Sister of Rogues

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Nae. Well, Erin did say ye were the only one who sees ghosts.”

  “I’ve a gift, I do.”

  “What…who…is the O’Reilly ghost?”

  “’Tis said she be the master’s mother.”

  Surprise swept over Fiona. “Ye mean Mr. O’Reilly’s mother?”

  “Aye. The servants say she lost her mind when her husband was killed and then took her own life when the master was away. He blamed himself for that.”

  Stunned, Fiona stared at Lona. No wonder Fiona had sensed the cloak of despair that clung to Kier. No wonder he rarely smiled. No wonder he agreed to take in women from the asylum, if his own mother had gone mad.

  “When—”

  “Enough talking over there!” Seamus shouted.

  Lona immediately fell silent and Fiona did as well, falling back so Lona could walk ahead. Getting Seamus angry would serve no point. She glanced sideways at him. Imagining the guard and the matron made her smile and then shake her head. Was Lona truly functioning in the real world?

  It wasn’t until later, locked in her room, that Fiona realized she never did ask Lona about the faerie. Perhaps tomorrow she’d have a chance to sit on the bench again and see if the faerie would reappear. Walking to the window that looked down to the courtyard, Fiona squinted. The inner court lay in near pitch black, the bench and bushes black blobs. No twinkling spots of light that might indicate the fae at work. The only movement she could discern were the branches of the one tree planted in the middle of the yard. The wind must have picked up considerably for that sheltered tree to sway, and Fiona hoped it wouldn’t be too cold to be outside tomorrow. She needed to get permission to work in the courtyard. How she’d do that, she didn’t know, but sometimes it was best to sleep on these things.

  She’d just dimmed the wick on the oil lamp and slipped into her narrow bed when she heard an odd noise, like faint footsteps, but they weren’t coming from the hall. Instead, the sound seemed to vibrate from within the stone wall. Fiona sat up, listening intently in the darkness. The sound slowly faded away, although perhaps it was lost with the increased howling of the wind. A shiver slid down her spine as she remembered Lona’s story of Kier’s mother haunting the tower where she’d died. Fiona’s room was just down the hallway from that tower, although she hadn’t seen any door on the second floor opening to it. She chided herself for being silly. Ghosts didn’t need doors—if in fact, there was a ghost at all. Her brothers used to tease her unmercifully about her fanciful imagination—but in this place, her notions could get her into even more trouble.

  Really big trouble.

  If only she could get Kier to believe her.

  Chapter Seven

  “How could ye have let the lass disappear?” Ian’s dark eyes glowered at Jamie as he stomped across the carpeted area in the London townhouse’s parlor. “Ye were responsible for her.”

  “I ken that,” Jamie replied, forcing himself to unclench his hands to reach for the whisky decanter on the cart near the hearth. Ian had just arrived, pounding on the door and nearly flattening Givens when the butler had opened it. His brother wouldn’t be ready for any explanation other than Fiona had disappeared until he’d had a dram or two. “Here.”

  Ian drained the contents in one gulp and held it out for another. Jamie refilled it silently and helped himself to a healthy measure as well. More than likely, Ian was going to put him on his arse, and no telling how much furniture would be broken.

  Mari looked from one of them to the other, a worried expression on her face. Jamie noted she’d placed herself pretty much out of harm’s way. In fact, that corner chair had become her safe refuge, since Jamie was apt to curse and explode at regular intervals too.

  “Well? Have ye nothing to say for yourself?” Ian demanded, slamming the empty glass down on an end table beside the sofa but remaining standing.

  “We were at the Castlereagh’s ball. Fiona stepped outside with Sefton’s nephew. The next thing we knew, they’d both disappeared.”

  “Ye let the lass slip away with a mon? Why were ye nae watching her?”

  “Because he was dancing with me,” Mari said from her corner.

  Ian turned slowly, as though just now realizing she was in the room. Jamie groaned. Dancing with his wife was a poor excuse and something he’d have preferred not to admit to doing in the first place.

  “A waltz,” Mari added, sparks of blue fire shooting from her eyes. Jamie recognized the defiance in both her voice and face, but before he could intervene, she continued. “I believe my sister said it was one of your favorites.”

  At the mention of his wife, Ian’s expression softened and Jamie grinned inwardly. His own little minx knew just how to defuse his brother’s wrath. Ian could hardly blame Jamie for dancing with Mari when he’d given in to the advantages of holding his wife close in a waltz as well, although perhaps it would be wise not to point that out just now.

  “How is Jillian?” Mari asked pleasantly. “And baby Rose?”

