A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

Rian Grant was standing here, in this dank building in Auevilla, staring back at her. For a moment she was back in the queen’s ballroom with the water rising at their feet, and she felt the world sway a bit. He looked even better than he had in her dreams, if such a thing was possible. Tall and strong and eminently capable.

She could see the echoing surprise in his eyes, before he schooled them into an impressively haughty expression and looked her over with a sneer fit for a member of the Beau Monde. His gaze settled on her cheek, probably already swelling, and went hard with anger.

“This is your spy?” Grant asked, in immaculate Gallic and a condescending tone. “This bit of fluff?”

“A spy,” Beauvoir said again. “Caught sneaking around the docks.”

Grant sniffed disdainfully. “I prefer to believe the Isles employs more substantial agents than this slip of a girl. What’s your name, girl?” He’d switched to Islish for the question, but the disdain hadn’t changed.

Kit rolled her eyes. “I am Gallic,” she said in the language. “As I’ve already said, my name is Clémentine Lafaille, and I am from Beaulieu-sur-Mer.”

“What’s your business here?”

She made a frustrated curse. “We were to sail on the Simone. We came off the boat for some damned food. We walked the dock—and a citizen’s got a right to do so, hasn’t she?—and were accosted by these filthy goats. Now he says we’ve missed our damn ship. Are you going to pay for my wages now? And my comrade’s?”

She saw the glint of pride in his eyes, but he gripped her chin as if frustrated. His fingers were gentle against her skin, but his arm shook, as if with barely controlled violence. “Stubborn chit,” Grant said. “We know you’re a spy. So you might as well speak the Islish of your birth.”

She didn’t know his game yet, but she read the urging in his eyes, and switched to Islish.

“They don’t speak Islish?” she whispered through her sneer.

“Not as far as I can tell,” Grant said softly, the words barely more than a breath.

“Get your filthy hands off me,” Kit said in Islish.

“You?” he said in the same language. “Calling me filthy?” A mirthless laugh, and he released her chin. “I’d be careful of your tone,” he said, every syllable crisp with condescension.

“Voice sounds like you’re a rich Islish gent. And yet here you are, helping these damned Gallians.”

“My business in Auevilla is none of yours. Your business, on the other hand, is very much mine. You will tell me why you’re here, or I will show you why they called me to convince you.”

Grant put his arms on her chair, leaned over it. And she nearly lost her composure at the scent of his cologne—bay rum—and the warmth of his body. So she thought of the Isles and gritted her teeth.

“You’re injured,” he whispered.

“I’m fine.”

“Alone?”

“Cooper,” she answered. “The Butcher is here. He killed a man outside the prison. They know there are Islish spies in town.” Her hands were still shaking from it.

She could see Grant wanted to argue, to contradict. But he was controlled enough—and believed her truthful enough—that he only sneered with disdain.

“Liar,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Make this look convincing,” he added in a whisper, and cracked his hand across her face.

Or so it seemed. He’d surreptitiously slapped his other hand, and she whipped her head to the side to strengthen the effect. Given Beauvoir’s smile, the effort had been successful.

“Bastard,” she muttered as he walked away, shaking his hand as if it smarted from the slap. “You damned bastard.” She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder to add a bit of color.

Beauvoir moved in, looked at Kit, Grant. “Be careful that you don’t break her jaw,” he said in Gallic. “Makes it more difficult to talk.”

Grant gestured toward Kit. “If you believe I cannot handle an Islish chit, you’re welcome to take over. I’ve other ways to spend my time . . . as does Fouché.”

It was obvious bait, but Beauvoir took it. “Apologies,” he said mildly, which earned him a nod from Grant.

He turned back to Kit. “Why are you here? If I have to ask you again, the price won’t be nearly as easy.”

She worked venom into her gaze, said through clenched teeth, “I was to sail on the damned Simone.”

“They can verify?”

“I don’t see how, as they’ve sailed away without me.”

“Convenient. What information did you hope to obtain for the Isles?”

“The location of lying gentry,” she said. “So go bugger yourself.”

He gave a dignified huff. “Your mouth is filthy as your clothing. The truth, or your comrade still in the brig will be next in that chair. And I won’t be inclined to be so patient with her.” Again his eyes urged her to follow his lead.

