The Bright and Breaking Sea

by Chloe Neill

  “What’s his name?” Grant asked. “The man to whom you owe money.”

  “It hardly matters. I’ll deal with my own problems in my own time.”

  “Given you’re laid up in the family town house, your problems have plainly become our problems. You can’t possibly think silence and denial are helping you, or us, or the family.”

  “We all have our secrets. I understand you’ve been working for the Crown.”

  If Grant was surprised by his brother’s knowledge, he didn’t mention it. “There’s work to be done, so I agreed to do it. If you hope to obtain information you can sell, you’ll find that well quite dry.”

  Lucien lifted a hand, let it drop again. “Just attempting pleasant conversation. I understand that’s what families are intended to do—speak with each other about things other than debts and violence and memories of things past.”

  Grant sighed, the sound so heavy—so tired—Kit wanted to walk in, to offer comfort. But she knew comfort wasn’t hers to give.

  “Give me his name,” Grant said again.

  Lucien lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Xavier Forsythe.”

  The man who ruled New London’s criminal underground, Kit thought, and believed no crime was off-limits. Theft. Blackmail. Murder. He ruled his world from the Abbey, a tough neighborhood in the center of New London. A dangerous man, Kit thought. And not one to whom she’d want to owe a debt.

  “And before you begin your lecture, I wasn’t aware I was playing cards with his money. Not at the time.”

  “And yet,” Grant said.

  “And yet.

  “If you want something to bargain with,” Lucien said, then winced as he leaned over to sift through items on a small table near the bed, “you can use this.” He held out his palm. Kit couldn’t tell what he offered, other than it appeared to be metal. At the widening of Grant’s eyes, he hadn’t expected to see it.

  “Dare I ask why you brought that here?”

  “Because it’s time you take it. It’s time you wear it.” Lucien held it up, looked it over. A ring, Kit thought, of gleaming gold.

  “You were going to give Father’s ring to Forsythe to clear your debts. Why didn’t you?”

  “Because apparently there are depths to which even I won’t sink,” he said. “And it’s not Father’s ring. It’s the viscount’s signet. You, being the viscount, should wear it.” He took Grant’s hand, pressed the ring into it.

  Grant’s fingers curled, went white around the ring. “I’ve no interest in wearing his gold. I put it away for a reason after he died.”

  Lucien looked up at him, and for the first time, Kit saw sympathy there. “Father was a hard man. A difficult man. And while he may have been a sublime failure at running his estate, he cared for the tenants. For those who made the land what it was. If the queen absolves the debt, so be it. If she doesn’t, so be it. But either way, you’ve more than made up for what he did. You’ve worked to put the estate to rights.”

  Grant gestured toward the plainly furnished room, Lucien in bed. “And to what rights, what illustrious heights, have I brought it? I have a broken title. A broken land. A broken family.”

  “So maybe what we’ve done isn’t working,” Lucien said quietly. “Maybe there’s another way.” And then he laughed hoarsely. “And maybe I’ll suddenly be a happy and industrious brother, and cause no further worry.” His voice was bitter now, tinged with regret and what Kit thought sounded like resignation.

  Silence fell heavy between them.

  “There will be changes,” Grant said.

  And hearing the authority in his voice, Kit knew that was the last word.

  * * *

  Kit scurried back to the first floor, positioned herself in front of a very ugly painting, and was there when Grant returned after, she guessed, collecting himself.

  Kit turned back, found his features expressionless, his hand still fisted.

  “Lucien?”

  “He’s fine,” Grant said. “I’ll hail a hackney.”

  Kit glanced toward the stairway, hoped she looked sufficiently confused by his dismissal. But he walked to the door, opened it, looked back at her expectantly.

  “I’m sorry to send you home alone. But I’ve matters to see to yet.”

  Kit nodded, walked outside, waited in silence—watching him—while he hailed a hackney. When a carriage pulled to a stop, the clacking of hooves echoing in the darkness, he gestured toward it.

  She looked at him for a long moment, neither of them blinking. Neither showing weakness. And then she climbed inside. “I’ll see you in the morning if the queen summons us.”

  She fully expected the queen would summon them. But she felt a keen ache at the possibility that the queen wouldn’t, and this would be their last meeting.

  He looked at her then, one hand fisted around the ring, the other fisted around the open door, and seemed as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  As the hackney moved forward, she watched through the window as Grant walked back to the town house, then stopped, hands on his hips.

  She stuck her head out, thumped the carriage to get the driver’s attention. “Pull up to the crossroads, and stop. Wait until I say.”

  He did as she instructed. Leaning out through the small window, she watched Grant pace back and forth, back and forth. Then he stopped, waved another hackney, and climbed inside.

  Kit knew exactly where he was headed.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she called out to the driver. “Follow that driver.”

  * * *

  The driver was discreet enough to work for Chandler, Kit thought, rather impressed. He followed at a reasonable distance as Grant’s carriage bounced through Victory Park to the Abbey, where the buildings huddled closer along the narrowing road, all of it soot-stained and gray.

