"Stop gawking about, Kit. We're nearly there." Stewart
Brantley turned to give his daughter a half-annoyed glance
and resettled his drenched beaver hat lower over his eyes
as they hurried along the wet street in the darkness.
Curious as she was to view the sights, Christine Brantley
had no objection to staying close behind her father as he
hesitated and then turned north along a wide avenue lit by
gas lamps and occasional flashes of lightning. It had been
a long time since she had last set foot in London, and what
landmarks she remembered were obscured by the night and by
the rain that had been falling since they had left the ship
at Dover. "I'm not gawking," she returned, the chatter of
her teeth touching her voice. "I'm freezing."
"I didn't want to take the hack into Mayfair," Stewart
Brantley returned. "Asking to be driven to Park Lane at
this hour would--"
"--would bring us attention we don't want," she finished.
Rain stung her cheeks, and she reached up to wipe a gloved
hand across her face. "Do you truly think your Earl of
Everton will see us?"
Her father glanced back again. "He owes me a large debt.
He'll see us."
"I hope so," Kit replied, as thunder rumbled over the
rooftops of England's wealthiest nobility. "I'd hate to
think you dragged us out of Paris for nothing."
"I wouldn't have either of us here if I didn't have a
damned good reason."
She sniffed, then grimaced, hoping she wasn't catching a
cold. "I know." As much as her father detested England and
the English, his being willingly back in London pointed to
just how highly he rated the importance of this journey. It
was for their lives, he had said, and she hadn't doubted
him.
"And you also know what you're to do here," he added.
"I do." She paused, then had to hurry to catch up when he
continued on without her. "But I don't like being a spy."
"You're not being a spy, Kit," he said shortly, what was
left of his limited patience apparently leeched out of his
bones by the downpour. "Fouchรฉ will have my head -- our
heads -- if the damned English stop another of his
shipments. All you have to do is tell me which bastard is
working against us so I can bribe him off or outmaneuver
him. That's not spying. It's . . ." He hesitated, then gave
a short grin that didn't reach his green eyes. "It's good
business. And no harm will come of it, except that more
blunt will end up in our pockets." He looked ahead at a
huge white mansion which dominated one side of the lane. "I
trust that is acceptable to you?"
"Yes." She swallowed the dismay that ran through her as
they stepped past the mansion's open gates and entered the
short drive. The Earl of Everton's town house was massive
even by London standards, the largest and most grand she'd
seen since they had left the hack at Piccadilly and entered
gilded Mayfair. "Of course it is."
Despite her heavy, caped greatcoat, Christine was soaked to
her bones, and she shivered with cold and tension between
the elegant, carved marble columns rising from the front
portico of Cale House. If the place had been less
magnificent she would have felt easier about what lay
ahead, and about the part she was to play. All she could do
in the face of such grandeur was hope that everything would
go as easily as Stewart Brantley declared it would.
Her father tapped the heavy brass knocker against the door.
The sound echoed into the bowels of the mansion for a long
moment, and then died out into the rain and wind with no
response.
Stewart Brantley frowned, then rapped again, louder. "I
don't understand," he muttered. "Philip has always opened
Cale House during the Season. He'd never be at Everton with
Parliament in session."
Kit shrugged to disguise her relief. This was no petty
pickpocketing or an evening's cheating at hazard that her
father expected of her. "It is rather late, Pa--"
The door opened on silent, well-oiled hinges. The man
standing in the entryway had donned the coat of a butler,
though his baleful glare was made somewhat less impressive
by the nightshirt and wool slippers he wore beneath the
splendid garment. "Yes?" he demanded.
"I am here to see Lord Everton," her father returned, as if
it were the most ordinary occurrence in the world for
callers to come banging at the door in the middle of the
night.
The butler did not appear to be impressed by his
composure. "Lord Everton is to bed."
"Then wake him and inform him that Stewart Brantley is here
and urgently wishes to speak with him."
"I don't believe that is sufficient rea--"
"Tell him it regards the payment of an old debt." Her
father folded his gloved hands behind his back, the only
outward sign he gave that he was less than utterly calm.
The butler's eyes narrowed. "Oh." He sniffed distastefully,
then motioned them into the hallway. "Wait here." Without
so much as offering to take their wet things, he turned and
disappeared up the stairs that curved along the wall to the
right of the entryway.