Kit gritted her teeth. “Stay away from her.”

“Tell me what I want to know.” His gaze shifted to her cheeks. “Or a slap will be the least of her concerns.”

Kit swore. “We want to know what Gerard plans on the Continent.” That was accurate, but general enough that it would be no surprise to anyone in the hemisphere. It also saved her from admitting they’d found the Fidelity.

Grant’s eyes narrowed even as his smile widened. And she understood, for a moment, how formidable he’d have been as a soldier—and yet how different his eyes were from Doucette’s.

The remembrance came heavy; even bound, she squeezed her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

Grant moved to the door, opened it. “Good work, Beauvoir. She has admitted to being Islish, and seeking information regarding the emperor and his strategy. Fouché will see you richly rewarded for this. I took the liberty of arranging the wagon before I arrived, as I presumed you wouldn’t send for Fouché without reason. I’ll have them taken to his town house. I’ve one of his horses.”

Grant made the statement quickly, allowing no time for question or objection.

“Taken to his town house,” Beauvoir said with uncertainty. “We cannot release a prisoner—”

“You can,” Grant said, pulling gloves from the pocket of his tailcoat and slipping them on. “And you will. Otherwise Fouché will be obliged to communicate his displeasure to the governor. In that case, his attention would be directed solely”—Grant looked up, his eyes all aristocratic displeasure—“at you.”

“Of course,” Beauvoir said. He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t appear eager to wage this battle now. He offered a little bow, waved in Dock Man and the gendarmes.

They came in, and one of the gendarmes pulled Kit up from the chair. She kicked him in the shin.

“Traitor!” she screamed at Grant, as the Gallians grabbed her arms. “This is treason, and you’ll pay for it. The queen will hear about this!”

For she was but an actress and the world a stage.

“Go ahead,” Grant said with a chuckle. “Scream for your spoiled queen, girl. There’s no one here that gives a damn.”

She was dragged to the road, tried twice to bite the unlucky gendarmes who’d been given the assignment. “You cannot make me go,” she screamed. “I am a citizen! I have rights!”

But the gendarmes seemed bored with her antics now, presumably because they were being robbed of their fun.

Cooper awaited her in an open wagon hitched to two angry-looking horses with fuzzy hooves, steam rising from their nostrils in the brisk air. Kit was shoved into the back, then to her knees, and she was grateful for the layer of mostly clean straw that cushioned the blow at least a little.

“You can stop screaming,” the footman whispered in perfect Islish. “But do continue to look fearful and perturbed.”

“J’accuse!” she screamed out, just for good measure, and then offered more Gallic gestures to the men who watched, narrow-eyed, from the side of the road.

The footman snapped the reins and the carriage jerked forward, humping over the cobblestone road.

“You’re well, Cooper?” Kit whispered, when the gaol was out of sight. “They didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m in tiptop shape, sir. They didn’t move me until Mr. Cragwell came for me.” Cooper held up her hands, which weren’t bound. “Didn’t even bother to tie me. I could hear you screaming across the courtyard. I thought they might have nipped off your fingers. And I saw Grant. I must admit to some confusion.”

“You are not the only one,” Kit said. The wagon jostled as they hit a rut in the road, and Kit pitched forward, gripped the side of the wagon with her bound wrists to keep from falling over. “Damnable horses,” she muttered.

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Grant is playing messenger to someone named Fouché, who apparently has the ear of the provincial governor. I’ve no idea who Fouché is, but Grant will have a plan. But damned if I know what that is, either.” And she was cautious enough not to speculate aloud in the middle of town. Whatever Grant had managed here, he’d managed it deeply enough to have Gallic officers trusting him within only a few weeks.

They passed shops and tradespeople, including a shop with a portrait of Gerard hanging in a great glass window. The painting was . . . generous . . . to the former emperor. Gerard wasn’t a tall man, or a particularly nice-looking one. His cheeks were pallid, his dark hair short, his mouth seeming to always bear a pout. But he looked strong here, standing in a crisp ivory uniform bedecked with medals, topped by an ermine-trimmed cloak of scarlet velvet, his blue eyes lifted toward the sky—and the imperial future he envisioned.

