The Bright and Breaking Sea

by Chloe Neill

* * *

  Kit woke with arms and legs flung wide on the narrow bed, was momentarily confused about her location and the time of day. But the clock said it was time to make her preparations, so she rose, cursing under her breath.

  She found Jane in her rooms, frowning over a metal stand that held small glass tubes, each half-filled with pale yellow liquid. “More sparkers?”

  Jane glanced up. Her hair was pinned up into curls, and she wore a lavender gown barely visible beneath the enormous white apron. “You’re awake. Hetta said you’d come back, but needed rest.” She turned her cheek so Kit could press a kiss there.

  “A bit,” Kit said.

  “And no, I’m not making sparkers at the moment. Were they useful?”

  “Incredibly. They caused some damage to the pirate fortress at Finistère.”

  Jane’s smile faded. “Blast. I was hoping to see that one day.”

  “It’s still standing, if a bit worn. And ‘blast’ is the appropriate word for it,” Kit said with a grin. “Much noise, much light. They helped us free the man we’d gone to save.” Even if they hadn’t been able to save him afterward. And that was still a pinch beneath her heart.

  “I’m glad to hear it. It’s been quite the week here.” She poured liquid from one vial into another, so they shimmered and changed into the rich blue of deep waters.

  “Oh?” Kit asked, watching as Jane added yellow powder to that mix, which turned it into a rather unattractive green.

  “The twins are rowing over a book, Mrs. Eaves is furious at the green merchant because the quality of rutabagas is, and I quote, ‘pitiable.’ Astrid has attracted the attention of a member of the Beau Monde—a Lord Langley, who’s five thousand a year and a fine estate in the Western Isle.”

  That was quite a lot. “And you?” Kit asked.

  Jane smiled. “I’ve received a new apron”—she gestured toward it—“and mudwort I’ve been waiting on for months. I am a woman of simple pleasures.”

  “Are you wearing my pearl earrings?”

  “Borrowed,” Jane said. “Much like your gloves.”

  “You’ll be a bad influence on Louisa. How has she been?”

  “In the few hours she’s been here?” Jane asked with a grin. “Absolutely fine. She’ll be rooming with Marielle, who’s with the governess.”

  Jane stirred the green mixture so what appeared to be solid droplets formed and swirled in the liquid, and then looked at Kit. “You’ve done your duty. Now, get on with it.”

  Kit’s brows lifted. “What?”

  “You’re pacing, which means you’re feeling impatient, which means you aren’t done with your current mission, or you’ve been assigned a new one.”

  “On occasion, your observational skills make me very cross with you.”

  “And which occasion is this?” Jane asked with a grin.

  “I need to ask another favor.”

  “More sparkers?”

  “Actually, yes. But not tonight. I need a dress. And an escort.”

  Jane put the tube she’d been holding into its slot in the stand, turned toward her, gaze narrowed. “For what?”

  “I have to go with Grant to Lambeth to identify a traitor. I need a gown and a chaperone, lest our reputations become sullied.” She said the last with audible sarcasm.

  “Well, well,” Jane said, staring at her sister. “Those are not words I’d have thought to hear from you. Accompanying a viscount to Lambeth.”

  “It’s a mission from the queen direct, so I’ve little choice in it. Although I like fireworks, and there will probably be sweets. And spies. Could you be our”—she struggled to voice the word— “chaperone?”

  Kit didn’t like the knowing smile on Jane’s face.

  “May I amuse myself at your expense?”

  “Do I have another option?”

  Grinning, Jane slipped her arm into Kit’s. “This is going to be great fun.”

  * * *

  They adjourned to Jane’s bedroom.

  “We have some choices.” Jane kneeled in front of the trunk, began to sort through the dresses folded carefully within it. “White muslin?”

  “Too . . . sweet. Can’t I just wear my uniform?”

  “No. Wearing uniforms for moonlight strolling is unimaginative, which we decidedly are not.” She frowned down at a dress, then up at Kit, gaze narrowed as if she were evaluating a portrait.

