Chapter Three

Kit’s mouth dried up as her fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife. A few years ago, a woman named Jess had joined their household. She’d insisted on training everyone to protect themselves, but to date the only person Kit had ever actually cut was herself.

But if getting home safely meant creating a slash or two in the flesh of one of these men, well, this had already been a night of firsts. What was one more?

The angry swirl of nausea in the pit of her stomach disagreed with her attempted nonchalance. She tried to swallow, but there wasn’t a drop of liquid to be found in her mouth.

If she was forced to draw blood, there wouldn’t be anything left in her stomach either.

One by one, she forced her fingers to relax their grip until she was holding the knife more loosely. Throwing had been the only part of knife training that she’d excelled at. Although excelled might be a bit of an exaggeration. It had been the only part she enjoyed. There was something cathartic about throwing knife after knife into a tree. If she threw this knife, though, she’d only have one more at her disposal and that one was strapped high on her leg. Not really something she wanted to retrieve in front of Lord Charles Tromboll’s two thuggish footmen.

“Hullo there!”

The voice from the open area of the park distracted the men enough for Kit to shift sideways a bit so that at least she didn’t have trees to her back. Jess would skewer Kit to the knife-throwing tree if she learned Kit had run herself into a corner trying to hide. Her cloak snagged on one of the tree branches, bringing her sidling escape to a halt. A swift tug broke the small limb the fabric had snagged on, bringing the branch banging into her arm as the cloak resettled around her shoulders.

A man appeared, his face shadowed by the moon behind him. He strolled toward their little gathering with his hands clasped behind his back. “What seems to be the problem?”

Kit almost laughed at what this must look like, her standing ready with a knife in her hand and the other men seemingly unarmed. She took another glance at the newcomer and realized she knew him. It was shrubbery man. What was his name? Wharton.

Was he following her? Her mouth pressed into a grim line. She’d known he couldn’t be as perfect as he’d seemed. No one was. She’d have to shake him loose, but she could only deal with one problem at a time. “These men were just leaving. They have an urgent message to carry across town.”

The presence of a young, sober man made her attackers much more cautious. “Of course,” the one with teeth, and apparently a few wits, said. “If you’ll just give us the papers with that message on it, we’ll be on our way.”

What had Jess said about bravado? It was practically as good as actual bravery? Kit pictured pushing all of her rioting emotions down into her feet. Cool, calculating, and untouchable were what she needed now. “The message isn’t written.”

With a slow arch of her eyebrow, she snagged the limb at the edge of her cloak. She gripped it tightly to keep from trembling. A single tug released the branch, the first blessing Kit had received all day. She switched the knife to her left hand and held the limb in her right. Would it throw the same as a knife?

A flick of her wrist sent the limb flinging forward to plant itself between the feet of one of the hired men. She’d been aiming for the other one’s chest.

No one needed to know that.

“Next time,” Kit said, in the same voice that sent the children in her household scurrying to do their chores, “I’ll use the knife. And I’ll aim a bit higher.”

How she hoped that sounded menacing to ears other than her own. In her head she sounded like a child playing pirate.

Still, she moved the knife back to her right hand and stood ready. As much as she enjoyed knife-throwing, she couldn’t really aim for anything other than a general area. A man’s body was a fairly large general area, though. Sinking the knife anywhere would probably buy her enough time to run away, though she’d hate to lose the knife, and it really only guaranteed she’d slow one of them down.

Brazening it out was still her best plan.

Of course, none of her other plans had gone well today, so perhaps she should go with the worst plan she could think of and just run into the night, screaming like a banshee.

Several moments of silence weighed heavily. A carriage rolled down the street, wheels clattering and horses snorting, but no one in the small copse of trees paid it any attention.

The man she’d thrown the stick at—the one she’d actually almost hit, not the one she aimed for—took a step forward, knocking the stick aside.