“I still don’t know what they saw in him,” Cooper said quietly. “I’ve always thought he looked so . . . plain.”

“That’s why they loved him,” Kit said, “and love him still, or at least some of them. He was a student who became a general; a general who became an emperor. He is a man of infinite ambition, who succeeded, or nearly, at his aims. Everyone wants to succeed.”

“You sound as if you admire him,” Cooper said.

“I don’t admire him. I admire his talents. He has a nimble mind and a strong will. And if he’d used them to help his people, rather than himself, the world might be a very different place. Since he didn’t, he, like Doucette, can rot in hell.”

The wagon came to a jolting stop outside a white building, its façade crisscrossed with dark beams in the old Islish style, the tall roof pitched to a narrow point.

“Be ready,” Kit whispered. “And stay in character.”

Grant jumped down from a tall dark stallion that gave Kit a bit of the evil eye and ordered them taken inside as a footman took the horse’s reins. Another footman pulled them from the wagon, shoved them both into the building, where they were taken from a wide foyer into a pleasant-looking parlor.

Grant, who remained in the foyer, put a finger to his lips, requesting their silence.

Kit glanced about the room. The home they now found themselves in was pretty, if slightly shabby. Comfortable but worn chairs, candlesticks in need of polishing, a fireplace that needed scrubbing. And despite the sunshine outside, the heavy drapes were drawn, candles lit.

After a moment Grant walked in, Cragwell behind him. Grant carried a small knife, blade gleaming.

Cooper edged toward Kit, as if to protect her. Kit offered her a smile. “No concern, Cooper. Grant would prefer to battle with his fists, not a blade.” Kit held out her wrists.

He put a hand beneath, his fingers warm and gentle, and gazed down at her with eyes that seemed impossibly blue, began sawing at the ropes. “The Diana?” he asked casually, as if his skin wasn’t burning from the contact. Hers certainly was.

“Just offshore,” Kit said. “Southwest of the pier. Sampson’s in the jolly boat not far from the bathing houses.”

Grant nodded. “We’ll be getting Midshipman Cooper to the boat then.” He made a final saw through the hemp, then tossed the split ropes away and looked down at her red and abraded wrists, still resting on his free hand.

“We could perhaps find some salve?” Cragwell offered behind them, and Kit nearly blushed. She’d almost forgotten they weren’t alone.

“Not necessary,” Kit said, pulling her hands back. She rubbed away the coarse and gritty remnants of rope. Her wrists were chafed, but she’d heal.

“But thank you,” she added. “And by what means do you intend to get her to the boat?”

“By the safest means,” Grant said with amusement, then glanced at Cooper. “Can you play dead, Midshipman?”

She looked at Kit, then Grant. “Er, probably?”

Grant nodded. “Then I’ll be frank, as we’re all of us sailors and soldiers. You’ll be carried out to the wagon—as if killed here by Fouché for your illegal activities—for transport to a pauper’s graveyard. They expect to see punishment from Fouché’s abode. We are obliged to give them the show they request.”

Kit looked from Grant, whom she trusted, to Cragwell, whom she didn’t know. And after Grant’s comment and a quick inspection, sized him up as a soldier.

“Rank,” she demanded, thinking of Grant’s New London majordomo, who’d previously served.

Cragwell bit back a smile. “Sergeant in the Sixtieth Foot.”

A regiment that had seen action in Hispania during the Continental War. “All right,” Kit said, and nodded at Cooper.

Cragwell gestured toward Cooper. “Ma’am? If you’ll just come this way?”

Cooper looked at Kit with uncertainty. “Pardon the expression, but I don’t like the idea of returning to the boat alone, sir. Jin will have my hide if anything happens to you.”

“That makes three of us,” Grant said, “including the captain.”

Kit nodded. “Go, Cooper. Whatever happens here, you can get back to the Diana and give Jin a report about what and who we saw. I trust these men to help me get back aboard safely. And when I’m there, we’ll need to sail quickly.” Seeing the hesitation in her eyes, Kit put a hand on her arm. “I don’t want to order you, Midshipman. But I will, if it helps.”

That was enough to put the resolve back in her shoulders. No midshipman worth her salt wanted to refuse a captain’s request.

“No, sir. I’ll go, and report to the commander. And may the gods have mercy on my soul,” she murmured, before following Cragwell into another room.

