Chapter 36
Kiri was on her second cup of tea when Rob Carmichael entered the breakfast room, expression grim. Cassie smiled at him. “I see that the lure of a good breakfast has drawn you from your lair.”
“I won’t turn that down, but it’s not why I’m here.” Carmichael belatedly removed his hat. “I got a message this morning from one of your servants, Mac. They found Kirkland fully dressed and burning with fever in your guest room.”
Mackenzie swore under his breath. “A flare-up of marsh fever?”
“Probably,” Carmichael said. “A bad one.”
“Did the servants send for a physician?” Mackenzie asked.
“I hope so.” Carmichael poured himself a mug of tea and added a serious amount of sugar. “I haven’t seen him yet. Thought I should stop here and let you all know.”
Cassie drained the last of her tea and got to her feet. “I’ll go with you, Rob. It sounds like Kirkland will need nursing, preferably by someone who can be trusted with his secrets if he talks when he’s feverish.”
“Are you a nurse, Cassie?” Carmichael asked with mild surprise.
“Aren’t all women sooner or later?” she replied dryly.
“Marsh fever? That’s malaria, isn’t it?” Kiri hadn’t thought that anything could bring down the tireless Kirkland. “Do physicians here use Jesuit bark?”
Carmichael looked blank. “I have no idea. What is it?”
“The bark of the cinchona tree, which grows in South America. The Jesuits learned from the natives about its use to cure fever. There are many fevers in India, so my parents always keep a supply on hand. I don’t know if it’s as well known in England, since there are fewer fevers here than in hot countries.”
It was a fever that had killed Kiri’s father before she was born. The general had learned about Jesuit bark from an army friend who had visited Peru, and he had procured it for his household. Unfortunately, the word “Jesuit” usually horrified Protestant Englishmen. The bark needed to be renamed. “I know an apothecary that usually has Jesuit bark. I’ll buy some and take it to Kirkland.”
“Good. You can show me how to dose him,” Cassie said.
“A cup of boiling water poured over a pinch of bark.” Kiri used her fingers to demonstrate about how much. “Let it steep for ten minutes or so, then strain and pour it down him. Give him four or five cups a day. I’ll prepare the first dose to show you.”
“I wish I could go,” Mackenzie said with frustration. “But I really can’t appear somewhere I’m known so well when I’m dead.”
“You won’t be dead much longer,” Carmichael said with macabre humor. “After the State Opening of Parliament, we’ll either have succeeded or failed. Either way, you should be able to return to life.”
“How will you do that, Mackenzie?” Kiri asked. “Just reappear and tell the truth, that you were pretending to be dead while you helped the government look for spies?”
“The truth?” He looked scandalized. “How tedious that would be. Not to mention ruining any possibility of helping Kirkland in the future.”
“So what
will
you do?”
“I’ll emerge from St. Bart’s hospital claiming that I sustained a head wound while pursuing the thieves from Damian’s, and hadn’t known who I was for several weeks,” he explained. “It will be realized that someone else was wrongly identified as me, and my continued existence will be received with cries of joy from all sides. Business will boom at Damian’s as people come to see the nine days’ wonder.”
Kiri laughed. “What about the fact that Kirkland found your ring on the dead man’s finger?”
“He must have stolen it from my hand,” Mackenzie replied promptly. “Kirkland will claim that the combination of ring and his shock led to the incorrect identification.”
Carmichael looked intrigued. “I can help by saying that I wasn’t convinced you were dead, so I did some investigating.”
“Excellent! You can find me at St. Bart’s. With a head injury, I should be able to get away with much outrageousness for months to come.” He grinned at Kiri, and she felt her insides melt. Why did he make every other man look boring?
“This is all wonderfully clever,” Cassie said impatiently. “But we need to get moving if we want Kirkland to be around for the great discovery.”
Her words sent people scattering to collect coats and hats. Kiri hoped the apothecary her parents used would have the cinchona bark in stock. Otherwise, she might have a long search to find some. She’d feel a lot better if Kirkland was dosed with the bark; malaria could be fatal.
Even if it wasn’t—and given Kirkland’s general state of robust good health, he should pull through—they needed him to recover as quickly as possible. She suspected that no one else could do the job that he did. He was like a great clever spider sitting in the middle of a web of agents high and low. His ability to call on the prince regent or the prime minister and be received was invaluable.
Without him, their chances of success dropped sharply.
Endless nightmares of crawling through burning sands, sliding over ice, frantic to stop assassins. An eternity of aching and tossing and desperate frustration . . .
Kirkland’s return to consciousness was a slow process. First he became aware of a ceiling, looking much as ceilings usually did. Eventually it occurred to him to turn his head—which turned out to be damnably more uncomfortable than it should have been.
He was in a bed piled high with covers despite a fire burning merrily across the room. He blinked to bring his surroundings into focus. He was at Mackenzie’s house, he realized. In the guest room, where he’d stayed several times before. But why?
“So you’ve decided to rejoin the living.” A cool hand rested on his forehead. “The fever has finally broken. If you’re hungry, I might find some chicken broth for you if you ask nicely.”
“Cassie?” He blinked up at her. She had circles under her eyes. He had a vague memory of thrashing around in the bed, of being forced to drink a bitter tea, of throwing blankets off when he was feverish and dragging them back on when he was racked with chills. “How long was I out of my head?”
“Three days. A flare-up of marsh fever. Apparently you came here to Mackenzie’s late one night and pretty much collapsed. His servants didn’t find you passed out here until the next morning.”
“Three days!” He struggled to sit up, only to melt back onto his pillow, so exhausted he couldn’t lift his head again.