A moment later the sound of muffled, angry shouting echoed
upstairs, closely followed by a door slamming. The butler
reappeared and with an even deeper scowl indicated that
they should follow him up to the drawing room. Her father
shrugged and motioned Kit to precede him up the curved
staircase. With most of the lights put out for the night
there was little to see but darkened space on the ground
floor, despite Kit's subtle efforts to look about. The
place, though, had the smell of wealth, with real beeswax
candles in the few lamps still lit along the hallway, and
not the stench of a cheap tallow candle anywhere.
The grandfather clock on the landing boasted both a second
hand and a half-circular cutout showing the current phase
of the moon, and it chimed a beautifully-toned quarter hour
as they passed by. At the top of the stairs the scent of an
expensive woman's perfume, sweet and faintly French,
touched the still air.
The drawing room in which the butler deposited them bespoke
tasteful wealth, as well. Gold leafing decorated the
engraved cornice running along the top of the walls, and an
elegant Persian rug covered the center of the floor, while
small leaded-crystal paperweights decorated the mantel, and
a Chinese vase with delicate blue flowers painted across
its surface sat carefully in the center of the occasional
table. Despite the impressive trinkets, though, Christine
was happier to see the glowing embers from a nearly dead
fire in the hearth, and she pulled off her gloves as she
stepped forward to hold her hands out gratefully to the
fading warmth.
Stewart Brantley had stopped in the middle of the room to
examine the portrait above the mantel, and after a moment
she looked up at it, as well. A gentleman gazed down at
her, dark hair faintly edging into gray at his temples. A
faint smile touched his lean face, and he was quite
handsome. His most striking feature, though, was his eyes.
They were penetrating, almost mesmerizing, and the shade of
blue was far too deep to be authentic. The artist must have
taken some liberties with his palette. "Lord Everton, I
presume?" she queried, studying the face of Philip Cale,
the man they'd come all this way to see.
"Yes."
The word was spoken by an unfamiliar male voice, and with a
faint start Christine turned around.
The room's third occupant stood just inside the doorway,
one hand still on the polished brass handle, though she
hadn't heard the door open. Slowly she drew in a breath. He
was a good decade younger than the figure in the portrait,
lean and tall, clad in rolled-up shirt sleeves and black
breeches, the open neck of his shirt and slightly tousled
dark hair the only signs that he had dressed quickly. His
eyes, likewise, were wide awake and intently curious, the
shade a piercing dark blue at least as penetrating as the
gaze of the man in the painting. He was not at all
poutingly pretty in the current French fad, but rather was
astoundingly handsome, and utterly and unmistakably
masculine. Unable to help herself, Kit took him in, from
head to toe and back again.
"I believe there has been a misunderstanding," her father
offered with a slight frown. "I need to speak with the Earl
of Everton."
"I'm Everton." The eyes coolly assessed her father's wet
attire. "And you are Stewart Brantley."
Her father's scowl deepened, then cleared. "Alexander
Cale," he murmured, a hint of something Kit couldn't quite
read in his voice. "I should have realized." He glanced up
at the painting. "What happened to your father?"
"My father died four years ago." The other examined his
nails, then looked up again. "I can direct you to
Westminster Abbey, if you'd care to consult with his
remains."
"You're the Earl of Everton?" Kit broke in, willing it to
be some sort of misunderstanding. An unexpected shiver ran
through her as his eyes and the aggressive intelligence
behind them flicked in her direction. She felt electrified,
like the storm outside. This would be trouble. This was no
old man to be easily fooled.
The eyes took in her wet form with a thoroughness and an
intensity she was unused to, and it was with difficulty
that she kept her own gaze steadily on his face, on the
high cheekbones and faintly arched eyebrows and the
sensuous, cynical mouth. "I am," he said after a
moment. "Also Alexander, Baron Cale, and Viscount Charing."
Her father cleared his throat, and the eyes left hers as
the earl stepped farther into the room and shut the door.
She took a breath, resisting the ridiculous urge to sag.
"You've grown up well," her father commented, in as close
to a compliment as she'd ever heard him hand an
Englishman. "I haven't set eyes on you since you were--"
"Nine, I believe," Everton supplied. For the first time a
hint of humor touched his sardonic lips. "As I recall, you
informed me that I should have a sterling career as a
soldier-for-hire or a pirate once my father cut me off."
Stewart Brantley grimaced. "You were a rather . . . wild
youngster."
