Читать книгу Date with a Regency Rake - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 13

The tossing of the ship had become less violent, or perhaps she had simply accustomed herself to it. In any case, to stay below and nurse her feelings of frustration would, Clarrie decided, be as fruitless as it was a waste of the precious time she had on board the Sea Wolf. She prepared to brave the upper decks and to pretend that nothing of note had happened below.

The yacht was holding a steady course in the face of the wind. Kit had the wheel, idly maintaining conversation with John, whose talk was of the future, his plans for life once this last mission was completed.

‘I’ll not be sorry, Master Kit, I tell thee true. It’s old bones I’ve got now, too old to be chasing after them Frenchies and running away from the excise men. I’ve enough set aside to buy my own smack and do a bit of legal fishing for a change. Won’t net me a fortune, but it’ll keep us well enough, I reckon. I’ve my eye on a little beauty I spotted for sale down Romney Marsh way, fore-and-aft rigged like the Sea Wolf, but smaller, just big enough for me and a lad to handle. And Sal, she’ll be glad to have me home at night regular again.’

‘How is the lovely Sal, your good lady wife? The last time we met, she threatened me with a rolling pin for getting you into mischief.’

A gruff laugh greeted this remark. ‘Aye, you know her ways, Master Kit, she means no harm, just frets for my safety is all. She’s never liked me going off on jaunts like this, but she’s not one as would ever complain neither. A good woman, Sal, she knows her place. And she deserves some peace of mind, after all these years. She’s earned it.’

‘You both have, John. I really envy you, the way you’ve got your life all mapped out. I have no idea what I’ll do without these trips. My sister wants me to marry, but lord, what a dreadful husband I’d make. I’m afraid I’m destined to be the devil’s own, one way or another. I’ll miss these trips more than I can say.’

‘Aye, well, Master Kit, like as not summat’ll turn up, you’ll see. I’m a great believer in fate, myself.’ With this laconic reply, John turned his attention seawards, scanning the horizon for signs of sail, leaving Kit free to pursue his thoughts.

As if summoned by them, Clarissa appeared head first, ascending the cabin steps gingerly, struggling to contain the cloak that whistled around her in the wind. She had abandoned her hat, and her bright auburn tresses whipped around her face, temporarily obstructing her view. Tottering, she grabbed the rail and righted herself before smiling and offering a tentative greeting. ‘I thought I’d take you up on the offer of a tour. That is, if you are not otherwise occupied.’

A terse nod from John, who took over the wheel, gave Kit no option but to accede to her request. ‘We’re about an hour away from landfall, we’ve made excellent time. I’ll be happy to show you round—she’s small but beautiful, my Sea Wolf—and then you can stay on deck as we berth.’

The technicalities were lost on her, but she listened with intelligent interest as Kit explained everything from the rigging to the sleek lines of the yacht, comparing it favourably, and with obvious pride, to the slower, clinker-built cutters still used by the Revenue. Pointing out the key navigational stars high above them, he talked a little of his early sailing days, his fishing trips with John when he was no more than a child, sailing his first skiff and learning the hard way about the tides and vagaries of the coast line. That Kit loved the Sea Wolf and was an expert sailor, Clarrie had no doubt. That she too could learn to love sailing, she had no doubt either. At his side, with his tuition, she was sure she would quickly become adept.

Standing at the guard rail, watching the yacht cut cleanly through the waves and the coast of Normandy looming into view in the distance, Clarissa felt a rush of freedom like champagne fizzing through her blood. At home, so far away as it now seemed, freedom had meant her sister married, her mother comfortably settled and herself earning a living as a governess. Such a vision seemed merely a new set of fetters compared to this. How had she ever imagined that life at the beck and call of an employer would be any different to life at the beck and call of her family?

No point in thinking about such things now though, no point in spoiling this moment. Turning to Kit, standing so close she could feel the heat of his body even through the thickness of their clothing, Clarissa asked about the people waiting for them on the French shore.

