Sister of Rogues

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Do ye have a ghost who lives here?”

  Both maids’ eyes widened and then Erin shrugged. “’Tis just Lona who sees them.”

  “Lona?”

  “One of the other lun—one of the other guests here.”

  Fiona smiled at her. “Thank ye for nae calling me a lunatic.”

  The maid blushed. “Mr. O’Reilly tells us to call ye guests.”

  Fiona felt herself grow warm at the mention of his name. How horrible she must have looked—and smelled—this morning in his office. He had been immaculately clean, his ebony hair pulled back in a queue, his shirt pressed but scandalously open at the throat, revealing a soft dusting of black hair on his chest. The nails of his strong, tanned hands had been neatly trimmed as well.

  “O’Reilly is an Irish name,” she said, “but Mr. O’Reilly sounds more English.”

  “’Tis because he went to Trinity College,” Brena offered. “Where the fancy English boys were sent.”

  “He hates the English though,” Erin added.

  Thankful that the maids were answering her questions, Fiona was about to ask why when the door opened and Ada entered. Immediately, both maids’ faces turned passive. Taking their cue, Fiona resumed finger combing her hair.

  Two interesting facts had surfaced during her conversation. From the maids’ demeanor, she sensed they didn’t like the matron any better than she did.

  And Kier O’Reilly was an educated man, which meant he might just listen to her if she could talk to him alone.

  Fiona quickly realized she wouldn’t have a chance to speak to Kier alone at dinner. Not only was Ada in attendance, the guard, Seamus, stood like a sentry at the entrance to the dining room lest any of them thought to escape. As if they could get far. Even if someone did manage to access the street, their strange garb would certainly label them as escapees from the asylum.

  Since Ada commanded that they stand until Kier arrived, Fiona looked at the other three guests with interest. Each wore the same shapeless dress as hers, although the stocky one with silver streaks in her hair had buxom breasts to give the garment more shape. Her green eyes narrowed as she looked Fiona over speculatively. The woman next to her was tall and lanky with non-descript brown hair and eyes, although her gaze was decidedly more curious than hostile. Her height made the diminutive blonde beside her look even smaller.

  Fiona blinked. The blonde was hardly more than a child, probably not even close to Fiona’s eight-and-ten years. Her expression was blank, her blue eyes vacant, giving her the appearance of a fragile china doll. Why was she here?

  Were any of them truly lunatics?

  At that moment, Kier entered the room and thoughts of the other women retreated to the recesses of Fiona’s mind. Once again, he was dressed totally in black—trousers, waist and frock coats, shirt and cravat. Fiona didn’t think she’d ever seen a black cravat before, but with Kier’s ebony hair loose and brushing his shoulders, he was devilishly handsome. The glint of sapphire in his dark eyes as he fixed his penetrating gaze on her nearly took her breath away.

  Fiona forced air into her lungs. Kier O’Reilly was not a potential beau at a London ball—nor was tonight a soiree.

  Kier moved to the head of the table. “Ladies, shall we be seated?” He pulled out the chair on his right. “Mrs. MacLeod, as the newest arrival, I would be honoured to have you sit here.”

  Fiona nodded, ignoring the narrowed gaze of the silver-streaked lady who flounced to the seat on Kier’s left. “Thank you,” Fiona said as Kier helped seat her, his manners impeccable. If it weren’t for Ada and the guard—and her own lack of a suitable gown—Fiona could almost imagine this dinner taking place in a suitable London townhouse. A gilded chandelier hung overhead, the candles reflecting on real china dishes and crystal glasses—but the absence of knives among the silverware was a stark reminder of the dire situation.

  “Allow me to introduce our new guest,” Kier said, causing Ada barely to stifle a snort in the background. Seeming to ignore it, he continued. “This is Mrs. Fiona MacLeod, who was recently widowed and needs some rest.”

  With an effort, Fiona reined in a retort. Now was not the time to dispute his misinformation—nor did she want to expound on the real facts. In any case, Kier didn’t wait for a response from her.

  He gestured to the middle-aged lady on his left. “Kathleen Butler.”

