The twinkle in Spencer’s eye was pronounced. An answering gleam lit Lord Marchmont’s gaze. “No, b’God. Very true. But he keeps a fine cellar, just like Jake, so I doubt we’ll need to explain that to him.”

With a nod to Kit, Lord Marchmont climbed in beside his wife. The door shut, the coachman clicked the reins; the heavy coach lurched off.

Kit watched it disappear, then dropped a kiss on Spencer’s weathered cheek and hugged him hard before descending the steps. With a last wave to Spencer, she headed for the gardens for a last stroll before dinner.

The shrubbery welcomed her with cool green walls, leading to a secluded grove with a fountain in the middle. Kit sat on the stone surround of the pool, trailing her fingers in the water. Her pleasure at Julian’s news gradually faded, giving way to consideration of Lady Marchmont’s fixation.

It was inevitable that the local ladies would busy themselves over finding her a husband; they’d known her from birth and, naturally, not one approved of her present state. With the appearance of Lord Hendon, an apparently eligible bachelor, on the scene, they had the ingredients of exactly the sort of plot they collectively delighted in hatching.

Grimacing, Kit shook the water from her fingers. They could hatch and plot to their hearts’ content-she was past the age of innocent gullibility. Doubtless, despite his eligibility, Lord Hendon would prove to be another earl of Roberts. No-he couldn’t be that old, not if Jake had been his father. Fortyish, a dessicated old stick but not quite old enough to be her father.

With a sigh, Kit stood and shook out her skirts. Unfortunately for Lady Marchmont, she hadn’t escaped London-and her aunts’ coils-to fall victim to the schemes of the local grandes dames.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon. Kit turned back toward the house. As she passed through the hedged walks, she shivered. Were spies run through the Norfolk surf? On that subject, her opinions matched Spencer’s. The trade was tolerable, as long as it was just trade. But spying was treason. Did the Hunstanton Gang run “human cargo”?

Kit frowned; her temples throbbed. The day had gone and she was no nearer to solving her dilemma. Worse, she now had potential treason to avoid.

Or avert.

Chapter 8

A quiet dinner with Spencer did not advance Kit’s thoughts on Captain Jack’s offer. She retired early, intending to spend a few clear hours pondering the pros and cons. But once in her bedroom, the fidgets caught her. In desperation, she threw on her masculine clothes and slipped down the back stairs.

She’d become adept at bridling and saddling Delia in the dark. Soon, she was galloping over fields intermittently lit by a setting moon, half-hidden by low, scudding clouds. On horseback, with the breeze whistling about her ears, she relaxed. Now, she could think.

Try as she might, she couldn’t see a way off the carousel. If Young Kit simply disappeared, then riding alone dressed as a youth, by day or by night, became dangerous in the extreme. Young Kit would have to die in truth. Of course, Miss Kathryn Cranmer could still ride sedately about the countryside. Miss Kathryn Cranmer snorted derisively. She’d be dammed if she’d give up her freedom so tamely. That left the option of joining Captain Jack.

Perhaps she could retire? Individual members often withdrew from the gangs. As long as the fraternity knew who their ex-brothers were, no one minded. “I’ll need to develop an identity,” Kit mused. “There must be some place on Cranmer I could call home-some family with whom the smugglers have no contact.” An old mother hysterical over the wildness of her youngest son, the last of three left to her…Grimly, Kit nodded. She would need to concoct a convincing reason for Young Kit’s early retirement.

Which brought her to the last, nagging worry, a hovering ghost in the shadows of her mind. Were the Hunstanton Gang aiding and abetting spies?

If they are running spies, shouldn’t you find out? If you join them for a few runs and see nothing, well and good. But if they do make arrangements to run “human cargo,” you can inform Lord Hendon.

Kit humphed. Lord Hendon-wonderful! She supposed she’d have to meet the man sometime.

She turned Delia northeast, toward Scolt Head, a dense blur on the dark water. The sound of the surf grew louder as she approached the beaches east of Brancaster. She’d ridden north from Cranmer, passing in the lee of Castle Hendon, an imposing edifice built of local Carr stone on a hill sufficiently high to give it sweeping views in all directions.

Delia snuffed at the sea breeze. Kit allowed her to lengthen her stride.

