Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown #2)

Chapter 4

Kit woke before dawn. There was a misty quality to the room, a soft glow, a gray light, an unreal twilight. Then, instantly, she was fully awake.

Where was she?

Abby’s .

The heavy arm draped over her and the hand caressing her breast almost caused her to panic until she remembered the night before. Remembered him. Feeling the warm wall of his chest behind her, she turned her head on the pillow and looked into his sleeping face framed by thick dark hair. The memory of their lovemaking flowed into her mind bringing heat to her cheeks.

Happiness followed by shame. Oh God. What have I done? I’ve made love to a stranger in a brothel. Gripped by the reality of her situation, Kit was suddenly desperate to leave. She must escape before he awoke. She could not face him. She could not face Abby!

Carefully she lifted his arm from her chest. Lost to Morpheus, the stranger did not move, and Kit slipped from the bed and crept silently to the armoire where she had hung the new gown and underthings Abby gave her. She dressed hurriedly, thankful for the front-lacing corset Abby provided. Then, anxious to be away, she took her cloak and reticule and tiptoed from the room—and from Willow House.

It was the warm sun hitting his face that woke Martin from the deepest sleep he had experienced in a very long while, the first time in a fortnight he’d not had nightmares. He could still smell her scent of spring roses on the pillow, but he quickly realized the enchantress he’d held in his arms was no longer lying beside him.

Quelle beauté!

He sat up, letting his legs fall over the side of the bed and dragged his fingers through his hair. As he thought of having the beautiful redhead again, his body responded, but where was she? Perhaps downstairs having breakfast.

Hurriedly he dressed and descended, anxious to see her. He had already begun to think of the enticing woman as his. He had not forgotten his plan of the night before. If anything, the need to possess her had grown stronger.

At the base of the stairs, a young woman with dark hair and wearing a yellow gown lingered briefly in the entry hall, giving him a long perusal before smiling and gliding away. Martin barely noticed. The big bruiser was missing, so no one stopped him as he hurried down the corridor where he’d first met the proprietress, searching until he found a room that appeared to be a study. Through the open door he saw Miss Abby sitting behind a desk poring over papers.

“Where is she?” he blurted, forgetting his manners and not bothering to greet her.

Raising her head, Miss Abby looked surprised. “Who, Sir Martin?”

“The woman I was with last night. She said her name was Kit.”

A look of horror crossed the proprietress’s face. “Did you say Kit ?”

“Why, yes. The girl with the auburn hair. I liked her very well and want to discuss terms of having her become my mistress. Taking her off the rolls, so to speak. I wanted to speak to her again before I did so. ”

Miss Abby rose and covered her mouth with her hand, eyes frozen in shock. Without a word, she ran past him and out the door. Puzzled, Martin followed. He had to hurry to keep up. Miss Abby moved fleetly down the corridor, up the stairs and then into the last bedchamber on the right. Martin was intrigued to discover what she was about. Kit could not have returned so fast, could she? What necessitated this rush?

Kit had not returned. In the empty room, the proprietress did a full circle then dropped into a chair at the side of the fireplace, letting her face fall into her hands. “Oh, no. No, no.”

Martin remained puzzled but his instincts were on alert. Something was terribly wrong. “Miss Abby?”

She raised her head to stare pointedly at him, eyes still full of horror. “This was not the room I sent you to! It was the next to the last door on the right.” Her head fell back into her hands and she sobbed.

Martin shook his head. “I do not understand why you are so upset. It matters little to me which girl you intended. I like the one I had. Where is she, Miss Abby? Where is Kit?”

The proprietress sat up, straightened her back and let out a ragged sigh. “Not Kit, Sir Martin. She’s…”

Martin felt frustration well up inside, for the proprietress was clearly reticent to continue. “You can trust me, Miss Abby. I’ve kept the Crown’s secrets for many years. I can certainly keep yours.”

Miss Abby’s gaze was full of hopeful trust. “She’s Katherine, Lady Egerton.”

What had befallen her beloved Kit? Abby was indeed horrified. As if the girl had not suffered enough, now this? But she would not seek answers from Sir Martin. He was only a man after all. No, he would never understand why a young, gently-bred widow whose dreams were destroyed and who had just survived an attempted rape would give herself to a stranger she did not know. Abby did not understand it herself. She could only surmise there was something very special about this man who had been entrusted with the Crown’s secrets, something that had spoken to deep longings in the young woman’s aching heart.

Abby had liked Sir Martin when she’d greeted him the evening before. She considered herself a good judge of character and she believed him a man of honor. Lord Eustace had spoken highly of him. Still, how much could she safely tell him? How much could she reveal without betraying Kit’s trust? She supposed limited information would do no harm. Perhaps it might even help.

She spent some minutes telling him Kit’s story and what brought her to Willow House. She did not want him to think ill of the young woman or believe Kit to be one of the courtesans who worked there should he ever encounter her again.

