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

She’d planned to review her portion of the consulate documents by candlelight in her own bed. But she fell asleep the moment she hit mattress and linens. When she woke, dawn light barely breaking through the window, her hand was still atop the portfolio.

Assuming the queen would summon her again soon enough, Kit pulled out the documents, began to review each one. Most were in Frisian. She recognized a few words, but only a few, and not enough to give context to what she was seeing. There were dated reports, ledger pages with entries, including one describing a ship called the Julianna that had made its way from New London to Pencester.

Wait, she thought. She knew that ship. Not a Crown ship, but a merchant. It was the ship Kingsley boarded the day Grant had joined the crew of the Diana.

“Coincidence,” she murmured, as was the fact that it had sailed for Pencester, the city where the Cork and Barrel was located. She felt the tightness in her chest, but ignored it, focused on the words, on the documents.

And toward the back of the pile, found a letter on pale ivory paper, written in Islish. Very short, very brief.

C&B confirmed drop. Msg from Home rec’d.

Fleet locations to follow.

Cork and Barrel confirmed as a drop location, Kit translated from the shorthand. Message from home received. Fleet locations to follow.

It was signed, in a long and confident scrawl, Chas. A. Kingsley.

All the breath left her.

It had been Kingsley.

He’d passed information from the Crown Command—from Chandler’s office—to the Frisians, the Guild, the consulate. And he was going to tell them where the Isles’ ships were located. He was going to hand over to Gerard the location of the Crown Command’s ships—the entire fleet. Given what they’d found at Forstadt, it wasn’t difficult to guess why: so Gerard could plan for the launch of his warships—and their attacks.

And not just that: Kingsley had given up Dunwood’s alias. Kingsley was the man intended to meet the dispatch at the Cork and Barrel. And it was Kingsley whom Grant had chased through the gardens, and who was arrogant enough that he’d signed a damned letter to a damned enemy.

Kit’s rage was so hot, so bright, she thought the paper might ignite in her hands. She tossed the letter down with the others, shoved them into the portfolio, then paced to the other end of the room, back again, wondering, hoping, that she’d misread something, misunderstood something, and hadn’t really seen proof that her friend was a traitor to his country. Fury tangled with guilt that she’d failed to see his perfidy.

But she realized there was nothing to do now but report, and stop him before he could hurt anyone else.

She dressed, put the message inside her coat, and left for the palace. She’d only made it to the street to find a hackney, when someone called her name.

“Kit, thank gods.”

She looked up, found Kingsley striding toward her. And mustering every ounce of reserve, she schooled her face to blankness.

Furious though she was, the country’s business didn’t need to be conducted in the street. She linked her hands behind her back, squeezed her fingers together until they ached—until she’d regained some control.

“Kingsley,” she said brightly. “What brings you here?”

“You do,” he said, took a step closer, fear etched into his features. “Can we speak privately?”

Oh, we’ll be speaking, you perfidious bastard, she thought. But managed a quizzical expression. “Of course. We can go inside.”

She wasn’t thrilled at the idea of inviting a traitor into her home, but she wasn’t naive enough to get into a hackney with him. And most everyone was still asleep.

“I—” He looked up at the house, watched it for a moment. “Yes, that would be fine. That would be best. This isn’t proper talk for the street.”

Kit led him inside, and she was relieved to find the house still quiet. She gestured him into the parlor, closed the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when they were alone. “I shouldn’t have come so hastily.”

“Of course,” she said. “What’s happened?”

He moved a step closer. “I’ve heard you were injured at some kind of stampede at Lambeth Gardens.” He made a show of looking her over, but her bandages were hidden beneath her uniform coat.

Here to fish for information, Kit thought with disgust. He must have known the noose was tightening. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“Lambeth Gardens?” she asked with a laugh. “What would I be doing at Lambeth Gardens? I’m not exactly the strolling-couple type. Were you there?”

“No,” he said, brow furrowed. “But I’d heard from . . . Chandler . . . that you were injured.”

Flustered, she thought. And hadn’t expected her to deny it. So she let it play out, wondering how long it would take before he pulled away the disguise. She let her eyes widen. “Chandler? Your Chandler? Why would he care if I went to Lambeth Gardens?”

He watched her for a moment. “I suppose I was confused.”

“It’s fine,” she said, and watched his eyes. “But surely you didn’t come all the way here to ask me about a rumor?”

