Clandestine (14 page)

She laughed weakly. “Nothing about working as a lady’s companion is secretive—”

“Perhaps not. But I know very little about lady’s companions. So it makes you a lady, obviously.” And then Marc remembered something Michel had said earlier. “Wait. If you are a lady, I probably should not be alone with you like this, right? Isn’t it a risk to our reputations?” He gestured between them.

His mind still boggled a little over that idea. That just being alone with a woman was a problem.

Kit’s eyes widened. “That . . . is true. Though” —she glanced toward the library door Jedidiah had left ajar— “with the door open, all propriety should be met. Besides, as lady’s companion, I am not held to the same strict standards as, say, a young debutante.”

“That makes sense. So you . . . work for? . . . serve? . . . Lady Ruby?”

Again, how did such a striking woman end up in her situation? Or rather, how did a woman retain such a strong sense self, given her circumstances? Confidence emanated from her. Such self-possession was certainly purchased at a price. What had been the cost for her?

“Yes, I serve Lady Ruby. I mostly assist her and ensure that her days aren’t too boring.”

“Back to that are we? Does Lady Ruby like to—”

“Embroider?”

“I was going to say drink and gamble . . .”

Kit laughed. “She does indeed.”

Marc nodded. “And before finding a position with Lady Ruby, where were you?”

Now there was definitely panic on Kit’s face. Skittering and then gone. How . . . interesting.

She really did have a juicy secret or two. One could always hope.

“Providing for myself, as I am sure you know.” She continued to laugh, though it acquired a brittle edge.

“No, I don’t know. As I just said, I know little about what it means to be a lady’s companion, having never been one myself.”

That got a more genuine laugh from her. Marc was starting to thoroughly adore her laugh, throaty and low.

She didn’t elaborate however.

“So that’s all you’re going to say then?”

She slowly nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Just shut me out—”

“It’s not like that. My life before here was . . . complicated.”

“Ah. And you assume I can’t understand complicated things?”

“Don’t be difficult.” She shot him a withering look. “I simply can’t talk about it.”

“You
do
have secrets.” A small thrill chased his spine.

Kit shrugged. She turned to look into the library, the books ranged on the shelves. Filtered daylight caught the highlights in her hair, turning it to gilded bronze. He studied her profile, strong and elegant, just like the rest of her.

She turned back to him. “How about you? I understand you recently returned from the East Indies?”

Clever girl to turn the tables like that. Now it was his turn to scramble a little.

“Yes.”

She cocked him a questioning eyebrow. And then rolled her hand.
Go on.

Now it was his turn to shrug. “I don’t know that I can talk about it.” He leaned toward her and whispered from behind his hand. “It’s a secret.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Going to play like that, are you?”

“If I must.”

He fixed her with a frank look, bouncing his eyebrows conspiratorially. Challenging her to tell all. Not that he had a clue what he would say in return if she did.

She broke his gaze first. Pursing her lips, she stood and walked over to run a hand along the table situated behind the sofa, her red shawl slipping to her elbows.

Remembering what Michel had counseled, Marc instantly stood himself.

She adjusted a book on the top of the table and then turned to him, allowing the light of the window to fully hit her.

Yes, he hadn’t been amiss about her height or her figure. Heavens but she was tall, merely an inch or two shorter than his own six feet. And her figure could only be described as statuesque. Magnificently so. Curved in all the right places.

Marc was a ratios man. He liked a woman to look like, well, a woman. Hourglass shape with a waist he could wrap his arms around.

Kit did not disappoint. No emaciated, primped, calculated allure for Miss Ashton. No, she was just refreshingly real and solid.

She faced him calmly, drawing her shawl back up her arms.

“Your secret past. It must be good.” Marc had to say it.

“Perhaps.” She adjusted her shawl and then leaned back against the table. “What about yours? Is your secret good?”

“Amazing,” Marc deadpanned.

“I doubt it’s as good as mine,” she countered.

“Not a chance.”

They stared at each other for a moment, at an impasse. She tucked her hands behind her, trapping them between her back and the table’s edge.

