fault with it.

Quite frankly, Kit didn’t care. The employment was a godsend, giving her a much-needed roof over her head, food in her belly and a chance to live in Haldon Manor, the place her brother had indicated he was heading. The place she hoped to find him. Before Daniel did something incredibly stupid and ruined the future for both of them. But discreet inquiries had yielded nothing, forcing her to adopt more direct measures.

Kit needed answers
now
. She could only hide her true identity for so long.

Something or someone would betray her eventually. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for this situation.

Well, to be a lady, yes.

A paid companion, however? Not so much.

It was only a matter of time before Arthur and Lady Ruby realized it, before she exposed herself for the fraud she was.

She didn’t do well being ordered about by others. Nor could she keep opinions to herself.

Every morning, she ruthlessly pinned her mass of unruly hair to her head, buttoned herself into a second-hand serviceable frock and swallowed every last dry, dry, dry remark down her throat.

But like too many goose feathers stuffed into a pillow, eventually someone would hit her on a weak seam, causing a virtual explosion of
Kit
to burst out of her mouth.

Take this evening, for example. Everyone had stared when Kit disagreed with Lady Ruby, insisting that buttercup yellow was a horrid color for just about any complexion and no woman with taste would ever wear it.

Ruby had
not
been amused.

You really need to hold your tongue. The risk is too great,
Virtuous Angel chided.

But only for now. Once we find Daniel, you can march right up to Ruby and tell her that no amount of rouge will make her look thirty again
, Wicked Angel snickered.

Kit studied the drawer currently opened. Again, expense ledgers and filed correspondence. She tilted the candle to better examine the papers. Nothing.

She drew in a deep, stuttering breath.

She had maybe five more minutes before her absence from the drawing room was considered overlong and someone came looking for her. Though hopefully that someone would
not
be Mr. Jedediah Knight, Arthur Knight’s cousin and Lady Ruby’s son.

She now knew
why
Lady Ruby’s previous companion had quit so abruptly. A week of fetching shawls and dodging Jedediah Knight’s wandering hands had shown her, more than anything, how protected, pampered and
sheltered
her life had been up to this point.

Ironic that. Particularly given how
un
-protected and
un
-sheltered she had always assumed herself to be.

She had just opened the last drawer in the desk when footsteps sounded in the hallway. Kit slid the drawer shut and froze, listening intently. The rumble of Arthur’s voice reached her, talking with another low male voice. They wouldn’t come into the study, would they?

The door handle moved.

Why,
yes
, indeed, they would.

Instantly, Kit snuffed her candle and dove under the desk, grateful for its paneled front hiding her from view. It was a tight squeeze as she had never been accused of being a smallish sort of woman.

Tall and overbearing? Yes.

Statuesque and shapely? Certainly.

Petite and demur? Uh . . . no.

She had spent years coming to terms with the fact that men would always be intimidated by her size. Probably because most had to look
up
into her eyes.

Well, who was she fooling? It was still a struggle. Did any woman truly love everything about herself?

Men either treated her as uninteresting wallpaper or viewed her as some freak-show trophy to be shown off.

Though, being about five inches shorter would be helpful in a situation like this. Kit winced as she wedged her knees tightly against her chest, ensuring all of her dress made it underneath with her. Her head twisted awkwardly against the under side of the desktop.

It was a literal reminder of her current situation. Stuffing herself into a too-small container.

The door creaked and two sets of footsteps sounded through the room. She rested her head on her knees and took several slow breaths, trying to quiet her thumping heart.

“I tell you, Linwood, I have no information about Miss Emry’s brother.” That was Arthur. Kit knew his voice by now.

Which meant the person with him was that haughty viscount she had met earlier at dinner: Lord Linwood.

“Come now, Arthur. I cannot believe that to be the case.” Linwood’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Kit could see Linwood as he had looked all evening. Dark haired with nearly colorless pale gray eyes. Meticulously—she would say even fastidiously—groomed in a glove-tight blue coat and tan trousers. And tall. He topped her five-foot-ten-inches by half a head.

The chilly February weather had swept inside with him, literally and figuratively. He had responded icily to all inquiries during dinner.

Even Marianne, Arthur’s wife and Linwood’s younger sister, could not thaw him. Not even when she encouraged him to hold her tiny two-month baby, Isabel—Linwood’s only niece. The baby had cooed at him, adorable and trusting. Though as a glowing new mother, Marianne had been too caught up in her baby’s charms to notice her brother’s uncomfortable stiffness.

“Miss Emry died with James in that carriage accident. You yourself went to identify the bodies,” Linwood said.

Kit’s interest peaked. She had heard about James Knight, Arthur’s older brother who had died just eighteen months before.

“After such a tragedy, you did not attempt to contact her brother—Marcus, was it?—to inform him of her demise?” Linwood continued.

A clink of metal sounded, followed by rustling and popping. Someone was stirring the fire to life. Arthur, perhaps?