Kit flipped the knife in the air and caught it, pinching the blade between her fingers while trying to look haughty and confident. She couldn’t throw with the blade for anything, but Jess always looked impressive doing it, and right now, Kit needed to look more impressive than she actually was.

“Our master will be wanting those papers.” One of them growled. “Soon.”

Then they started sidling away, looking from the knife to Lord Wharton and back again. Roughing up someone like herself with no real connections and a bit of a shady reputation was one thing, but it was obvious that Lord Wharton was someone important. They might even know who he was. Kit wasn’t even going to pretend that it was her amazing display of stick-throwing that had finally scared them off, but she was proud that she hadn’t stood by helpless.

Jess would be proud as well. At least, she’d be proud of Kit in the version of the event that Kit would tell at home.

Now she just had to get rid of Lord Wharton.

And then get out of town.

She slid the knife back into her cloak pocket. “Are you following me, Lord Wharton?”

“Yes. No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “In a manner of speaking.”

The picture he made was so charmingly boyish that Kit couldn’t stay mad. “I suppose I can overlook it, seeing as your presence made a difference tonight. This, however, is where we part ways.”

“Can I walk you home? They might return.” He offered his elbow.

Part of her wanted to slip her hand into his offered arm. But those days were long past. They belonged in a different life. London was dangerous in more ways than one. She couldn’t afford to dream of that old life. She had no right to it anymore.

“I think it best if we part here. Should someone recognize me, I wouldn’t want your reputation harmed.” With a quick nod, she hurried across the park. Maybe the incongruity of her statement would keep him befuddled long enough for her to escape the public area. Once on a side street, she could lose him easily.

“Please,” he called after her. “A name. Your street. Your town. Perhaps the breed of dog that you walk in Hyde Park.”

Kit stopped, the weight of the loaded-down cloak pockets feeling more like a burden than it ever had before. One hand groped through the folds until she could wrap her fingers around the edge of a sheaf of papers. Papers that would ensure the support of an innocent life. These were why she was in London. To get these papers signed and nothing else. This was her life now—these papers and everything they represented.

She couldn’t let him find her.

Ever.

For all of his pursuing, he’d been nothing but nice. Kit desperately wanted to believe, just for a moment, that nice, honest people actually existed among the upper echelons of British society. And if he were one of those rare people, he didn’t deserve to be overwhelmed by curiosity about her. Better for both of them if he forgot this entire night.

There had to be something she could give him to break his fascination, to save the horrid nights of asking himself what if. She knew all too well how exhausting such nights were.

She turned to face him. His features were highlighted by the moon now, and a light breeze whisked his dark brown hair into a frolicking dance. “You seem to be a good man, Lord Wharton, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am in your debt for your timely presence this evening.”

“Then grant me a boon. I ask for your name.” He stopped a good five paces away. Had he come any closer, she’d have run. How had he known?

Words flitted through her mind. She could give him a fake name. A lie that could be as comfortable for him to cling to as her real name.

Would he know who she was if she told him she was The Governess? She hated the name she’d claimed in a desperate attempt to sound more authoritative and imposing. Like the men who oversaw the Foundling Hospital called themselves governors. Hated or not, she was grateful that its murky fame amongst less honorable men expedited explanations a bit.

If Wharton was a good man, though, he wouldn’t know that name. And she wanted to leave here still thinking he was a good man.

“Kit.”

Well, then. Apparently she was going to leave him with her real name. An interesting choice she couldn’t remember making.

With a tight smile and a nod of acknowledgment, she turned and walked away, straining her ears to hear if he would indeed let her leave on her own this time. There was nothing. She was free to go home. Why wasn’t she happy about that? Did she want the man to chase her all over London?

Four turns later she took her first deep breath of the evening. She was finally confident that she was completely alone.

One more turn brought her to the inn, but she’d already missed that day’s post headed west. The delay of dealing with, well, men, had meant that she’d more than used up her narrow allotment of time. She’d either have to spend the extra money and take the long way home or hide for most of tomorrow while she waited for the next mail coach.