  She sniffed. “Lady Butler, if you please. My husband is a bloody lord.”

  “Is he now?” the tall, lanky woman asked.

  Kathleen glared at her. “Because the bloody bastard has a title is why I am in here, and you know it well.”

  “Is that the truth?” the lanky woman asked.

  “Lona, you know you should not upset Kathleen,” Kier intervened before Ada could take over. “And, Kathleen, we do not use titles here.”

  Fiona looked at Lona with interest. This was the person who saw ghosts? Aware she was staring, Fiona looked away, but not quickly enough.

  “I be Lona Monahan,” the woman said and grinned. “I do enjoy tweaking the lady’s nose, I do.” Then she sobered and looked back at Kathleen. “The leprechauns make me do it, ye know.”

  Before Fiona could digest that, Kier motioned toward the blonde girl. “And this is Dulcee Donnan. Can you say hello, Dulcee?”

  At first, Fiona thought the girl hadn’t heard since she made no response. Then she slowly turned her head, her pale blue eyes focusing on Fiona. “Ye are very pretty, like the angel who took my Calum away.”

  Kathleen Butler laughed. “The whore who stole your husband was no angel.”

  Fiona didn’t know whether to be more shocked by the woman’s vulgar language or by the fact that child-like Dulcee had a husband.

  Kier frowned. “While we are at the table, we will watch our language.”

  Kathleen huffed but snapped her mouth closed. Dulcee resumed the vacant look she’d had earlier.

  Just then, Erin and Brena brought in the first course of soup, which pretty much ended the conversation. Fiona hid a smile as she noticed the dour look on Ada’s face. The idea of lunatics being served a proper meal in a proper dining room didn’t set well with her. Evidently, it was not the usual procedure either.

  “Why are we eatin’ in here?” Lona asked. “The last time we did was Yule, near a year ago.”

  Kier paused, his spoon about ready to dip into the soup. “I read an article recently that suggests rewarding good behavior is better than punishing bad behavior. I thought I would try that approach.”

  Behind him, Ada snorted.

  “An excellent idea,” Fiona said, hoping this might provide an opportunity to actually talk to Kier and make him understand she was not a lunatic. “What can we do to earn such a reward?”

  Kathleen laughed again. “Spreading your legs would be—”

  “Enough!” Kier tossed his napkin down and nodded to Ada who was only too happy to step in and assist. “You are dismissed, Kathleen.”

  Kathleen stood and lifted her chin. “I am Lady Butler. I was just about to leave since I will not tolerate a whore at my table.” Turning, she walked to the door as regally as she could with Ada gripping her arm.

  Fiona stared into her soup, her face on fire. Never in her life had she been so grossly insulted. Worse, the way she had worded the question had sounded suggestive. What would Kier think of her? The last thing she needed was for him to think her a…a lightskirt, as Mari called them. Well, she couldn’t just sit here cowering. Fiona raised her head. Lona looked amused and Dulcee’s expression was puzzled, but it was Kier’s steady gaze that made Fiona blush again, only this time her skin tingled as an errant thought swept through her mind. What would it be like to actually kiss him? Oh, Lord…where had that thought come from?

  “I am sorry you were insulted, Mrs. MacLeod,” Kier said. “Kathleen sometimes speaks out of turn.”

&nb
sp; Fiona managed a small smile. “I understand. I dinnae ask it right—”

  “’Tis her own husband who took a mistress,” Lona added.

  “No gossiping.”

  “A faerie told me it was true.”

  “An angel took my Calum,” Dulcee divulged to no one in particular, “but if I pray hard, she might bring him back to me.”

  Fiona’s head swirled with the strangeness of the conversation. What kind of a world had she been thrown into? And, more importantly, how did she get out?

  Kier retreated to his library after the disastrous dinner, poured a liberal amount of whiskey into a glass and drained it quickly. Ada had returned from dealing with Kathleen and proceeded to march the others to their rooms in short order. Fiona had been only too glad to leave, and Kier couldn’t blame her.