  Forsythe hadn’t spent his fortune improving the neighborhood.

  They made a final turn into a narrow lane when Grant’s carriage slowed, came to a stop in the middle of the block. Kit slipped her driver coins before jumping to the ground, wishing she were back in trousers and had more than the small knife in her reticule. But needs must.

  Grant looked up at the building, a dozen columns rising to the second floor, two guards in front of it. It would have been garish in Victory Park, was especially so amid the surrounding poverty.

  Kit watched from a sheltered portico as Grant faced the guards. Apparently unperturbed, they looked at him with no interest.

  “I need to speak with him,” Grant said, and when the guards made no move, took a menacing step forward.

  Perhaps, Kit thought, Grant had simply been too angry to recall that he was alone, or that there was an easier way to get into a New London establishment.

  Kit walked up, pulled gold coins from her reticule, held them up. “Perhaps this will ease the way.”

  Grant went rigid, looked at her with unmitigated fury. But before he could argue, the coins were taken, secreted away.

  “Upstairs,” one guard said as the other opened the door. They walked inside. Tobacco smoke, thick and pungent and sweet, slithered through the door like fog, added its miasma to the neighborhood. Music slid through behind it, a song played on a violin.

  “I have notes of my own,” Grant said in a furious whisper, “and could have handled that.”

  “I suspect you’ll need the notes when we get inside. And you can pay back the coin.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

  Grant growled. “We will discuss this.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she said. “But not now. At present, we’re a united front.”

  They walked through the fog into Forsythe’s world, which appeared to be home of the Isles’ entire supply of gilt and velvet. Every stationary surface had been covered with on
e or both of them, from walls to ceiling to the gold-painted floors. Mirrors in gaudy gilt frames were the only other decoration on the walls; useless, given the haze that obscured the reflections.

  Their progress through the foyer was halted by a stone fountain: a gold cherub urinating into a pool.

  “I suppose you can’t purchase good taste,” Kit murmured.

  They glanced at the staircase, which rose up and curved to the left. They made their way up, hearing whispered conversation and that same syrupy song, but saw no one else along the way until they reached the landing.

  A woman—a very large woman—stood outside a set of closed wooden doors with velvet panels and gilt scrolling around the edges. She cut an imposing figure. At least six feet tall, her body was strong and curvy beneath trousers and tailcoat.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her tone as indifferent as her gaze.

  “To speak with him,” Grant said.

  Unlike the men downstairs, the goddess was smart enough to get to the point. She simply held out her hand. This time, without hesitation, he pulled a note from his coat, offered it.

  She took it, gestured toward the door behind her. “Careful with your step, and your words.”

  They walked inside, found red carpet and swagged velvet. And behind an obscenely ornate desk—literally obscene; fornicating couples had been carved into the front panel—sat the apparent criminal mastermind.

  Forsythe was, at first glance, a very common-looking man. Pale skin, dark hair. Average height, average weight. Small dark eyes over a nose flattened at the bridge.

  “Rian Grant, the viscount without funds.” He looked at Kit, brow furrowed and fingers linked. “I don’t believe we’re acquainted.”

  He spoke quickly, words clipped as if they’d been scurrying around in his head, eager for escape. He’d come from the west, his voice still lightly accented, before he’d made camp in the Abbey, and there’d been no stopping him.

  “You don’t need to be acquainted with her,” Grant said.

  Forsythe’s brows lifted comically. “Ah, that’s the way of it, aye? I see.” Eyes bright with excitement, he leaned forward. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Or shall I guess?”

  “My brother was stabbed earlier this evening.”

  Forsythe pressed a hand to his chest, moved his mouth into a circle of shock as he shifted his gaze to Grant. “No. An assault in our beautiful city? Your poor, sweet, debt-riddled brother. How is he?”

  “He survived.” Grant’s voice was cold, his expression equally so.

  “I’m so relieved,” Forsythe said, features twisting into faux concern.

  “I’m sure,” Grant said. “What do you know about the assault?”

  “Well, nothing, of course. I’ve been here in my humble home.” He spread his hands. “My customers and staff would be happy to confirm that, of course.”

  “He owes you money.”

  “Many people do,” Forsythe said. “The Grant family has fallen so far since your father’s death, don’t you think? The older son come back from war a changed man. The younger son throwing away his potential. It’s all so tragic,” he said, with a dramatic slump of his shoulders. “Oh, but it was you that left him and went off to play soldier, wasn’t it?”

  Grant lunged forward. Or would have, if Kit hadn’t grabbed his arm.

  Gone was the playfulness in Forsythe’s eyes now. Gone was the toying smile. And in their place was coldness and fury. Forsythe slapped a fist on the table. He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. “This is no longer entertaining. State your business or get out.”

  “How much does he owe?”

  Forsythe named a figure that had Grant’s jaw clenching, and would have kept every resident of the Brightling house in Portnoy’s for a year. But Grant stayed calm, pulled a stack of papers from his pocket, held it out toward Forsythe. And the man’s eyes went wild, like a dragon scenting gold.