  “No baubles.” She found another, pulled it out, shook free the folds. It was the color of the cold ocean, captured in undulating silk. Gold braid at the edges of the sleeves and golden embroidery rising from the hem in loops and swirls.

  “That’s beautiful,” Kit said, taking it from Jane.

  “It’s blue,” Jane said, rising to watch Kit move to the tall mirror, sweep the dress in front of her.

  “I love it,” Kit said.

  “I hate it,” Jane said.

  And they looked at each other.

  “It’s the color of the sea,” Kit insisted.

  “But it’s a poor color for you.”

  “I wear a blue uniform every day.”

  Jane’s expression was unapologetic. “I know.”

  Kit rolled her eyes but returned the dress to Jane, who put it aside.

  “Now,” Jane said, pulling out a third dress. “This might be something.”

  It was silk taffeta in deep red that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. There was no lace, no rope, no “baubles.”

  “Too bold,” Kit said.

  “I don’t think so,” Jane said, and this time she rose, swept the dress to the mirror. “Not for you. Come here.”

  Kit walked forward, prepared to dismiss the dress out of hand. Until Jane held it up to her, moved aside so she could see. The color put a glow against her cheeks, made her gray eyes more noticeable.

  “We’re supposed to be inconspicuous,” Kit said, but swung the hem around so she could watch its crisp movement. “This is quite conspicuous.”

  “Which is exactly why it’s perfect,” Jane insisted. “No one would suspect a woman on a mission for the queen wearing a gown as noticeable as this.”

  She had a point. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear this.”

  “It’s Astrid’s,” Jane said. “She wore it last year, discarded it. I was going to reshape it for the twins, but haven’t had the time.” Jane looked at Kit, grinned. “She’ll be furious if you wear it.”

  “All the more reason.”

  Mrs. Eaves stepped into the doorway, surveyed the pile of discarded dresses. “It appears the children have swept through here.”

  “We’re finding Kit a gown for Lambeth Gardens. She’ll be accompanied by a viscount.”

  The shock that paled Mrs. Eaves’s face would forever be etched into Kit’s memory.

  * * *

  Kit was bathed, rouged, and perfumed, her pearl earrings reclaimed, satin slippers located. She found a reticule buried in her trunk, and tossed in several coins and the smallest knife she could find. Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 2, and one of her personal favorites: Preparation is worth its weight in gold.

  She’d just come downstairs, precisely on time, when the footman opened the door, and Grant walked in.

  There was no threadbare linen, no patches. His ensemble was uniformly dark—trousers, waistcoat, tailcoat, boots—and tailored to show every honed muscle. He had no coat, no walking stick, no frilled cravat, no gloves. None of the ornaments that members of his class often used to emphasize their style or wealth. He didn’t need them. His hair was brushed back, his eyes bright. He looked regal . . . and dangerous. Particularly when his gaze followed the line of her dress, his smile warming until she thought the heat of it might scorch the fabric.

  She met his gaze with an arched eyebrow. His smile was utterly unapologetic. And they stood in silence for a mom
ent, the unspoken things humming between them.

  “Lord Grant,” she said.

  “Captain Brightling. That’s not your usual ensemble.”

  “No, it is not,” Kit said. “Did you find your brother?”

  “Not entirely,” Grant said, voice tight. “He’s been staying at our town house, but hadn’t returned overnight, at least not before I left.”

  “Perhaps he’ll return by the time we’re done this evening,” Kit said, then glanced over at the polite throat clearing. Jane stood in the doorway in pale blue silk, her hair curled and piled up and bound by a ribbon in the same color. Jane didn’t care for social gatherings, Kit thought, but she could certainly fit the part when the need arose.

  Kit gestured to her. “Lord Grant, may I present my sister, Jane Brightling? Jane, this is Colonel Rian Grant, Viscount Queenscliffe. Jane will be chaperoning us this evening.”

  They exchanged polite nods.

