Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  “Of course, my dear. I had nearly forgotten about that . . . issue. It has definitely been a concern for both of us.”

  Now it was Kit’s turn, choking a little on her tea as she set her cup down.

  Man, he loved to watch the play of emotions across her face. The way her beer-colored eyes lit when she was teasing him.

  No, not beer-colored. Describing a woman’s eyes like that would likely get him slapped.

  He thought for a moment. Honey-colored. Much better.

  Marc dug into his pile-o’-bacon. Mmmmm . . . bacon. He felt magnanimous enough to tolerate the lack of plumbing and Jedediah Knight’s idiocy as long as he had bacon as a consolation.

  It really made up for so many of life’s deficiencies.

  Suddenly, the door opened and a footman entered with a bow.

  “Lord Linwood,” he said in suitably reverent tones.

  Right behind, a tall, lean dark-haired man strode in, scrupulously—Marc would actually say fastidiously—groomed.

  Linwood was dressed and pressed in a perfectly tailored greatcoat which hung in sculpted lines to his mirror-shined boots, a darker coat and ivory waistcoat underneath. Not a hair out of place on his head nor speck of dust on his clothing, despite the fact he must have ridden over.

  Everyone at the table instantly stood. It took Marc a second to catch on, and then he scrambled to his feet as well.

  Really, he had to stand up for this?

  Linwood handed a beaver top hat to the footman and removed leather gloves from his hands with precise movements, folding them and placing them neatly inside his hat. All done with military precision.

  Marianne instantly went to him, rising on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.

  “Welcome, brother. How lovely to see you. Will you not join us for breakfast?” She smiled warmly and gestured toward the table.

  Everyone sat down as she said this. Again, Marc was a little late and fumbled back into his chair.

  So this was the infamous Timothy, Viscount Linwood. The man radiated cool reserve and haughty superiority. Emme had nothing kind to say about him, as there had been a bit of an incident which Marc had heard all about. Something about Linwood making improper advances which Emme had to ward off.

  Remembering at the last moment that Linwood wasn’t to know that he was Emme’s brother, Marc fought to school his features into some semblance of blandness.

  Or at least not blatant hostility.

  He pasted on his movie-pleasant face. The one he used when meeting someone for the first time. Linwood would never suspect a thing. Marc wasn’t an actor for nothing. Despite what the occasional scathing online reviewer may say.

  Fortunately, Linwood was still focused on his sister.

  “No, thank you, sister. I breakfasted before riding over.” He gave her a small bow as she returned to her seat. “Besides, I have little desire to sit.”

  Due to my festering rash.

  Unbidden the words bolted through Marc’s mind.

  Kit choked across from him but bit back her laughter in time.

  Ah, so they were still playing despite the interruption, were they?

  Great.

  It would definitely add a whole new level to what was sure to be a dicey conversation.

  Linwood entered farther into the room and clasped his hands behind his back, coming to a stop behind Kit’s chair. Fixing Marc with his icy gray gaze.

  Absently, Marc noted that the viscount sported silver embossed buttons on his coat. Not brass with a crest. So far, Marc hadn’t met a gentleman with brass buttons on his coat. Granted, he had only been in 1814 for two days, but that attacker was Marc’s ticket home.

  “I take this to be your new visitor, Knight.” Linwood kept his eyes on Marc, even while addressing Arthur.

  “Why, yes, indeed,” Arthur said with a strained, forced laugh.

  Damn. Now was not the time to realize that Arthur Knight was a terrible liar. Arthur cleared his throat. The noise self-consciously loud in the small room.

  And Arthur was worried about Marc giving something away—

  “Lord Linwood, may I present Lord Vader, an old school friend of James’ who has just returned from the East Indies.”

  Marc and Linwood cautiously nodded to each other. Two bulls, carefully assessing strengths. Looking for weakness.

  “A pleasure, Lord Linwood.” Marc managed to trim most of the irony out of his words.