  Why the hell he had decided to host a dinner party like he was still some damn aristocrat, he didn’t know. He’d read A Treatise on Insanity by Philippe Pinel recently and Kier thought the man’s theories of lenity and forbearance, steady and dispassionate firmness made sense. Certainly, there had to be more humane treatment than inmates being chained to walls in cold, bare cells, subject to floggings and other tortures that went on at Bedlam in London and probably next door at the Dublin Asylum as well.

  The key word Kier had trouble with when it came to Fiona was dispassionate.

  Since yesterday when he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d been able to think of little else. He’d even dreamed of her last night. Her ethereal beauty haunted him. Given her entrance to his office, he suspected she also had an underlying fiery spirit—something he admired in a woman. He had absolutely no business taking a personal interest in any of his wards, let alone one who was grieving so hard she denied her husband’s existence. Although Kier had not met her father, the notes Mr. Kelly had sent were quite clear. Fiona’s mind was in a very fragile state.

  Kathleen could have made no worse remark than suggesting Fiona spread her legs for him. Kier had seen Fiona’s face flame red and then drain of colour completely, yet she had kept her composure. His own reaction hadn’t been so admirable. His groin had tightened painfully with an erection hard and thick against trousers suddenly too tight.

  Truthfully, Mr. Pinel’s Treatise had little to do with the reason Kier had hosted the dinner party. The man in him wanted to impress Fiona. Even if reality eluded her, it was clear to Kier from the ball gown she’d worn that her Scots husband had been well-to-do. She was probably used to socializing in civilized circles. Like some besotted green youth, Kier had wanted to show Fiona he could compete. Evidently, he had not learned his lesson from Lady Jane Claire.

  He shook his head. Maybe he was the one becoming delusional. Aside from being totally unethical, he couldn’t take advantage of someone who might be clinging to reality by only fine threads. Kier poured another drink. Hopefully, he wouldn’t dream of Fiona again tonight.

  Chapter Four

  “You can see the patient now, but only for a few minutes,” the doctor told Jamie as he paced furiously in the waiting room of the hospital.

  Mari put her hand on Jamie’s arm as he turned toward Brice’s room. “He has had a concussion, so be easy with him.”

  Jamie scowled. “Fiona has been missing for two days. Molydeux was the last person who saw her.”

  “I am sure he will tell us what he knows.”

  “He’d better,” Jamie replied and pushed open the door. Brice’s eyes widened and his face turned as white as fresh milk. Fear? Jamie frowned again. Why?

  “I did not think visitors were allowed,” Brice said feebly.

  “We will only stay a few minutes,” Mari assured him. “You are aware that Fiona is missing?”

  An impassive mask settled on his face. “I remember being hit. That is all.”

  The man was lying. Jamie resisted the urge to haul him up in bed and choke the truth out of him, but Mari was already giving him her warning look. He wished conflicts could be settled in London as easily as they were in the Highlands, but here there were always damn rules to follow. Jamie forced himself to sound calm. “Tell us what you can remember before you were hit.”

  “I remember it was hot in the ballroom. Fiona and I decided to take the air.” Brice hesitated. “A number of people were on the veranda and near the gazebo, so we strolled through the gardens.”

  Jamie narrowed his eyes. “To the dark places in the garden? Where a mon might take advantage of a lass?”

  Brice eyed him warily. “That was not my intention.”

  “Please tell us what happened as you were strolling,” Mari intervened.

  “I do not rightly recall. Something moved in the bushes. I thought it might be an animal of some sort and turned to investigate. As I did, someone accosted me.”

  Jamie folded his arms over his chest. “How did ye come to be stabbed in an East End slum?”

  The mask tightened on Brice’s face. “I do not know.”

  “Ye doona ken going there?”

  “I just told you I do not know.”

  “I think that is enough for now,” the doctor said as he re-entered the room. “I will not risk having my patient getting upset.”

  “But—”

  “Thank you,” Mari said quickly, tucking her hand into the crook of Jamie’s arm. “Perhaps we can return when Mr. Molyneux is stronger?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Jamie waited until they were seated inside their carriage and headed home before he finally exploded. “The mon is nae telling the truth of it.”

