The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)

Kit walked into the Brightling house with a frustrated disposition. Portnoy’s was closed, having apparently devoted itself to preparing for the Lambeth festivities, where Kit imagined it would sell cones of sweets to attendees.

She opened the front door, found herself looking down at a girl in a simple pink dress, her blond hair a gleaming mass of curls held back by a pink ribbon.

Mrs. Eaves had wasted no time, Kit thought.

“Hello,” Kit said pleasantly. “Do I know you?”

Louisa’s chin lifted. “It’s me, Louisa. Mate of the Diana.”

Kit frowned. “That doesn’t sound familiar. You don’t look like a sailor.”

“Well, I was,” Louisa said, “before I became a prisoner and was forced into a stupid dress.” She pointed at her dress, stuck out a boot. “It’s a tragesty!”

“Travesty,” Kit said, holding back a smile. “Or tragedy, depending.”

“That’s what I said. Did you bring a box from Portnoy’s?”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “Who said I bring something from Portnoy’s?”

“The twins. And they hide them so Mrs. Eaves doesn’t find out, or it’s right into the bin. And Mrs. Eaves doesn’t cook very good things.”

Louisa had been here for barely two hours, Kit thought, and already had the lay of the land. She could have been one of Sutherland’s observing officers.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t bring treats today. The treat shop was closed.” She heard music from the parlor, and glanced over.

“That’s Pari,” Louisa said. “She’s playing the pianoforte. She said she could try to teach me some but you have to sit still for so long.”

“I had the same reaction,” Kit said. “Other than the dress, how do you like it here?”

Louisa lifted a shoulder.

Time would tell, Kit thought, and walked to the parlor doorway, looked in. Pari sat in front of the pianoforte, hands moving across the keys. She was fourteen, with tan skin, long dark hair, and a slender build.

Kit closed her eyes to listen to the soft rise and fall of the melody, the little trills that sounded like birdsong. Kit couldn’t play an instrument, couldn’t hold a tune. Which made her appreciate it all the more.

When Kit opened her eyes again, Pari was smiling at her with a single lifted eyebrow.

“That was lovely.” Kit went to her, took a seat beside her on the bench. “Who wrote it?”

“I did,” Pari said. Hope shined in her eyes. “Did you really like it?”

“I really did. It was beautiful.”

“Did you bring any pistachio nougats?” Pari asked hopefully.

Kit sighed. She was beloved for the narrowest of reasons. “Portnoy’s was closed for the Lambeth celebration.”

Pari clapped her hands together. “I think that will be magnificent, with fireworks and an orchestra, but Hetta says we’re too young to go.”

“You’re too young,” Kit agreed. Lambeth was for couples to steal time alone, whether or not beneath the watchful eyes of their chaperones.

Hetta appeared in the doorway, smiled at her daughters. “Good afternoon, Kit. Pari, that was lovely. Louisa, you look very presentable. Pari, might you take her upstairs for a bit so Kit and I can talk?”

“Of course, Mother.” Pari held out her hand, which Louisa took without hesitation. “I’ve found a new book of pirate adventures.”

“I’ve fought pirates before!” Kit heard Louisa say. “They were very fierce.”

When Hetta’s brows lifted, Kit shook her head. “She stayed in the hold, and didn’t have so much as a glimpse of a pirate.”

“That’s a relief.” Hetta walked to Kit, and they embraced.

“You look tired,” Hetta said.

“It’s been a very long few days.”

“Then let’s go into my study and have some tea, and we can discuss it.”

Tea was served with milk and sugar, but Kit drew the line at sampling one of the dishwater-colored “nutritional biscuits” Mrs. Eaves had added to the tray.

“‘Biscuits,’” Hetta said, eyeing them warily over the rim of her cup, “is a very generous term.”

That confirmed Kit’s suspicion of tastelessness. “Nutritional” was how Mrs. Eaves described food with no taste and little texture.

“The Guild has built a ship,” Kit said, getting to the business of it. She told Hetta everything, from Queenscliffe to Forstadt and back, but for the kiss. Nothing good would come of sharing that, or dwelling on it. And by the time the update was complete, Kit was exhausted.

Roast beef, she decided. She wanted a slab of roast beef, delicate potatoes, crusty bread. None of which she’d be eating at home. And more, instead of considering how she might spend an evening at home after many days at sea, she had another mission—and a social event—to prepare for.

She’d take a lie-down, she thought, just a few minutes to rest before an evening of intrigue.

Kit woke with arms and legs flung wide on the narrow bed, was momentarily confused about her location and the time of day. But the clock said it was time to make her preparations, so she rose, cursing under her breath.

She found Jane in her rooms, frowning over a metal stand that held small glass tubes, each half-filled with pale yellow liquid. “More sparkers?”

Jane glanced up. Her hair was pinned up into curls, and she wore a lavender gown barely visible beneath the enormous white apron. “You’re awake. Hetta said you’d come back, but needed rest.” She turned her cheek so Kit could press a kiss there.

“A bit,” Kit said.

“And no, I’m not making sparkers at the moment. Were they useful?”