‘We can never be certain that they’ll be there when we arrive,’ he explained. ‘There are so many things that can go wrong. On occasion we’ve had to wait—usually a few hours, but once it was a whole day and night. We went ashore, but John did not take to the French cooking!’ Kit laughed at the memory of John’s face when presented with a huge piece of beef, the blood pooling beside it on the plate. ‘Tonight, we’re to pick up a man and his daughter. Their name is Renaud. Madame Renaud is dead by the guillotine, and Monsieur Renaud and his daughter have been in hiding on a country estate in Burgundy. He is a classical scholar; of her I know naught more than that she is young and unwed. Needless to say, they are rich no more. They are alive, that is the main thing. Or they were when last I heard a few days ago,’ he added bitterly. ‘To come out of hiding and journey north to the ports is hazardous even after all these years. There are informants everywhere.’

‘They cannot have been in hiding all this time, surely? It is almost ten years since the revolution.’

‘Aye, ten bloody years. But remember, the Terror grew slowly at first. The wholesale slaughter only really started when Louis was beheaded, four years after they revolted. For many, especially those of the lesser nobility such as this family, it seemed possible to keep their heads down—if you’ll forgive the gallows humour—and survive the killing. Monsieur Renaud, whom you will meet tonight, God willing, is not himself of high rank, but his wife was the younger daughter of a duke. The blue blood was hers. And so, in the end, it was she who sealed the fate of the whole family. ‘Tis certain they would not have been spared had they been found.’

‘But is it not safe enough now in France under the Directorate? Are they not more tolerant? Surely it’s becoming possible to start again in their own country, rather than to take such a drastic step as these people make tonight?’

‘For some, yes, perhaps you’re right. But for others, those who have lived the life of privilege, to accustom themselves to the new regime seems unnecessary, when in England they can bear their titles proudly once more.’

‘With no money, how can that mean so much? Money is by far more important than a title, as I should know, Lord Rasenby.’

‘And what, Clarissa, do you know of such things?’

She shrugged. ‘My own father was titled, my widowed mother still bears his name. It means naught, for he was cast off and poverty-stricken just the same. At times, I would happily swap my birth right for the wealth of a merchant family—at least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the coal seller at quarter time.’ An embarrassed laugh concluded this admission. She had not meant to say anything so revealing, being merely caught up in the need to understand more of the situation in France. But looking into those piercing eyes above her, Clarissa realised Kit had missed none of what she had said.

‘So you claim to be of noble birth? And may I be allowed to ask what this family name is, for I know—have known all along, of course—that the name you gave me is false.’

‘No, there’s nothing to be gained for either of us in that. Rest assured, my real name is Clarissa. That should suffice, for the duration of our brief acquaintance.’ Smiling nervously, for she had no wish to continue this turn in the conversation, Clarissa resolutely faced away from that all too penetrating look, back towards the approaching land. ‘You were telling me about Monsieur Renaud.

If he has no title and his poor wife is dead, I still don’t understand the need for him to leave France.’

Thrusting aside the urge to probe into Clarissa’s background—for like as not it would only lead to more lies—Kit focused instead on the Normandy coastline, anxious to catch the first glimpse of their destination, a tiny fishing village, where a beacon to guide them would be lit if all was safe. ‘The likes of Renaud leave because the future is still so uncertain. True, he has no title, but he has a daughter to protect. And he has the sense, as anyone who has studied the situation can see, to realise that this regime is every bit as volatile as the last. There will be war soon, do not doubt it. In England he’ll be sleeping with the enemy, but at least there is less chance there of invasion, more chance of a respite from bloodshed. France has not come to the end of its sufferings, mark my words. For all these reasons, and others, too, these trips on the Sea Wolf are, however, coming to an end. I must find some other occupation to sate my appetite for danger.’

