by Nancy Butler
“Well, I couldn’t very well leave it up there on the rocks, gleaming in the sun.”
They were bickering, Jemima realized in a daze. Like siblings did. Like she and Troy did. Bickering fondly, tolerantly. She twisted up and squinted at the bearded man. He had Bryce’s nose and Bryce’s hair.
“Kip?” she said weakly.
“Aye,” he said as he raised one of her hands. “Lieutenant Kipling Bryce, of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
Her gaze shifted to Bryce. “That’s why you couldn’t tell me. Your brother is the spy.”
Bryce looked at his brother, one dark brow raised.
“Oh, tell her,” Kip said brusquely. “By the look of things, she’s to be part of the family in short order.”
Bryce drew a long breath. “Kip’s been working for the Admiralty, helping a ring of smugglers bring spies over from France. None of the smugglers know his real identity, and he can’t end the charade until he discovers who the ringleader in London is. Someone who is a member of Bacchus, by all indications.”
Kip whistled softly. “You’re a quick study, Beech. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“And who was that dreadful man?” She motioned weakly in Tarne’s direction.
“The leader of the smugglers,” Bryce said. “Kip’s been waiting here to give him the naval papers.”
“But I thought you weren’t a real spy?” She craned around to look at Kip.
“I’m not. The papers are fakes. But the French won’t know that. Pity Bryce had to kill Tarne, because he was our only link to the ringleader. It’s going to play havoc with my report to the Admiralty.”
“I’m sorry you had to shoot him, Bryce,” she whispered. “I didn’t know how else to get away from him. I was going to be sick, you see.”
Bryce laid his hand on her brow and drew her head back against his shoulder. “Unlike my brother, I am not at all sorry that Tarne is dead.”
“He always was the bloodthirsty Bryce,” Kip remarked.
Bryce was helping Jemima to her feet when they heard a faint noise from the end of the ravine. A slim, sandy-haired man was walking along the streambed, picking his way delicately among the stones, his eyes on the ground. Kip quickly scrambled up the rock pile and again slid into the cave.
“It’s Kimble,” Bryce growled softly over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me he knows about this. It’s bad enough Father and MacCready knew. Was I the only one left in the dark, Kip?”
“Of course he doesn’t know,” his brother hissed back.
“Then what the devil is he doing here?”
Jemima swallowed. “I told him about the cave,” she said bleakly. “Yesterday before dinner.”
Bryce looked away from her in mute frustration.
“Mr. Kimble,” Jemima called out. He looked up but made no sign of acknowledgement. “I am so relieved that you have not yet gone to Sir Walter’s. Because I was wrong about the murderer—
Bryce squeezed her arm in warning. “Keep quiet, Jem. Till I know what he wants, we need to go cautiously. I tossed my only pistol down to Kip when Tarne appeared, so I am unarmed.”
When Kimble reached the spot where Tarne’s body lay, he nudged it with his toe. “Dead?” he asked with an expression of distaste. “Pity.”
“We have reason to believe he was the spy,” Jemima proclaimed,’ in spite of Bryce’s edict.
Kimble raised his eyes to her, and she swore the hair at her nape stood straight up on end. His gaze was as icy and remote as an arctic glacier. The pleasant young man with the genial air had vanished.
As she watched in disbelief, he pulled a dueling pistol from his waistcoat. He came right up to them, smiling serenely.
“Lady Jemima, I didn’t think to find you here.” He gave Bryce an exaggerated wink. “Pleasant spot for an assignation, eh, Bryce? Private and remote. Well, except for the occasional smuggler.” He nodded over his shoulder to where Tarne lay facedown. “Too bad you had to shoot him.”
“He displeased me,” Bryce said softly as he shifted Jemima behind him, keeping one hand on her arm.
A fierce, focused energy seemed to emanate from him; it disturbed her by its intensity and reassured her with its intent. Bryce had called himself a dangerous man, and she now believed it. Not just because he was a crack shot or a devil in a duel, but because his nerves were of honed steel. There was not the slightest particle of deference or uncertainty in his manner as he regarded Kimble.