Kit blew out a breath. “That’s one bit less for worry then.” She looked at Grant. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and the words seemed to echo in the room. “We’ll do the same for you when the wagon returns.” For the first time in hours, she felt a bit of relief. And promised herself Jin would have the next turn at shore duty.

There was true silence around her for the first time in hours, and she realized they were alone, or mostly so. She looked back at him, found his eyes on her. And the air seemed to sparkle and crack in the space between them.

Gratefully, all thoughts of the gaol and Gerard and Doucette—and the fear and anger they prompted—simply fell away, which was its own miracle. Even if she only had a moment before she had to tell him what she’d seen.

“Captain,” he said.

“Colonel.” Was her heartbeat not unusually quick?

Grant strode toward her, and she could actually feel her heart beating faster. She ordered herself to calm down.

“They hurt you,” he said quietly, and reached out to touch her abraded wrist. But he seemed to think better of it, and curled his fingers into a fist, which he lowered with what appeared to be monumental effort.

“I’m fine,” Kit said, working to maintain her own control. Yes, she was alone with a man she’d wanted to see for weeks. But there was work to be done, and they both knew it.

“Fouché?” she asked.

“A friend. You can trust him.”

“It appears we have a guest.”

Kit turned to face the man who appeared on the stairs.

He was as tall as Grant, and while he didn’t have Grant’s soldierly-broad shoulders, he looked fit and strong, with clear, piercing eyes.

Grant took a step back, gestured to the man. “Raleigh, this is Captain Kit Brightling of the Queen’s Own. Kit, please meet Fitzwilliam Amberly, the Duke of Raleigh. Known locally as Fouché.”

Her brows lifted. The Duke of Raleigh’s reputation was . . . substantial. The eldest of three sons of the former Duke of Raleigh, he’d spent the war in Auevilla—if the gossip sheets were to be believed—carousing, whoring, and generally avoiding his obligations. But he didn’t look like a man who’d devoted his life to drink and excess. No, he looked . . . cold. Not empty, like Doucette, who’d seemed to be totally lacking in emotion. But hard, as if all emotion had been pinched somewhere deep below, never allowed to surface.

She wasn’t the type to be intimidated, but she could imagine the townspeople might feel differently. Grant and Raleigh were both big men, with careful manners and the gravitas of those who could wield significant power.

“Your Grace,” Kit said, affecting a polite bow.

“Your Grace?” Grant repeated. “Why does he get a bow and an honorific? I’m a viscount and received only disdain and mutterings for my aristocratic leanings.”

Kit glanced at him, bit back a smile at the glimmer of jealousy in his eyes. “He’s a duke. But he doesn’t appear to be a wastrel. Or at least not entirely.”

Raleigh lifted an imperious brow that Kit imagined was well practiced and quickened the hearts of Beau Monde mamas.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he said. “You are, as expected, very frank for a woman without a title.” His voice was deep and carried the precision of years of elite education and society training. But she was hardly intimidated by the Beau Monde.

“You’re very brave for a man without a ship.”

Raleigh watched her in silence, then glanced at Grant. “Maintain hope, Grant. Perhaps you’ve a thirteenth cousin who’ll meet his untimely demise and you, too, can be a duke and subject to these abuses.”

Kit was pleased, and a little relieved, to find he had a sense of humor. Seeing Doucette had her comparing everyone now, wary of those who demanded deference.

“You’re Fouché?” she asked. “Or pretending to be?”

“Fouché is the name I used when I first arrived here four years ago. It was a lie, but a well-documented one. At the time, I wished to disappear, and so I did.”

“Because that was the freedom afforded by power and coin,” Kit said. To his credit, Raleigh nodded.

“Later, I was approached by one of Chandler’s men to provide information.”

“And you agreed despite your desire to disappear?”

“I’m not accustomed to being questioned by sailors.”

“I’m not accustomed to being thrown in Gallic gaols and interrogated by Islish viscounts and dukes, so we’re both having very unusual days.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain if I like you or not.”

“Then it is fortunate I do not answer to you, Your Grace.”

