“We leave before dawn,” he said into the heavy silence, and his father nodded.
“Do you intend to wish Angela farewell?”
The subject was still touchy between them, though Kit had slowly come to the conclusion that his father, true to character, had used Angela as a means to an end; in this case, to lure his son to London. Being an astute entrepreneur, John Lindell had been easily convinced to enter into a business venture with the duke. That had given Sheridan justifiable reason to invite the Lindells to social functions, and also gave him easy access to Angela. Mystified as to how his father had known about her at first—and why he thought she would matter to him—Kit was too stubborn to ask.
It had been Turk who had informed Kit that the spy they had employed was also employed by none other than the duke. “Gabriel is a multifaceted individual,” Turk had observed with his usual understatement; only his logical assertion that it was hardly likely one could trust a man trafficking in deception for financial gain had defused Kit’s first rush of anger. It also explained why Kit had so frequently been frustrated by near misses in his pursuit of Vivian St. Genevieve.
Now, he was just as frustrated though he had finally achieved his objective—another correct prediction Turk had made. It was infuriating that the giant could be so right so many times. And it gave him pause when he recalled Turk’s insistence that Kit make amends with Angela.
God, he wanted to. How many nights had he lain in his bed and thought of her? Wondered where she was and if she thought of him at all? Most likely, he had mused, if she did think of him, it was with anything but charity. Still stinging from his mother’s refusal to talk to him, he had been deliberately cruel to Angela, knowing it would drive her away from him. And it had worked only too well. The past month, both notes he had sent her had been returned unopened. He had only himself to blame, but his determination to dismiss her from his mind and life had wavered several times.
Looking up at his father, Kit said, “Perhaps I shall say my farewells to Angela before I leave. It should delight her to know that I am leaving London.”
The duke smiled. “Filbert will have the carriage brought ’round for you.”
A cold October wind pushed out the draperies in a bell shape and chilled the room. Flames danced like frenzied demons in the grate, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. Rising from her chair near the fire, Angela moved to the window and leaned out to pull it shut.
Dusky shadows shrouded the garden below, and the wind clacked through bare limbs as trees shed crimson and gold leaves into sodden piles on the ground. A sudden gust swept up a few of the drier leaves and whirled them in a spinning eddy; there was the smell of frost in the air, melding with the sharp scent of wood smoke.
Hesitating, Angela gazed into the garden, letting the damp air mist her skin. She thought of sea winds stirring up waves in lacy froths against the sides of a ship, wetting her toes and her dress. There was nothing outside to remind her of the sea, nothing but her own memories that never seemed to fade. Random events triggered the memories, sometimes nothing more than the warble of a sparrow to remind her of the exotic birds on St. Thomas.
Still leaning out the window, one arm outstretched as she gripped the latch to pull it closed, Angela shut her eyes and let the rain drizzle over her face and wet her hair. The wind chuckled around tall chimneystacks and building corners, tugging at her hair and seeming to whisper of far-off places. She shivered, then gave a start when a hand touched her shoulder.
“Miss Angela,” Emily was saying, and with a final glance at the shifting shadows beyond the garden wall, Angela regretfully pulled the windows shut and turned.
“I was just . . . getting some fresh air,” she explained lamely, and looked away from the sympathy in Emily’s eyes. She could not bear that. No more sympathy. Even her mother had ceased to badger her into accepting social invitations; she suspected her father was behind that, but she did not care to explore the reasons for it.
“Miss Angela,” Emily repeated, and there was a strange note in her voice that made Angela look up with a frown.
“Yes?”
“I . . . I came to tell you that I am leaving your employ.”
Angela stared at her uncomprehendingly. Finally she asked in a shaky voice, “Why?”
“I can’t tell you.” Emily looked down at her clasped hands. Coaxing would not lift her head, and finally Angela reached out to grasp her chin.
“Tell me,” she insisted, gazing into Emily’s brown eyes. Color flushed the girl’s face, and her mop of brown curls rioted over her forehead from beneath the neat white cap she always wore.
“Dylan,” she blurted, and Angela understood.
Releasing Emily’s chin, she nodded. “I see. You are going to stay with him, I imagine.”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Angela eyed her speculatively. “What do you mean?”
“I have passage on a ship leaving London tomorrow tonight. I am to . . . to meet him in a month’s time.”
“The Sea Tiger is leaving?”
“Yes. Captain Saber is taking to the seas again. I was not supposed to tell you, but . . . but I couldn’t just leave without telling you why.”
Reeling from the emotional impact of knowing that Kit would be leaving London behind, Angela reached out blindly for a support. It was Emily’s quickly proffered hand that gave it to her, and she stumbled to her chair and sank down into the cushions. She had somehow known that this day might come again, and thought herself prepared for it.
Was that what his unread notes had said? That he would soon be leaving? Perhaps she should have opened them, after all. It was just that she had hoped that he would come to her, not send her a formal, stiff note of explanation. Written sentiments had long ago left her skeptical, and surely he would know that. Why, then, had he not come to her? Why was he leaving without telling her farewell?
“Miss Angela,” Emily said hesitantly, “maybe this is forward of me, but I think you should come along, too.”