Kimble frowned slightly. “Yes, well, he pleased me. And since I’ve got the pistol, my opinion is the one that counts.” He smiled then. “Actually, I’ve come here to find your bearded friend, Bryce…the one I saw scrambling into the cave.” His voice rose. “You can come out now, Ripley. Unarmed, if you please.”
Kip’s head appeared at the dark opening to the cavern. “I could shoot you where you stand.”
Kimble shrugged and called out, “Army!” He pointed with is free hand to the top of the ravine. Harold Armbruster knelt there, holding a shotgun trained on Bryce.
Jemima’s hands clutched at Bryce’s coat. His hand slid to her wrist and tightened. “Steady, Jem.”
She leaned her face against his back, whispering, “Bryce, I’m so sorry. I’ve muddled things so badly.”
“No secrets,” Kimble interrupted with a tiny moue. “Not that any of you were exactly clever at keeping secrets. I learned from Miss Wellesley that a tall bearded chap—obviously Tarne’s man, Ripley—killed my Frenchman, and that the blasted Frenchman had not stolen the naval papers, but rather one of Troy’s tedious poems. And, Lady Jemima, you had such an informative talk with your brother—with the bedroom door ajar. About Bryce having the stolen poem. And then you were so eager to give me the note for Sir Walter, which described the exact location of this cave—
“You read my note!” she fumed. Her outrage overrode the fear she ought to be feeling.
He nodded. “I’d gone to see you at the Iron Duke, because I was afraid you’d go haring off to Sir Walter with the information that Bryce had mysteriously acquired the poem. Couldn’t have a magistrate nosing about in my business, now, could I? Happily you let me be your emissary. After that everything fell into place. I rode to the Bosun’s Mate to fetch Tarne and Armbruster, then we came here to dispatch Ripley. I sent Tarne in alone—we didn’t want Ripley to get the wind up until Tarne had him at gunpoint—but none of us was counting on Bryce being here. That turned out to be something of a nuisance.”
Bryce bowed his head toward Kimble and drawled, “It was my pleasure. I gather you signed in as ‘Marlborough’ at the inn before you came to the Prospect yesterday.”
“Mmm. I’d never have revealed myself, but I didn’t suspect it was a trap until later.” He turned his head and his voice rose impatiently. “Ripley… Now! I have a small score to settle with you.”
Kip heaved himself onto the rocks and skittered down to the streambed. He made his way slowly toward Kimble, holding his hands away from his sides, palms up. He stopped several feet in front of Bryce and Jemima. Kimble glowered at him.
And then he saw the man behind the beard and the tattered clothing and he blanched.
“Going to shoot me, James?” Kip challenged him. “Your best friend…the friend who bailed you out of a hundred scrapes at Cambridge?”
“Ch-Christ, you’re supposed to be dead,” Kimble stuttered. He shook himself. “How the devil did you get mixed up in this?”
“That’s what I should be asking you,” Kip snarled. “Why did you turn your back on your country, Jamie? Was it for the gold? Or the sense of power? You always were under your father’s thumb.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kimble said, visibly pulling himself together. “What matters now is that I can repay you for the trouble you have caused me.” He called up to Armbruster without taking his eyes off Kip. “Come down now. We need to end this farce.”
“Armbruster was at Bacchus the night Perret went there,” Kip said musingly. “He was acting as your go-between
. That was cleverly done, Jamie. Put me right off the scent.”
“They’ll eventually connect Armbruster to you, Kimble,” Bryce added. “Hastings knows he was at Bacchus that night. It’s only a matter of time before he makes the connection.”
“I’ll be living in France by then. Living very nicely. And I’m afraid Army isn’t going to survive to tell any tales. Tarne would have ended up the same way—if you, Bryce, hadn’t done my work for me.”
Jemima ventured, “You could go to France now, Mr. Kimble. No one would stop you.”
He offered her his most genial, reassuring smile. “Sweet Lady Jemima. Do you know the only reason I tolerated Troy was because of you. Though his visit to Bryce Prospect did furnish me with an excellent excuse for coming down here and discovering what had happened to my Frenchman. Still, Troy is so tiresome…but you were always such a bright light.”
She was beginning to beam at him in spite of herself, when he added, “It’s a pity I’ve got to kill you.”
