Free Beauty and the Spy by Julie Anne Long Page B

confess. And Morley was… shall we say, the hero of it."
    John raised his brows. "Go on."
    "Do you remember a politician named Richard Lockwood? Murdered some years ago?"
    "I believe it happened about the time we were…" John hesitated as he was much more of a diplomat than Kit ever was. "Sent off to the military academy."
    "The year I shot you, you mean," Kit said with blunt mischief.
    "The year you missed me," John countered, predictably.
    Once started, the two of them could go on like this forever.
    And so Kit told John the whole story: of Lockwood and Morley and Christian virtues, of the allegedly whimsical hiding place of the allegedly incriminating documents.
    John drummed the table a few times in thought. "Are you sure James wasn't drunk when he told you all of this?"
    "When have you ever seen James drunk?"
    "Were you drunk when he told you this?"
    "Why," Kit said irritably, "does everyone think I'm bound to be drunk?"
    John smiled crookedly. "You often are bound to be. But why do you think James told you? Was it a whim of the moment, or do you think he planned to tell you?"
    "Difficult to say, really. Perhaps because he thought he was in danger. Perhaps because, of all the people he knew, I might be disinclined to let the matter rest, should anything become of him."
    A diplomatic way of admitting he was dogged to a fault. To his credit, John didn't snort.
    "Do you believe him, Kit?"
    "He wasn't raving, if that's what you're asking."
    "Do you suppose Caroline knows anything about the Lockwood murder? Her letter… it said, 'all we've done.'"
    "It's why I told you about James. It might be a mad tale, then again, I can't help but think it's somehow related to Caroline and Morley. But I suppose it will be up to you to discover that."
    John smiled crookedly, damn him, because he knew precisely how much it would bother Kit to not be able to pursue this particular mystery. "What would you have done if James hadn't been killed, Kit?"
    "Press him for more information, of course. Tell me why you've begun investigating Morley," Kit demanded swiftly.
    "Excellent try. But you know I can't."
    Kit swore colorfully under his breath.
    John laughed. "But you've helped, truly. This was worth crawling in the window. And I'm getting a little old for that sort of thing."
    Kit twisted his mouth wryly. The brandy was warming the pit of his stomach, but his mind was uncomfortably alert now. "To James," Kit said, lifting his glass.
    "To James."
    They drank together, and for a moment indulged in separate thoughts.
    "Kit…" John's voice was careful; Kit looked at him expectantly. "You do know that if Caroline helped Morley sell information to the French… that makes her as much a traitor as Morley. And now… she's attempting to find you."
    But Kit had already arrived there in reasoning: If the Earl of Westphall's son was known to be consorting with a traitor, a political cataclysm would ensue. Lives would be ruined. His own, for instance. His father's, in particular.
    No doubt, some people would like to see that happen.
    He wondered, for a moment, if either he or his father were carefully being set up to take a devastating fall.
    Kit leaned casually back in his chair, his well-trained features entirely neutral. He clasped his hands behind his head in a luxurious stretch, the picture of nonchalance. He suspected that John knew it was a performance, because it was precisely what John would have done in the same circumstances.
    And then, instead of saying anything further, he tipped the brandy decanter again into John's glass, and then into his own, and raised the full glass to his friend. "So where did you end up when we parted ways the other night? Lady Barrington's town house?"
    John's smug grin confirmed this. "More specifically, her bed."
    "Congratulations," Kit said in all sincerity, and they lifted their glasses to each other again. Lady Barrington had been John's particular quest for some time now.
    John bolted the last of his brandy