The bleakness in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Giving up this life was hard for him. Having tasted the thrill of it for herself, Clarissa was not surprised. Laying a hand on his arm in an attempt to convey her empathy, her words were yet hesitant. ‘I can see that you’ll miss this life. But you must take comfort in the good you have done, the lives you have saved. All these émigrés, they must be so grateful. I expect, when you meet them in London, as you must often do afterwards, you are something of a hero to them.’

‘You are much mistaken, Clarissa, to set me up for a hero.’ The habitual cynical drawl had returned. ‘I don’t rescue these people for any more noble motives than a desire for adventure spiced with danger. I care naught for their fate. I take no sides in their politics. Their country can gnaw at its own entrails until it has consumed itself in the process for all I care. Do not attribute to me any heroic virtues, for you will find yourself far from the truth. These people are just cargo, like the silks and brandies we will carry tonight alongside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud. And as to recognition from those I rescue? Never. They are under strict instructions not to acknowledge me once they leave the Sea Wolf. I am not, nor never will be, a hero.’

‘You may choose to deny it. Indeed, to do so is in your character for you are overly fond of your raking, care-naught reputation, Lord Rasenby, as I have pointed out to you several times now.’ His determined cynicism was having a rousing effect on Clarrie. She would not allow him to be so harsh on himself. He was not a complete villain, no matter how much he played the part.

‘I notice that I become Lord Rasenby and not Kit when you are lecturing me, madam. I do not take to it kindly either, for you have not the right to lecture. No one has that right but myself. And believe me, no one could be harder on me than myself either. But to no avail. I am destined for the devil. You would learn, if you chose to spend more time in my company, that I can neither be reformed, nor am in wont of it.’

‘No, you’re not in need of reform, because you’re not anything like as black as you paint yourself. You are not stupid, you told me so yourself. Well, neither am I! You would not have continued with these trips, which put John as much as yourself in danger, had you not felt they were worthwhile—and I don’t mean for the brandy. These rescues mean something to you, would you but admit it, if only to your own heart. To these people at least, you are a hero, I doubt it not. The only need you have of reform is to think as well of yourself as you are entitled.’

‘You persist in this belief at your peril, foolish Clarissa, but be warned. Such determinedly positive appraisals of my character will not change it one jot. Nor will you, by applying such soft soap, beguile me into releasing you from your promise. Now let us have an end to this conversation, for we have important work to attend to. Look straight ahead and slightly to starboard—there is our beacon. We are expected. You may watch, but you must keep silent and take care not to get in the way.’

With that he was gone, joining John at the wheel and leaving Clarissa to her reflections. Anger at his abrupt dismissal and pity for the contempt in which he held himself were foremost in her mind. But there was, too, a growing desire to be the one to bring him to a sense of his own worth. Not to reform him, that phrase he so despised, but to raise his sadly low esteem. She believed in him, and she could prove it to him, too, if only the situation was different.

But to wish things were different was to wish their whole adventure away. Increasingly all Clarissa wanted was for their time together to go on—and on. The thought of an ending to it was a thought she thrust firmly from her mind. A future without Kit Rasenby was not a future she wished to contemplate just yet.

John dropped the sails, and the ship glided smoothly into calmer, shallower waters, navigating by a beacon lit at the end of the harbour wall. Watching Kit’s face as he guided the yacht through the treacherous rocks that guarded the bay, Clarissa realised how truly handsome he was when his countenance was not marred by his habitual cynical frown. Kit’s eyes sparkled with anticipation as he steered the difficult course confidently. The gleam of excitement was contagious, stirring her own heart with a longing to be at his side, to face the danger with him. Here was a Kit released from the constraints of his London life. Here was the real Kit, the bold rescuer, not the dissolute rake. Like a shooting star brightening the cold, crisp night sky, Clarissa saw the truth. Here was her Kit. The Kit she had begun to love.

Breathless with the realisation, she clutched the rails, trying not to allow the elation that the admission brought reflect in her face. For just a moment, the thrill of finding herself truly in love was all-encompassing. She was soaring upwards towards the stars, the brilliance of the flame inside her outshining even the brightest of lights in the night sky.