Surely it was her duty to join the Hunstanton Gang and discover their involvement, if any, with spying? Particularly now that Julian had joined the army.

The ground ahead disappeared into blackness. At the edge of the cliff, Kit reined in and looked down. It was dim and dark on the sands. The surf boomed; the crash of waves and the slurping suck of the tide filled her ears.

A muffled shout reached her, followed by a second.

The moon escaped the clouds and Kit understood. The Hunstanton Gang was running a cargo on Brancaster beach.

Blanketing arms recaptured the moon, but she’d seen enough to be sure. The figure of Captain Jack had been clearly visible at the head of one boat. The two men who’d been with him the other night were there, too.

Kit drew Delia back from the cliff edge into the protection of a stand of stunted trees. The gang was nearly through unloading the boat; soon, they’d be heading…where? In an instant, Kit’s mind was made up. She turned Delia, scouting for a better vantage point, one from which she could see without being seen. She eventually took refuge on a small tussocky hill in the scraggy remnants of an old coppice. Once safely concealed, she settled to wait, straining eyes trained on the cliff’s edge.

Minutes later, they came up, single file, and passed directly beneath her little hill. She waited for Captain Jack and his two cohorts, bringing up the rear, to clear her, then counted to twenty slowly before taking to the narrow path in their wake. She followed them in a wide arc around the little town of Brancaster. In the fields west of the town, the cavalcade went to ground in an old barn. Kit watched from a distance, too wary to get closer. Soon, the men started leaving, some on foot, some riding, guiding ponies on leading reins.

At the last, three horsemen drew away from the barn. The moon smiled; Kit caught the gleam of Captain Jack’s hair. The trio divided, one heading east. Captain Jack and the third man went west. Kit followed them.

She kept Delia on the verge, the drum of hooves of her quarries’ horses making it easy to follow them. Luckily, they weren’t riding fast, else she’d have had difficulty keeping up without taking to the telltale road herself.

They traveled the road for no more than a mile before turning south along a narrow track. Kit paused at the turn. The sound of heavy hooves at a walk reassured her. She pressed on, careful to hold Delia back.

Jack and Matthew set their mounts up the steep curve that took the track over the lip of the meadowland. At the highest point, just before the track curved into the trees edging the first Hendon field, Jack glanced down onto the stretch of track below. It was a habit instituted long since to ensure none of the Hunstanton Gang followed them to their lair.

The track was a pool of even, uninteresting shadow. Jack was turning away when a slight movement, caught from the corner of one eye, brought every faculty alert. He froze, gaze used to the night trained on the track below. A shadow darker than the rest detached itself from the cover of the trees and crept along the verge.

Matthew, warned by the sudden silence, had reined in too, and stared downward. He leaned closer to whisper in Jack’s ear. “Young Kit?”

Jack nodded. A slow, positively devilish smile twisted his long lips. “Go on to the cottage,” he whispered. “I’m going to invite our young friend for a drink.”

Matthew nodded, urging his horse to a walk, heading south along the narrow track.

Jack nudged Champion off the path and into the deeper shadows by a coppice. Young Kit’s excess of curiosity was perfectly timed; he hadn’t been looking forward to another night like the last, tossing and turning while grappling with his ridiculous obsession with the stripling. What better way to cure his senses of their idiotic misconception than to invite the lad in for a brandy? Once revealed in full light for the youth he was, Young Kit would doubtless get out from under his skin.

Approaching the upward sweep of the trail, Kit heard the steady clop of hooves above cease. She reined in, listening intently, then cautiously edged forward. When she saw where the track led, she stopped and held her breath. Then the hoofbeats restarted, heading onward. With a sigh of relief, she counted to twenty again before sending Delia up the track.

She crested the rise to find the track, innocent and empty, leading on across the meadowland. Ahead, a coppice bordered the trail, darker shadows pooling on the track like giant ink puddles. She paused, listening, but the hoofbeats continued on, the riders invisible through the trees ahead.

All was well. Kit put her heels to Delia’s sleek sides. The mare sidled. Kit frowned and urged the mare forward. Delia balked.

The sensation of being watched enveloped Kit. Her stomach tightened; her eyes flared wide. She glanced to the left. Fields opened out, one adjoining the next, a clear escape. Without further thought, she set Delia at the hedge. As eager as she to get away, the mare cleared the hedge and went straight to a gallop.