“Incredibly. They caused some damage to the pirate fortress at Finistère.”

Jane’s smile faded. “Blast. I was hoping to see that one day.”

“It’s still standing, if a bit worn. And ‘blast’ is the appropriate word for it,” Kit said with a grin. “Much noise, much light. They helped us free the man we’d gone to save.” Even if they hadn’t been able to save him afterward. And that was still a pinch beneath her heart.

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s been quite the week here.” She poured liquid from one vial into another, so they shimmered and changed into the rich blue of deep waters.

“Oh?” Kit asked, watching as Jane added yellow powder to that mix, which turned it into a rather unattractive green.

“The twins are rowing over a book, Mrs. Eaves is furious at the green merchant because the quality of rutabagas is, and I quote, ‘pitiable.’ Astrid has attracted the attention of a member of the Beau Monde—a Lord Langley, who’s five thousand a year and a fine estate in the Western Isle.”

That was quite a lot. “And you?” Kit asked.

Jane smiled. “I’ve received a new apron”—she gestured toward it—“and mudwort I’ve been waiting on for months. I am a woman of simple pleasures.”

“Are you wearing my pearl earrings?”

“Borrowed,” Jane said. “Much like your gloves.”

“You’ll be a bad influence on Louisa. How has she been?”

“In the few hours she’s been here?” Jane asked with a grin. “Absolutely fine. She’ll be rooming with Marielle, who’s with the governess.”

Jane stirred the green mixture so what appeared to be solid droplets formed and swirled in the liquid, and then looked at Kit. “You’ve done your duty. Now, get on with it.”

Kit’s brows lifted. “What?”

“You’re pacing, which means you’re feeling impatient, which means you aren’t done with your current mission, or you’ve been assigned a new one.”

“On occasion, your observational skills make me very cross with you.”

“And which occasion is this?” Jane asked with a grin.

“I need to ask another favor.”

“More sparkers?”

“Actually, yes. But not tonight. I need a dress. And an escort.”

Jane put the tube she’d been holding into its slot in the stand, turned toward her, gaze narrowed. “For what?”

“I have to go with Grant to Lambeth to identify a traitor. I need a gown and a chaperone, lest our reputations become sullied.” She said the last with audible sarcasm.

“Well, well,” Jane said, staring at her sister. “Those are not words I’d have thought to hear from you. Accompanying a viscount to Lambeth.”

“It’s a mission from the queen direct, so I’ve little choice in it. Although I like fireworks, and there will probably be sweets. And spies. Could you be our”—she struggled to voice the word— “chaperone?”

Kit didn’t like the knowing smile on Jane’s face.

“May I amuse myself at your expense?”

“Do I have another option?”

Grinning, Jane slipped her arm into Kit’s. “This is going to be great fun.”

They adjourned to Jane’s bedroom.

“We have some choices.” Jane kneeled in front of the trunk, began to sort through the dresses folded carefully within it. “White muslin?”

“Too . . . sweet. Can’t I just wear my uniform?”

“No. Wearing uniforms for moonlight strolling is unimaginative, which we decidedly are not.” She frowned down at a dress, then up at Kit, gaze narrowed as if she were evaluating a portrait.

“No baubles.” She found another, pulled it out, shook free the folds. It was the color of the cold ocean, captured in undulating silk. Gold braid at the edges of the sleeves and golden embroidery rising from the hem in loops and swirls.

“That’s beautiful,” Kit said, taking it from Jane.

“It’s blue,” Jane said, rising to watch Kit move to the tall mirror, sweep the dress in front of her.

“I love it,” Kit said.

“I hate it,” Jane said.

And they looked at each other.

“It’s the color of the sea,” Kit insisted.

“But it’s a poor color for you.”

“I wear a blue uniform every day.”

Jane’s expression was unapologetic. “I know.”

Kit rolled her eyes but returned the dress to Jane, who put it aside.

“Now,” Jane said, pulling out a third dress. “This might be something.”

It was silk taffeta in deep red that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. There was no lace, no rope, no “baubles.”

“Too bold,” Kit said.

“I don’t think so,” Jane said, and this time she rose, swept the dress to the mirror. “Not for you. Come here.”

Kit walked forward, prepared to dismiss the dress out of hand. Until Jane held it up to her, moved aside so she could see. The color put a glow against her cheeks, made her gray eyes more noticeable.

“We’re supposed to be inconspicuous,” Kit said, but swung the hem around so she could watch its crisp movement. “This is quite conspicuous.”

“Which is exactly why it’s perfect,” Jane insisted. “No one would suspect a woman on a mission for the queen wearing a gown as noticeable as this.”

She had a point. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear this.”

“It’s Astrid’s,” Jane said. “She wore it last year, discarded it. I was going to reshape it for the twins, but haven’t had the time.” Jane looked at Kit, grinned. “She’ll be furious if you wear it.”

“All the more reason.”

Mrs. Eaves stepped into the doorway, surveyed the pile of discarded dresses. “It appears the children have swept through here.”

“We’re finding Kit a gown for Lambeth Gardens. She’ll be accompanied by a viscount.”