  “Indeed,” was Linwood’s cool response. “I was unaware James had a friend named Lord Vader. Did you meet James during his time at Eton?”

  Clever man. Linwood had been with James at Eton, so he clearly already knew Marc had not. Fortunately, Marc knew James like a brother.

  “Cambridge,” he said, unable to keep the hint of challenge out of his voice. “We studied together there.”

  “Ah.” Linwood flicked his gaze up and down Marc’s figure, obviously looking for some sign all was not as it seemed. “I understand James enjoyed his time at Cambridge.”

  “Naturally. He had me to ensure things stayed lively.” Marc allowed himself a leisurely smile. Linwood was welcome to probe his understanding of James’ life.

  Another quick glance from Linwood. “Were you aware of James’ death before arriving here?”

  Marc swallowed at the unexpectedly direct question. Weren’t people supposed to be all circumspect and closed off during this time period?

  “I had heard rumors of James’ demise, which given the depth of our friendship, I had to ascertain for myself. I have been profoundly saddened to learn the rumors are indeed truth. James was the best of friends.”

  Giving a small catch of his breath, as if he were fighting off strong emotions, Marc looked to the side, schooling his face into movie-devastated mode. Marianne reached out and gave his hand a comforting pat.

  Really, this was such a masterful performance. Too bad a certain snarky online reviewer wasn’t here to witness it.

  For his part, Linwood merely narrowed his eyes, his body language remaining skeptical.

  “I was alarmed to hear you were robbed en route to Haldon Manor,” Linwood said. “How unsettling for you.”

  Linwood regarded Marc with those icy eyes of his. Nearly unnervingly pale and colorless. As if even his eyes would never do anything so messy as have color to them.

  Man, he was such a . . . a . . . stuffed shirt.

  Marc smiled tightly. “I haven’t survived so many years in the East Indies for nothing. I can take care of myself.”

  Linwood didn’t smile. Did the man ever smile?

  “Of course. Which is why men robbed you and left you with only the clothing on your back. That kind of taking care of yourself?”

  Marc blinked. Go figure. Linwood was turning all smart ass.

  Though wouldn’t arse be the more appropriate nineteenth century term?

  Pity ‘smart arse’ didn’t have the same ring.

  Marc allowed himself another grim smile. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I was taken by surprise and decided a horse and pair of saddlebags were hardly worth my life. Given that the thieves only wanted my possessions, I didn’t want to do anything . . . rash.”

  Marc lingered on the last word. Knowing Kit, at least, would get the joke.

  Out of the corner of his eye, she pinched her lips together.

  Linwood stood still, almost unnaturally so. As if relaxing and slouching and the things other humans did were beneath his dignity. He seemed always primed for a fight.

  The childish part of Marc wanted to shake a red cape under the nose of Linwood’s bull. Just to see if he would charge.

  “I am, naturally, relieved you escaped unharmed.” Linwood’s tone, however, indicated his complete indifference to Marc’s health. “As you most likely know, I am one of the magistrates of this area. I would like to ask you some questions regarding this incident—”

  “Actually, Linwood—” Arthur cleared his throat. “—the robberies took place near Leo
minster, so the entire affair is not within our jurisdiction. I do not see the point in questioning Lord Vader.”

  Linwood turned his stony gaze to his brother-in-law. Only the haughty raising of an eyebrow indicated his annoyance at Arthur’s interference.

  “Be that as it may, Knight, I am sure Vader would not mind answering a few questions. Given that you and I are responsible for the welfare of those living in this area, it behooves us to investigate any disturbance which might threaten—”

  “If you must know,” Marc interrupted, “I did not get a close look at my attackers. They had kerchiefs around their faces . . . though I do believe one of the men had blue eyes. Or were they gray? In any case, they were upon me and taking everything, giving me little opportunity to do anything else other than cooperate.”

  Linwood swiveled his head back to Marc. “And you hesitated to do anything . . . rash?”

  Yep. Definitely a smart arse.

  “Precisely. I dislike anything to do with . . . rashness.”

