Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

Chapter 22

The ride to Cranmer Hall was the longest two miles Jack had ever traveled. Kit remained unconscious, a minor mercy. To have her severely wounded was bad enough; to be forced to watch her bear the pain would have been torture. His guilt ran deep, increasing with every stride Champion took. His fear for Kit was far worse, dragging at his mind, threatening to cloak reason with black despair.

At least he now knew she hadn’t betrayed them. If Tonkin had received word that his “big gang” was running a cargo that night, the whole Hunstanton Office would have been on the northern beaches. Instead, it seemed he’d set a small troop to patrol the area of his obsession. They’d just struck lucky.

Cranmer Hall rose out of the dark. Kit’s home slumbered amid darkened gardens, peaceful and secure. Jack stopped before the front steps. With Kit in his arms, he slid from the saddle. George tied his chestnut to a bush by the drive, then hurried to catch Champion’s reins.

“Once I’m inside, take him around to the stables before you go.”

George nodded and led the grey aside.

Jack climbed the steps and waited before the heavy oak doors for George to join him. When he did, Jack, his face impassive, nodded at the large brass knocker in the middle of the door. “Wake them up.”

George grimaced and did. The pounding brought footsteps flying. Bolts were thrown back; the heavy doors swung inward. George melted into the shadows at the bottom of the steps. Jack strode boldly over the threshold.

“Your mistress has had an accident.” Jack searched the four shocked male faces before him, settling on the oldest and most dignified as being the best candidate for Cranmer’s butler. “I’m Lord Hendon. Wake Lord Cranmer immediately. Tell him his granddaughter has been wounded. I’ll explain as soon as I’ve taken her upstairs. Which is her room?” During this exchange, he walked confidently toward the stairs. Turning back, brows lifting impatiently, he prayed the butler would hold true to his profession and not panic.

Jenkins rose to the challenge. “Yes, m’lord.” He drew a deep breath. “Henry here will show you Miss Kathryn’s room. I’ll send up her maid immediately.”

Jack nodded, relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with dithering servants. “I’ve sent my man for Dr. Thrushborne. He should arrive soon.” He started up the stairs, Henry hurrying ahead, holding a candelabrum aloft to light the way.

Jenkins followed. “Very good, m’lord. I’ll have one of the men watch out for him. I’ll inform Lord Cranmer of the matter directly.”

Jack nodded and followed Henry down a dark corridor deep into one of the wings. The footman stopped by a door near its end and set it wide.

Worried by the chilled dampness of Kit’s clothes, Jack’s eyes went immediately to the fireplace. “Get the fire going. Fast as you can.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Henry bent to the task.

Jack crossed to the four-poster bed. Kneeling on the white coverlet, he gently placed Kit upon it, carefully easing his arms from under her then arranging the pillows beneath her head, pulling the bolster around to cushion her injured shoulder. Then he stood back.

And tried to hold his thoughts at bay. He’d experienced war firsthand; he’d nearly perished twice. But the mind-numbing fear that threatened to possess him now was beyond anything he’d previously felt. The idea that Kit might not live he blanked from his mind; that was a possibility he could not face. Drawing an unsteady breath, he fought to focus his mind on the here and now, on the tasks immediately before him. The next hours would be crucial. Kit had to live. And she had to be protected from the consequences of her actions. First things first. He had to get her out of her wet clothes.

Jack turned to survey Henry’s handiwork. The fire blazed in the grate, throwing light and warmth into the room. “Good. Now go shake that maid awake.”

Henry’s eyes grew round. “Elmina?”

Jack frowned. “Miss Kathryn’s maid.” He nodded a curt dismissal, wondering what was wrong with Elmina.

Henry swallowed and looked doubtful, but went.

Jack paced before the fire, rubbing sensation and strength back into his arms. When Elmina failed to materialize, he swore and returned to Kit’s side. Carefully, he untied their makeshift bandage. The wound had stopped bleeding. He started the difficult task of easing Kit from her wet clothes.

He’d removed her coat and was fumbling with the laces of her shirt when the door behind him opened and shut. Quick footsteps and stiffly swishing skirts approached.