  “The complete sum,” Grant said. “Plus one percent interest.”

  “The rate is higher.”

  “One percent,” Grant said. “Or I will make it my personal mission to make your life hell.”

  Suddenly interested, Forsythe sat back in this chair, steepled his fingers. “Your titled friends also owe me money, and even if they don’t, I know their secrets. They won’t raise a finger against me.”

  Grant’s smile was thin. “Not the titled, Forsythe. The soldiers. Those I fought with at Contra Costa. Those who know how many didn’t fight because they made payments to the right parties. Payments that were funded by this establishment.”

  Forsythe watched him for a moment, head bobbing as he considered. “That’s an interesting threat. But do you really think anyone in the ministry would punish me?”

  “Oh, probably not directly,” Grant said pleasantly. “But how long do you think it will take for your revenues to go down when former regimentals are camped on your doorstep, watching everyone who enters, and your name has been so thoroughly dragged through the gutters that no one—no one—from the ministry would risk doing business with you any longer?”

  Forsythe went rigid, hands shaking with anger. “You don’t have the connections.”

  “Try me,” Grant said. And given his perfectly mild expression, Kit surmised how Grant was good at playing indigo.

  “Get out,” Forsythe said.

  “Say it,” Grant said. “Say it, in front of my witness, that Lucien’s books are clear.”

  Forsythe had gone so taut with quivering rage that Kit thought he might simply snap.

  “Lucien’s books are clear,” he said, each word an obvious battle. “Now get the hell out.”

  * * *

  They didn’t argue, and had only just emerged from the room when the sound of breaking glass echoed behind them. Having a tantrum, Kit guessed. A good thing there was decor to spare.

  Kit and Grant moved swiftly back through the building, Grant fuming silently until they emerged outside. Kit breathed deeply of the fresh air, and followed him up the road, which was silent in the darkness but for the barking of a lone dog, the whispers of men huddled near a fire.

  “You had no right,” Grant said, his strides so long Kit had to nearly run in her dress and slippers to keep up. But she wouldn’t ask for quarter from him. Not now.

  “You could have trusted me,” she said.

  “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s not your burden to carry any more of my problems,” Grant said, stopping short, turning to her. “For gods’ sake. How much of the Grant family’s misery do I need to spread at your feet? My family is a mess. My estate is a mess. For three years, I’ve worked to bring the estate back from the ruin made of it while I was gone. And yet, it remains—”

  “A mess?” Kit offered, and enjoyed the heat that fired in his eyes. Better anger than this frustrated hopelessness. A good rage might burn some of it away.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Being titled?” Kit asked. “Having the ability to settle your brother’s debts by tossing down notes? Having the privilege of time to resolve those debts without his being thrown into debtors’ prison?”

  He stopped, looked down at her. “That’s not making me feel better.”

  “It wasn’t intended to,” she said. “It was intended to make you think.” She resumed walking.

  He growled behind her, but followed. “I won’t foist my problems onto someone else. There’s nothing principled, nothing titled, in that.”

  “Have you demanded I pay his debts?”

  “Of course not. I—”

  “Then you’ve hardly foisted anything on me.” This time, she stopped. “I’ve witnessed the facts of your existence, just as you’ve witnessed some of mine. And that they aren’t my burdens doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

  “I don’t need help.”

 
She snorted. “You do if you think marching into Forsythe’s lair alone was a good idea.”

  And then his hand was on her arm, long fingers sending heat across her skin. Kit swallowed hard, thought again of the kiss, scorching after her trip into frigid seas.

  “No rules of engagement apply in Forsythe’s world. You could have been hurt.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “As could you. And you were angry, which is hardly an ideal way to strategize.”

  “I was bloody furious,” Grant said, dropping his hand. “I’m sending him home as soon as he’s well enough to travel.”

  “Will he stay if you send him back?”

  Grant opened his mouth, closed it again. “I don’t know. And that is a slice through the gut.”

  “He’s not your responsibility.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “And an adult. I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t care, or offer him help. But he’s going to make his own choices, good or bad. That’s not a failure on your part.”

  Hands on his hips, Grant closed his eyes, sighed heavily. “It’s bloody irritating, Brightling, when you say insightful things like that.”

  Kit understood the storm had passed. “Let’s walk to the circus. We can find a hackney home.”

  “Home being the key consideration,” Grant said. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.”

  Twenty-Six

  The summons came the next morning as she was pulling on her boots. She was mildly irritated at herself for being excited to see Grant again.

  “Viscount,” she reminded herself, and thought of the viscountess’s rooms at Grant Hall, the fine fabrics and soft furnishings, and the misery of being captive inside that prison instead of on the sea, where she belonged.

  She met him in the palace, just outside the throne room. They exchanged nods. His tailcoat was dark blue, a shade that nearly matched what she’d seen inside the Northern Sea.

  “You’re back in uniform,” he said.