  Kit choked again across from Marc, looking primly down at her hands with her lips pressed firmly together.

  Linwood blinked, sensing he was missing something in the conversation, but unable to put his finger on what that would be precisely. Only his fingers tapping against his thigh betrayed his agitation.

  “So you can give me no information that would be helpful in tracking down these miscreants?” he asked.

  Marc heaved his shoulders in a baffled sort of shrug. The kind that said he wished to helpful but didn’t know how to proceed. He most certainly didn’t want some innocent man to be fingered for this fictional robbery.

  Though, perhaps, there was one piece of information that would be helpful. Would Arthur mind?

  “Nothing really.” He tapped his chin, as if in thought. “Though I do distinctly remember the buttons on the coat of one man—brass with a raised crest embossed in the center, vines chasing through it. That is all, unfortunately.”

  Arthur’s head instantly snapped up, shooting Marc a quelling look.

  Marc shrugged faintly as if to say, It’s no big deal.

  The more people who were on the lookout for that button, the better. Why not link it to his fictional robbery? The man in Duir Cottage certainly hadn’t been on the right side of the law. Arthur grimaced subtly, obviously not liking Marc’s interference.

  Linwood regarded Marc for a moment, face impassive. Did the man even blink? He seemed almost more robot than human.

  “A button. That is something . . . I suppose. If you remember anything else, I request you inform me immediately. I feel those involved with this robbery might strike again, and I wish to ensure safety for the good of all.”

  Kit twisted slightly in her seat, catching Linwood’s eye. “Would you say the feeling is like an . . . an itch . . . that you wish to scratch?”

  Marc nearly snorted, desperately trying to hold back a sudden laugh. Heaven help him!

  She was utterly shameless.

  Linwood raised another cool eyebrow, studying Kit. Obviously trying to understand why she would insert herself into the conversation.

  “Indeed, Miss Ashton.” His voice all icy hauteur. “You might call it an itch that I feel must be indulged.”

  Kit turned back to Marc as Linwood said this, her honey eyes dancing. The words hanging unsaid between them.

  Due to my festering rash.

  Marc managed to control his laugh just in time, while Kit forcefully bit her lip.

  Oh yes. Miss Kit Ashton was an absolute delight.

  Chapter 10

  The parish church graveyard

  Marfield

  February 24, 1814

  Kit pulled her heavy wool cloak tighter around her shoulders. Though sunny, a bitter winter wind stealthily crept around the Herefordshire hills, jumping out when she least expected it, snatching at her cloak and tugging her bonnet. Leaving her toes hopelessly chilled in her walking boots.

  She shuddered but kept her chin up, restlessly searching. Darting glances up and down Marfield’s high street, thoroughly examining each and every man.

  Five days. It had been five days since she had caught that glimpse of Daniel here in Marfield. But despite canvassing the village each time Lady Ruby sent her to fetch some bauble or collect the post, there was no sign of her brother.

  Drat him.

  She had dropped off another letter to be sent from the Old Boar Inn (again addressed to the impossibly dull-sounding Mrs. Boring of Quiet Street, Bath) and was now making the same tour of Marfield she had been doing all week. But with the colder weather, few people were out and about.

  Biting back a hefty sigh, Kit found herself in front of the parish church, its gray stone half covered in moss. Only the flag-shaped weather vane atop the steeple tower glinted coppery and new.

  Pushing open the gate, she wandered inside, welcoming the calm hush of the graveyard surrounding the church. Trees lined the perimeter of the fence, providing a sheltered respite from the wind.

  She ambled through the gravestones, stopping in front of a more recent addition.

  In loving memory of

  James Richard Knight

  Born May 23, 1781

  Died Oct 15, 1812

  Age 31 years

  Beloved son and brother

  Ah. Arthur’s older brother, James.

  The one who died with (perhaps) Marc’s sister in that (perhaps) carriage accident. The reason (again, perhaps) behind Marc’s visit.

  Life at Haldon Manor had certainly become more lively with Marc’s arrival.