Money was tight, so there really wasn’t an option, now that she was out of danger, at least for the most part. Wrapped tightly in her grey cloak, she waited until no one was looking and then settled against the outside wall of the stable. In the morning she’d go into the inn, buy a meal, and wait for the stage, but she couldn’t afford to let a room. Her head dropped forward onto her knees, the large hood of the cloak settling her in a shroud of darkness. Then she tried to sleep.

Graham blinked his dry, tired eyes in an effort to focus on the plate in front of him. He’d stayed awake most of the night, alternating between wondering about the woman named Kit in a brilliant green dress who was clearly nothing but trouble and analyzing his apparently desperate need for a break in the monotony that was his life.

All that either had given him was an aching head.

He shoved a bite of food into his mouth, not even sure what it was, putting all his energy into chewing and swallowing and not becoming irritated by the scrape of fork against plate or the rustling sound of his father turning the page of his newspaper.

“Are you feeling well this morning, Wharton? You’ve hardly touched your food.” The concerned voice of his mother didn’t quite match the disapproval on her face as she looked pointedly at Graham’s plate.

“Stop badgering the boy, Lady Grableton, or he’ll do like his friends and take up some horrid bachelor residence.” Graham’s father folded one corner of the paper down and winked at his son.

“Why would he want to do that?” the countess mumbled. “It’s not as if I asked him why he stepped out of the ball early last night without even collecting his greatcoat—we brought it home for you, by the way. I’m not even asking where he went afterward, since he wasn’t yet home when we arrived back.” She sniffed. “I’m simply trying to see to his sustenance and well-being.”

His father sighed. “If he can’t take care of that at the age of one and thirty, I’m not sure there’s much we can do about it now.”

Graham hid his smile behind a serviette. His parents were certainly entertaining in the mornings. Perhaps that was why breakfast had become such a tradition for his family. Maybe even why he still lived at home.

Because one day he would be Lord Grableton, and he’d miss these moments.

He tried to stifle a yawn. Maybe he should have skipped this morning, though. Ignoring his mother’s frown, Graham excused himself from the table. Normally he lingered, enjoying the fact that his family actually liked each other, a rarity among his friends, but this morning that likability was going to have to extend a bit of forgiveness.

Perhaps he should simply go back to bed. The fear that he might lie there, head awash with questions he could never answer—instead of going to sleep—kept him from indulging the idea very long.

Instead, he made his way to the billiard room and proceeded to knock the balls around, his mind still on the woman more than on the game. What sort of a name was Kit for a woman? Had she gotten home safely? Where was home anyway? Could she actually have hit anything with that knife she’d been brandishing about? The ludicrousness of it all left him praying for some form of distraction. A big one.

The door to the billiard room slammed against the wall, making Graham jerk his mace against the ball and send it careening across the green baize.

Mr. Aaron Whitworth, the man who rounded out Graham and Oliver’s trio of friends, strode into the room looking polished and professional. The man he was dragging behind him looked anything but. Oliver was still in the clothes he’d worn to the ball the night before, though disheveled would be a compliment to their current state. Aaron’s fist wrapped in Oliver’s jacket collar wasn’t helping.

With a fling and push, Aaron sent Oliver into the room. Oliver didn’t stop moving once he regained his balance, though. He simply started pacing, agitation in every line and feature. He walked right past Graham and kept walking until he’d crossed the room and it was either turn around or hit the wall. Oliver chose to turn around, but that didn’t still his feet. He paced the entire room, obviously upset and clearly in need of assistance—from a good valet, if nothing else.

Graham watched him, frozen in his position crouched over the billiard table. Thank you, God. Ask and ye shall receive. It looked like a distraction had just landed in his lap.

Aaron crossed his arms and glared at the pacing Oliver.

“What’s going on?” Graham asked, straightening.

“He”—Aaron jabbed one blunt finger in Oliver’s direction—“showed up at my door this morning, ranting and rambling until my brain’s gone scrambled. I can’t make sense of it, so I brought him to you.”