"I've not changed much." Alexander Cale shrugged,
dismissing her father's apology. Abruptly he was looking at
her again. "And who might you be, boy?"
"Kit," she answered, feeling cold and awkward in her wet
attire and wishing she could give into her desire to turn
and run from the room before it was too late.
Lord Everton continued to gaze at her. Again she was
certain he would discover her secret, though there was no
real reason to believe so. The disguise she wore had years
ago become effortless, and she could fool anyone with it
until she chose to let them know otherwise. And she had no
intention of enlightening any arrogant English lord.
Her father gestured at her. "Everton, my son."
"Mr. Brantley," the Earl of Everton acknowledged after a
moment, inclining his head. The eyes remained alert, but
she suspected that it was more because of their presence
than a question over her gender.
"Everton," she acknowledged, meeting his gaze. He was
likely a cutthroat card player, she thought abruptly, for
she hadn't a clue about what might lay behind those sharp
azure eyes.
The earl looked at her for another moment, then stepped
forward to throw more wood onto the fire. "I would assume
you both to be rather chilled this evening," he commented,
straightening and gesturing for her to remove her
greatcoat.
She looked up at him, standing only a few feet away. She
was tall for her sex, and was very aware that he must be
several inches above six feet to tower over her so . . .
effectively. Uneasy at the idea of baring more of herself
to his gaze, she reluctantly shrugged out of the wet
garment. He took a step back to run his eyes down her
wardrobe, and she couldn't help the flush that warmed her
cheeks or the shiver that ran down her spine. "You dislike
my attire, Everton?" she offered, scowling as much at her
reaction as at the earl's presumption.
"French rags," he stated, turning to take her father's hat
and coat and drape them over the back of one of the
overstuffed chairs. He sank onto the couch, then gestured
for her and her father to be seated. "Forgive my
directness, Brantley, but I confess to a certain curiosity
as to how you require me to pay my father's debt to you."
Everton tilted his head. "Enough blunt to regain your
footing in England, perhaps?"
"My lord," her father said stiffly, the annoyed look coming
to his face again, "I do not require money. And I believe
your father would agree that blunt would hardly be an
appropriate repayment for this particular debt."
"You presume to know my father's mind. Quite impressive,
for I did only rarely." Everton straightened from his
relaxed slouch. "But do enlighten me."
"I saved you from drowning, my lord."
"Yes, twenty years ago. So I've been informed, though I
confess to having little memory of the event."
"Surely your father told you I might be by one day and ask
a favor," Stewart Brantley said, his voice and expression
affronted. "I believe he took his word of honor quite
seriously."
"Actually," Lord Everton said, sitting back again and
stretching one arm carelessly along the back of the
couch, "I rather believe he thought you were dead. It has
been twenty years, after all." He gave a brief, unamused
smile. "As, however, you appear to be still among the
living, I will ask you once more what your request might
be."
Stewart cleared his throat. "Very well," he returned. "My
son is now of an age where he is expected to do his civic
duty, along with other young men of his age and
circumstance. With the current state of unrest in France--"
"Yes, that's right, Bonaparte has escaped Elba, hasn't he?"
the earl noted, as though the return of the monster to
Europe lacked significance. To his sort, it probably did.
"Yes. And I have begun to fear that Kit will be drafted
into his army. France may be our home, but I will not have
him die for that madman."
"I see," Everton said more quietly, looking in her
direction again.
"I had therefore hoped to impose on your father, and now
you, to look after him for a short time, until the
situation returns to a more . . . even keel. Through the
end of the month, anyway. By then I can make other
arrangements."
"That's less than I thought you would ask, Brantley, I have
to admit."
The earl turned his gaze on his hands, his lips
thoughtfully pursed. Fleetingly Kit wondered if he realized
how very attractive that expression made him look. His eyes
flicked over at her again, as though he was trying to read
something in her face, and she quickly looked away.
"I am curious," Everton commented, turning back to her
father. "You are not without relations here, if memory
serves. Your brother is the Duke of Furth, is he not? Why
not let him wetnurse the boy?"
Her father paled, for the first time looking truly
angry. "Never," he hissed.
"I don't need a wetnurse," Kit cut in. "I can take care of
myself. And if he won't aid us, then we don't need him,
Father." At the least they could find someone else for her
to stay with in London. Someone who didn't have eyes as
piercing as Alexander Cale's.