“Things were not that simple after James’ . . . death.” Was there a pause in Arthur’s voice as he said that? Odd. “Tracking down Miss Emry’s brother was not an immediate concern at the time. I honestly cannot remember if Marcus was contacted or not. I most certainly have no knowledge of his whereabouts. To be frank, I do not understand why he is of concern to you.”

Someone shifted, pacing the floor, boot heels clicking.

“There have been several attempted thefts at Kinningsley over the last two weeks,” Linwood said. “Twice someone has entered the house. Just yesterday, I awoke to find my guard dog dead and my office ransacked.”

Kit stopped herself from sucking in an audible gasp.
Oh dear.

Was Daniel involved with these break-ins? And if so, why? What exact mischief did he have planned?

Kit chewed on her cheek, mind churning through the possibilities. None of them pleasant.

“I had heard,” Arthur replied, his voice placating. “Robberies are not uncommon, as you well know. Why someone poached three hens from our coops Thursday last, and Sir Henry’s butler caught a maid red-handed with a cravat pin.”

The footsteps came closer to the desk. When Linwood next spoke, the sound came from directly over Kit’s head. She held her breath, praying he didn’t walk
around
the desk.

“No. The attempts at Kinningsley are more serious than hen-rustling or a servant’s petty theft. I have several footmen keeping round-the-clock watch, but to truly stop these would-be-thieves, I must find the mastermind behind the scheme.”

Did Linwood seem agitated? Was that even possible? The viscount seemed incapable of agitation. Obdurate even.

“And you think Miss Emry’s brother is this mastermind?” Arthur sounded skeptical.

Linwood shifted something on the desk above Kit’s head. She silently ordered her hammering heart to stay in her chest.

“I am not sure,” Linwood said after a moment. “But as you well know, Napoleon is on the run, pulling back farther and farther into France. Victory is close. However, the French have spies among us who are determined to thwart this war at any cost, particularly with Napoleon in retreat. Miss Emry admitted to working within the greater spy network of Europe. We both know the future of Europe hangs on a knife’s edge right now. One tiny push one way or another, the slightest advantage, could make all the difference.”

Kit tensed, teeth grinding. That same panic welled again.
This
was what she most feared. Daniel was so impulsive. Hasty. Impetuous.
Please let him have nothing to do with this.

But Linwood’s words buzzed angrily in her head.
The French have spies among us . . .

“Miss Emry and James were killed in that carriage accident nearly eighteen months ago,” Arthur said. “Why haven’t you pursued Miss Emry’s brother before now?”

Linwood drummed his fingers on the desktop.

Is that actual emotion I am sensing from him? He seems too antisocial for that.
Wicked Angel murmured snidely. But then, Wicked Angel was almost always snide.

“I am sure I do not need to impress upon you the confidential nature of this conversation.” Linwood’s fingers continued beating a steady rhythm:
ta-ta-tum, ta-ta-tum, ta-ta-tum
. Arthur must have nodded his consent because Linwood continued, “I have recently been given reason to believe that James and Miss Emry’s death was no accident.”

Silence for a moment. And then Arthur laughed, stiltedly.

“Truly, Linwood, I would not have thought you capable of a flight of fancy. James’ death was tragic but most decidedly an accident—”

“I must beg to disagree, Arthur. My sources would hint otherwise. James’ death was decidedly suspicious.”

“Linwood, you cannot believe—”

“Arthur, you are being obtuse. We know there were spies in this neighborhood just last year. Your trusting nature blinds you to the realities of life—”

“That is hardly the case.” Arthur let out a bark of laughter.

“I fear I shall have to be more specific.” More finger tapping on the desktop. “As you know, the Home Office has operatives from all walks of life who provide the British government with information. Several weeks ago, the Home Office lost contact with one of their most-trusted clandestine agents. A member of the aristocracy. But before disappearing, this agent informed the government there was an individual here in Marfield with connections to French intelligence gathering.”

“Heavens!”

“Indeed. Aside from trying to locate this agent, the Home Office is desperate to understand the nature of the threat in this area. Marcus is a known to be a man of some fighting skill who has been intimately involved with international spy activities. Due to his sister, we know those covert operations encompassed Marfield at one point. Therefore, it stands to reason Marcus has, at minimum, valuable information. At worst, he might be an informant himself.”

“I am still not quite sure I understand your reasoning, Linwood. We are in Herefordshire.
Rural
Herefordshire. Why would the French have any interest in this part of the country? It makes no sense.”

Linwood shifted, his trousers brushing against the desk. “There are reasons.”

A pause.

“Something perhaps related to the attempted break-ins at Kinningsley?” Arthur asked, pointedly. “Seeing as you are sharing confidences, what are these would-be thieves looking for?”

Again, a pause. A shifting of feet. And then:

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“I see.” Though Arthur’s tone indicated he clearly did
not
. “Well, if I hear from this Marcus, I will inform you immediately.” He sounded . . . amused, was it? As if he were humoring Linwood.