Graham looked from Aaron to Oliver and back again. Oliver hadn’t ever been what one might consider clever, but he’d always seemed quite rational. “Rambling?”

Aaron shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest.

Finally, Oliver stopped moving and placed both hands on the edge of the billiard table, staring at Graham with eyes rimmed in red. “Lady Anne Brigston is in France.”

Graham blinked. What was he supposed to do with that information? He looked to Aaron, who simply waved his hand as if this was all the evidence Graham needed to know that their friend had gone a bit crazy.

“Who’s Lady Anne Brigston?” Graham whispered to Aaron. He had a vague notion of who she might be, but he couldn’t come up with a single reason he should care about her whereabouts.

Aaron shook his head and shrugged again.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Oliver frowned. “Lady Anne is in France.”

“That’s all he’s said for the last twenty minutes,” Aaron said, leaning against the wall.

Graham slid the billiard mace through his fingers, using the tip of the handle to line up properly to the ball. He gave the billiard ball a satisfying thwack and sent it careening into two rails before it tripped into the pocket. “I hope she enjoys her trip? It should be safe enough now. The war is over, after all.”

Aaron chuckled as Oliver growled and pounded the table in frustration.

The action did nothing but confuse Graham. He considered himself a fairly intelligent man, though he’d been more known for his athletic prowess at Cambridge than his distinction in the schoolroom. Aaron, however, had taken more than his share of academic accolades. Yet neither one of them had any idea why they should be alarmed that a fresh-faced young girl had taken a trip abroad.

Oliver smacked the wood of the table, then began pacing again.

Graham slid a hand back and forth along the smooth wood of his mace. Obviously he’d missed something. Something important. He slid the mace into the rack and leaned against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Aaron, while they waited for Oliver to get to the point. Given his current state, that could be hours.

“Don’t you see?” Oliver shoved his hand through his hair, making it stick up in little light-brown horns.

Graham smothered a grin. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

Another muffled snicker came from his left.

“He wasn’t courting Lady Anne, was he?” Graham whispered to Aaron. It was the only reasonable explanation he could come up with for Oliver’s agitation.

“Not that I know of,” Aaron whispered back.

Oliver paced the length of the room once more, mumbling. Finally he threw himself into a leather chair, sending it rocking back on two legs. An impressive feat given the bulk of the piece of furniture.

“If Lady Anne is in France, then Priscilla can’t be visiting her.”

Graham schooled his features to prevent his shock from showing. Oliver’s younger sister Priscilla was friends with Lady Anne? The only thing Graham knew about Lady Anne was that she was the epitome of refinement, poise, and grace, and Priscilla, well, wasn’t.

“Her little winter season didn’t go well,” Oliver said.

Aaron succumbed to a series of violent coughs as he dropped his head forward to stare at the ground. Graham couldn’t really blame him. Didn’t go well was an understatement. Lady Priscilla Kingsley’s last appearance in society had included an unfortunate incident involving the host’s pet mink and an ornamental fish pond.

“Father said she went to visit Lady Anne. Intended to spend the whole spring with her and start fresh next year.”

Graham winced. “There might be some merit to that.”

Oliver waved a hand in the air. “Of course there is. Prissy is most assuredly lacking in the social graces needed to make a splash in London.”

Graham bit his lip to keep from laughing. There’d been quite a bit of splashing in the fish pond. “Lady Anne is actually a brilliant choice of companion. The lady has an impeccable reputation. If Priscilla can learn to be like her, even a little bit, she’ll be better situated.”

“Of course she is. But didn’t you hear me earlier?” Oliver leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “She’s. In. France.”

“And Priscilla isn’t?” Aaron asked.

“Prissy detests boats. Won’t step foot on one even to row across the lake back home.”