“It’s just . . . I was very surprised. And worried.”

“I’m fine,” she said. And thought there was no point in wasting more time. “But while you’re here, what do you know about the Julianna?”

She gave him credit; if she hadn’t been watching, she wouldn’t have seen the hitch. But a man engaged in treason was probably well practiced in denial.

“The Julianna,” he repeated, brow knit in confusion. “The ship?”

“The ship,” Kit confirmed. “She was used to pass confidential information to Frisia.”

“Confidential—for treason?”

His look of shock was perfect. So flawlessly executed she wondered for an instant if she’d been wrong, drawn the wrong conclusion. And then she thought of that tall and confident signature—Chas. A. Kingsley—and doubt slid away again.

She took a step toward him. “You were on that ship, Kingsley. You were on the Julianna to visit Pencester, to visit the Cork and Barrel, to obtain what messages might be waiting for you and, I presume, leave a few for the Amelie.”

His eyes flashed. “You’re making very serious accusations, Kit. Serious and offensive. If you were a man, I’d call you out.”

“Call me out,” she said. “I dare you. I’ve seen your note, Kingsley, your scrawl about providing fleet information to Gerard. Have you any idea how many sailors that places at risk? How could you?”

“Now wait,” he said, and held up his hands. But she ignored him.

“Do you have any regret? Any remorse? Or are you so taken with Gerard that you don’t care who you hurt?”

“You’d best watch your tone.” Kingsley’s voice was icy now. And, she thought, more honest. He made her stomach turn.

“Or what?” she said, taking a step forward. “I’ve never known you to take a shot, Kingsley. You prefer words and paper and intrigue, yes? So perhaps you’d like to try now?”

He looked at her for a moment, hatred flaring. And then it disappeared.

“Fine,” he said with a haggard sigh. “As it appears you aren’t going to back down, we’ll go to Chandler, and we’ll sort this nonsense together.” He glanced at a sideboard where Hetta kept a bottle of scotch for guests. “Do you mind if I have a drink first? Soothe the nerves?”

Kit inclined her head, shifted to watch him as he moved across the room.

“There’s a glass there,” he said, gesturing to the side table, “if you’d like a drink, as well. I think we could both use one.”

Instinctively, she turned toward the table. And felt blinding pain across the back of her skull.

Damn it, she thought, as she slipped to the floor. She should have seen that coming.

She smelled something sharp, bitter, and opened her eyes, found Grant on his knees in front of her.

“Hello,” he said, voice bland. “Sit up slowly,” he said, hand at her back.

Kit sat up, wincing at the pain in her skull. Her thoughts felt a bit slow, too. She reached back a hand, felt the hard knot. “It’s Kingsley, Grant. The bastard hit me.”

“So he did,” Grant said.

Mrs. Eaves worried behind them, brow furrowed, fingers knit in concern. “Should I send for the physick?”

“No, thank you,” Grant said. “I believe we’ll be all right here.”

Because Kit’s mind wasn’t as quick as usual, she looked at Grant for a moment. “Why are you here?”

“I found Kingsley’s name in the portfolio, and came to tell you. Jane let me in, and we found you like this.”

She looked up, found Jane behind him, still in her wrapper. It was still early yet, then. She hadn’t been unconscious for long.

“The door was closed,” Mrs. Eaves said, apology heavy in her voice, “or I’d have seen you sooner.”

“Did you see him leave?” Grant asked them.

Both shook their heads.

Grant nodded. “Could you please both give us a moment alone?”

Mrs. Eaves lifted her chin. “That’s hardly appropriate for two unmarried people.”

“It’s to do with the queen,” Kit said patiently.

Mrs. Eaves arched an eyebrow, but nodded, then scooted Jane out the parlor door and closed it again.

“Did he tell you anything?” Grant asked when they were alone.

She shook her head. “He said he came here to ask me about Lambeth Gardens. He said he’d heard I was hurt. I asked him about the Julianna.”

“The Julianna?” Grant asked, and Kit explained its involvement, then pulled out the message she’d found, let him read it, understood his muttered curses.

“His response?” Grant asked, handing it back to her.

“He denied any involvement. Suggested we go speak with Chandler to clear up the confusion. I turned my back on him for a moment, and then I was on the floor.”

“Cowardly,” Grant said. “To strike from behind.”