Her hands clenched tight on Bryce’s arm.
“Not today, laddie!” a merry voice rang down from the edge of the ravine.
Kimble’s head jerked up. Mr. Fletch stood above him holding a small pistol, which seemed a negligible threat. The blunderbuss MacCready was holding, however, was a deal more intimidating.
“Now if you will just drop your pistol, I’ll keep this fellow from blowing a nice, wide hole in you.”
“Army!” Kimble cried out in a strident voice. “Army!”
Mr. Fletch chuckled. “Aye, you can call for the army, the navy, and the blasted bluestocking league. It won’t do you any good.”
The Runner prodded Armbruster to the edge of the gulley; he had been trussed up like a prize capon.
Kimble put up his chin and flung his gun far behind him. “You’ve no proof of anything,” he said calmly to Kip. “I’ll say I found you here and, believing you to be the spy, thought it best to hold you at gunpoint.”
“Is everything in order, Mr. Bryce?” the Runner called out. “We’re coming down now to take that scoundrel off your hands.”
Bryce nodded up to Mr. Fletch. The two men disappeared from his sight. When Bryce looked back at Kimble, he was holding a small pistol aimed at Kip’s chest.
Kip took a cautious step backward, so that he stood directly in front of his brother.
“No,” Bryce muttered.
“Only just got him back, eh, Bryce?” Kimble purred. “Would be a shame to lose him again so soon.”
Bryce took a deep breath and held Kimble’s gaze. He forced himself not to let his eyes wander to Kip’s back, to where his second best dueling pistol was tucked beneath the hem of the short blue jacket.
“If I’m to lose everything,” Kimble added with a slow grin, “I’ll make damned certain I exact a price.”
Bryce saw the murderous intent glittering in his eyes. It chilled him to the bone. Kimble was done for and he knew it. He was bound for the gallows and had nothing to lose by killing Kip.
Kimble raised his arm and the sun glinted off the pistol barrel.
“Take me!” Jemima cried sharply, darting out from behind Bryce.
Kimble’s gaze swung to her; his concentration wavered for an instant. In one fluid motion, Bryce plucked the pistol from under Kip’s jacket and fired over his brother’s shoulder.
Kimble’s mouth slewed open in surprise. His hand moved jerkily to his right arm, to where the bright blood was already staining his coat. He stared at it in bewilderment, and then sank to his knees.
“Demme,” he murmured faintly as his pistol clattered to the ground.
Bryce spun to Jemima and tugged her toward the end of the ravine, where Mr. Fletch and MacCready, alarmed by the sound of gunfire, were approaching them at a run.
“I’m not going to faint again,” she told him shakily, clutching at his lapels as the men pelted past them to where Kimble lay.
“That was the most damnably foolish thing you’ve done to date,” he growled as he shook her.
“I couldn’t think of what else to do,” she said. Her teeth were chattering so uncontrollably she could barely speak. “I saw Kip’s gun… I knew you’d use it… I… I couldn’t bear it if he shot your brother.”
“Jemima!” he cried, shaking her even harder. Then his voice broke. “Oh, Jemima.”
The next instant he dragged her against his chest, holding her tight in his arms. She started to cry then, clinging to him as she sobbed out endless apologies.
“I sh-should never have d-doubted,” she stuttered into his neckcloth. “How could I think such things of you?… That you were a traitor…a murderer’s accomplice… I’m sorry I sent for Sir Walter… I was coming to warn you… Can you forgive me for not believing in you?”
He coaxed her head up. “You believed in me when it counted, sweetheart.”
“And I saw the painting…the Canaletto…in your room…” Jemima was unaware that his hands had tightened on her upper arms; she merely gave him a weak grin. “I thought you were forging paintings, and somehow that seemed the worst crime of all. Oh, I don’t know how I could have been so foolish.”
Bryce shifted her to MacCready and went to his brother. Kip was kneeling beside Kimble, trying to staunch the flow of blood with the man’s neckcloth.
“I left this one alive for you,” Bryce said sourly. “I hope you’re properly grateful.”
Kip nodded. ‘The Admiralty will be grateful, at any rate. You might even end up with a knighthood.”