But her spirits plummeted back down to earth all too quickly. That man standing so proudly at the helm of his yacht felt more for the ship shifting beneath them than he could ever feel for any woman, especially not the deceiver he believed Clarissa to be. He wanted her body, nothing more, a wish that would no doubt prove both fleeting and quickly sated.

Even Clarissa’s dauntless spirit was downtrodden by such a thought. For a moment she stared blankly ahead at the approaching shore. But long experience of coping in the face of adversity stood her now in good stead, and, ever the optimist, she resolved to enjoy the present, and to let the future take care of itself. It was enough for now to be here with Kit, sharing this experience. Enough to know that he desired her body, at least. With resolution renewed, Clarissa turned to the scene before her, determined to extract the last ounce of enjoyment from it. Enough to last her a lifetime.

They had reached the bay and were dropping anchor, the tide being too low for the yacht to pull alongside the jetty. The night was still, the wind almost gone, the only sound the gentle splashing of the oars from the small boat that was making its way towards them, two passengers huddled together in the bow. John was lowering a rope ladder over the side, and as the small dinghy neared, called a greeting in rough French to the oarsman, obviously a familiar face.

Responding to Kit’s nod, Clarissa moved to stand alongside him at the wheel, which he held steady with one hand, his other outstretched towards her. ‘Well? Are you enjoying yourself, fair Clarissa?’

‘Oh, yes, how can you think otherwise? It’s perfect.’

All enmity was gone from him, caught up as he was in the thrill of the rescue, the constant awareness of danger, the unaccustomed warmth of sharing the experience with this feisty, self-assured female at his side. One minute passionate wanton, next as curious as a child, and next again launching into a defence of his character like a lioness guarding her cubs. Nary a trace of fear at their situation, never a hint of a tear, not a single recrimination had he heard from her, only staunch fortitude and sparkling enjoyment. It was a potent mixture.

Clarissa was watching the small boat and its precious cargo tie up alongside. She was right, of course, these people were precious. Transporting émigrés to the safety of England’s shores was of deeper import to him than he cared to admit even to himself. Her hand remained tucked in his own as she watched, and she nestled close, the length of her body safe against him.

‘They look so frightened huddled down there,’ she said softly. ‘How much they must have been through to get here. It’s a humbling thought, but they must know they are safe, now you are here.’

She looked up at him with such trust that he could not restrain himself. Bending down, Kit kissed her softly on her lips. A gentle kiss without the heat of passion, a kiss one would give to a child, designed to—what? He wanted to keep her safe, not to betray the trust he saw writ in her eyes. She persisted in seeing him as a saviour. Fleetingly, he wished it could be so.

He was bewitched. She needed to be saved from nothing except her own wiles, and whatever this scheme was she had embroiled him in. Hardening his heart, Kit stepped briskly away. ‘Wait here. They’ll need help coming aboard, and John will need help with the rest of the cargo too.’

Left alone to watch, Clarissa could only admire the sleek process of loading from the tiny dinghy tied loosely to the Sea Wolf’s side. The men worked in silence, broken only by hushed instructions from Kit to John and the French oarsman, as Monsieur Renaud and his daughter were guided with care up the ladder and on to the deck. Several casks of brandy, boxes of tea, and bales of fabric—silk, she assumed—followed, handled by Kit and John effortlessly and with a practice born of familiarity. The cargo was stowed in a small compartment reached via a trap door on deck, which was hidden beneath some fishing nets. The émigrés were ushered to the cabin below. The dinghy cast off back to shore, the oarsman having received a generous douceur for his troubles. John and Kit were preparing to up anchor and away.

