Then she left.
In the cottage, Jack dropped back onto the pillows and fell to a contemplation of the first woman to have ever left his bed untried. A temporary aberration but a novel one. He was deep in dreams when the quick clop of hooves told him Kit was on her way. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, wishing that Young Kit’s month of service was already past.
Chapter 10
Next morning, Lord Hendon, the new High Commissioner for North Norfolk, visited his Revenue Office in King’s Lynn, accompanied by his longtime friend and fellow ex-officer, George Smeaton.
His long limbs elegantly disposed in the best chair the Office possessed, his shoulder-length hair confined by a black riband at his nape, Jack knew he looked every inch the well-to-do gentleman lately retired from active service. His left leg was extended, kept straight by the discreet splint he wore under his close-fitting breeches. He’d carried such an injury for months after the hell of Corunna; the splint jogged his memory into a limp, increasing the overt difference between Lord Hendon and one Captain Jack.
One long-fingered hand languidly turned a page in the Office’s logbook, the sapphire in his signet ring catching the light, splintering it through prisms of blue. His ears were filled with the drone of Sergeant Tonkin’s explanations for his continuing lack of success in apprehending the smuggling gang operating between Lynn and Hunstanton. George sat by the window, a silent witness to Tonkin’s performance.
“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
“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.”
“
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.”
