Breaking the Rake's Rules

The garden was quiet after he left and somehow less vibrant, as if he’d taken some of the bright, tropical colour with him. Bryn took a seat on a stone bench near the hibiscus, not wanting to go in, not wanting to encounter any of her father’s business partners. She wanted time to think first.

Kitt was right. She had known. She’d just hoped for better. Or perhaps, more accurately, she’d hoped it wouldn’t matter and it hadn’t until he’d walked into the Crenshaws’. Now, she had a dilemma. Should she stay silent and let her father discover Kitt Sherard for himself or should she warn her father off before real harm could be done? Could she even do that without exposing what had happened on the balcony?

Bryn plucked at a bright orange blossom. Current evidence suggested the latter was not possible at this point without risking the consequences. Current evidence also suggested Kitt was hiding something. Her hand stalled on the blossom. No, he wasn’t hiding anything, he was all but admitting to it, whatever ‘it’ was—further proof she needed more evidence. She was working off supposition and kisses only. She needed more than that. Too much hung in the balance. A man who compromised her, compromised her father. Likewise, if she voiced her concerns, she could ruin Kitt’s investment chances.

It all boiled down to one essential question: could Kitt Sherard be trusted? There was only one way to find out. She would have to get to know him—a prospect that was both dangerous and delicious since he’d made it abundantly clear he was not above mixing business with pleasure.

Chapter Five (#ulink_b84aaee0-3da8-5a7a-bdbe-31d3bbcf29ad)

‘I don’t have pleasant news.’ Kitt kept his voice low as he and Ren Dryden, the Earl of Dartmoor, his mentor in this latest banking venture, but more importantly, his friend, enjoyed an after-dinner brandy in Ren’s study at Sugarland. Night had fallen and Ren’s French doors were open to the evening breeze. The dinner with Ren and Emma had been delicious, their company delightful, both well worth the five-mile ride out to the plantation from Bridgetown. Kitt hated returning their hospitality with bad news.

‘Tell me, there’s no use holding back. I’m not the pregnant one.’ Ren pitched his voice low, too, aware of how sound carried in the dark Caribbean night. With Emma expecting, Kitt knew Ren was eager nothing upset her, yet another reason Kitt was reluctant to be the bearer of such news. Ren shared everything with his wife. Kitt didn’t think he’d be able to keep this from her.

‘It was a trap.’ Kitt still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t understand it, no matter how many times he replayed the ambush in his mind. ‘They waited until we’d unloaded the barrels and then they charged, right there, on the beach in daylight.’ Not that it made much difference if it was night or day on a deserted beach. There was no one to see either way. Things like this happened to others who were less meticulous, less prepared, less cynical. But he had a certain reputation, which made him all the more suspicious about the motives behind the attack. What had he missed? It was a simple run, the kind he made all the time. What had he missed? The words had become a restless, uncontainable mantra in his mind that obliterated other thought.

Kitt rose and began to pace the length of Ren’s French doors, some small part of him registering Ren’s eyes on him. But most of his mind was focused internally, replaying the ambush, running through potential scenarios, potential suspects responsible for the attack. What had he missed? This had been the first deal with a new client he’d contracted with a couple weeks ago. Someone, it appeared, who might not have been who he claimed to be.

Kitt stopped pacing and leaned his arm against the frame of the doors. He felt dirty, as if he’d unknowingly picked up a disease and then unwittingly spread it to a friend. Who? Who? Who? pounded relentlessly in his head, his mind was determined to solve this mystery. Kitt closed his eyes, thoughts coming hard and fast. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had given a false name to their agent. Follow that line of thought, Sherard, his mind urged. He was aware of Ren talking as if from a distance. He couldn’t concentrate on Ren’s words just now, but four managed to break through.

‘They took the rum?’ Ren asked quietly, neutrally.

Kitt’s eyes flew open in disbelief. The day second-rate bandits took a cargo from him was the day he’d quit the business. ‘Of course not! We fought like berserkers to protect your rum. You should have seen young Passemore with his knife, stabbing away like he fought the fiends of hell for his very soul.’

‘Stop!’ Ren’s interruption was terse, his eyes hard as he grasped the implications. ‘You fought to protect the rum? Are you insane?’

‘They were bandits, Ren, they had weapons,’ Kitt answered one-part exasperated, one-part incredulous. Did Ren not know him at all? Did Ren think he’d give up his friend’s cargo without a fight when he knew how much Ren and Emma were counting on it? On him? Kitt pushed a hand through his hair. He owed Ren a debt of friendship he could never truly repay.

‘We had to do something, Ren.’

‘You should have let them have it, that’s what you should have done. It’s only rum, after all,’ Ren scolded.