Finally, Marc grinned. “So let’s say we place your secret on a scale that ranges from the number one, which would be hardly any secret at all, to the number ten, being the biggest secret ever, where are you?”

She paused for a moment and then answered. “A ten. Definitely a ten.”

“Really? That
is
quite the secret.” He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Well, I’m quite sure my secret goes to ten point five.”

She laughed at that. “Is that all? Only ten point five? Why not take it all the way to eleven?”

And now he liked her all the more for the unwitting
Spinal Tap
reference.

Marc matched her smile and felt something hard burning in his chest.

How could some nineteenth century woman captivate him like this?

Kit shifted and crossed her ankles, making her legs look just that much longer.

“And you won’t tell me this level ten secret?” Marc asked.

Kit shook her head. “Will you tell me yours?”

It was Marc’s turn to shake his head.

Silence.

“So . . . we both have terrible secrets that we refuse to discuss. I can respect that. Now what shall we do?” he asked.

“You could tell me about your harrowing robbery—”

Marc tsked. “Perhaps. Or maybe the robbery figures into my ten point
five
secret?”

Kit huffed. “Come now. Admit that you are simply being obstinate because I declined to tell you
my
secret—”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

She shifted and pulled her arms back to cross them, regarding him with pursed lips. Considered a different tactic.

“So you were accosted by several armed men on horseback? What did these men look like?”

“As I said, I am not going to discuss it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you
are
being obstinate—”

“Not in the slightest. Let’s make a pact. You tell me a secret, and I will share a secret with you—”

“Did one of the robbers happen to be about your height and build? Darker hair?”

“My, my, my. What a remarkably
specific
question.” Marc raised his eyebrows. “Does this tallish, dark haired man have anything to do with
your
secret?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe. Again, if I admit to something will you?”

Marc paused, regarding her for a moment, rapidly making deductions based on what Arthur had told him. “You know something about the robberies that have been going on?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No . . . but you suspect you know the robbers?”

A hint of panic flickered across Kit’s face. “It’s possible that I know many things.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Yes, that was definitely panic he was seeing.

“Well, I think I know at least one of your secrets.” She lifted her chin.

That surprised a laugh out of Marc.

“Nice attempt. You can’t deflect me that easily. I doubt you know any of my secrets, so I call your bluff.”

He gave her his just-try-me face.

Kit narrowed her eyes.

“Very well then. I believe you have a sister named Emry who was here at Haldon Manor and formed an attachment with your old school friend, Mr. James Knight.”

Marc couldn’t stop a gasp from escaping.

How the—?! How had she possibly connected him with Emme?

She arched an expressive eyebrow. “So as I know one of your secrets—”

“I have admitted nothing.”

Kit gave him a scornful look.

“Please! If you had seen your face when I mentioned Emry’s name—”

“Miss Ashton!!” A voice interrupted from the doorway. Marc and Kit instantly stood at attention turning their heads toward a small maid who bobbed a curtsy at Marc.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but Lady Ruby has need of Miss Ashton.” The girl stood uncertainly for a moment, wringing her hands in her apron.

Kit paused and then pasted a strained smile on her face. “Of course. Thank you, Fanny, for informing me.”

Fanny bobbed another curtsy, sneaking a peek at Marc from underneath her lashes before scurrying out the door.

For her part, Kit also dipped him a small curtsy and turned to leave the room. Marc couldn’t help but follow her.

“This isn’t over, Miss Ashton,” he murmured as she crossed through the doorway and into the great hall. She didn’t respond, but the sudden stiffening of her spine informed him she had heard.

And if it hadn’t, the turn of her head and cocky, challenging lift of her eyebrow as she strode away would have.

Ah, yes. Matching wits with the lovely Kit Ashton was going to prove all sorts of entertaining.

Marc watched her stroll across the great hall and up the staircase which lead to the family apartments, her head held high.

Elegant. Regal. Utterly and absolutely alluring.