“Man Dieu! Ma pauvre petite! Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?”

Jack blinked at the torrent of French that followed hard on the heels of that beginning. He stared at the small darkhaired woman who appeared on the other side of the bed to lean over Kit, laying a hand on her forehead. Then she noticed what he was doing and slapped furiously at his hands.

Jack recoiled from the ferocious attack and her equally ferocious words. Glancing toward the end of the bed, he saw two young maids hovering uncertainly. From their blank looks, Jack surmised they couldn’t understand French. The virago, presumably Elmina, was dividing her time between verbally wringing her hands over Kit and hurling insults at him. What loosely translated as “black-guard” and “mountebank” were the least of them.

When Elmina bustled around and tried to shoo him from the room, Jack came to his senses. “Silence!” He spoke smoothly in French. “Cease your wailing, woman! We need to get her into something dry immediately.” Jack leaned back over Kit and started on her laces again. His idiomatic French had set Elmina back on her heels. “We’ll need bandages and hot water. Can you manage that?”

His sarcasm flicked Elmina to attention. She drew a fulminating breath; Jack looked at her and imperiously lifted one brow. Elmina’s glance fell to the still figure on the bed, then she swung about and addressed the two maids. “Ella-get all the old sheets you can find. Ask Mrs. Fogg. Emily-run to the kitchen and fetch the kettle. And tell Cook to prepare some gruel.”

Jack shook his head. “She won’t be able to eat. Not until we get the bullet out of her.”

“Man Dieu! It’s still there?”

The last lace unraveled. Jack looked up into Elmina’s black eyes, pieces of coal in a face pale with anxiety. Despite her sprightly movements, she was a lot older than he’d expected. And, judging from her tirade, hellishly protective of Kit. How had his kitten escaped this mother cat? “Your mistress is lucky to be alive. She’s going to need help to stay alive. Now help me get this off her.” He pulled his sharp knife from its sheath in his boot and quickly slit the shirt. “Come around here. Bring that towel with you.”

Picking up the small towel lying folded on Kit’s washstand, Elmina hurried to obey. Jack freed the wound of torn fragments of shirt, then covered the angry flesh with the towel. “Help me ease off this sleeve.”

With Elmina’s help, the sleeve was removed without jarring the wound. Picking up his knife, Jack reached for Kit’s wet bands.

“Monsieur!”

Jack all but snarled. “What now?”

Elmina’s eyes were huge black orbs. Under Jack’s glare, she clenched her hands tight. “Monsieur, it is not proper that you should be here. I will take care of her.”

Proper? Jack closed his eyes in frustration. Neither he nor Kit possessed a proper bone in their bodies. He opened his eyes. “Damnation, woman! I’ve seen every square inch of skin your pauvre petite possesses. Right now, I’m trying to ensure that she lives. The proprieties be damned!”

He’d spoken in English. Elmina took a moment or two to catch up. By then, Jack had expertly slid the knife between Kit’s breasts and slit the bands.

Elmina’s “Sacre Dieu!” was a weak effort as, grudgingly, she gave up her fight. Muttered references to the madness of the English, and the shocking want of delicacy displayed by unnamed peers, punctuated the next ten minutes.

The hot water and bandages arrived. Jack watched Elmina bathe the wound. The maid’s hands were steady, her touch sure. When the ugly hole had been cleansed, he helped her tie a wad of torn sheeting over it. Kit’s breathing had improved, but her complexion remained alarmingly pallid.

Jack left Elmina in charge with strict instructions to be called immediately should Kit regain consciousness or Dr. Thrushborne appear. In the corridor outside Kit’s room, he slumped against the wall and shut his eyes. For one instant, despair overwhelmed him-Kit lay so very still, her skin so very cold. Her breathing was the only sign of life. Even if the wound didn’t kill her, in her weakened state, an inflammation of the lungs might.

He tried to imagine his life without her-and couldn’t. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall. Kit wasn’t dead yet. If she could fight, he’d be by her side.

His face grave, Jack went to face Spencer.

Jenkins was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Lord Cranmer’s in his chamber, m’lord. If you’ll follow me?”