“Behave, James,” she said, as sternly as a schoolroom nurse. “You were playing dice with St. Peter for a while because you take such poor care of yourself. You’re not leaving this bed until you get your strength back.”
He hadn’t realized she even knew his Christian name. “I was that ill?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll behave,” he said meekly.
She grinned. “Only because you’re too weak to do anything else.”
She knew him well. Refusing to dignify her comment with an answer, he asked, “Have you been soothing my fevered brow this whole time?”
“I’ve been alternating with your valet, and Kiri has come several times. She brought some Jesuit bark and showed us all how to make tea from it, which is probably why you aren’t still raving. Plus, all of us can be trusted with your secrets. You have some interesting ones, Kirkland.”
He groaned, wondering how much he’d said. “You will, of course, keep silent in return for an annuity that will keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.” Then he wished he hadn’t said that, because every time she returned to France, there was a good chance she wouldn’t survive to come back to England.
But Cassie just smiled. “That will persuade me to hold my tongue until I get a better offer.”
Too tired for more banter, he asked, “What about the plot?” He struggled for breath. “The State Opening?”
“No one has been assassinated yet,” she said soothingly. “There haven’t even been any more attempts. Rob Carmichael has been coordinating information from your office, which hasn’t been hard because not much has happened despite the best efforts of every agent you put to work on this. Maybe the villains have given up.”
“No.” Kirkland was sure of that with the sixth sense that made him so good in the secret world of intelligence gathering. “A damned heavy sword is waiting to drop.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Cassie also had excellent instincts. “But it’s like a ball of yarn. If we can’t find the loose end, it’s impossible to unravel.”
He closed his eyes, knowing that she was right. Much of an investigation like this was pure luck. But hard work created more chances for luck to appear.
Something tickled at the back of his mind. The night he came here, before the fever knocked him endwise . . . Clumsily he searched his memory. “Letters for Mackenzie. I had some in his study. One in particular. His smuggler captain in Kent. Sounded serious.”
“I’ll collect the mail and get it to Mac today.” She smiled a little. “He would have been here if he weren’t dead. But for you, it’s time to rest again.”
Despite the fact that disaster was hovering over the British royals, he was embarrassingly eager to close his eyes and sleep.
Cassie showed up for supper that night looking tired but no longer anxious. Mac asked, “Kirkland is better?”
“The fever has broken and he’s rational again, though he’s weak as a half-drowned kitten.”
“Fever does that,” Kiri observed, “but at least he pulled through.”
Mac forced his gaze back to Cassie because he had a bad tendency to stare at Kiri like a moon calf if he wasn’t careful. They’d spent the last three nights together, and the more he was with her, the more of her he wanted.
“With the help of your Jesuit bark. His attack was a bad one. Very bad.” Cassie didn’t need to elaborate further. “Mac, I brought some letters that were at your house. Kirkland was collecting them when the fever struck. Almost the first thing he said when he came around was that there’s a letter you must read from your smuggler down in Kent. It made his instincts twitch.” She produced a bundle of letters and handed them to him.
“And we all know Kirkland’s instincts are powerful and dangerous.” Mac took the letters and began shuffling through. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
He found the letter quickly and read it, frowning. “Hawk, the smuggler captain, is concerned about something, or perhaps someone, that came over from France. He wants me to come down to Kent and meet him at the smugglers’ hideout at nightfall tomorrow.” Hawk hadn’t specified the location, but he’d known Mac would understand.
Kiri’s brow furrowed. “Is it plausible that he’d write you like this? He wouldn’t have heard of your death?”
“Not likely he reads the London newspapers regularly, and even if he did, he probably assumes that Mackenzie is a false name since it’s Scottish and I’m English,” Mac said, puzzling it out. “Smuggling is his family business, but he’s a loyal Englishman. He has to know that he has transported more than wine and spirits for me. If he learned something he thought should be passed on to the authorities, I’m probably the only person he would know to reach.”
Kiri’s brow furrowed. “Since I acquired the knife with the Alejandro-scented paper from the smugglers, there must be some connection with the conspirators. But the State Opening is close. Can you get down there, talk to Hawk, and get back in time?”
“There will be time and to spare,” he assured her. “But it wouldn’t be a disaster if I’m held up down there. Carmichael and Kirkland are better at organizing protection for the royals and the Palace of Westminster. Socializing with smugglers and other shady characters is my specialty.”
“What if Kirkland is still laid up?”
Mac considered that. “I’ll be back in time.”
“I should go with you,” Kiri said. “You suggested before that I might go with you to the smugglers to try to identify the lead kidnapper.”
Mac shook his head. “Different circumstances. This time I’m only going to meet with Hawk rather than make a regular business call to the whole band. If I bring a stranger, Hawk might be reluctant to talk.”
She bit her lip, looking concerned. “It doesn’t feel safe for you to go alone.”
“None of what we’re doing is particularly safe, but I’ve been dealing with Hawk for years. If he’s worried, I need to talk to him.”
She looked unconvinced but let the subject drop. He wondered if her misgivings were related to the fact that they were new lovers. Certainly he didn’t like letting her out of his sight, and she might feel the same way. But he wouldn’t be gone long, and it was quite possible that Hawk would have useful information. At this point, any promising lead needed to be checked out. Immediately.
The coast of Kent was cold and unforgiving at the end of November. Rather uncanny, too, though Mac had been to the hideaway often enough before. If he were the imaginative sort, he’d be looking for ghosts behind every boulder.
He’d used a post chaise to get to Dover, changing horses at every stage. Then he’d hired a sturdy horse from a stable he’d used before to take him the last few miles to the smugglers’ cave.