He offered a begrudging smile. It seemed sincere but didn’t reach his eyes, and surely not his heart. A duke couldn’t be single forever; the Beau Monde wouldn’t permit it. So gods’ luck to the woman dealt this particular hand.

“My loyalties to the Crown were challenged,” Raleigh said after a time. “While I may have lived in Gallia, I am still an Islishman. And I was bored by wastreling, as you called it. Gallic officials, of course, knew none of this. They believed I’d left my loyalties behind and employed me to pass along whatever intelligence I received. I’ve done so, with careful New London coordination. Now they refer suspected acts of espionage to me, which is why you’re here.”

“That’s quite a precarious position,” she said, thinking of Jin balancing on one foot on the decking. “Acting as an agent for both the Isles and Gallia.”

“It can be,” Raleigh agreed, but his smile was chilling. “But we are a very convincing sort.”

She looked at Grant. “And you?”

“I’m the protégé,” he said.

“Of the drinking, gambling, or wastreling?” Kit asked.

Grant put a hand on his chest, managed a chagrined look. “I’m the dissolute viscount who’s turned his estate over to his younger brother’s running and come to Raleigh’s shelter for wayward Beau Monde. After surveying nearly two hundred miles of coastline.”

Raleigh leaned against a tall chair, crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”

“In your home, or in your town?”

“Clever,” Raleigh said, with a flash of amusement in his eyes. “Start with the former.”

“Cooper and I were arrested for spying. We denied the charges, and Grant was, rather ironically, brought in to scare the truth out of us.”

“How did he do?”

“I’m well and thoroughly terrified.”

His lips twitched. “And you’re in town because?”

“We’re searching for the Fidelity. And found it anchored at your dock.”

Grant looked at Raleigh, smiled. “I told you the Crown Command would recognize it, changes or no.”

“So you did,” Raleigh said, and looked at Kit with approval. “She’s been in port for two days. We sent a messenger to New London, but it won’t have arrived yet.”

“Gerard?” Kit asked.

“There’s been no sighting of him in town, or in villages outside it. It appears the Fidelity was sailed with only a skeleton crew.”

Kit frowned. “If he’s not on Montgraf, and he’s not with the Fidelity, where is he?” But she understood the truth, disappointing as it was, the moment the words were out.

“The Fidelity attracts too much attention,” she said. “And it’s been here for only two days, but Gerard’s been gone for weeks.”

“Conclusion?” Raleigh asked.

“He disembarked elsewhere,” Kit said. “The Fidelity had ample time to sail to some other port, ensure he was settled somewhere else, likely with some of the crew, his personal guards. Then the Fidelity sailed on, staying close to shore and out of sight of the blockade. We’d assumed Gerard would be on his flagship, so that’s what we’ve looked for.” They’d been wrong, and he’d outsmarted them again.

She cursed vividly, sending Raleigh’s brow high.

“You swear rather like a sailor,” he said mildly.

She ignored that. “What about the pennants?”

“They were hung by the Resurrectionists,” Grant said. “That’s the preferred term by Gerard’s loyalists. Nationally, they’re led by Beaumont and Van Dijk and the rest of the anti-monarchists. Locally, Beauvoir is a supporter.”

“Gallia did not blossom under the reinstituted monarchy,” Raleigh said. “Some of the nation has been rebuilt, but primarily where the king’s aristocratic friends reside. There are more than a few who’d prefer to take their chances again with an emperor when the king has done so little for them.”

“We suspect he may have planned to launch his campaign here,” Grant continued, “or at least this was one of multiple options.”

“And, unfortunately for us, he picked a different option. So where is he?”

“We’ve people scouring the coast,” Raleigh said. “But he’s not yet been located.”

Kit nodded. “What about Doucette?”

“What about him?” Raleigh asked grimly.

They might have known of the Fidelity, but they hadn’t known about Doucette. “He’s here,” she said. “In Auevilla.”

“Impossible,” Raleigh said matter-of-factly, in a tone that said he was accustomed to deciding facts, not being surprised by them. “He didn’t walk away from Contra Costa.”

“I saw him myself,” Kit said, “wearing the uniform of an imperial guard.”

There are different kinds of silence. The pleasant and comforting quiet that might be shared by friends or lovers. The silence of anticipation and waiting, full of tension. And the silence of fury . . . and fear.