  “So you’re Kit’s Jane,” Grant said. “The genius behind the explosives.”

  “‘Genius’ is a very overused word,” Jane said. “But not here.”

  Grant smiled. “I see Kit comes by her confidence naturally.”

  “We are well trained in the art,” Jane agreed, and looked him over. “You’re tall for a viscount. And appear strong.”

  “It’s unfortunate I’ve a borrowed carriage, or you could give my horses the same review.”

  “I do enjoy horses,” Jane said. “Which is not a familial trait.”

  Kit made a vague sound.

  “I’ll have to take you and your sister riding sometime.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Kit said.

  “Hello,” said a voice above them. “I didn’t realize we had company.”

  She descended the stairs with the bearing of a queen, pale skin against deep blue velvet. Her dark hair was piled in a complicated knot dotted with paste diamonds. And there was cunning in her green eyes.

  “Astrid Brightling,” Kit said as Astrid joined them, proud that her voice didn’t simmer with irritation. “Colonel Rian Grant.”

  “Ah,” Astrid said. “Viscount Queenscliffe, of course.”

  She would note the title.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Brightling,” Grant said, then offered a small bow as she made an irritatingly elegant curtsy.

  “Kit mentioned you’d served aboard her ship. That must have been quite a change for a man used to very . . . different circumstances.”

  He slid a glance toward Kit. “It was an . . . enlightening experience.”

  Astrid’s smile was quick. “Aren’t you very gracious, my lord?”

  “Ever so gracious,” Kit said tightly.

  “Are you going to Lambeth, Ms. Brightling?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Lord Dartmouth’s ball is this evening, and everyone will be there. Oh,” she said, mouth forming an apologetic curve. “That was so thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”

  You meant exactly what you said, Kit thought but didn’t bother to say aloud.

  But she did find the information interesting—that the meeting at Lambeth had been scheduled at the same time as a ball, when so many of the Beau Monde—and New London’s leaders—would be at Lord Dartmouth’s. The crowds at Lambeth would be thinner, giving the traitors more privacy.

  Had that been a lucky coincidence, or was the person who’d proposed the meeting place familiar with the Beau Monde social calendar?

  Behind them, a door opened, and there were footsteps down the hallway. Kit wondered if every other sister in the house intended to greet Grant, when Hetta appeared.

  “Are we so rude that we must greet our guests in the foyer?” she asked. But she smiled up at Grant. “My lord.”

  “Mrs. Brightling, I presume. And please, call me Rian.”

  “And you’ll call me Hetta,” she insisted.

  “Is that my dress?” Astrid asked, her voice a fierce whisper as Grant and Hetta made their nods.

  “Not anymore,” Jane said with a smile.

  “Your daughters,” Grant said, “or at least the ones I’ve met, are very formidable.”

  “Then I’ve done my job,” Hetta said. “And how are things in Queenscliffe?”

  “For the moment, settled. But there’s work to do yet.”

  Hetta nodded. “Isn’t that true for all of us? That we try to move forward, but always find a bit more that needs repair?”

  “Wise words,” Grant said with a nod.

  “And we’ve taken up enough of your time,” Hetta said. “You’ve activities to attend, fireworks to see.”

  “So we do,” Grant said, and offered his arm to Kit. “Captain?”

  She nodded, and prepared for a very different kind of battle.

  Twenty-Four

  The carriage was white and gleaming, the horses nearly the same, and far enough away from the velvet seat that Kit decided it was safe to ignore them. For now.

  They bobbed across New London and the Saint James to the towering stone gates that led into the garden, where dozens of carriages were depositing those who planned to meet lovers, or enjoy supper, or take in the night air with a few thousand friends.

  Grant offered the gold coins for their entrance fee, offered Kit his arm.

  “Purely professional,” he said, but she didn’t care for the glint in his eyes.

  “Professional,” she agreed, and placed her hand atop his arm, could feel the heat radiating from strong muscle.

  This is going to be a long night, she thought.