The kind of woman who walked at a man’s side and even tugged him along from time to time. The kind of woman a man could build a life with.

Whoa
. He blinked. Where had
that
come from?

Marc rolled his shoulders, sloughing the thought away.

It was ridiculous. So she was fun to flirt with? So he felt a sense of inexplicable connection with her? So what?

How could Fate think to bring them together? Sure Emme had drug James back to the twenty-first century with her, but their love had obviously been in the cards from the beginning. And James was mentally in a place to deal with moving centuries.

But for him and Kit . . . their lives—past, present and future—were just too different. Despite his attraction, he couldn’t imagine her in his world. And he most certainly wasn’t going to stay permanently in hers.

So yeah. That was that.

Though
how
had she known about Emme? Perhaps Linwood was spreading the word about him farther than Arthur knew? It was a puzzle.

He leaned against the library door, staring into the great hall. Its large vaulted expanse sported an enormous bank of floor to ceiling windows on one side and an imposing fireplace on the other. Doors punctuated the walls leading off into the drawing room, dining room and library. At the far end, the stairs to the family wing climbed through a final doorway, flanked by two full suits of armor standing at attention, each holding an enormous broadsword.

At that precise moment, Marc realized Jedediah Knight stood in the doorway of the drawing room, staring at him with narrowed eyes. Watching him.

How long had he been there? Long enough to see Kit leaving the library? Probably.

The points of Jedediah’s shirt collar nearly reached his eyes and his absurdly elaborate neckcloth sat atop a bright, mustard yellow waistcoat. His wool coat of turquoise blue had mother-of-pearl buttons. No brass buttons for Jedediah.

Marc realized he would be cataloging buttons with interest for some time. It was about the only way he could help Arthur’s search.

Though Jedediah’s jacket sported unnaturally large padded shoulders and was cinched more tightly at the waist than any man could manage without the aid of . . . well . . . what? A corset?

Basically, Jedediah Knight was ridiculous.

“Do you risk your eyes with those?” Marc asked without preamble, gesturing toward his own more modest collar.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The points of your collar. They seem dangerously high. Why if you were suddenly startled and turned your head too quickly, I fear one of them should poke out an eye.”

Jedediah instantly stiffened. “I would not expect a man of your . . . experience to understand the intricacies of a well-featured gentleman.”

And then Jedediah grasped what appeared to be a magnifying glass dangling on the end of a chain, raised it to his eye and ruthlessly surveyed Marc from head to foot.

Marc was quite sure the entire scene was intended as a set down.

But as the quizzing glass—yes, that was it—made Jedediah’s bloodshot eye appear huge, it was all Marc could do not to laugh. A smile tugged at his lips.

A fact not lost on Jedediah, who somehow managed to look even more stiff.

And then a thought popped into Marc’s head—a thought so utterly magnificent he couldn’t just bat it away.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a middle name that begins with the letter
I
, would you?”

A question for the ages, that one.

Jedediah froze and then frowned. “It is Ignatius, as a matter of fact. How did you ever know?” He shot Marc a suspicious look.

“Hopeful guess, I suppose.” Marc bit his cheek, ruthlessly forcing himself not to smile. “I have always wanted to address a Jed I. Knight.”

How Marc managed to say that sentence with a straight face, he would
never
know.

The quizzing glass made another lengthy appearance. Jedediah sensed there was a joke in the conversation somewhere, but he was helpless to locate it.

Instead, he glowered at Marc and walked slowly toward him. Minced, actually, as there seemed to be some sort of padding in the thighs of his coral-colored breeches.

Was
that
what Michel thought Marc should wear too? There was not a snowball’s chance in Hell he would ever don anything so ridiculous.

“Do not think I am ignorant as to your game,” Jedediah practically hissed.

Marc jerked his head up, realizing he had been actually staring at the man’s thighs, which brought the monstrosity that was Jedediah’s hair into focus. Wild and uncombed, it looked like it hadn’t seen a good shampooing in
far
too long. How did one create such a look without getting dreadlocks? Was it really the rat’s nest it resembled—