  Mari furrowed her brow. “I suppose it is possible that whoever hit him took him to that place while he was unconscious.”

  “Fie! Why haul him that far if someone wanted to stab him? Or, for that matter, if whoever it was wanted to kill him, why not dump him in the Thames?” Jamie stopped, stricken, and punched his fist against his thigh. “What if Fiona—”

  “Do not think about the river. I know it brings back bad memories.” Mari put her hand over Jamie’s. “Besides, no bodies have turned up. That is a good sign.”

  “Aye, but she cannae just have disappeared.” Jamie sighed and put an arm around Mari to draw her closer. “If Fiona was abducted, why have we nae received a ransom note?”

  Mari nestled into his shoulder. “I do not know. None of it makes sense. Ladies are not simply whisked away from well-attended parties.”

  “I should have kept a better eye on her. ’Tis my fault.”

  “It is not your fault. There were plenty of eyes at the ball. At a ton party, the matrons watch any girl who might be competition for their own daughters.” Mari straightened and looked at him. “Lady Castlereagh has already provided the authorities with a list of guests. Someone must have seen something. We must be patient.”

  “I have nae fondness of patience.”

  “I do not either, but it is all we can do for now. The riders you sent to Gretna Green will go on to Glenfinnan. If I know your brother, Ian will ride like the devil is on his horse’s tail to get here. And Shane should be returning from France within the week.”

  “I will be lucky if they doona beat me to a pulp for letting this happen.”

  “They will do nothing of the kind. They will help us.”

  That they would. Fiona was their sister and cousin, after all, and they’d all rescued her from more scraps than anyone could remember. This one was more serious though. Regardless of what Mari thought, Jamie was pretty sure Ian and Shane would both beat him bloody before this was through—and he’d deserve it for not protecting his sister.

  After the horrible dinner, Fiona didn’t mind staying in her room the next morning, although she would have preferred not to be locked in. This was the third morning of her confinement and she still hadn’t figured out any way to escape. Ada was in attendance when Fiona was allowed out of the room and Seamus stood duty at the front door. Her
best chance was to reason with Kier, but she’d not had the opportunity to talk to him alone—and after last night’s remarks by Kathleen, he would probably get the wrong idea if she managed to ask.

  Fiona’s cheeks grew hot at the thought of what had been suggested. At Glenfinnan, she’d stumbled upon—or to be truthful, had often followed—giggling maids to the stables where they’d met young groomsmen for trysts. Fiona had mostly sounds to go on, since she’d had to hide, but those sounds had excited her. The maids leaving with flushed faces and puffy lips had only added to Fiona’s curiosity.

  What would it feel like for Kier to hold her? Or more likely, to lie down with her since the maids usually had hay sticking to their hair and clothes. To feel his weight on her, pressing her into the soft down of a mattress? To do whatever it was that had the maids moaning and mewling? Would Kier’s full lips be warm and pliant or hard and demanding? Kissing was definitely a part of what went on in those trysts. She’d even caught her brothers—on those occasions when she’d climbed trees and lofts—stealing both kinds of kisses with willing ladies.

  Fiona’s breath hitched and she felt her eyes filling with tears. Her brothers—and Shane too—had always been aggravatingly protective, probably because her mother had died in childbirth and the woman her father had married had cared not one wit for children. How many times had Fiona stubbornly argued with Ian and Jamie that she could take care of herself—had even reminded them they had taught her to handle a sword and throw a knife? Little good that did her now. There had not been even a table knife at dinner last night.

  She could only imagine Jamie’s reaction to her missing. At first, he’d be irritated, thinking she’d gone off on another of her adventures as she called them. Would he blame Brice? Lord, she didn’t even know what had happened to Brice. How badly had he been hurt? Fiona didn’t think Brice had been taken anywhere. She’d heard him fall and he certainly had not been on the ship to Ireland. Hopefully, he’d be able to help Jamie piece together what had happened, but Brice would have no way of knowing she had been taken out of the country.