Clandestine (15 page)

—aaaaaand now he was staring at Jedediah’s hair.

Wow. He needed to get a grip.

Jed I. Knight, indeed.

Marc lowered his eyes to encounter Jedediah’s baleful blue eyes.

“I know your game,” Jedediah repeated, emphatically poking his finger at Marc.

Marc pasted on his cockiest face.

“I highly doubt you know my game,” he drawled. “I can’t imagine five-card stud poker is popular in this area—”

“Miss Ashton is under my cousin’s care, and she does not need some rapscallion sniffing around her skirts.” Jedediah gave a supercilious snort.

Marc laughed at that. Honestly, the man was such a . . .

Douche? Cad?

Twit?

“And by rapscallion, you mean yourself, right?” Marc couldn’t help it. Jedediah-baiting was his new favorite sport.

Jedediah gasped. “How dare you, sirrah! I have called out men for less offense but, as you are my cousin’s guest and newly arrived in England, I shall merely warn you to improve your manners—”

“Call me out? As in . . . fight me?” Disbelief shot through Marc’s tone. The thought of seriously fighting this idiot—

Actually . . . the more he considered it, the idea had some attractive merit.

“Precisely! I will have you know, I am a crack shot.”

“So pistols are the weapon used?”

“How can you possibly be so unversed in the protocol of a duel of honor?” Jedediah shot him a withering look. “And you have the gall to call yourself a gentleman.”

Marc shrugged. “I just wondered if the rules were different here in good old England. Where I come from, my body is the only weapon I need.” He cracked his knuckles to emphasize the point.

Jedediah’s eyes widen slightly, but he braved onward. “I have done a round or two in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon, I will have you know—”

“Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing
Salon
?” Marc instantly had an image of men prancing around an overstuffed room taking wimpy swipes at each other.

Oh, please.

“Mr. Jackson is a champion pugilist and furthermore—”

Marc raised a skeptical eyebrow and drew up to his full height, allowing himself to look down on Jedediah, despite his bouffant hair. Silencing him.

And then Marc smiled. A nasty grin. The kind of smile that was anything but welcoming.

“A fight would be just the thing. Beating you into a bloody pulp would do wonders for my temper.” Marc cracked his knuckles again for emphasis, edging his smile into murderous territory.

Jedediah swallowed. And then lifted his chin in a bit of bravado. Marc could practically see his peacock feathers bristling.

“Have a care,” Jedediah hissed. “I am a force to be reckoned with, Lord Vader.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jed I. Knight.” Marc leaned forward, crowding the smaller man. “I never underestimate the power of the Force.”

And with that, Marc turned and strode off past the suits of armor, rapping their hollow metal shells to emphasize his point.

Chapter 9

The breakfast room

Haldon Manor

February 21, 1814

M
arc Marc Marc.

The name tripped through Kit’s head in an almost constant thrum. She had practically skipped into the breakfast room behind Lady Ruby. Settling the elderly woman at the table, she was now trying to focus on dishing up Ruby’s plate.

Without much success.

Gah! It was like she was thirteen again and dealing with her first infatuation.

How embarrassing.

And, heaven knew, she was
not
one to indulge in puppy love.

No matter how tempting.

Exactly. You need to find Daniel, extricate him from whatever he is involved in and return home. Can you even imagine if you brought someone like Marcus, Lord Vader back with you?
Virtuous Angel shuddered.

That is true,
Wicked Angel sighed. It was
not
a good sign when Wicked Angel and Virtuous Angel agreed on something.
So . . . nothing will ever happen? We’ve established that. Move on. What can a little flirting hurt?

Yes, what could it hurt? Just a light flirtation. Stay in practice, as it were. It was becoming her mantra.

It would at least provide a welcome break from the incessant monotony . . .

There was just
something
about Marc—here she mentally sighed over his name again—that drew her. That sense of similarity.

She could still see him casually stretched out in the window seat, teasingly trying to coax her secret out of her. Clever and handsome with that deep, rumbling laugh. A laugh that shook those broad, broad shoulders . . .

Were they as powerful as they looked? Would his arms wrap around her like twin bands of supporting steel?

Perhaps she should consider confiding in him. Not about
everything
, obviously, but she could at least mention she was looking for her brother. Merely a tiny piece of her secret.

Though she was quite sure she had found Marc’s. He was Miss Emry’s brother, the one that Lord Linwood had seemed interested in tracking down. His face when she had mentioned Emry’s name . . . well, it left her no doubt.

Miss Emry who was said to have died in the same carriage accident as James, Marc’s old school chum. The accident that Linwood felt had not been an accident at all but caused by some French spy. Who was now trying to steal something from Linwood and so kept attempting to break into Kinningsley.

Wasn’t that what he had said?

And Linwood was trying to find Marc, because Marc was an intelligence agent himself and might have information about the French spies in the area.

It really was quite the convoluted mess, when she thought about it.

Marc seemed capable of being a spy. Quick and intelligent, probing with his questions. And he had just returned from a long stay overseas. Not to mention that fancy maneuver with her runaway horse. Definitely all spy-ish.

Though, he didn’t seem as upset over James’ death as he should be.
If
he had just found out about the death. But if he knew about his sister’s demise already, then he would likely have known about James’ too. So then it all made more sense.

Most of all, she
really
hoped Daniel had nothing to do with the entire affair. But knowing her brother—

“Miss Ashton, please pay attention. The bacon must not touch the kippers.” Lady Ruby’s aristocratic hauteur skittered down Kit’s spine.

Right. Kippers. Focus.

“Of course, my lady,” Kit murmured in reply, glancing down at the plate she was currently dishing from the sideboard for Lady Ruby.