  “This is going to be a very interesting evening,” Jane said behind them.

  * * *

  Lambeth was large, nearly ten acres of tree-lined walks, colonnaded salons, theaters, and boxes.

  They strolled the main walk, bounded by standing lamps that spilled light through the darkness, and watched couples do the same. Their chaperones—looking mostly bored or envious—walked behind.

  “What time is our rendezvous?” Jane asked, and Kit felt Grant’s flinch.

  “I wouldn’t allow her to help us without understanding the risks,” Kit said.

  “Ten o’clock,” Grant said after a moment. “The pavilion is on the other end of the park.”

  “And a known location for illicit liaisons.”

  “Then it’s a perfect location,” Grant said. “We’ve some time before the rendezvous. I suggest we work our way across the gardens just as any other visitors, and watch for anyone unusual.”

  A harlequin ran past them, tossing an enormous hoop into the air and catching it on the run, to the applause of the viewers.

  “More unusual than that?” Jane asked.

  “Differently unusual,” Grant said, then glanced at Kit. “Is that plan agreeable to you, Captain?”

  “I have no objections,” she said. At present.

  They strolled leisurely down one tree-lined path and up another, pausing now and again to watch some spectacle presented for the visitors’ amusement. Tumblers, dancers, actors, a man who shaved ice from a block in a sling around his waist into small paper cones. The weather was perfect, the elderwood trees bright with green. And Kit saw no one who appeared to be a spy.

  Kit had grown used to trousers and boots—the comfort and the practicality—and had forgotten the discomfort of thin slippers on stone paths, the necessity of constantly lifting one’s hem outside to avoid dragging it through dirt and puddles and mud. And being New London, there were puddles aplenty at an outdoor garden. The slippers would be a noble sacrifice to this evening of patriotism. It was unfortunate, Kit thought, that she hadn’t borrowed the slippers from Astrid, too.

  They made pleasantly vague conversation while they watched the surroundings, shared a cone of pistachio nougats—most of which went to Jane in payment for her toils—before they made their way to
the towering pavilion of brilliant crimson and gold tile roofs.

  “Perhaps a bench,” Grant said, pointing to a small covered seating box a few yards away.

  “That would provide a good view,” Kit agreed.

  “And ample privacy,” Jane murmured as they passed another box, where a couple were very indiscreetly entwined. “Have they no homes?”

  “They do,” Grant said, following her gaze. “But they’re both married, and their spouses would probably frown on it.”

  They took seats on the bench, Kit between Grant and Jane, and Kit nearly sighed in relief.

  “Problem?”

  “Shoes,” she said, lifting a torn and soiled slipper. “Boots are better. But would have looked horrid with this dress.”

  “It is a very becoming dress,” Grant said quietly. “And a very proper ensemble.”

  Kit was glad they sat in half shadow and he couldn’t see the heat that she felt rise up her cheeks. It was enough that they were pressed leg to leg on the bench. She didn’t need the reminder of their . . . compatibility. Compatibility could not overcome their positions, their divergent fates.

  “And you look nearly proper enough to escort a captain of the Queen’s Own,” Kit said, tossing back the volley.

  “Well met, Captain,” he muttered, and stretched out his legs to wait.

  * * *

  At a quarter till ten, a man approached. The path had been quiet for some time, so while they kept their positions, Grant in his half-reclined pose, she could feel the tension enter his body again.

  The man marched down the path, and as he passed beneath a light, she recognized his face.

  John Stanton, the boorish man from the Foreign Office she’d met in the palace. The man Kingsley had protected her against. He nearly strode past them, and Kit was thrilled by the possibility they’d found one of their traitors—and he was a man she already loathed. Until he stopped, looked over, and peered at Grant.

  “Well, well,” he said, and strolled closer. “If it isn’t the viscount, returned to New London.” His voice was slurred, his steps unsteady, and he smelled of the arrack sold in the salon. Her excitement dissipated. Unless he was a rather remarkable actor, this wasn’t their man.