The idea of Priscilla loose somewhere in England without anyone looking after her was enough to make Graham uneasy. No wonder Oliver was pacing a hole in the floor. When their mother had died, Oliver’s father hadn’t quite known what to do with Priscilla. Oliver had tried to step between them, but there was only so much he could do while away at school. By the time he’d gotten home, her unusual tendencies had become set. “When did you last see her?”

“Two weeks ago. I was away when she left. Didn’t find out she’d gone until I got home from Sussex two days ago.”

“Maybe Lady Anne returned early. Or maybe Priscilla went with them.”

Oliver shook his head and resumed his pacing. “Lady Anne left for the continent a month ago.”

Graham rubbed one hand along the back of his neck and looked at Aaron, who was still looking more curious than concerned. “How did you find out about Lady Anne’s departure?”

Oliver dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “Last night after you left, I danced with Miss Albany, who mentioned what a shame it was there wasn’t going to be a garden party in the fabulous Brigston House conservatory this year. I wondered if they weren’t doing the party because of Priscilla.”

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, since the point of sponsoring young women for the season was to help them socialize, but it also wasn’t the point of the story, so Graham stayed quiet. Oliver was too easily distracted.

“I started looking around for Lady Anne but didn’t see her or her parents in attendance,” Oliver continued. “So I danced with Miss Carmichael, who didn’t know anything about Lady Anne. But when I was taking her back to her mother, I heard a lady I’d never met talking about how much she liked living in Portman Square. I know that’s where Lady Anne lives, so I got an introduction only to find out the woman’s family isn’t living on Lady Anne’s street but is renting Lady Anne’s house for the Season.”

Graham exchanged wide-eyed looks with Aaron. This was a rather convoluted story. Even for Oliver.

“This concerned me since I don’t want Prissy to miss the Season completely, so I asked another young lady.” Oliver’s head snapped up. “Her name is Miss Emily Feltstone and her father is a baron, but he’s the heir presumptive to a viscountcy. He’s likely to inherit any day now.”

“Oliver,” Aaron said. “Lady Anne?”

Oliver nodded. “Yes, I know, I’m getting there.”

“By pony cart,” Aaron grumbled under his breath.

Graham slapped a hand over his own mouth to soften the chuckle that escaped.

Oliver wasn’t paying them any attention, though. “So I asked Miss Feltstone if she knew where Lady Anne’s country estate was. Well, not Lady Anne’s but rather Lady Anne’s family’s. She didn’t know, but she did know that the family was in France.”

“And how do you know Priscilla didn’t go with them?” Graham asked, starting to get just the slightest bit worried.

“Because I went to the docks this morning and bribed three different clerks to show me passenger lists for ships bound for France.” Oliver braced himself against the table, staring down his two friends. “And one month ago, Lady Anne left for France, and Priscilla was not on any of the lists.”

No one said a word. They simply stared at each other. Finally Graham spoke. “Have you asked your father?”

Oliver tilted his head and frowned at Graham.

Right. Oliver didn’t have the same relationship with his father that Graham did. It was quite a shame, that.

“Could she—” Graham rubbed a hand through his own hair. He really hated to ask this question, but Priscilla was so . . . unpredictable. “Could she have run off with someone, and your father is attempting to cover it?”

Oliver shook his head. “She hasn’t been taken with any one gent since she started going out in society. I’ve scoured all her letters to me. She never mentions anyone twice.”

Graham sighed. Did he want to get himself involved in Oliver’s family affairs? He’d never hesitated to do anything for Oliver, but coming between family members could be disastrous. He picked up one of the billiard balls and rolled it from hand to hand. The white ivory caught the sunlight, reflecting it onto the green baize. Like the moon had shone on the park last night while Kit held off her attackers with a stick and a knife.

He slammed the ball against the table and gave it a push, rolling it across the felt surface with enough force to crack loudly against one of the other balls. He’d asked for a distraction, and he apparently needed one more than even he had realized. He looked from Aaron to Oliver. “Very well, let’s find Priscilla. What do we know thus far?”