Clarissa watched all of this with fascination, taking in every detail while at the same time trying to reconcile Kit’s strange behaviour. He believed her to be a fraud, and did not trust her, that much was obvious. Nor did he believe her story—and who could blame him, for it was indeed flimsy. Yet he had gone along with her proposition, none the less, for reasons she could not fathom. He was bored, true. And he found her amusing, that was also true. And tempting. That, too, Clarissa knew to be true, although she found it harder to believe, so many real beauties had he had, and no doubt would continue to have. Yet he told her she was beautiful, and she believed him, for he did not lie.

Well, the novelty would no doubt wear off, but it was flattering all the same. Still, none of this explained why he went along with her scheme. He wanted her, but he trusted her not. He seemed, as when he kissed her just now, to be fighting against more tender feelings, but each time he pulled her close he pushed her away all the harder. He believed her to be false, and she had herself conspired to ensure that he would do so.

There was nothing to be done. The situation was of her own creation and she would have to accept the consequences. It had been no part of her plan to fall in love, but she could not regret it, even if Kit would never know how she felt.

The rocking beneath her feet told her they had turned back out to sea. Sure enough, the sails were set and the land was falling away behind them. Monsieur and his daughter were below decks. Clarissa decided the best way to assist was to provide what comfort she could to the French family on the long journey ahead. They would be chilled, and no doubt hungry. She could do something about that. She slipped away from the rail and was below decks before Kit had even noticed she had gone.

Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud were huddled together on one of the narrow bunks, fatigue etched on their wan faces. Mademoiselle was young, fifteen or sixteen, and bid fair to being a beauty, but at the moment all Clarissa saw was a girl at the end of her tether and in need of comfort. Pinning a bright smile to her face, and summoning up her schoolroom French, she set about providing it.

Warm blankets were retrieved from a locker beneath the bunk, and the supply box Kit had tucked into a corner was opened, revealing a ham, cheese, bread and wine. The émigrés fell on the food with obvious relish, and were considerably cheered by the time they had made a good repast. The sea was smoother for the return journey, and fortunately neither of the new passengers was subject to sickness. Clarissa poured herself a glass of burgundy and settled down to conversation with the father and daughter, keen to find out their story for herself. Keen also to discover their opinion of their rescuer without Kit himself being privy to it.

It was as sad, sordid and harrowing a tale as she had ever heard. Yet Monsieur emerged from it with a quiet dignity, a respect for life and a trust in humankind despite all his experience. He had no wish to dwell on the details of the past, the worst of times, when his wife was held in captivity, the only certainty that of her death by the blade. He focused instead on the goodness of the people who kept his daughter safe in the country while he pleaded in vain with the authorities in Paris. Of their kindness in providing him with a roof over his head, food, even some work tutoring the village children. And the generosity of the people who offered him a new home in England.

Monsieur spoke perfect English. ‘Over the years before the revolution, my studies led to friendship with some eminent professors at Oxford university. It is these very good friends who offered sanctuary to myself and Lisette, my daughter, as soon as we got word out that we were alive.’

‘So, you’ve been planning your escape for some time then, monsieur?’

‘Yes, for more than a year now. My wife, Lisette’s maman, was killed by the guillotine three years ago. Until she died, we had hoped to survive in France, to simply wait until this madness, this terreur, was ended. But when my dear wife was executed—murdered …’

‘Papa, we must think of the future now, it is what maman would want.’ Lisette’s gentle voice, full of compassion, roused her papa from his maudlin thoughts.

‘You are right, ma petite.’ Monsieur Renaud heaved a sigh, and, fortified with another draught of wine, resumed his story. ‘We heard of the English monsieur and his rescues through another of my countrymen, but it proved difficult and time-consuming to make contact and the necessary arrangements. Easy to understand, given the need for secrecy and the danger to all concerned. But now, thank God, we are finally here.’

‘The expense must have been a big problem for you?’

‘Oh, no, mais non, madame, there was no cost. Monsieur never takes a fee for his rescues, nor even a gift—and he has been offered many. Not once, in many, many attempts, has he been caught. Not one passenger has he failed, even when he had to wait in France, at great danger to himself. He is a hero.’