The shock that paled Mrs. Eaves’s face would forever be etched into Kit’s memory.

Kit was bathed, rouged, and perfumed, her pearl earrings reclaimed, satin slippers located. She found a reticule buried in her trunk, and tossed in several coins and the smallest knife she could find. Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 2, and one of her personal favorites: Preparation is worth its weight in gold.

She’d just come downstairs, precisely on time, when the footman opened the door, and Grant walked in.

There was no threadbare linen, no patches. His ensemble was uniformly dark—trousers, waistcoat, tailcoat, boots—and tailored to show every honed muscle. He had no coat, no walking stick, no frilled cravat, no gloves. None of the ornaments that members of his class often used to emphasize their style or wealth. He didn’t need them. His hair was brushed back, his eyes bright. He looked regal . . . and dangerous. Particularly when his gaze followed the line of her dress, his smile warming until she thought the heat of it might scorch the fabric.

She met his gaze with an arched eyebrow. His smile was utterly unapologetic. And they stood in silence for a moment, the unspoken things humming between them.

“Lord Grant,” she said.

“Captain Brightling. That’s not your usual ensemble.”

“No, it is not,” Kit said. “Did you find your brother?”

“Not entirely,” Grant said, voice tight. “He’s been staying at our town house, but hadn’t returned overnight, at least not before I left.”

“Perhaps he’ll return by the time we’re done this evening,” Kit said, then glanced over at the polite throat clearing. Jane stood in the doorway in pale blue silk, her hair curled and piled up and bound by a ribbon in the same color. Jane didn’t care for social gatherings, Kit thought, but she could certainly fit the part when the need arose.

Kit gestured to her. “Lord Grant, may I present my sister, Jane Brightling? Jane, this is Colonel Rian Grant, Viscount Queenscliffe. Jane will be chaperoning us this evening.”

They exchanged polite nods.

“So you’re Kit’s Jane,” Grant said. “The genius behind the explosives.”

“‘Genius’ is a very overused word,” Jane said. “But not here.”

Grant smiled. “I see Kit comes by her confidence naturally.”

“We are well trained in the art,” Jane agreed, and looked him over. “You’re tall for a viscount. And appear strong.”

“It’s unfortunate I’ve a borrowed carriage, or you could give my horses the same review.”

“I do enjoy horses,” Jane said. “Which is not a familial trait.”

Kit made a vague sound.

“I’ll have to take you and your sister riding sometime.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Kit said.

“Hello,” said a voice above them. “I didn’t realize we had company.”

She descended the stairs with the bearing of a queen, pale skin against deep blue velvet. Her dark hair was piled in a complicated knot dotted with paste diamonds. And there was cunning in her green eyes.

“Astrid Brightling,” Kit said as Astrid joined them, proud that her voice didn’t simmer with irritation. “Colonel Rian Grant.”

“Ah,” Astrid said. “Viscount Queenscliffe, of course.”

She would note the title.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Brightling,” Grant said, then offered a small bow as she made an irritatingly elegant curtsy.

“Kit mentioned you’d served aboard her ship. That must have been quite a change for a man used to very . . . different circumstances.”

He slid a glance toward Kit. “It was an . . . enlightening experience.”

Astrid’s smile was quick. “Aren’t you very gracious, my lord?”

“Ever so gracious,” Kit said tightly.

“Are you going to Lambeth, Ms. Brightling?”

“Unfortunately, no. Lord Dartmouth’s ball is this evening, and everyone will be there. Oh,” she said, mouth forming an apologetic curve. “That was so thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”

You meant exactly what you said, Kit thought but didn’t bother to say aloud.

But she did find the information interesting—that the meeting at Lambeth had been scheduled at the same time as a ball, when so many of the Beau Monde—and New London’s leaders—would be at Lord Dartmouth’s. The crowds at Lambeth would be thinner, giving the traitors more privacy.

Had that been a lucky coincidence, or was the person who’d proposed the meeting place familiar with the Beau Monde social calendar?

Behind them, a door opened, and there were footsteps down the hallway. Kit wondered if every other sister in the house intended to greet Grant, when Hetta appeared.

“Are we so rude that we must greet our guests in the foyer?” she asked. But she smiled up at Grant. “My lord.”

“Mrs. Brightling, I presume. And please, call me Rian.”

“And you’ll call me Hetta,” she insisted.

“Is that my dress?” Astrid asked, her voice a fierce whisper as Grant and Hetta made their nods.

“Not anymore,” Jane said with a smile.

“Your daughters,” Grant said, “or at least the ones I’ve met, are very formidable.”

“Then I’ve done my job,” Hetta said. “And how are things in Queenscliffe?”

“For the moment, settled. But there’s work to do yet.”

Hetta nodded. “Isn’t that true for all of us? That we try to move forward, but always find a bit more that needs repair?”

“Wise words,” Grant said with a nod.

“And we’ve taken up enough of your time,” Hetta said. “You’ve activities to attend, fireworks to see.”

“So we do,” Grant said, and offered his arm to Kit. “Captain?”

She nodded, and prepared for a very different kind of battle.