A weary grin twisted Jack’s lips. The formal phrasing seemed out of place. He suspected he looked like a disreputable gypsy. And he was on his way to tell one of his father’s closest friends that he’d seduced his granddaughter.

Spencer’s rooms were in the opposite wing. Jenkins knocked, then held the door wide. Jack drew a deep breath and entered.

The dark was dispelled by a single lamp, turned low, set on a table in the center of the large room. In the uncertain light beyond, Jack saw the man he’d met in King’s Lynn months before. Swathed in a dressing robe, Spencer sat in an armchair. The mane of white hair was the same; the shaggy brows overhanging his deep-set eyes had not changed. But the anxiety in the pale eyes was new, etching lines about the firm lips, deepening the shadows in the sunken cheeks.

Held by Spencer’s gaze, Jack paused just inside the pool of lamplight, aware of Spencer stiffening as he took in his odd attire. Abruptly, Spencer raised a hand and dismissed the small man hovering at his side.

As the door closed, Spencer lifted his chin aggressively. “Well? What have Kathryn-and you-been up to?”

Feeling as if he was facing a court-martial, Jack clamped a lid on his natural arrogance and replied simply and straightforwardly. “I’m afraid Kit and I have become rather closer than is acceptable. In short, I seduced her. The only fact I can proffer in my defense is that I didn’t know at the time she was your granddaughter.”

Spencer snorted incredulously. “You didn’t recognize the coloring?”

Jack inclined his head. “I knew she was a Cranmer but…” He shrugged. “There were other possibilities.”

Spencer’s gaze was sharp. “Led you to believe she was something she’s not, did she?”

Jack hesitated.

“You may as well give me the whole of it,” declared Spencer. “I’m not likely to faint from the shock. Told you she was illegitimate, did she?”

Jack grimaced, remembering that first night, so long ago. “Let’s just say that when I made my supposition plain, she didn’t correct me. I’d hardly expected your granddaughter to be riding the countryside alone at night in breeches.”

Spencer sighed deeply. Slowly, his head sank. For a long moment, he stared into space, then in a gruff voice he muttered: “My fault-no denying it. I should never have let her grow so damned wild.”

Minutes ticked by; Spencer seemed sunk in abstracted gloom. Jack waited, not sure what was going through the old man’s mind. Then Spencer shook his head and looked him straight in the eye. “No sense in wailing over past history. You say you seduced her. What do you plan to do about it, hen?”

Jack’s lips twisted wryly. “I’ll marry her, of course.”

“Damn right you will!” Spencer’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Think you’ll enjoy it-being married to a wildcat?”

Briefly, Jack smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Spencer snorted and waved him to a chair. “You don’t seem overly put out by the fall of the cards. But Jenkins said something about Kit’s being hurt. What’s happened?”

Jack drew an armchair to the table and sat, using the moments to assemble the essential elements of his tale. “Kit and I have been meeting by night at the old fishing cottage on the north boundary of my land.”

Spencer nodded. “Aye. I know it. Used to go fishing with your father from there.”

“I was on my way there tonight when I heard a commotion. Shots and horsemen. I went to investigate. From the cliffs I saw a chase on the sands-the Revenue following a horseman. Only the horseman was Kit.”

“They shot her?” Spencer’s incredulous question hung in the air. The sudden rigidity in his large frame was alarming.

“She’s all right,” Jack hastened to reassure him. “The bullet’s lodged in her left shoulder but too high to be fatal. I’ve sent for Thrushborne. He’ll dig it out, and she should be fine.” Jack prayed that was true.

“I’ll have their hides! I’ll see them swing from their own gibbets! I’ll…” Spencer ground to a halt, his face purpling with rage.

“I rather think we should tread warily, sir.” Jack’s quiet tone had the desired effect. Spencer turned on him.

“D’ye mean to say you’ll let the bastards get away with putting a damned hole in your future wife?” Spencer’s wild eyes dared him to confess to such weakness.

“Ah-but you see, that’s just the point.” Jack held Spencer’s gaze. “They don’t know they shot my future wife.”