Clarissa smiled, wishing just for a moment that Kit was present to hear himself being described in the very terms he had denied so vehemently only hours before. She had been right about him, but it was reassuring to have it confirmed.

‘Yes, I believe he is a hero, monsieur, would he but admit it.’

‘We are not even permitted to know his name, madame.’ Lisette joined in the conversation now, her pretty face animated, the only traces of the frightened little girl who had boarded the yacht showing in the lines of exhaustion. ‘He is known as the Loup de Mer, the name of this yacht, and I think it suits him, non? He is just like a wolf, is he not, so dangerous, and so brave. But you, madame, you must know him well to be here on the boat with us. Tell me, is he of noble birth, as they say he is?’

Clarissa blushed, for Lisette was obviously curious as to her relationship with Kit, even if she was too polite to ask. ‘I think, mademoiselle, that if he wished his name to be known he would tell you. It is not for me to give away his secrets.’

‘Well spoken, my dear, my secrets are nobody’s property but mine.’

Kit entered the tiny cabin with his usual cat-like grace, making the room suddenly seem much smaller. The cynical smile was firmly in place, the slight frown drawing his black brows together demonstrating clearly that he had overheard enough of the conversation to know Clarissa had been asking questions.

‘My aunt always told me that listeners hear only ill of themselves, you know. You are fortunate you didn’t arrive any earlier.’

‘Ah, so you have an aunt, as well as a mother. Quite a little family gathering there will be awaiting you on your return from your trip. And what, pray, would I have overheard that would have been so unwelcome to my ears?’

‘Why, sir, only what I told you myself, and to your face. You are a hero. And it came this time not from my lips, but from those of Monsieur Renaud here.’

‘And, oh, monsieur, it is true. To us you are a hero, je vous promis.’ The worshipful tone of Lisette’s voice could not be ignored, but instead of taking umbrage with her, Kit laughed.

‘Merci du compliment, mademoiselle. But I didn’t come here to discuss my character, I came to remind you of your promises to me. We will be in England soon. A chaise awaits you, to take you to London and thence to Oxford. Once you are disembarked, you must not discuss this journey, nor may you tell any of your friends still in France how you came to contact me. From tonight, the Loup de Mer is no more. You have the honour of being my last passengers. And after tonight, even if we meet in the street, you must not recognise me. Is that understood?’

‘But why? Monsieur, I do not understand why?’

‘Lisette!’ Monsieur Renaud laid a constraining hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘Tais-toi. I speak for both of us, monsieur, when I say that it shall be as you demand. But I beg you, if you should ever be in need of a friend yourself, to consider me your eternally grateful servant.’

‘Thank you, monsieur.’ Only Clarissa realised that the curt tone hid Kit’s own pleasure at the compliment. ‘Now, I will bid you adieu. I will be busy on deck until we disembark. I am sure that madame here will look after you well. She is adept at it, I can vouch.’ A brief nod and a smile, and he was gone.

Clarissa settled Lisette down to sleep on the narrow bunk, letting her head rest on her own lap, soothing her into slumber by stroking her hair as she had done with Amelia countless times. After a while, Monsieur Renaud slept too, more fitfully, uncomfortably upright on the bunk opposite, and Clarissa sat watching over them, her own mind too tired to grapple with the travails that lay ahead when they arrived back in port.

Finally she too dozed off. She woke briefly to see Kit hovering over her, tucking a blanket round her, but he put a finger to his mouth and left as silently as he had arrived, so she smiled faintly, and turned to a troubled sleep once more.

When Clarissa next opened her eyes, the porthole revealed a choppy iron-grey sea rising to meet the pale dawn sky. It was morn, though she had no idea what o’clock. Even with a poor wind, they must be near home. Gently, so as not to disturb Lisette, still soundly asleep on her lap, Clarissa rose and stretched, stiff and sore from lying on the rough planks that passed for a bed. Her eyes felt gritty from the briny salt of the sea-spray, and she was ravenously hungry. She had not eaten since the inn, which seemed like long ago now, though it was only yesterday. But breakfast would have to wait until they landed, and she had a suspicion that once they were safely ashore, breakfast would be the last thing on her mind.

