“How do you know who I am?” Belville’s honeyed tones had become a snarl.
“You’ve been identified by someone with a direct connection to the High Commissioner. You could say that person has his lordship’s ear.”
Jack heard George, beside him, choke. Carefully, he weighed up the odds. They weren’t encouraging. Belville had only two pistols, but he could see the butt of a smaller gun glinting in the man’s waistband. Presumably, he also had a knife somewhere about him. Even if he missed one shot—and why should he, he’d plenty of room and they’d no cover—he’d still have a weight advantage over either George or Matthew in a knife fight.
Keep talking and pray for a miracle seemed the best bet.
“Who is this person? This intimate of the High Commissioner’s?”
Jack’s brows flew. “Ah—now that would be telling secrets, wouldn’t it?”
Belville leveled his pistols. “I don’t believe there is such a person.”
Jack shrugged. “But how did I know you? We haven’t met before.”
The barrels wavered. Belville stared, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”
Out of sight and sound, Kit’s fingers closed about the small pistol tucked into the pocket in Champion’s saddle. She let out a sigh of relief. If only she could get back in time.
As she scurried into the dunes, she heard Belville’s voice, angry and demanding. Clearly, he hadn’t liked being known. Jack’s voice answered, smooth and confident, which only seemed to wind Belville’s spring tighter. Kit forced herself to take care twisting through the dunes, praying her husband’s glib tongue wouldn’t get him shot before she made it back.
“Let’s just say I’m someone with an interest in the traffic.” Jack kept his eyes on Belville’s. “Perhaps, if we talk, we might discover our interests are complementary?”
Belville frowned, clearly debating the possibility. Then he slowly shook his head. “There’s something damned odd about your ‘traffic.’ You sent a man out tonight—Henry and I would like to know what he was carrying. There’s no other traitor in Whitehall bar us—Henry’s quite sure of that. Which means you’re running a double deal, one which may well rebound on Henry’s and my necks.” Belville smiled, a chilling sight. “I’m afraid, dear sir, that your days in the profession have come to an end.”
So saying, he raised both pistols.
Ten feet behind him, Kit skidded to a soundless halt in the sand, eyes wide and terrified. She jerked Jack’s pistol up before her, clutching it in both hands. Screwing her eyes tight shut, she pulled the trigger.
An explosion of sound ricochetted from the cliffs. Both Jack and George rocked back on their heels, expecting to feel the searing pain of a bullet somewhere in their flesh. As the veil of powder smoke drifted past on the breeze, they looked at each other and realized neither had stopped a bullet. Matthew reached them, equally astonished to find both unharmed. In amazement, they all turned to stare at Belville.
His lordship’s pasty complexion had paled, a look of incredulity stamped across his fleshy features. Both pistols were smoking but pockmarks in the sand at Jack’s and George’s feet bore evidence that he’d not raised his weapons far before discharging them.
Bewildered, Jack looked into the man’s eyes, only to find them glazing. As he watched, Belville twisted to the right and collapsed in a heap on the sand.
Facing them stood Kit, now revealed, a smoking pistol in her hands, her eyes enormous pools of shock.
Jack forgot about Belville, about missions and spies. In a split second, he’d covered the space between them and wrapped Kit in his arms, crushing her to him, furious and thankful all at once. “Damn woman!” he said into her curls. “How the hell did you get here?”
He felt weak, shock and relief offsetting his anger that she was there at all. As he reached for the gun, hanging from her limp fingers, he swore softly. “What the hell am I to do with you?”
Kit blinked up at him, thoroughly disoriented. She’d just killed a man. She wriggled in Jack’s arms, trying to peer around his shoulders to where George and Matthew were bent over Belville’s body. But Jack held her firmly, using his body to shield her. “Be still.”
With no alternative, Kit did. Almost immediately waves of nausea swept through her. She paled and swayed into Jack’s embrace as faintness dragged at her senses.
“It’s all right. Breathe deeply.”
Kit heard the words of comfort and did as she was told. Gradually, the world stopped spinning.
Then George was beside them.
Jack held her tight, her face pressed to his chest. Beneath her cheek she could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, very much alive. Tears started to her eyes. Annoyed at her weakness, Kit blinked them away.
One look at George’s face was enough for Jack, but he had to know and Kit had to hear. “Dead?”
George nodded. “Clean through the heart.”
Jack stifled a ridiculous urge to ask Kit whether, among her many odd talents, she included pistol shooting. Even at such close range, a clean shot under pressure took skill. And courage. But he had no doubt of her reserves of that quality.