Kit couldn’t disagree, but that didn’t diminish the embarrassment. “Did you know he was the traitor?”

That Grant looked surprised by the question calmed her some. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Before we first sailed on the Diana, it was obvious you didn’t care for him.” Or for my talking to him, she thought silently.

Just as it had on the dock that day, Grant’s expression darkened. “I didn’t care for him because he is a coward. He was stationed in the Crown Command personnel bureau before moving to Chandler’s office. He was known to use his position, his influence, to affect the assignments of those he didn’t like. There was no hard evidence, of course, that decisions were made based on his animosity, but soldiers who didn’t give him the respect he believed he deserved found themselves in the most dangerous regiments, the longest assignments.”

“Dishonorable and treacherous,” Kit said. She took a breath, and when she thought her head was steady enough, offered Grant her hand. “Help me up?”

“Of course,” he said mildly, lips just curved, and took her hand in his. His hand was warm, his grip solid.

“Let’s go talk to the queen,” Kit said as he pulled her to her feet.

Grant had already delivered his bundle of papers, including the ship drawing, to the palace. They were immediately escorted into the throne room, and walked inside to find the queen with Kess and Chandler. All three looked grim, and there were shadows beneath Chandler’s eyes.

“It was Charles Kingsley,” Kit said, offering the message she’d found. “He’s the one who’s been passing information to the Guild, to Frisia.” And she and Grant provided the information they’d found.

Queen Charlotte read the note, slammed a hand on her throne. “That perfidious bastard.” At least, Kit thought, they were of a like mind.

She offered Chandler the message, pierced him with a stare. Chandler sighed as he read it, tucked it into his coat.

“One of yours, Mr. Chandler,” the queen said. “I find that very disappointing.”

Chandler inclined his head. “As do I, Your Highness. He’s served the office without rebuke or complaint in the years he’s been there. That’s not offered as an excuse. Merely an explanation. I can only offer my apologies to the Crown—and my promise that he will pay for his treachery.”

“Where is he?” the queen demanded, looking back at Kit.

“I don’t know, Your Highness. He confronted me at home, and knocked me out. He was gone when I came to.” Kit rubbed the back of her head. The dizziness had mostly gone, but she could still feel the ache.

The queen’s brows lifted. “And Hetta allowed him to walk away?”

“She wasn’t yet awake, Your Highness.”

“Find him,” the queen said, and nodded at Kess, who hurried to the throne room’s side door.

“Janssen is the name of the man you injured at Lambeth,” Chandler said. “He’s an attaché at the Frisian consulate, concerned mostly with information gathering and analysis. He appeared at the office yesterday, where his injury was noted. Apparently having feared he would be identified and have no bargaining power, he’s made a full confession and thrown himself on the leniency of the throne.”

“The throne,” the queen said with narrowed eyes, “is not presently inclined toward lenience.”

The side door burst open. Surprised by the noise, and careful of his queen, Chandler moved to block the throne from whatever threat might be coming. But it was Kess, hurrying forward with a note.

The queen leaned forward. “Kess?”

“He has absconded with a Crown ship,” Kess said, nearly breathless, and handed a piece of paper to the queen.

Lip curled with disgust, she read it, then passed it to Chandler. Kit knew better than to interrupt their review.

“He stole a ship,” Chandler repeated as he scanned the document. “Along with documents identifying the locations of all major squadrons in the fleet, which were apparently taken from the admiral’s office.”

“He’s had a very busy week,” the queen said dryly.

“The bastard,” Chandler said.

“We do not disagree,” the queen said, and looked at him, this time with sympathy. “The problem with espionage is that it’s rarely what’s obvious. It’s what we cannot see.”

“Which ship did Kingsley take?” Kit asked.

“The Forebearer,” Chandler said.

“A schooner,” Kit recalled. “Smaller than the Diana. Two-masted, gaff-rigged. No guns. She often carries medical supplies, has red jibs to signify.” And she was too big for one person to sail, Kit thought, even assuming Kingsley had any skills. Which meant he had accomplices. “How many more are with him?”

“Based on the report,” Kess said, “there were six. Including two current Crown Command sailors. They’d been on the Julianna.”

“They’d been planning this,” Kit said. “The Forebearer requires a crew. They’d need supplies, and the sailors would have to be ready, loyal.” She looked up at the queen. “You saw the drawing?”