“Where?” he asked, that anger seeping through his features.

“Generally about town. We followed him from the dock to a small park. He picked up something at one building—a red leather portfolio, it appeared. He showed something from it—a map, perhaps—to a man named Sedley he met near a park. Sedley referred to Doucette as a ‘marshal.’ We slipped away after that.”

The duke simply stared at her. She wasn’t sure if it was shock, exasperation, or irritation she saw on his face. “You followed La Boucher through town?”

A bit of all three, she concluded, from his tone. “We did.”

“You aren’t trained for espionage.”

“No, we aren’t. But that’s done little enough for you lot: They know there are two Islish spies in Auevilla.”

“Well,” Raleigh said casually, “we knew our luck would run thin at some point. I know Sedley. He’s a worm of a man, beneath even contempt. He’d done Gerard’s bidding during the war, and hopes to find a position within his new cabinet. A map, you say?”

Kit nodded. “You’ll also not be pleased to learn Contra Costa has not diminished Doucette’s ambition or willingness to manipulate magic. He killed a man at the gaol using only that.”

And she told them what she’d seen, and felt unsettled again.

“Blue-green magic, you say?” Raleigh asked.

“It looked not unlike St. Elmo’s fire,” Kit allowed.

Raleigh frowned. “That’s harmless to ships, isn’t it?”

“Almost always. The causes aren’t entirely known, but it’s some sort of atmospheric discharge. Might raise your hair a bit, but doesn’t hurt. This was something different. This was the current, or some exterior portion of it. Frankly, I don’t know how he did it—drew on the current without killing himself and everyone around him. Pulled it to the surface, somehow, or some residual aether, perhaps.”

“Scarring?” Grant asked, gaze dropping to her hands.

“No. I saw no consequence of his actions. Not so much as a singed blade of grass.”

And that had her worried more than anything. More than the ban, and Contra Costa, it was the physical consequence—including the scars on her palms—that kept the Aligned from overreaching. Not because they were overly painful, but because they reminded her that the current was other, and it always demanded a price.

She squeezed her hands into fists, and Raleigh noticed the movement, his gaze flicking down to her curled fingers.

“Sleight of hand?” Raleigh asked, lifting his gaze again. “Perhaps he was aware he was being watched and wanted you to see it—wanted someone from the Isles to see it.”

“I was at a communal window in a gaol cell. He couldn’t have known I’d look.” She shook her head. “And I’m not Aligned to the land, but even I could feel the vibration. The, I suppose, shudder of power.”

“We’ve a long history of pretending the currents don’t exist and then punishing those who tried to make use of them. Contra Costa proved magic is dangerous in untrained hands,” Raleigh added, voice quieter now. “We need to learn how to safely utilize it. And I understand the Isles is taking steps.”

The queen had admitted to Grant and Kit that the Isles had been secretly investigating how to make more use of magic. Kit didn’t care for the idea, but had come to understand the defensive necessity.

“And how will the public react when they learn of those efforts?” she wondered.

“I imagine they’ll come to accept it quickly once they learn Doucette is alive and Gerard’s given him a promotion.”

For a moment, they stood in silence. Captain, colonel, duke. And she wondered if they all considered the same question, so she opted to ask it aloud.

“Could you get close enough to kill him now?”

Assassinating officers wasn’t done; that’s not how Islish or Continental wars were fought or won. It was foot regiments and ordinary Jacks that did the fighting; officers looked, watched, directed. But if Grant or Raleigh was shocked by the question, neither showed it.

“I would not bother to worry about killing an officer who should be dead already,” Raleigh said. “But treaties were signed, and all but the highest of Gerard’s officers and soldiers were pardoned in order to permit their reassimilation into Gallic society. Doucette’s rank was low enough at Contra Costa to secure that benefit. In the absence of a declaration of war, killing him would violate the queen’s prior agreements. And rally more to Gerard’s cause.

“But I will include this in my reports, as I’m sure you will. We have allies in town who can keep a watchful eye in the meantime.”

Kit nodded. “I know war is a sailor’s business, and a soldier’s at that. But I was hoping we might avoid it. Save the world from revisiting that terror.”

“You’ve seen Auevilla,” Grant said. “They don’t appear to want saving.”