Back ramrod straight in her chair, Lady Ruby had strong opinions about the world and her place in it. All of which was captured in her love of the color purple. The ancient color of kings, as she was fond of reminding Kit. Every day she wore the same color; only her choice of fabric changed.

Today, Lady Ruby had chosen a velvet theme—a gown of deep purple velvet caught tight around her ribcage, trimmed with silver cording and topped with a tasseled turban. Of velvet, of course.

Lady Ruby’s organization of any given day began with her breakfast plate. Ruby insisted it be divided into four parts, each carefully delineated: two rashers of bacon, six kippers of uniform size fanned with tails angling out, a coddled egg and three stacked toast triangles—all in that order running clockwise around the plate with no one item touching another.

“Careful, Miss Ashton. We do not want to have a repeat of last Thursday’s debacle.” Lady Ruby sniffed.

Ah yes. The Porcine Rebellion, as Kit wryly dubbed the incident. That disastrous moment when a bacon rasher had slid across the plate causing a chain reaction, which ended with the coddled egg trapped between two kippers and speared by a toast triangle. Traitorous bit of bacon.

Ruby had been seriously displeased. As a compartmentalized eater, she found such gastronomic disorder distressing. But, then, most things in her life were compartmentalized.

Case in point. The part of her brain that housed
People Who Are Cads
should have definitely included her own son, Jedediah. But, no, he was firmly ensconced in the section labeled
People Who Can Do No Wrong
.

“Good morning, Mother.”

Speak of the devil. Or was it the devil speaking?

Kit swallowed a sigh as Jedediah crossed the room and gave his mother a dutiful peck on the cheek.

Jedediah looked ridiculous, as usual. He had thrown off his knee breeches and tasseled boots in favor of low slung shoes and a pair of skin-tight gold satin pantaloons.

Kit had to repeat it to herself: Gold. Satin. Pantaloons.

Even better, he sported a bright-green velvet coat caught in tight at the waist. A blood red waistcoat peeked out, while the folds of a snowy cravat billowed under his chin.

The entire effect called to mind a rather demented Christmas tree.

Kit knew that Jedediah fancied himself something of a leader of men’s fashion. But
should
there be a place in a man’s wardrobe for a tasteful pair of
tight
gold satin pantaloons?

And wasn’t that an oxymoron? Could gold satin pantaloons
ever
be tasteful?

Arthur and Marianne entered the room on Jedediah’s heels, greeting them all—Arthur nearly tripping over his jaw when he spotted Jedediah’s trousers. His eyes tripled in size. Marianne nudged her husband before he could say anything, silencing him with a quick shake of her dark head.

Kit thoroughly liked Arthur’s quiet, petite wife with her kind eyes and gentle smile. Kit couldn’t fathom how the same set of parents had produced both Linwood and Marianne, as the two siblings were nothing alike. Well, they looked alike with their dark hair and gray eyes, but Marianne was as soft and warm as her brother was icy and arrogant.

Pulling her head back to the task at hand, Kit carefully adjusted the last of Lady Ruby’s kippers and then strolled to place the plate in front of Ruby, all components at precise right angles to each other.

Lady Ruby inspected her work for a moment and then nodded. A quick up and down jerk. It passed muster.

Thank goodness. Now Kit was free to dish her own plate.

She was contemplating the bacon rashers and wondering how many would be embarrassingly
too
many to take when Marc walked into the room. Tastefully dressed in tan buckskin breeches, polished boots and a tailored dark blue coat.

Not a scrap of gold satin in sight.

More’s the pity,
Wicked Angel muttered.
I bet he would look fabulous in gold satin.

Hush you,
Virtuous Angel chided.
Not helping.

He politely greeted everyone and then joined Kit at the sideboard, lifting covers off to inspect his options.

“The bacon is excellent,” Kit murmured, careful to keep her voice low as she piled several slices on to her plate. Lady Ruby would
not
approve of any unauthorized flirtations.

In fact, it would be best if Kit mentally staked a sign in front of Marc as if he were part of an animal menagerie:
Do Not Flirt with the Charming Gentleman
.

Well, at least not when Ruby and Jedediah were around.

Though given the warm chuckle he proffered her, that was going to be difficult. He began to stack bacon onto his plate. Slice after slice.

Kit raised an eyebrow. “You are . . . fond . . . of bacon, I take it?”

He shrugged, adding one last rasher to his pile. “It’s more a lifestyle than a food, I think. The world really cannot have too much of it. You don’t seem so adverse yourself.” He nodded toward her plate.

Kit mimicked his shrug. “Far be it from me to not be supportive of your lifestyle choices.”

Marc managed to turn his abrupt bark of laughter into a loud cough.

“So is this how we are going to entertain ourselves today?” he asked, recovering. “Bacon analysis?”

Kit scooped a coddled egg onto her plate, deliberately cozying it up to her bacon. Just to be obstinate. “Perhaps. If we are extremely fortunate, maybe Cook will encase something truly repulsive in jelly for luncheon, like eel or whole partridges. Just to break up the monotony.”

He shuddered and poked at the kippers. “No, that will not do. I will not lay about waiting for Cook to liven up my day.”

“I appreciate a man with ambition.” Kit placed four toast triangles on her plate, making sure they looked a haphazard jumble.

Marc moved past the kippers and began inspecting the selection of breads.

“I have an idea.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “We are at breakfast. There will, logically, be some conversation. What if we mentally added the words . . . let’s say . . . ‘with a chamberpot’ to the end of each person’s sentence?”

Kit blinked and then turned slowly to regard him.

“With a chamberpot?”

“It could prove amusing.” His face gave away nothing, though his green eyes let off mischievous sparks.

“Are all men perpetually twelve-year-old boys?”

“Most assuredly.” He laid a mockingly-sincere hand over his heart. “Why I am scarcely a day over thirteen myself.”