“We did,” she said. “And it appears to match Dunwood’s intelligence. Your thoughts?”

“A new type of warship,” Kit said, “that’s intended to be maneuvered by whatever magic-manipulating implement is within that cabinet.”

“Then why the sails?” the queen asked.

“Likely to compensate in waters where there’s less magic. It wouldn’t be fast under sail, not a ship that large with only two masts, but it didn’t appear to lack for guns. It would make up for speed with firepower.”

“We searched for additional schematics,” Grant said, “but found none.”

“So Frisia has some sort of new warship, and Kingsley has a schooner, and they can sail the oceans together.” There was disgust in the queen’s voice.

“Where would Kingsley go?” Grant asked.

“Forebearer isn’t an ocean-going vessel,” Kit said, “so he’d be bound for somewhere relatively close. Narrow Sea, Northern Sea, a coastal port in the Western Isle or the Continent. Not farther than that.”

“Montgraf,” Chandler said. “Frisia. Perhaps some other island which Frisia is using to build or fuel their ships.”

“He must be found immediately,” the queen said, leveling her gaze at Kit. “Your mission, Captain Brightling, is to find Charles Kingsley and bring him home.”

“We’ll need more ships, Your Highness.”

The queen nodded. “Leave those details to us. In the meantime,” she began, then looked at Grant. “I presume you will not object to Colonel Grant’s joining you again?”

“He has acquitted himself reasonably well,” Kit said. “For a viscount.”

Kess snorted. Grant rolled his eyes. The queen smiled with obvious pleasure.

“I’m not at all surprised to hear it. Grant, may we impose upon your kindness once more?”

“Your Highness,” he said with a bow.

“Then I’ll wish you fair winds,” the queen said.

“Your Highness, I do have one small request regarding our personnel.”

The queen’s brows lifted. “Oh?”

“As you may know, one of our sailors, Mr. Cordova, will need a bit more time to recover from his injuries from the gun brig’s attack. There was a midshipman on the Divine—Cooper. I believe she has significant promise. Presuming the Divine is amply staffed, I’d respectfully request her transfer to the Diana for this mission.”

The queen’s brows lifted. “You believe her promise will not be realized on the Divine? That’s not very flattering to its very experienced captain.”

That the queen chose experienced instead of trustworthy said much.

Kit chose her words very, very carefully. “I believe, Your Highness, given what I know of Cooper’s personality, what I’ve seen of her file, that her particular skills and her professional development would be better served on a courier’s ship, rather than a man-of-war.”

The queen watched her for a moment.

“It so happens,” she said, “that Captain Thornberry requested she be transferred off his vessel. There were concerns about her loyalties.” She studied Kit’s face. “You have no concerns?”

Very, very, very carefully.

“I have no concerns about her loyalty to the Crown or the Isles, Your Highness.”

The queen’s smile was sly. “Very well. Kess, if you’d contact the admiral regarding the paperwork?”

Kess nodded.

“Are there other favors you need granted, Captain?” The queen looked at least mildly amused. Better than entirely put out, Kit thought.

“Unless Crown provisions now include a substantial shipment from Portnoy’s, Your Highness, I’ve no further requests.”

“Watch your step, Captain.”

“Your Highness,” she said, and made her bow exceedingly reverential.

And was fairly certain she’d heard the queen laugh.

The mission was revenge.

She knew it wasn’t that simple, and that her own motivations didn’t matter. The Isles mattered, and their security, and the safety of her crew.

“I need more explosives,” she told Jane as soon as she returned home. Jane ignored the request, pulled Kit into her arms, squeezed her tightly.

“You gave me quite a scare, Kit Brightling.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t think him dumb or rash enough to strike me in my own home.”

Kit pulled back, wiped a tear from Jane’s cheek. “But I’m fine now. And we’re on the hunt.”

“Thus the sparkers.”

“Thus. Can I get more of them?”

“How soon?”

“Two hours?”

Kit’s tone was hopeful; Jane’s expression was flat. “Fine, but I expect compensation. I want a dozen pistachio nougats.”

“I don’t have any.”

“I imagine Portnoy’s does.”

“Half dozen,” Kit said. “When I return from this mission.”

“Ten.”

“Eight, and I get to read this week’s penny romance first.”

“Done,” Jane said. “It’s nearly always a wife at the attic anyway.”