The silence that followed was broken by a creak as Spencer sank back in his chair.

Jack examined his hands. “All in all, I’d rather the authorities were not made aware that my future wife rides wild through the night dressed for all the world as a man.”

Eventually, Spencer sighed deeply. “Very well. Handle it your way. God knows, I’ve never been much good at hauling on Kit’s reins. Perchance you’ll have more success.”

Recalling that he’d not succeeded in retiring Young Kit as he’d planned, Jack wasn’t overly confident on that point. “There’s a complication.” Spencer’s head came up, reminding Jack forcibly of an old bull about to charge. “Tonkin, the sergeant at Hunstanton, saw Kit without the hat and muffler she uses to conceal her face. He got a good look at her before I deprived him of his wits. When he comes to his senses, he’ll be around here as fast as he can.”

The look on Spencer’s face suggested he’d like to lock Tonkin in a dungeon and be done with it. Grudgingly, he asked: “So what do we do?”

“He’ll come asking questions, wanting to see Kit. The last person he’ll expect to see will be me. He needs my permission to go any farther than questions. The story we’ll tell is that I had dinner here this evening, with you and your granddaughter-a very private celebration of our betrothal. I remained until quite late, discussing the arrangements with Kit and you. Your health is uncertain, so the wedding will be a small affair, to be held as soon as possible.”

Spencer’s expression turned grim, but he said nothing. Jack continued: “Tomorrow morning, I’ll call early to see you alone, to discuss the settlements. That’s my reason for being here when Tonkin arrives.”

“What if he insists on seeing Kit?”

“I doubt he’ll insist, not if I’m here. But if he does, Kit will have gone to visit the Greshams, to tell her friend Amy the news.”

Spencer nodded slowly, mulling over the plan.

The door opened and Jenkins entered. “Dr. Thrushborne’s arrived, m’lord. He’s asking for Lord Hendon.”

Jack rose. Spencer started to rise with obvious difficulty; Jack waved him back. “Kit’s unconscious at the moment-there’s nothing you can do.” As Spencer sank back, softly wheezing, Jack added: “I’ll come and tell you what Thrushborne says.”

His face pale, his lips pinched, Spencer nodded. Jack returned the nod, then strode back to Kit’s chamber.

God-let her live!

Telling Spencer had been bad enough; he shared some part of the blame for Kit’s wildness. But Jack couldn’t excuse his own behavior; he should have acted earlier, more decisively, more effectively. He should have taken better care of her. At least Thrushborne was here. He had been treating Hendons and Cranmers for decades. He could be relied on not to talk. So far, so good. But there was a long way to go before they were out of the woods.

Jack entered Kit’s room without knocking. A small black whirlwind descended on him.

“Out! Monsieur we do not need you! You will be in the way. You’ll-”

“Elmina, do stop that. I asked Lord Hendon to come.” Dr. Thrushborne’s mild tones halted Elmina in mid-stride. Jack sidestepped about her. Thrushborne was wiping his hands on a clean towel. Beyond him, his intruments were laid out on a table drawn up by the bed.

Thrushborne regarded Jack. He waved at Kit’s still form and raised an inquiring brow. “I gather you know this lady rather well?”

Jack didn’t bother answering. “Will she live?” It was the only question he was interested in.

Thrushborne’s brows rose. “Oh, yes. I should think so. She’s a healthy young woman, as you doubtless know. She’ll do well enough, once we get that lump of metal out of her.”

Jack suspected Thrushborne was enjoying himself. It wasn’t often he had a Hendon at his mercy. But Jack couldn’t drag his gaze from the still figure on the bed. He didn’t care about anything-anyone-else.

Thrushborne cleared his throat. “I’ll need you to hold her while I pull the bullet out. She’s barely unconscious, but I don’t want to give her a sedative yet.”