The yacht was slowing, but she could see nothing from the porthole to tell her their position. Steadying herself to go above decks, she was stilled by the sound of strange voices, and waited, suddenly alert to danger. The cabin door opened abruptly and John appeared, his face creased in worry.

‘Master says to stay down there, and make no sound. There’s a cutter coming alongside, they mustn’t find you.’

‘A cutter? Do you mean a customs ship?’

‘Aye. They’ve been tipped off, must’ve been, as they were lying in wait for us. I warned the master after the last time that someone was informing on us. And this time they want to board. They must be certain sure of their information.’

‘But can’t you prevent them boarding?’

‘Master Kit’ll try, lady, but they do seem mighty determined this time. And Master Kit, happen he’s riled that Lieutenant Smith once too often. The lad’s got summat to prove.’

Looking desperately round the tiny cabin, Clarissa realised there was nowhere for them to hide. The brandy casks were in the hidden compartment on deck, but no Riding Officer worth his salt would fail to discover the hiding place if he was permitted a thorough search. Looking anxiously at the still peacefully sleeping émigrés, Clarissa knew that if the customs men found the brandy they would almost certainly want to search the cabin too, where, unknown to them, a much more valuable cargo was stored. They must be prevented from searching or the game was up for them all. And if Kit couldn’t stop them, she thought, a plan forming in her mind, well, then she would have to.

Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, for John was entreating her to remain in the cabin and stay quiet. ‘Do as Master Kit commands and don’t even think of doing anything silly or you’ll get us all hanged.’ With this, he closed the cabin door firmly on Clarissa’s face and returned above decks.

‘I must command you to allow us to escort you into port, Lord Rasenby. We have a warrant to search the Sea Wolf.’ Lieutenant Smith stood stiffly on the deck, his dinghy tied alongside in the calm waters of the channel, his cutter swaying a few yards off and behind the yacht.

‘This obsession with my night-fishing trips is becoming tedious, Lieutenant. I thought you would have better things to do with your valuable time.’

‘You have been less fortunate than usual, my lord, from what I can see?’

‘I don’t take your meaning.’ Kit’s temper, usually so cool under pressure, was frayed. Never before had they been unable to outrun the customs men, and he cursed the ill luck which had seen the wind drop suddenly. The thought of the Renauds and Clarissa hidden below decks made him nervous, more nervous than the thought of the cargo concealed in the secret locker. He had no clear idea of the law regarding the émigrés, but he had a very clear idea indeed of what would happen to his reputation if this story got out.

‘My meaning, my lord, is simple. Where is your catch?’

Cursing volubly under his breath, Kit turned helplessly to John, who shrugged in consternation. They had caught no fish.

‘As you say, I was unlucky last night, Lieutenant. Come now, we both know this is foolish. I am in need of my bed, as I’m sure you are of yours. Nothing can be gained from searching us, for there is nothing to be found.’

‘Perhaps your catch is below decks, my lord?’

‘Devil take you, Lieutenant, what are you implying?’

‘You know very well, Lord Rasenby. You are carrying contraband and this time nothing will prevent me from discovering it.’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed all the same, Lieutenant.’ Clarrie’s husky tones, as she stepped boldly on to deck, startled the men into silence. John, standing behind Kit, looked on slack-jawed.

‘Lord, Kit, I thought we’d never get back to England. I’ve missed you, darling, it’s no fun below decks on my own.’ Laying a proprietorial arm on Kit’s, Clarrie pouted. Her hair was loosened to curl freely down her back, and her dress unbuttoned sufficiently to add to her air of abandon. There could be no mistaking that she had this moment arisen from a night of passion.