"I'm afraid we do need him, Kit." Choosing to otherwise
ignore her protest, Stewart looked at Everton. "Do you wish
me to beg you to honor your debt, my lord?"
The earl looked from one to the other of them again, then
shook his head and let out a breath. "I suppose not." He
grimaced. "But I don't have time to coddle the boy," he
said, still hedging. "I have some rather pressing duties
and obligations of my own."
"I don't ask you to go out of your way for him." Stewart
looked at Kit for a moment. "Anything other than keeping
him here safely is of course unnecessary. And as I said, it
will only be till the end of the month. God willing, this
madness will be over by then, anyway."
The eyes turned to her again, though she couldn't read the
expression there. "God willing," Alexander Cale repeated,
then stood. "Very well. I'll show you both to rooms."
Stewart Brantley gave a relieved sigh. "Thank you, Everton."
The earl shook his head. "As you said, a debt is a debt.
But this will make us even. My father's obligation to you
is hereby settled."
It seemed as much a threat as an insult, and her father's
jaw clenched before he nodded. "That is all I ask."
The bedchamber the earl showed her to before he retired
again for the night was splendid. Gold and peach wall
hangings framed each of the two windows, and nearly a dozen
pillows were piled at the head of the soft, quilt-covered
bed. It made her cot in their appartements in Saint-Marcel
in Paris look quite shabby. She ran her finger along the
quilt, touching the soft, cool texture with some relish.
With a regretful look at the warm blankets, she sat at the
dressing table to wait. Everton had given in, when she had
nearly been convinced that he would not. And his surprise
capitulation left her even less at ease than had his bald
suspicion.
Half an hour later the chamber door opened, and she
turned. "What now, Father?" she asked softly, as he slipped
inside.
He chuckled. "That was easier than I expected."
Kit didn't agree. "He nearly turned us out."
"Nonsense."
She took a breath, reluctant to argue with him. "Do you
think I can convince him to introduce me about town?"
Stewart Brantley gave a brief smile. "My dear, your powers
of persuasion are unmatched. And young Alexander's
contemporaries would be more likely to be involved in
government trickeries than his father's, anyway. This could
not have worked out better if I'd planned it."
"You did plan it, didn't you, Father?" she returned, still
unsettled and unable to resist needling him out of his self-
confidence. "Except for Philip Cale's being dead for four
years."
He glared at her. "Don't be insolent, girl. You let me know
which of these damned blue bloods is interfering with us,
and we'll teach him a little lesson."
"Do you think it could be him?" Kit whispered, gesturing at
the mansion surrounding them.
Her father squinted one eye, then shrugged. "From what I
hear, he's always been wild and a bit ramshackle. Hardly
the sort old King George, unless he was having one of his
mad fits, would have chosen to help uphold the proper
British way of life." He grinned. "Be glad he thinks you a
boy. From what I hear, it takes women, drink, or gambling
to catch Alex Cale's interest. But be careful around him,
just the same, until you're certain."
She would be careful around him, anyway. "I will."
He nodded. "I'd best be off, then, in case he changes his
mind after a night's sleep. You remember where to meet me
if you have news?" When she nodded, Stewart leaned
closer. "You can do this. I need you to do this. For both
our sakes."
She took a breath, unable to resist balking one last
time. "You're certain Fouchรฉ can't be put off?"
"I've told you, the greater the risk, the greater the
profit. We'll get his shipment through, and we'll all be
happy and wealthy."
"It would be easier if I knew what we were shipping for
him."
"Best that you don't," he answered, as he had every time
she'd asked.
"This is not for vegetables and blankets," she stated, to
see how he would react.
He didn't. "I'll see you in a few days. Trust your father,
child."
"I always have."
He started for the door, then glanced over his shoulder at
her and gave her a quick grin. "Good girl."
Christine watched him leave, then sat on the edge of the
fine bed and slowly shed her damp clothes. For only a
fortnight, she could do this. She could meet the Earl of
Everton's precious blue-blooded cronies, and find out which
of them had strayed from his regular duties and decided to
begin interfering with their affairs of commerce, just when
the Comte de Fouchรฉ had offered her father a partnership
too lucrative to resist. Everton might have beautiful eyes
and a devilishly handsome face, but she could fool him for
a fortnight, just as she fooled everyone else. And these
English would never know how Stewart Brantley had managed
to slip through their fingers again. Not until it was too
late and she and her father were long gone.
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