Jack nodded, steeling his nerves for the coming ordeal. He obeyed Thrushborne’s orders implicitly, trying not to bruise Kit as he held her right shoulder and leaned on her left arm to immobilize her. When the doctor’s forceps probed deep, she gasped and struggled, furiously trying to pull away. Her whimpers shredded Jack’s nerves. When tears welled beneath her closed lids and a choked sob escaped her, his stomach clenched. Gritting his teeth, Jack mentally ran through every curse he’d ever learned-and concentrated on obeying orders. Elmina hovered, murmuring soothingly, holding Kit’s head through the worst, bathing her forehead with lavender water. As far as Jack could tell, Kit was oblivious to all but the pain.

Finally, Thrushborne straightened, flourishing his forceps. “Got it!” He beamed, then, dropping the forceps in a basin, gave his attention to staunching the blood, flowing freely again.

By the time Kit was bandaged and dosed with laudanum, Jack felt dizzy and weak.

About to leave, Thrushborne turned to him. “I take it I haven’t seen anything at all of Miss Kathryn?”

Gathering his wits, Jack shook his head. “No. You were called to see Spencer.”

The doctor frowned. “My housekeeper saw your servant come for me-why was that?”

“I was here when Spencer was taken badly and sent Matthew, rather than one of the Cranmer staff.”

Thrushborne nodded briskly. “I’ll call again in the morning-to see Spencer.”

With a weary but grateful half smile, Jack shook hands. Thrushborne departed; Elmina followed, taking the bloody rags to be burned. Alone with Kit, Jack stretched, easing his aching back. He’d have to see Spencer and make sure the servants, both here and at Castle Hendon, understood their story sufficiently well to play their parts. He didn’t doubt they’d do it. The Hendons and Cranmers were served by locals whose families lived and worked on the estates; all would rally to the cause. Tonkin was thoroughly disliked by all who knew him; the Revenue in general were favorites with no one. With care and forethought, all would be well. With a long-drawn sigh, Jack turned to the bed.

Kit lay stretched out primly, not wantonly asprawl as he was used to seeing her. It would be some time before he saw her like that again. How long? Three weeks, maybe four? Jack contemplated the wait, by dint of sheer determination holding back the thought that he might never see her like that again. She would live-she had to. He couldn’t live without her. The space beside her looked inviting, but Spencer was waiting, and Elmina would soon be back. With a wrenching sigh, Jack gazed down at the silent beauty. Her chest rose and fell beneath the sheet, her breathing shallow but steady. Jack put out a hand to brush a silky curl from her smooth brow, then bent to gently kiss her pale lips.

He dragged himself away. Elmina had said she’d watch Kit for what was left of the night, and Spencer was still waiting.

“Sergeant Tonkin, my lord.” Jenkins held the library door wide, an expression of supercilious condescension on his face.

Stepping over the threshold, Sergeant Tonkin hesitated, his regulation hat clutched in his hands. Spying Spencer behind the desk, Tonkin headed in that direction, his stride firmly confident.

Spencer watched him approach, an expression of calm boredom on his aristocratic features. From an armchair halfway down the long room, Jack studied Tonkin’s face. The sergeant hadn’t seen him, so focused was he on his goal. An air of smug belligerence hung about Tonkin as he halted on the rug before the desk and saluted.

“My lord,” Tonkin began. “I was a-wondering if I might have a word with Miss Cranmer, sir.”

Spencer’s shaggy brows lowered. “With my granddaughter? What for?”

The barked question, so direct, made Tonkin blink. He shifted his weight. “We have reason to believe, m’lord, that Miss Cranmer might be able to help us with our investigations.”

“How the devil do you suppose Kathryn could know anything of your business?”

Tonkin stiffened. He shot Spencer a swift glance, then puffed out his chest. In a portentious tone, he stated: “Some of my men were chasing a smugglers’ leader last night. The man…that is, this leader…was shot. I found the fellow-the leader-in the quarries.”

“So?” Spencer’s gaze turned impatient. “If you’ve got the man, what’s the problem?”

Tonkin colored. With one finger, he tugged at his collar. “But we haven’t got him-that’s to say, this leader.”

“You haven’t?” Spencer leaned forward. “The man was wounded and you let him get away?”