Angela stared at her blankly. What was the girl talking about? Why should she go to stay with Dylan?
“If nothing else,” Emily said, “you’d be with me and Dylan. You’re miserable here. Even your parents know it. Everyone knows it. If you came with me, you’d be bound to see Captain Saber again. He’d have to talk to you. Maybe then you could work things out. Oh, Miss Angela, it’s worth a try. Do you intend to let him just walk away without taking responsibility for his actions?”
Angela smiled faintly. “That last bit of rhetoric sounds suspiciously like Turk.”
Emily flushed. “Well, yes, he did say it first. It was his suggestion that you join me.” Digging into her apron pocket, she brought out a thick envelope. “I already have our passage here.”
Shaking her head, Angela murmured, “No, I shan’t chase after a man. If he wants me—”
“Poppycock. You went after your fussy Frenchman and he wasn’t worth two pence. Captain Saber loves you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have sent you two notes that you would not even read. He’s been hurt bad in the past, and he’s too proud to risk it again. Please. You must know deep in your heart how he feels. Don’t you care enough to fight for what you want?”
Staring at her, Angela had the wild, crazy thought that Emily was right. It was insane, and she knew it, but something inside her urged her to do it. She had before, hadn’t she? And even if it had turned out badly with Philippe, this time was different. Kit had let her into parts of his soul that no other woman had seen; she knew that instinctively. If she gave up now, she might lose it all. Yes. Emily was right. So was Turk. It was worth fighting for, even if she lost in the end.
“What’s the name of this island?” Angela murmured, shutting her eyes and letting the sun warm her face. Emily stirred groggily beside her. It was late afternoon, and shadows had lengthened and deepened along the garden’s stucco walls.
“I’m not certain. I just know it’s near Crete. Safe, Dylan says, from Nap
oleon, because it’s not important. Just a dot in the Aegean, he said.”
After sailing along the coast of Spain and around through the straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean, their ship had finally docked on the large island of Crete. From there, they had taken another ship to a tiny jot of land in the Dodecanese Islands. It was warm here, with a temperate climate, though they were told it was the rainy season.
For the first time in months, Angela felt a sense of peace. On the voyage she had agonized over whether or not she was doing the right thing. Somewhere along the way, she had come to terms with her emotions and her motives. It had been very difficult trying to explain to her parents why she was leaving, but finally she had convinced them that she had to try. Even if Kit did not want her with him, she would be fine. Perhaps all she had needed was distance in order to put things in their proper perspective. Or maybe it was the reminder that the world was much larger than just London. How quickly one could forget and tend to judge events by a small, narrow point of view. Yes, no matter what happened when Kit arrived, she would be fine.
But when he came, the ship gliding in under cover of night and a light fog lying like clouds atop the surface of the tiny bay, Angela almost forgot her resolve. Nervous flutters of her heart were so distracting that she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. Emily gave her a concerned look.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Angela?”
“Quite s-s-sure.” She clenched her teeth tightly together and grimaced. They were standing on the sandy beach near the quay. It had rained earlier, and the air was sticky with moist residue. “Just nervous,” she added unnecessarily, and saw Emily smile.
Shreds of moonlight filtered through scudding clouds, bright and silvery, painting mundane surroundings with iridescent color. As the Sea Tiger’s sails caught the wind and tatters of fog, it turned in a slow, graceful half-circle and coasted into the harbor. There was the sound of lines humming through pulleys, creaking chains, and furling sails, canvas snapping as it was lowered. She could see the ship rocking gently in the bay, the sleek lines familiar and heart-stopping at the same time.
What would he say when he saw her?
She didn’t have to wait long. A boat was lowered almost at once, and she saw the dark shapes of several people nestled in the tiny craft as it moved toward shore with a dipping of oars and splashing of water.
When the boat neared the end of the quay, she recognized Dylan in the prow. He leaped nimbly onto the stone dock, looping the anchoring line around a thick bollard.
Emily had already begun to run toward Dylan, her steps light and eager. Her heart in her throat, Angela held back, her eyes searching the gloom for Kit’s familiar frame. Then she saw him stand, saw him leap up onto the dock with the same agility as Dylan, and as her pulses quickened and her mouth went dry, she saw him turn back to offer his hand to someone in the boat.
Hesitating, Angela strained to see through the shadows. Then she heard a feminine voice lifted in laughter, heard accents that she had heard before as the woman said, “Do not allow me to fall, or I shall be most angry with you, mon chou.”
Too paralyzed by shock and horror to move, Angela stood in anguished misery when Kit lifted up Contessa Villiers to stand beside him. How could he? Oh, she had been a fool to come, but she had never thought he would bring a woman along with him. And especially not this woman. Whatever was she thinking of to allow Emily to persuade her to come? Her first instincts had been correct. She should have remained in England.
It wasn’t until Kit slid a steadying arm around the contessa’s waist that Angela was able to break free from her daze and turn away. She fled back up the terraced hillside to the small, walled inn where she and Emily had a room.
Once again, she had sailed to meet a man who no longer wanted her.