“Spare me,” Bryce muttered. He looked across to Mr. Fletch. “Sir, I believe I am in your debt.”
The Runner smiled. “All in a day’s work, Mr. Bryce.”
“Well, I’d like to know how he got here,” Kip complained. “He’s not one of Hastings’s men.”
“This is Lawrence Fletcher, from Bow Street,” Bryce said. “Since I was unable to keep an eye on you myself, I enlisted him this morning to do the job. And not a moment too soon.”
“Mr. MacCready and I have been watching your cave from the ridge of cedars. Lord love us,” Mr. Fletch observed, “we could have held a cotillion in this field, for all the people who were milling around in it this afternoon. We spotted Tarne easy enough, but by the time we got down off the ridge, he was already dead. We managed to surprise Armbruster after Kimble had gone into the ravine. And thanks to Mr. Bryce’s skill with a pistol, Kimble won’t be troubling us any longer either.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have much faith in him,” Kip whispered audibly to Bryce.
Mr. Fletch’s bright eyes gleamed. “Mr. Bryce realized it never pays to underestimate the Runners. Indeed, it never does.”
* * *
After Mr. Fletch and MacCready had ridden off with their prisoners, Kip fetched his horse from the thicket where it had been tethered. The three rode back to the Prospect in subdued silence, Bryce and Kip on either side of Jemima. They dismounted in the stable yard, and Kip went in through the kitchen door. Mrs. Patch gave a strangled shriek when she saw him and collapsed in a boneless mass before the hearth.
Jemima’s wisdom prevailed then. She insisted Bryce call the staff together in the library, to explain to them that his brother was alive. She knew the elderly Griggs would not have survived the shock of seeing Master Kip returned from the grave. After the servants had been apprised of Kip’s return and shared a celebratory toast, they dispersed back to their tasks, leaving her alone with the two brothers.
Bryce moved to stand before Kip and gave him a long look from beneath hooded eyes.
“Well, you’re back home now, boy. And London is calling me. I’m sure you can handle things from here on. I’ve got some business to attend to before I leave, so I’ll make my farewells.” He turned and offered Jemima a brief, tight smile. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Lady Jemima. Give my regards to your brother.” He bowed and went striding out of the room.
Jemima’s mouth was still opened in shock when she turned to Kip.
He appea
red less perplexed. “He’ll come around, Lady Jemima. Beech is always edgy after a fight. You’d never know it to look at him, but he hates this killing business. Wanted to be a parson, you know.”
Kip poured them each a drink and then raised his glass to Tusker. “It’s so good to be home,” he said with a smile that was an eerie replica of Bryce’s.
“Yes,” she said numbly. “Home.”
* * *
I can’t wait to be back in my own home, she thought wistfully.
Though it would not be her home for long. She had every intention of doing what she’d told Troy; of finding a way to lead her own life. And when Bryce came to her—she amended quickly—if Bryce came to her, she would examine her feelings for him at that time. For now, she was too bone-weary and too emotionally exhausted to prod at the wound he had inflicted when he’d offered her such a terse farewell.
She was about to take her leave of Kip, when Troy and Carruthers came bursting into the room.
“Jemima, thank God! I’ve ridden to Jericho and back looking for you, and you’ve been sitting here the whole time, having a nice pleasant cose with Bryce.” He stopped and peered at Kip. “Oh…er, you’re not Bryce. Oh, I say, you’re not the murderer by any chance?”
Kip rose and bowed. “Kipling Bryce, at your service. And you must be the celebrated Lord Troy. And Carruthers, I believe.” He bowed again. “Yes, I’m afraid I am the murderer.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Troy pronounced inexplicably. “Lovelace can go back to London now without fearing for her life.”
“Lovelace!” Jemima cried. “Oh, Lord! I’d completely forgotten about her. She went riding off with a strange gentleman, Terry. And I have no idea—”
“That’s what I’ve come to tell you,” Troy said. “Sir Walter’s son rode here earlier today to find her and the butler told him she was at the Iron Duke.”
“And he ran off with her?” she moaned.
“No,” Troy crowed, “he brought her to his father’s house. Her family turned up there, you see. They thought the magistrate might be able to help them locate her. They’re on their way here now.”