Watching, Jack sensed the moment when Tonkin’s obsession came to his rescue. Instead of wilting under the heat of Spencer’s glare, his backbone straightened like a poker, his beady eyes suddenly intent. “Before others of the gang knocked me out, I managed to get a good look at the fellow’s-that is…” Gritting his teeth, Tonkin drew a deep breath then continued: “I got a good look at the leader’s face. Red curls, my lord,” Tonkin pronounced with relish. “And a pale, delicate-looking face with a small pointy chin.” When Spencer merely looked blank, Tonkin added: “Afemale face, my lord.”

Silence filled the library.

When Spencer frowned, Tonkin nodded decisively. “Exactly, m’lord. If I hadn’t seen it with me own two eyes, I’d have laughed the idea aside, too.”

Spencer’s expression turned openly puzzled. “But I still don’t see, Sergeant, what this has to do with my granddaughter. You can’t seriously imagine she’ll be able to help you?”

Tonkin’s face fell; a second later, crafty suspicion gleamed in his small eyes. He opened his mouth.

Jack smoothly intervened. “I really think, Sergeant, that you’ll have to explain why you imagine Miss Cranmer would be more help to you in identifying and locating a Cranmer…connection than Lord Cranmer himself. I must tell you such matters are not normally the province of the ladies.”

Tonkin whirled, his expression, unguarded for an instant, a medley of fury and rampant suspicion. With the next breath, his unlovely mask fell back into place; he drew himself up and saluted. “Good morning, m’lord. Didn’t see you there, sir.” Then the implication of Jack’s words registered. “Connection, m’lord?”

Jack raised a bored brow.

Visibly girding his loins, Tonkin shook his head. “No, sir.” Chin up, at attention, he spoke to the air above Jack’s head. “I know what I saw, sir. This woman rode a magnificent black horse. I saw with my own eyes the hole my men blew in her shoulder.” Tonkin pressed his lips tightly together against the impulse to explain whose shoulder; meeting his eyes, Jack understood. Fanatical determination flared in those beady orbs as Tonkin, his chin pugnaciously square, glanced sideways at Spencer.

Jack smothered the urge to strangle the man. “Perhaps, Sergeant, if you’d tell us exactly what happened, his lordship might be able to clarify matters for you?”

Tonkin hesitated, eyes going from Jack to Spencer and back again before, very slowly, he nodded. And determinedly began his tale.

In her bed abovestairs, Kit lay flat on her back and tried to remember how she’d got there. Her shoulder was on fire; one minute she felt flushed, the next as cold as ice. Eyes closed against the light, she heard the door open and shut.

“Sergeant Tonkin’s ’ere, miss.” Kit identified the whisperer as Emily, one of the upstairs maids. “Jenkins just showed ’im into the library.”

“This is the Revenue man, yes?” Elmina answered from the direction of the fireplace. Kit frowned. The Revenue? Here?

“He’s a terrible bully, that one,” Emily explained. “He’s asking to see Miss Kathryn. Jenkins said as he’d seen her face.”

Elmina’s response was dismissive. “His lordship will take care of it. And Lord Hendon is there, too, is he not? Rest assured, all will be well.”

“Elmina!” Kit struggled onto her good elbow, wincing at the pain in her left shoulder. Her weak call brought both Elmina and Emily rushing to the bed. “Get me my dove grey gown. Quickly.”

Her face a mask of horror, Elmina remained rooted to the spot. “No, no, petite! You are much too weak to get up! You will reopen your wound.”

“If I don’t go down and let Tonkin see me, I might not live to heal anyway.” Gritting her teeth, Kit managed to sit on the edge of the bed. Suddenly, she remembered all too well. Closing her eyes, she willed her dizziness away. “Dammit, Elmina! Don’t argue-or I’ll do it myself.”

The threat worked, as it usually did; muttering, Elmina hurried to the wardrobe. Returning within minutes with the grey dress and Kit’s underclothes, she ventured: “Lord Hendon is downstairs.”

“So I heard.” Kit looked at her clothes and wondered how she was going to cope. Lifting her left arm was to be avoided at all costs. She was wearing a fine linen nightgown with a high frilly neck. She’d chosen the grey gown because of its neckline, round and high enough to conceal her bandages. If she wore the dress on top of the nightgown, hopefully Tonkin wouldn’t notice.