Lieutenant Smith’s jaw dropped in imitation of John’s at this lush display, but Kit, quick to take advantage, merely pressed Clarissa’s hand in acknowledgment of the ruse, and smiled tauntingly at the Riding Officer. ‘My cargo, Lieutenant Smith, as you see.’ Taking Clarissa’s hand in his, he raised it to his mouth and planted a lingering kiss on her palm. ‘Good morning, my love. I’m afraid this gentleman was rather intent on searching your quarters.’

‘Oh, please, Lieutenant, let me preserve some modicum of dignity. The cabin is—how can I put it delicately—a little untidy.’ There could be no mistaking her meaning. Lieutenant Smith blushed as scarlet as his uniform.

‘You can see now, Lieutenant, why I had no time for fishing last night. I was rather more agreeably occupied with this particular little piece of bait.’ A rather unnecessary pat on her bottom made Clarrie start.

‘Please, Kit, not in front of the gentleman. You can see he’s embarrassed.’ Indeed, the Lieutenant was playing with the collar of his coat as if suddenly finding it too tight. ‘I’m so sorry, Lieutenant—as you can see, I’m having a little difficulty in taming his lordship here. What he needs is his bed.’ This accompanied by a wink, which made even Kit raise an eyebrow.

‘I—well, I—yes. Excuse me, Lord Rasenby, it would seem that once again I was misinformed. Please accept my apologies, ma’am, for disturbing you—I mean, for disturbing your …’

‘My rest, I think you mean,’ Clarrie said with a saucy smile.

‘Yes. Your rest, ma’am. Of course.’

‘Lieutenant?’

‘My lord?’

‘A word, if you please, before you go. I would ask you to keep this encounter to yourself for all of our sakes. The lady, you understand, belongs to another, and it would grieve him greatly should he find out about this night’s fishing trip.’

Realisation dawned in the officer’s eyes, and they widened at the temerity of the man standing shameless in front of him. Lord Rasenby’s reputation was well known to those hereabouts, of course, but never before had Lieutenant Smith been faced with such blatant evidence of his raking. And she so young and pretty too! Nodding wisely in an attempt to pass off the encounter as he was sure a man of the world would do, Lieutenant Smith thrust the proffered note away in confusion. ‘My discretion does not need to be bought, Lord Rasenby. I am a man of honour. You can accept my word that I will not discuss this encounter.’

Kit’s brows rose in surprise. ‘You are a credit to your uniform, sir, and I honour you for it. And in return, I’ll tell you something to your advantage.’

‘Sir?’

‘It will perhaps relieve you to know that my night-fishing trips are at an end. You may wish to share that knowledge with the Marquis of Alchester, your informant.’ Raising his hand to forestall the confused denial, Kit continued. ‘I have been aware for some time that he has been keeping you apprised of my movements. Rest assured, I will be taking the matter up with Alchester personally. But for now, I trust, you take my meaning? The Sea Wolf will not be going fishing again.’

‘I thank you, sir. I take your meaning well. Now I must bid you good morning.” A blushing nod to Clarissa, and the lieutenant was gone, over the side to the waiting dinghy, and back to his cutter.

He was barely back on board before Clarrie turned, exultant and bursting with excitement, towards Kit. ‘Oh, Kit, I can’t tell you, my heart was thumping fit to burst. Just for a moment there I thought he—’

Kit cut short her excited torrent of words with an imperious wave of his hand. ‘You were told to remain below. Can I not trust you to follow even the simplest of instructions? I would have found a way to deal with Lieutenant Smith. John, make haste for the quay. We are long overdue. Clarissa, go below and make sure the Renauds are prepared to disembark.’

Curtly dismissed, Clarissa stumbled below, blinking back the tears. Kit turned to take the wheel, confused at his own sudden temper.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a mite hard on the girl, my lord?’ John asked gravely. ‘She got us out of a pretty pickle there and no mistake.’

‘I know, John, I know. Your point is well made.’ She had saved them all from a perilous situation with her quick thinking, cool head and bravery. So why, then, was he so angry with her?