Page 20 of What the Heart Knows

Entering his rooms, Kit tossed his cloak—the Sea Grange butler returned it to him with no explanation—over the slipper chair nearest the door, poured himself a glass of brandy then flung himself into one of the large chairs near the fire crackling in the hearth.

Is Margaret Fenneman’s life in danger from her father?

She didn’t behave as though she expected such a threat. Yes, she’d shown an instant of fear, but confident, calm reason dominated her demeanor in front of her father’s temper, and at other occasions. At Trout Creek, she’d taken Kit’s own ill-considered interference in stride. She’d scolded loudly and rightfully after their dunking, but she’d eventually let go of her ire and forgiven him.

He smiled at the memory. As a drenched and draggled virago, she’d somehow been extraordinarily beautiful. Strength of character always impressed him. ’Twas why he despised Fenneman so much. Like most criminals, he lacked the confidence and fortitude to act openly and honestly. The Squire lied, cheated and stole in secret, hiding behind his clerk and the cloak of respectability cast by military rank and public service. Why couldn’t his daughter see that? Or did she see it and simply refuse to believe what she knew to be true.

Kit’d heard too many accounts of the harm Squire Fenneman and Brookbank’s criminal activities caused. Something must be done to end their smuggling tyranny. But what? Kit stared into the flames as if the answer was writ in fire.

The parlor door opened and closed. “’Tis good you are here, sir.”

Kit shifted his focus to his approaching valet.

“You’ve a note from your cousin.” George held out a folded packet bearing the Earl of Dunitsbane’s seal.

“Thank you.”

“Shall I order your supper, sir?” George gathered up Kit’s cloak and took it to the armoire.

Kit broke the seal, opened the letter and read. “Yes, please. Yours as well, George. I need to speak with you, privately.”

“As you say,” George replied. “I’ll return momentarily.”

Kit carried the letter to the desk then searched out writing materials. The well-stocked desk was a tribute to Brewster’s thoughtfulness as an innkeeper.

Kit re-read his cousin’s letter then dipped a quill in ink and began to write.

“I received your message just now and am pleased to know you intend to visit Fenwick on Sea. However, I must beg your aid …”

He explained the smuggling situation and what he’d learned of Squire Fenneman’s involvement. He hoped his very influential cousin would persuade the government to send a troop of light dragoons for the purpose of removing the smugglers.

Satisfied with his message, Kit sanded the paper. George returned as he applied his seal.

“Ah good. Pour yourself a brandy, George, and join me near the fire.” Kit, addressed the sealed missive, folded away his cousin’s letter and carried it to his chair by the fire. George took the seat opposite, and Kit handed him the letter.

“You must take this to my cousin, Dunitsbane, in London. Leave at first light. The earl’s on his way here but has stopped in London on personal business. This letter must reach him before he continues traveling as it contains a commission he must perform in London.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. As a precautionary measure, I omitted details you must repeat to my cousin.”

Supper came and went while Kit imparted instructions. “In addition to the information I’ve given you in the past half hour, you must tell my cousin that urgency’s required.”

George raised a brow and sipped his brandy.

“Since the object of calling in troops is to catch the smugglers in the act, we must be ready when the moon’s new and the night’s darkest.”

“Aye,” George agreed, “’Tis the most likely time for the gang to do their smuggling.”

“Are my instructions clear?”

“They are, sir. Though I still don’t understand why you ask your cousin for a blank and pre-approved commutation of sentence.”

“My reasons need not concern you.” The document might not be needed. “Now we’d best retire. Tomorrow will be taxing for both of us.”

Despite the need for a good night’s sleep, Kit lay awake into the night. Images of Margaret Fenneman filled his mind’s eye. Laughing at some teasing comment from a local resident. Looking down her nose at Brookbank. Furious and thoroughly soaked, then laughing at her own ire. Challenging her father and standing stalwart—if a bit frightened—in the face of Fenneman’s threatened violence. Speaking calmly and intelligently about the advantages and disadvantages of the various properties Kit’d seen in the area. Which of those locations would she favor, he wondered, then fell asleep imagining the sun gleaming off her rich brown hair as she sat by a window in a house they shared.

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