Twenty-four
“I don’t have to look far to find the culprit behind this scheme,” Kit said shortly, his gaze shifting from Dylan to Turk and back. “Or perhaps I should use the plural tense instead of singular.”
“It would be more appropriate,” Turk murmured without a shred of remorse in his dark gaze. He met Kit’s eyes without flinching. “I thought it a smashing notion.”
“No doubt.” Drawing in a deep breath, Kit glanced at the contessa, who seemed bored by the exchange. Lying gracefully upon a small sofa, she evinced more interest in her jeweled hands than she did the conversation. He was not, of course, fooled for a moment. She had heard every word. It was one of the traits that made her so successful.
Beckoning to Turk to join him, he left Dylan with the contessa and moved out onto the veranda of the small inn. When they were beyond earshot of the room they had just left, Kit asked tersely, “Where is she?”
“Presumably, in her lodgings. Emily informed me that she fled the beach. Contessa Villiers was not expected to be among the ship’s passengers.”
Kit shot him an ironic glance. “No doubt. It seemed the most expedient method of removing her from harm’s way, however. Should I have conferred with you before bringing her aboard?”
“It would have saved a great deal of unnecessary trouble. I would have solved the quandary in an instant. And without undue stress.”
“I’m most gratified to hear it. You were not present when the decision needed to be made, however, and I took the liberty of arranging my own life.”
His sarcasm was not lost on Turk, who gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders. “You’re doing so well at it. I should never have suggested I could do a superior job.”
Folding his arms over his chest, Kit said, “You couldn’t. Your emotions aren’t involved. Has it ever occurred to you that if they were, you might not react so logically at times?”
For a moment, Turk was silent. Then he said solemnly, “You are correct, of course. In times of deep emotional stress, I have been known to act very unwisely. It is much easier for one to remain detached and impart sensible advice, than it is to be involved and heed it.”
Several moments passed before Kit said, “I’m going to talk to her. I should have before I left London.” He waited for Turk to agree, and when no response was forthcoming, he muttered, “Hell, I actually stood in the rain outside her house for an hour. She came to the window and looked out. Her hair was all loose and flowing, and the rain misted her face—I could never dredge up the moral courage to face her after some of the things I led her to believe.”
Shifting position, Turk turned to face him. “Perhaps it is not too late to make amends. If she came all this way just for you, it would be a shame for her to leave here as she did New Orleans.”
Kit flinched at the comparison. He remembered only too well Angela’s anguish after finding her betrothed. At the time, he had condemned Philippe du Plessis for betraying her. But hadn’t he done the same thing in word, if not deed? Angela was right. There came a time in every person’s life to take the risk of trusting someone. He was not a boy anymore, but a man who had experienced much of life. If he didn’t trust himself not to choose a partner worthy of his love, how could he ever expect Angela to trust him? It was a fitting paradox, he thought grimly.
But it was much easier in theory, he found, than in actuality, to convince her. Angela refused to open the door. It was Emily who finally let him in, slipping past him and closing the door behind her. He stood awkwardly in the center of the room for several long moments. Angela would not even look at him. She kept her face averted as if it was too painful to see him.
Throwing himself into the hard comfort of a cane chair, he stared at her in growing frustration. “Angela,” he said for what seemed like the tenth time, “look at me.”
Still not looking at him, she said to a spot on the floor, “I was wrong to come here, Kit. Forgive me. Blame it on English weather in October. Sunny climes were too tempting.”
“Bloody hell,” he said, losing his temper and rising to his feet in a swift motion that drew a startled gasp from her. This time she looked at him, her green eyes wide with tre
pidation. He lowered his voice with an effort and said more calmly, “I had almost forgotten your eyes were that particular shade of green. Like the water in the bay at St. Thomas. Remember? It changed from blue to green, sometimes so clear we could see the fish darting around on the bottom.”
A faint smile curved her mouth as she nodded. “Yes, I can remember that.”
He couldn’t help the almost painful rasp in his voice when he said, “Angela, there are so many things I remember about you. I admit, there was a time I didn’t want to think about you, didn’t want to love you. It was too risky. But now—”
“Don’t,” she gasped in a half-sob. Tears welled in her eyes and he reached out to her, but she avoided his touch. “No. Kit, I saw you earlier. I know that you are with . . . with the contessa.”
“The contessa. I can explain that.”
She interrupted him before he could form his thoughts. “There is no need to offer an explanation. You’re free to be with whomever you wish. I should never have come here—”
“Dammit, Angela, will you listen?” He moved toward her, ignoring her efforts to avoid him as he took her by the arms. He held her tightly and gave her a small, frustrated shake. “Contessa Villiers is with me because I had to get her out of England. Did you hear the rumors about La Diabolique?” When she nodded, her head bent so that he had to stare at the curls atop her crown, he said through clenched teeth, “If I did not give her passage, she might have been arrested for espionage. There was an incident with a Colonel Despard that came to my attention . . .”
After a moment, Angela looked up and asked stiffly, “I can understand your wanting to keep her safe. But have you stopped to think that perhaps you might be tainted by the same charge? Unless, of course, you are willingly involved in treason.” Her eyes widened, and she said with a catch in her voice, “Oh Kit, you—you aren’t, are you?”
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