“The girls’ mother died of consumption, you see. Their father, a dear man, slowly succumbed to a broken heart. Of course, the world just saw another reckless member of the ton lost to drink and gambling. When he finally passed away, he left his two daughters near penniless. In the middle of Kit’s first Season, their guardian hastily arranged marriages for both her and her older sister. Anne to Lord Rutledge and Kit to old Lord Egerton.”

“To be torn from such a life of privilege…” Martin reflected, incredulous.

“It was wrenching,” Abby agreed, “and it broke my heart, though I was powerless to do anything to help. Both marriages, it seemed, were doomed from the beginning. The baron died soon after Kit wed him, she told me, and the meager allowance provided her was swallowed up by the losses of the property held by the baron’s sons. In truth his sons had no desire to help her. So, Kit fled to Anne. When her sister took ill—the same sickness that befell their mother—Kit took up her care. But as Anne’s health worsened, Rutledge made clear his lecherous intent.”

Abby was gratified that Sir Martin listened so patiently, and by his look of both sympathy and anger as she told him of the assault by Rutledge and Kit’s actions in self-defense. His expression grew grave as the story finished, and when she was done, he thanked her and departed, vowing to search all of London if he must to find her. Abby bid him success in his search but wondered if Kit wished to be found by him. For herself, she had other ways of finding her friend.

“How was your evening at Willow House?” Ormond asked as he welcomed Martin into his library. Neither Lady Ormond nor John had yet arrived. Martin assumed it wouldn’t be long. He had spent most of the afternoon beginning his search.

He hesitated to answer, thinking of what to say as he surveyed the room, allowing the furnishings to distract him. They bespoke not just wealth but a desire for comfort. Burgundy velvet curtains drawn back from the windows that faced the street allowed into the room what lingering daylight remained. Leather chairs flanked a marble fireplace. Above the mantel was a painting of a foxhunting scene. All was very masculine. All was very Ormond. Martin wondered what sort of home he would create for himself if he ever settled down again. It was a question he’d thought long abandoned.

“An interesting question,” he finally said, but he offered no more. Where to begin?

He took the customary brandy Ormond handed him and settled into a comfortable leather chair. A moment later he said, “I found a woman. ”

“Well.” Mouth curving into a wry smile, Ormond took the chair beside him. “Since we are talking about Willow House, I hardly find that surprising.”

“You misunderstand, my friend,” Martin corrected. “Not just any woman.”

Ormond did not reply at first. Then: “You found this woman at Willow House?”

“It’s not what you think. This is a lady I desire above all others, and she has since disappeared. Worse, the trail grows cold.”

Ormond shook his head. “I must say you have me a bit confused. Start at the beginning. Who is she?”

“Katherine, and she is a lady.”

“What the devil was a lady doing there?” Ormond asked.

“I know it sounds strange, and I would ask you to say nothing to anyone about her being there. The circumstances are most unusual. It seems her former nanny owns the establishment. The girl came there seeking refuge, and, well, there was a mix-up. Do you know the name Egerton?”

“There was an old Lord Egerton my father knew quite well. I thought he died. Is she his daughter?”

“Ah, no. But if it’s the same Lord Egerton, she was his wife. Now she is his widow. They weren’t married long before he died. Rather a sad tale, really. Lady Egerton’s only sibling, a sister, died as well as both parents. Kit—that is what she told me to call her—has few funds and nowhere to go, and according to the former nanny she is fleeing a desperate situation. In defending her honor, she killed her brother-in-law, the Earl of Rutledge.”

Ormond’s eyes were wide. “That sounds grim. Rutledge…I know the man. Not well, but I see him now and then. He has—or had—a nasty reputation for violence. It is even rumored he takes on the devil’s tasks when they serve his purposes.”

“Poor Kit.” Martin shook his head, truly dismayed .

“And in one evening you know you want her? She must be quite a prize.”

“She is, but perhaps for the sake of the lady’s honor I’ll not go into details. I vow I will find her if I have to turn over all of London, and you know I can do that.”

“Yes, I daresay you can.” Ormond shrugged. “When you find her, bring her here. My wife would welcome her. Mary is not a woman who judges. When we were betrothed, she mistakenly believed my former mistress was carrying my child and insisted I marry her instead!”

“That sounds quite the tangle.”

“I assure you it was. For weeks I carried with me a special license thinking I’d never get to use it. Fortunately it all came right in the end, but you can see why my wife would have no qualms about giving shelter to your Lady Egerton, whatever it was that happened.”

A knock came at the door, followed by Ormond’s “Enter,” and the butler stepped into the room. He waited to be acknowledged and, at his master’s nod, spoke.

“A young man has arrived, my lord. He says his name is Mr. John Spencer and that you are expecting him.”

“Ah, yes, we are, Jenkins. Let Cook know we’ll be another hour before dinner. Has her ladyship returned from visiting her mother?”

“Not yet, my lord. I will show the young man in and then see about Cook. Will there be anything else?”

“No, Jenkins. Thank you.”

The butler left and shortly returned with John, who was dressed as quite the dandy for dinner, no doubt wanting to impress the man he knew was the infamous Nighthawk. A flash of emerald green waistcoat peeked out from a royal blue jacket over cream- colored pantaloons. John’s brown curls had been neatly combed into place.