  Despite playing several more rounds of their word game, neither of them had laughed in company yet—the wagered secret still hanging in the balance. Though it had been a very near thing when the phrase was after licking a toad and Lady Ruby had said: I had the most fanciful conversation with the vicar yesterday.

  Despite spending time together laughing and teasing, Kit felt she was no closer to understanding who Marc really was.

  The man definitely had his secrets. Where had he been before arriving at Haldon Manor? Was he truly a spy with his sister, like Linwood suspected? What was his purpose here?

  He had skillfully dodged every question Kit had thrown his way, taunting her, telling her over and over that she had to win their silly word game before he would give up anything.

  All the while, reducing her to weak-kneed laughter with his relentless flirting.

  Marc, Kit realized, was a Meringue Man.

  And she had such a love/hate relationship with Meringue Men.

  She knew from experience that some men put up walls of steel and ice, like Lord Linwood. Cold, hard fortresses around their hearts that kept everyone shut out. Ice Men, she called them.

  With Ice Men, you knew when you broke through. All their cold reserve would shatter spectacularly in an eruption of emotion. Their coldness could be off-putting, but at least you knew where you stood.

  But other men put up walls of soft, sticky meringue. These men were sweet. Delicious to be around, eating up the delight of their company. And at first, Kit found the clever repartee of their company heady and intoxicating. It was flirting at its best. Like World Championship flirting.

  However, after a while, all that sweet meringue became a little cloying. It was a sticky defense that bounced back at you. No matter how far you sunk into it, you were never sure when you were through to the heart of the matter. Meringue Men usually didn’t explode. They just kept hiding emotions and feelings in increasingly complex layers of jokes, leaving you wondering which was truth and which was deflection.

  Why, oh why, did she have to have such a thing for Meringue Men? Why did she have to love the language of flirt so well?

  It all doomed her to one shallow relationship after another. Meringue Men were the best secret-hiders. They buried everything important so deep inside no one would ever reach the center. Even if you found out one secret, you were still left wondering what other secrets they were keeping from you . . .

&
nbsp; Granted, it wasn’t as if she had been all that forthcoming with her own secrets. But her secrets were truly monumental.

  Marc’s just involved a deceased sister who might have been a spy with him. Obviously, she could see how being a spy would make you extra secretive, but still . . .

  She needed to find Daniel. She wondered for the twentieth time if she shouldn’t tell Marc about her brother. With his probable experience as a covert agent, Marc would be just the person to help her.

  But . . . it was all the follow-up questions about Daniel she dreaded. Those she wouldn’t answer. Though maybe, if she stated the matter obliquely enough, Marc could help her.

  Kit was on her third circuit of the graveyard, when a hand suddenly closed over her mouth from behind.

  Hard and swift. Kit instantly stiffened.

  “Don’t scream.”

  She sagged with relief at the all too familiar voice in her ear. Every last thought of Marc instantly evaporated.

  Daniel. Hallelujah!

  Jerking her head free, she rounded on her younger brother, throwing her hands around his neck, giving him a fierce hug. His arms wrapped around her, squeezing her in return.

  She held him for a moment, relief washing over and through her, wave after wave.

  At last! He was here. Together, they could sort this out, stop whatever horrid plan he might have set in motion, find a solution. Go home with no one the wiser. Everything would be okay.

  With one last embrace, she released him and stepped back.

  He looked . . . well . . . like Daniel. A bit taller than herself, hair two shades darker but glinting with red undertones. Dressed in a long, worn greatcoat over the same blue coat she had seen him in before, a little rumpled and worse for wear. A far cry from his preferred attire but still the same old Daniel. It figured this extreme change in their normal lifestyle wouldn’t affect him as much as her.

  Stupid man.

  They regarded each other for a few moments, Daniel taking in her brown cloak and the drab gray of her gown underneath. Hair peeking out from under her shapeless bonnet.

  “Well . . . Kit . . .” He stared. “You, erm, look . . . great.”