“No, they appear to want war,” Kit agreed. “Was that true in the other places you visited?”

“It depends on the village,” Grant said. “Some consider Gerard to be too focused on war and victory, and not enough on caring for the common man. Others think he will finally save the country from the evils of monarchy and make it a financial power.”

“Is that why Doucette is here?” Kit asked. “Because the village supports Gerard?”

“Meaning,” Raleigh said, “will he—or they—be using this as a base of operations? As the first step toward Saint-Denis?”

“He has support,” Kit said. “Doucette is here. He has the Fidelity, and he has a river running into Gallia. It’s a logical place to begin a march.”

“It’s possible,” Raleigh said. “There certainly are beneficial conditions. It’s a wonder, Captain, that you haven’t worn a trench right through the Diana’s deck.”

Kit stopped short at Raleigh’s comment and looked around. Without thinking of it, she’d paced to the other end of the room.

“Captain Brightling enjoys a purposeful stride,” Grant said.

She made a vague noise of agreement and made herself stop, looked up at a large, gilt-framed painting that hung there. It was a ship, three-masted and proud, tilted against a wave in a brilliantly turbulent sea. The sun hovered at the edge of the horizon, making the water glow from within.

“This is beautiful,” Kit said. “The water looks”—she lifted fingertips to the canvas, let them hover above the glimmering crests as if she might feel the sunlight on her fingers—“real,” she finished.

“I won it in a game of indigo,” Raleigh said, stepping beside her.

“So at least some of the rumors are true.”

“Probably more than a few,” he acknowledged.

Cragwell appeared in the doorway.

“All is well?” Kit asked.

He nodded briskly. “Midshipman Cooper was delivered to the boat, and they’re waiting for the captain just offshore.”

“Excellent work, Cragwell. Thank you.” Raleigh turned back to Kit. “Your turn, Captain. You’ll be taken out as, let’s not mince words, a corpse, having succumbed to my rather monumental temper.” The words were spoken with absolute flat affect, but Kit had no doubt the man could fire a good anger if the need arose. “You’ll be covered by a shroud and taken to the boat in the back of the wagon. If you’re stopped, act as if you’ve been told I was a spy. Give me up in order to save yourselves.”

So cold of temperament, Kit thought, but not of heart.

“Why should I follow your orders?” she asked.

Raleigh’s smile was thin. “Because, as you so aptly pointed out, I’m the duke.” He looked at Grant. “And you won’t be going alone.”

Grant’s eyes fired. “Our work here—”

“Is done,” Raleigh finished. “The loyalists now know there are spies in their midst, and it’s only a matter of time before they come for us. I want us gone, and our staff secured, before that happens. And I need to report what we’ve learned.”

“As do I,” Kit said.

Grant looked at Kit. “It appears I’m to rely on your assistance once again.” And the warmth in his eyes had even Raleigh clearing his throat.

“I don’t imagine the queen would object,” she said, and glanced at the duke. “We can ship you as well, and your staff.”

“No need.” He pulled a letter from his pocket. “I’ll be leaving on horseback shortly, as I’ve just received a very important missive from the governor about allegations of spies in the area. It is of significant enough import that we must discuss it posthaste.”

“And, of course, you’ll be leaving the letter behind should anyone have questions.”

Raleigh smiled at her. “Naturally.”

“And the house staff?” Grant asked.

“They’ll be safe,” he assured them. “Cragwell isn’t the only soldier I employ. If there’s danger, they’ll ensure the other staff are evacuated and moved to safe houses.”

Kit nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

A maid came into the room with two small pots, a cloth, and a brush.

“Dorcas,” Raleigh said, “Kit Brightling, and you know the viscount.”

She made a small bow, smiled at Kit. “Would you like to be first, ma’am?”

“First?”

“In the event the gendarmes stop the wagon, we want you to look convincing. This will help with the illusion.”

“What is it?” Kit asked, leaning forward to see the brilliant scarlet liquid inside one of the pots.

“Powder in one, and beet juice in the other, mixed with a bit of sugar water to thicken it. It’s quite effective, but does stain a bit.”

A good thing she hadn’t worn her uniform coat.

“Now,” Dorcas said, her smile bright and helpful. “Let’s bloody you up.”