Only rum? Kitt almost laughed, but Ren would not have appreciated the humour. Ren had only been here a year. Island nuances, or the lack of them, were still relatively new to him. Rum was Caribbean gold. Taking a man’s rum in Barbados was like robbing the Bank of England in London. People did indeed die for it, although Kitt didn’t plan on being one of them.

Kitt looked out into the night, his mind working hard. Behind him, he heard the shift of his friend rising from his chair and crossing the room to him, determination in Ren’s footfalls. ‘Dear God, Kitt, you could have been killed and for what? For rum?’ Indignation rolled off Ren. Kitt didn’t have to see him to feel it.

‘What would you have me do? Do you think so little of me that I would give up your cargo when I know how much you and Emma were counting on it? Counting on me? I couldn’t just let them take it.’

The bandits had known that. Kitt’s mind lit on those last words. Or at least whoever had hired them had known, had guessed that he would fight. It had been what they’d wanted. He recalled now how, after he’d shot the man leading the charge, the bandits had not been deterred. He remembered muttering to Passemore, ‘This means war.’ Those bandits had been spoiling for a fight, looking for one even. He remembered being surprised by their fierceness, their determination to go up against Kitt Sherard and his men—something most were unwilling to do. The rum had been a cover to get to him, or had it?

Beside him, Ren was still bristling. ‘I’d never forgive myself if you died over one of my cargoes, neither would Emma. Promise me you won’t take such a chance again. I don’t want you dead.’

But someone did. That was the part that niggled at him. He’d had five deliveries this week. If whoever had hired the bandits had wanted him, they could have taken him any time that week and had better opportunities to do it. All right, where does that lead you? If that’s true, what does it mean? His brain prompted him to make the next connection. It meant the rum was not a cover or a coincidence. Kitt tried out his hypothesis on Ren. ‘They weren’t trying to kill me over just any rum. They were after me and your rum.’ And when that had failed, they’d been happy to settle for just him in a back alley of Bridgetown.

Ren blew out a breath and withdrew to the decanter. ‘I’m going to need more brandy for this. What aren’t you telling me?’ Kitt could hear the chink of the heavy crystal stopper being removed, the familiar splash of brandy in a glass, but he didn’t turn, didn’t move his gaze from the opaque darkness of the night, not wanting any sensory distractions to interrupt his thoughts. He was close now, so close, if he could just hold on to the ideas whirling through his head and form them into a cohesive whole.

‘There were two men waiting for me back in port,’ Kitt said.

Ren moaned and gave the decanter a slosh to judge the remainder. ‘I don’t think I have enough. Is that why you were late to the Crenshaws’? And here you had me believing it was because you were out carousing.’

Well, that and a certain woman on a certain balcony—not that Ren needed to know that part. The carousing part wasn’t entirely untrue. The fewer people who knew about Bryn’s balcony the better, especially Ren, who had done so much to get him on the list of potential bank investors. Ren had enough bad news tonight without hearing he’d been kissing Mr Rutherford’s daughter, no matter how accidental.

‘Would it be fair to conclude those men are still out there?’ Ren returned to him and handed him the glass. Kitt nodded and waited for the other conclusion to hit. It did. ‘And you travelled out here alone? They could have had you any time on the road. Dammit, Kitt, have you any sense?’

The thought had occurred to Kitt, too. Traffic on the road between Sugarland and Bridgetown was light, especially during the heat of the late afternoon. There were places where an attack would draw no attention even if anyone chanced along. ‘I was prepared for them.’ Kitt shrugged, thinking of the knife in his boot and the pistols he’d slung over his saddle. Part of him had been hoping they’d try again, hoping he could wring some answers from the bastards when they did.

They were standing close together now, Ren’s gaze on his face searching for answers he didn’t have yet. ‘Who would do such a thing? Do you have any idea who wants you dead?’ There was real concern in Ren’s tone and it touched him. Until last year, he’d been alone, cut off from all he knew, all social ties gone except the ones he’d created in this new life of his, but they would never be close, would never be allowed to replace the ones he’d given up. It was too dangerous. Closeness created curiosity and that was a commodity he could not afford. Then Ren had shown up and it was like coming back to life. Here was one of the two people left who knew him and it was gift beyond measure. ‘Who, Kitt?’ Ren asked again.

Kitt shook his head. ‘That’s not the question to be asking.’ That list was rather long, definitely distinguished and would result in a needle-in-the-haystack sort of search. ‘The real question is who would want revenge against both of us?’ That list was considerably shorter. Ren was well liked and an earl besides. There were few who would dare to be his enemy. But there was one...

