Page 100 of Captain Jack’s Woman

Unaffected by Jack’s belligerence, George sat on the chaise. “No, of course not. But the point is, Kit’s not Amy.”

Jack’s lips twisted in a pained grimace. He fell to pacing once more, his brow furrowed. “If I’d told her, God knows what she’d have got up to. Our dealings were too dangerous—I couldn’t expose her to such risks.”

George sighed. “Hell, Jack—you knew, what she was like from the start. Why the devil did you marry her, if you weren’t prepared to accept those risks?”

“I married her because I love her, dammit!”

“Well, if that’s the case, then the rest should come easily.”

Jack shot him a suspicious glance. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” said George, “that you wanted her for what she was—what she is. You can’t start changing bits and pieces, expecting her to change in some ways but not in others. Would you be pleased if she turned into another Amy?”

Jack bit back his retort, his lips compressed with the effort to hold back the unflattering reply.

George grinned. “Precisely. Not your cup of tea. Thankfully, she is mine.” The door opened at that moment; George looked up, smiling warmly as Amy entered, preceding her butler, who bore a tray burdened with a variety of strong liquors in addition to the teapot. Dismissing the butler, Amy poured tea for George and herself while George poured Jack a hefty glass of brandy. “Now that we’ve resolved your differences of opinion, what exactly has happened?”

With a warning frown, Jack took the glass. “I came back from London on Monday evening and got your message—as you’d instructed, as soon as I’d crossed the threshold. I went to see our friend, then returned to the Castle. Kit wasn’t there.” He took a swallow of his drink, then pulled a letter from his pocket. “As we seem to be passing my wife’s epistles about, you may as well read that.”

George took the letter. A quick perusal of its few lines had him pressing his lips firmly together to keep from grinning. “Well,” he said, “you can’t claim she’s not clear-headed.”

Jack humphed and took the letter back. “I assumed she’d gone to Cranmer Hall and reasoned she’d be safe enough there until I got back from reporting Anthony’s news to Whitley.”

George’s gaze was exasperated. “Hardly a wise move.”

“I wasn’t exactly in a wise mood at the time,” Jack growled, resuming his frustrated prowl. “I’ve just endured the most harrowing morning of my life. First, I went to Cranmer. I didn’t even make it to the Hall. I met Spencer out riding. Before I could say a word, he asked how Kit was.”

George raised his brows. “Could he have been protecting her—throwing you off the track?”

Jack shook his head. “No, he was as open as the sky. Besides, I can’t see Spencer supporting Kit in this little game.”

“True,” George conceded. “What did you tell him?”

“What could I tell him? That I’d lost his granddaughter, whom I vowed not a month ago to protect till death us do part?”

George’s lips twitched but he didn’t dare smile.

“After enduring the most uncomfortable conversation of my entire life, I raced back to the Castle. I hadn’t thought to ask my people about how she’d left, as she’d obviously made all seem normal, and I didn’t see any point in raising a dust. As it transpired, she’d told Lovis she’d been called to a sick friend’s side. She had my coachman drive her to the King’s Arms in Lynn on Sunday afternoon, from where, according to her, this friend’s brother would fetch her. I checked. She took a room for the night and paid in advance. She had dinner in her room. That’s the last anyone’s seen of her.”

George frowned. “Could someone have recognized her as Young Kit?”

Jack threw him an anguished glance. “I don’t know. I came here, hoping against hope she’d simply laid a trail and then gone to ground with Amy.” He stopped and sighed, worry etched in his face. “Where the devil can she have gone?”

“Why the King’s Arms?” mused Amy. Sipping her tea, she’d been calmly following the discussion. George turned to look at her, searching her face as she frowned, her gaze distant.

Then Amy raised her brows. “The London, coaches leave from there.”

“London?” Jack stood, stunned into stillness. “Who would she go to in London? Her aunts?”

“Heavens, no!” Amy smiled condescendingly. “She’d never go near them. She’d go to Geoffrey, I suppose.”

George saw Jack’s face and leapt in with, “Who’s Geoffrey?”

Amy blinked. “Her cousin, of course. Geoffrey Cranmer.”

The sudden easing of Jack’s shoulders was dramatic enough to be visible. “Thank God for small mercies. Where does Geoffrey Cranmer live?”

Frowning, Amy took another sip of tea. “I think,” she began, then stopped, her frown deepening. “Does Jermyn Street sound right?”