Ormond chuckled as John stepped in. “Good evening, John. It is good to see you again. I trust you are well?”

John bowed his head. “Good day to ye, my lord. Aye, quite well.”

“Come in, then,” said Ormond. “We were just about to get started.”

“I heard ye married the Lady Mary, my lord, and now she is Lady Ormond. Will she be here?” the young man asked anxiously. “’Tis a year since I’ve seen her.”

Clearly John was taken with Ormond’s wife. It did not surprise Martin. He remembered his own first reaction to the blonde beauty.

Ormond smiled. “Yes, John. It is just as you say. The former Lady Mary is now my marchioness. I expect her in time for dinner, if not before.” He pulled out a chair for the young man and sank back into the seat next to Martin. “Prinny’s new task will require all our efforts. My desire, just so you know, is to keep my adventure-loving wife out of it if I can.”

“What’s it all about, then?” inquired Martin, setting down his brandy.

“The situation has been brewing for quite a while, and it involves some discontent among the common people. Even riots.”

“Riots in England?” Martin said, astonished. John, sitting beside him, gaped.

“Fortunately for you, Martin,” Ormond continued, “your sojourn in France allowed you to miss them. Indeed, I missed the beginnings while I was there. They have roots going back many years. While we were in Paris chasing Napoleon’s secrets, the followers of a General Ned Ludd caused quite a stir in the north counties. ”

“Ah…the Luddites. I’ve heard of them.” Martin had a vague memory of someone passing through Paris telling him of the strong reaction of the textile workers to the machinery replacing their livelihoods.

“My wife argues vehemently for their cause, as you might imagine,” Ormond said. “The lace and hosiery workers lost jobs when the machines were brought in. They couldn’t feed their families. Since then, the weavers have joined in.”

“Interesting. We did not see this in France. Perhaps the war made this a lesser concern?” Martin suggested aloud.

“I suspect so,” said Ormond. “But in England it has become a problem of great magnitude. The economic depression, made worse by the wars with France, even led to an attack on the Prince Regent this last January.”

“An attack on Prinny?” Martin felt his brows rise. “So that’s what the old salts were talking about.”

“Gawd,” said John.

“Quite,” said Ormond, eyeing him. “His carriage was mobbed as it left Parliament, and the rabble threw rocks and shouted insults to the monarchy. The windows were shattered and glass flew everywhere. It must have been terrifying.”

“You said he is fine now. Was he hurt?” asked Martin.

“Amazingly, no. But the incident has sent ripples through the government.”

John stared, agog, and Martin shook his head at the attack on the monarch. It was bleak news indeed. Still, Ormond didn’t stop there.

“Parliament fears the revolutionary fervor in France has spread to our shores, and has, as you might find unsurprising, overreacted. They’re passing one law after another designed to keep the populace in their place. The Home Secretary, Viscount Sidmouth, the fool, and his sidekick, Viscount Castlereagh, have managed to get Parliament to suspend habeas corpus, making it possible for those suspected of treason to be imprisoned without trial. George Cruikshank, the caricature artist, has already published a drawing depicting Castlereagh hanging Lady Liberty.”

Martin shook his head.

“It gets worse,” Ormond said. “Sidmouth has also ordered the arrest of all printers and writers of materials considered inciting, so the press is up in arms. All this has only stirred the pot, I’m afraid.”

The marquess rose, pulled a map from a drawer and spread it on top of his desk, and Martin and John gathered around him. Pointing his silver letter opener to a spot in northwestern England, Ormond directed their attention to a certain town. “There was an incident. Just here.” The three men peered closely as Ormond continued, “Manchester, wouldn’t you know. In March there was a demonstration. Hundreds of cotton workers carrying blankets in the cold protested the government’s actions. Their aim, I’m told, was to march on London to gain the Prince Regent’s attention. It is said they were hoping for some say in government. It’s been dubbed ‘the March of the Blanketeers.’”

Martin nodded his head. “Ah, the Blanketeers. I can see Cruikshank’s caricatures now.”

“The government did not find it amusing, I can assure you,” Ormond chided. “The leaders of the march were arrested, but the fears of a revolution spreading to England have not faded in the weeks that followed. Sidmouth is sending out spies all over Britain to investigate what he believes are ‘centers of discontent.’ My own information suggests they may be making the situation worse. I even begin to wonder just who was behind the attack on the Prince Regent.”

“Are you suggesting these spies are acting as agents provocateurs ?” Martin asked, horrified .

“Your French is exactly right. These spies might be creating disturbances rather than quelling them, increasing the opportunity—even the justification—for further repressive measures.”

“What does the Prince Regent expect me to do about it?” Martin wondered aloud. “I am a spy, myself.”

A smile spread slowly across Ormond’s face. “Ah, but that’s just where you come in, don’t you see?”

Perplexed, Martin held his breath.

“Prinny wants action taken but doesn’t trust Sidmouth’s lackeys. In that, I believe he is right. You, my friend, are to spy on the spies.”

Martin let out his breath. “ Bon Dieu ,” he whispered.

To which John added, “Blimey!”