Suddenly Kitt knew with the starkest of clarity who it was and why it was. It was the scenario that made the most sense, and frankly, it was the scenario he preferred to the other possibilities. The other scenarios were far worse to contemplate, like the one where his past came to the island and destroyed everything he’d built, everything he’d become. If that happened, he wasn’t sure he could protect himself.

He felt better now, back in control. There was relief in the knowing, in having a concrete enemy, although he doubted Ren would share that relief. It was all fairly simple now that all the pieces had come together. He faced Ren. ‘I know who it is. It’s Hugh Devore.’

‘No, it couldn’t be,’ Ren answered in almost vehement denial, but his face was pale. ‘Devore is gone, he promised to leave the island, to leave us alone.’

‘A man will promise any number of things when his life is on the line,’ Kitt said. ‘He’s had a year to rethink that promise and it probably didn’t mean much to him anyway.’ Last year, he and Ren had forcibly exiled three planters from the island after Arthur Gridley had assaulted Emma and attempted to burn down Sugarland. Gridley was dead now, shot by one of his own, but the others were at large, a deal he and Ren had struck with them to avoid exposing Emma to the rigours of testifying at a public trial.

‘Do you know where?’ Ren asked quietly.

Kitt shook his head. He had been the one to sail them to another island and leave them to their exile. The island had been rather remote, barely populated. They’d been free, of course, to leave that island, as long as they didn’t return to Barbados.

‘Cunningham went back to England,’ Kitt said. It wasn’t Cunningham he was worried about. Cunningham had been the one to shoot Gridley, the ringleader. He was done with the group. It was the other two, Elias Blakely, the accountant, and Gridley’s right hand, Hugh Devore, whom Kitt was worried about. ‘I have no idea where the others might have gone.’ Devore would be dangerous. Exile had cost him everything: his fortune, his home and even his wife. Devore’s wife had refused to go with him. She’d taken Cunningham’s cue and gone back to her family in England.

Ren’s face was etched with worry, as well it should be. Devore was vindictive and cruel and Ren had a family now; a wife and a new baby on the way, beautiful things to be sure, but liabilities, too. Devore would not hesitate to use those treasures against him and Ren knew it.

Kitt clapped a hand on Ren’s shoulder in comfort. ‘I’ll find them.’ He could handle trouble of this nature. He would protect Ren with every breath in his body. It had been Ren who had hidden him that long last night in the dark hours before the tide, Ren who had stood against the watch when they’d come. Kitt would never forget.

‘You don’t need to protect me,’ Ren said with quiet steel. ‘This is not England, Kitt, and I’m not your addle-pated brother. You do not need to sacrifice yourself for me.’

Kitt dropped his hand, his gaze holding Ren’s. Ren was one of the few who could make that comment, in part because it took a certain boldness to remind Kitt of his family, and in part because there were only two people outside of that family who knew the truth. Ren was one, Benedict Debreed was the other. Kitt blinked once and looked away, the only concession to emotion he would make. ‘Perhaps not sacrifice, but you’ll need me to watch your back and Emma’s.’

Ren grinned. ‘That offer I will take.’

The emotion eased between them and Kitt smiled back. The crisis, the bad news, had passed for now. ‘In the meanwhile, I’ll set up another deal for your rum and you can tell Emma everything will be fine.’

Ren’s eyes drifted to the clock on the desk at the mention of his wife. Kitt laughed. Even after a year of marriage, Ren was thinking about bed, about Emma. ‘You don’t have to stay up with me,’ Kitt assured him with a wolfish grin. ‘I can finish my brandy all by myself.’

Ren hesitated. ‘I can wait a few more minutes—you haven’t told me about the new banker in Bridgetown yet.’

‘No, you can’t wait. It’s written all over your face how much you want to be with her.’ Kitt chuckled. ‘Go, the rest of my news can keep until morning. We’ll have another good talk before I leave tomorrow.’ He shooed Ren off with a gesture of his hand.

‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Ren set down his glass, already halfway to the door.

‘I’m sure. Goodnight,’ Kitt called after him with a laugh.

Kitt took a swallow, listening to the tick of the clock. The room was quiet without Ren and he let all the dangerous thoughts come, the ones he’d struggled to suppress these last few days, the surge of envy at all Ren had and that he could never have. It wasn’t that he coveted Emma or the baby or the plantation. It was that he could never have such a family himself. Nor could he ever claim the family he’d once had.

In the last year both Ren and Benedict had married happily and against no small odds. That wasn’t the strange part. Men like them, men with titles and obligations, got married all the time. They were expected to. They were expected—required even—to stand at stud for the benefit of their great families and procure the next generation in exchange for dowries that would sustain the financial burden of expanding the family line. The strange part was, despite those expectations, Ren and Benedict had managed to marry for love, to marry beyond their obligations.