Battling dizziness, she stood; in a voice devoid of all unnecessary strength, she directed Elmina in helping her into the dress and easing the bodice up over her injured shoulder. She felt weak as a newborn kitten-just standing was an effort. While Elmina quickly laced the gown, Kit considered what might be transpiring downstairs. If Tonkin had seen her face, she doubted he’d go away without laying eyes on her. She hoped Spencer wouldn’t lose his temper before she got down. The most puzzling aspect was why the elusive High Commisioner had chosen this particular day to pay a morning visit. Perhaps, if she could think straight enough, she might be able to enlist his aid in getting rid of Tonkin. Then, later, she could tell him about Jack and ask for his help in that matter, too.

How she was to manage that with Spencer looking on was beyond her at present. She’d worry about that once Tonkin was gone.

Elmina finished lacing the dress and hurried to get Kit’s brushes. Kit looked down. The room swayed and she quickly raised her head. Fixing her gaze on her mirror across the room, she tried a step or two. It was going to be dicey, but she’d do it if it killed her. Her chin went up. She hadn’t done anything she was ashamed of; she wasn’t going to let a bully of a sergeant drag the Cranmer name through the mud.

Downstairs, Tonkin was struggling to keep his head above water. At Jack’s artful prompting, he’d explained what had happened, in detail. When retold in such a way, his night’s efforts lost much of their glory.

With that accomplished, Jack sat back and calmly engaged Spencer in a detailed discussion of all the Cranmer “connections” currently known. Throughout, he kept a careful eye on Tonkin, noting the sergeant’s rising impatience-and his increasing irritation. Despite being subjected to considerable discouragement, Tonkin wasn’t about to let go. When Spencer came to the end of the list of his sons’ acknowledged bastards, Jack quietly put in: “But I believe the Sergeant said the face he saw was distinctly feminine. Is that right, Tonkin?”

Tonkin blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Yessir, your lordship. A woman’s face, it was.”

Spencer frowned, then shook his head. “Can’t think of any male Cranmer with effeminate looks.”

“I hesitate to suggest it,” Jack said, “but could it possibly have been a female relative?” He could almost hear Tonkin’s satisfied sigh.

“Aren’t any,” Spencer decisively replied. “Only girl in the family’s Kathryn and stands to reason couldn’t be her.”

With a fleeting smile, Jack nodded in agreement.

Tonkin’s face was a study in dismay. “Pardon me, your lordship, but why’s that?”

Spencer frowned at him. “Why’s what, Sergeant?”

Tonkin gritted his teeth. “Why couldn’t it be Miss Cranmer, m’lord?”

As one, Jack and Spencer stared at him, then both erupted into laughter. Tonkin reddened; he looked from one to the other, ugly suspicion gathering in his eyes.

Spencer recovered first, waving his hand to and fro. “A rich jest, Sergeant, but I can assure you my granddaughter does not consort with smugglers.”

Tonkin reacted as if slapped.

“I think, perhaps,” put in Jack, sensing Tonkin’s swelling belligerence, “that the Sergeant might as well know-just so he can accept Miss Cranmer’s innocence as proven fact, my lord-that Miss Cranmer had dinner with both you and myself last night. We sat late, Miss Cranmer with us, discussing the details of our impending nuptials.”

Jack smiled at Tonkin, the very picture of helpful assurrance.

“Nuptials?” Tonkin stared.

“Precisely.” Jack adjusted the cuff of one sleeve. “Miss Cranmer and I will shortly be married. The announcement will be made in the next day or so.” Jack smiled again, openly confident. “You can be one of the first to wish us happy, Tonkin.”

“Er…yes, of course. That is…I hope you’ll be very happy, sir…” Tonkin faltered to a halt.

The door behind him opened.

The three men turned. Three pairs of eyes fastened on the slim grey figure who appeared in the doorway; shock registered, in equal measure, on all three faces.

Kit saw it and glided forward, filling the telltale void. “Good morning, Grandfather.” She crossed to Spencer’s side. Placing her right hand on his shoulder, she planted a dutiful kiss on his cheek, grateful that impassivity had dropped like a veil over his features. Straightening, denying the wave of dizzying pain that threatened to engulf her, she looked directly at Tonkin. “I heard Sergeant Tonkin was asking after me. How can I help you, Sergeant?”

It was a bold move. Jack held his breath, wondering if Tonkin could see how pale she was. To him, her condition was obvious, but apparently Tonkin had never set eyes on Kit before last night. His heart in his mouth, Jack willed his muscles to relax. He’d shot to his feet the instant Kit had appeared; only by the most supreme effort had he stifled the overwhelming urge to go to her side. How on earth she’d got dressed and downstairs was a wonder; how long she’d remain on her feet was a major concern. She’d seen him as she’d entered. As her gaze had passed over him, he’d seen the shock of recognition flare beneath the haze of pain.

Sergeant Tonkin simply stared, speechless. His gaze flicked to Jack, then to Spencer, then, surreptitiously, he darted a glance at Kit, dwelling on her left shoulder.

Aware of his scrutiny, Kit held herself erect, her expression relaxed and open, waiting for Tonkin to state his business. Her grasp on Spencer’s shoulder was nothing less than a death grip; luckily, Spencer had put up his hand to cover hers, the warmth of his large palm imparting strength and support enough to anchor her to consciousness. Kit drew on it unashamedly.

From where she stood, Kit could see Spencer’s expression, arrogantly supercilious as he stared at Tonkin. A peculiar hiatus held them all.

Jack broke it, strolling casually forward to Kit’s side.

The instant he moved, he drew Kit’s gaze. Lips slightly parted to ease her increasingly painful breathing, Kit watched him approach. Her wits were slowing, becoming more sluggish. They’d said Lord Hendon was with Spencer. There was no one else in the room except Jack. And it was Jack, for all that he was far more elegantly dressed than she’d ever seen him, moving with a languid grace she recognized instantly. The man approaching her was a rake of the first order, one who’d learned his recreational habits in the hothouse of the ton. The man approaching her was Jack. Confusion welled; Kit resisted the urge to close her eyes against it.

Jack stopped by her side; she looked into his eyes and saw his concern and his strength. He reached for her right hand, lifting it from Spencer’s shoulder. She let him, relief spreading through her at the comfort in his touch. His other arm slid about her waist, a very real support.

Aware of the picture he was creating for Tonkin, Jack raised Kit’s fingers to his lips. “The sergeant thought he saw you last night, my dear. Your grandfather and I were just explaining that he must have been mistaken.” Jack smiled reassuringly into wide amethyst eyes, hazed and dull with pain. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve given you an alibi. Even one so earnest as Sergeant Tonkin will have to accept that while you were having dinner with me, and later discussing our wedding, you couldn’t possibly have been simultaneously riding the hills.”

“Oh?” It was no effort to infuse the syllable with bewilderment. Kit dragged her eyes from Jack’s to gaze in confusion at Sergeant Tonkin. Dinner?Wedding? Her faintness intensified. The arm about her waist tightened possessively, protectively.

Kit’s obvious confusion dispelled the last vestige of Tonkin’s certainty. Jack could see it in his eyes, in the sudden slackness of his features. The pugnacity that had kept him going drained away, leaving him off-balance.

Swallowing, Tonkin half saluted. “I can see as you don’t know nothing about it, miss.” He glanced warily at Jack, then Spencer. “If it’s all right with you, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”

Jack nodded; Spencer simply glared.

With a last salute, Tonkin turned and quickly left the room.

As soon as the door shut, Spencer turned in his chair, anxiety and relief flooding out in a fiercely whispered: “And what’s the meaning of all this, miss?”

Kit didn’t answer. As the door clicked shut, she’d leaned back against Jack’s arm and shut her eyes. The willpower that had kept her going abruptly faded. She felt Jack’s arms close about her. She was safe; they were all safe.

She heard Spencer’s question as if from a distance, muffled by cold mists. With a little sigh, she surrendered to the oblivion that beckoned, beyond pain, beyond confusion.