  “Well,” Ian replied, his tone considerably changed. “Jillian wanted to come down, but she kenned I was in a hurry.” He turned back to Jamie, his face darkening again. “They dinnae go to Gretna, so what have ye discovered?”

  Here was probably where Jamie would get hit. “Nothing.”

  But Ian just stared at him, unmoving. “Nothing? Did ye nae hire runners and check the docks—”

  “Yes, we did,” Mari replied, shifting Ian’s attention again. “A thorough search has been made. Nothing has turned up.”

  “Two people cannae just vanish.”

  “’Tis just Fiona who’s disappeared,” Jamie said, preparing for his brother’s fist. “Sefton’s nephew is here.”

  “Why did ye nae tell me that?” Ian’s jaw clenched. “What does the mon have to say for himself?”

  “Nae much.” Jamie filled his brother in on the details of their visit to the hospital. “I am sure the mon is lying, but he has nae changed his story.”

  Ian glowered again. “Perhaps I can be more persuasive.”

  “Mr. Molyneux is still recovering from the stab wound,” Mari said, “or Jamie would have already gotten into fisticuffs with the man.” She shook her head. “I do not think violence is going to improve his memory.”

  “Ye will be surprised how fast a mon remembers,” Ian said.

  “The point of a sword at his throat might hurry matters,” Jamie added.

  Mari looked heavenward. “Do not even think about carrying that claymore of yours about, Jamie MacLeod.”

  “It has helped settle many an argument.”

  “I think you should let me visit with Mr. Molyneux. Alone.”

  “Nae.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nae.”

  “Sometimes a lady can be more…persuasive when she speaks alone with a man,” Mari said as though she hadn’t heard Jamie at all. “How do you suppose Fiona, Abigail and I got Shane’s papers back from Customs?”

  “I doona want to talk about that.”

  Ian looked at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps Mari has a point.”

  “Of course, I do,” she said sweetly. “My husband just needs to recognize it.”

  “Nae.”

  “We shall see. If you will excuse me, I will let Mrs. Fields know Ian will be staying.” Mari rose, obviously knowing when to leave a battle—or at least reserve the fight for another day.

  “I am nae going to change my mind!” Jamie called after her.

  In spite of the dire circumstances, Ian chuckled. “Famous last words.”

  Jamie frowned. “I willnae.”

  “’Tis what I used to say as well, brother,” Ian replied and then sobered. “There has been no ransom note?”

  “Nothing. ’Tis odd.”

  “Perhaps nae so much,” Ian said.

  “What do ye mean?”


  “This whole business smells of Wesley Alton. He attempted to abduct Jillian. His son Nicholas tried to do the same with Mari. Do the authorities know where either of them is?”

  Jamie shook his head. “No one has seen either of them since I left Nicholas locked in a closet and Alton freed him before the authorities could get there. That was a year ago. If they’re smart, they went back to France.”

  “I am nae so sure. Alton hates us and the mon did escape from Bedlam.”

  Jamie felt his eyes widen. “Ye think he is still here? In London?”

  “’Tis a possibility.” Ian poured another dram into his cup and drained it.

  Jamie fell silent. If Wesley Alton had their sister, he didn’t even want to consider the possibilities.

  Those possibilities were brought up again by Shane when he put his ship into port two days later. They had retired to the library where Ian and Jamie filled him in on what had happened. Jamie felt relieved that Shane didn’t blame him for the disappearance, but then Shane did not possess Ian’s quick temper. Instead, he analyzed things logically.

  “Ye say Castlereagh provided a guest list and everyone has been questioned?”

  “Aye. The last anyone saw of Fiona and Sefton, they were walking along a garden path away from the gazebo.” Would Shane criticize Jamie’s lack of chaperoning like Ian had done? Even now, his brother was glaring at him again.

  Shane caught the look. “’Tis nae Jamie’s fault, Ian. Our Fiona is a headstrong lass. The important thing is we find her.”

  “True,” Mari said, giving Ian an irritated look of her own. “I was the one who insisted Jamie keep his distance. The ball should have been perfectly safe. Fiona just wanted to have some fun.”

  Ian raised a dark brow. “I cannae tell ye how many times her idea of fun involved being rescued by one of us, but it has never been this serious.”

  “’Tis true for sure,” Shane said, bringing the conversation back to the point. “Fiona and Sefton’s nephew both disappeared, but the mon was found later in an East End flat with a stab wound? With nae trace of Fiona. He dinnae say how he came to be on the other side of town in an area common to cutthroats and thieves?”

  “He said he dinnae remember,” Jamie replied, “but I am sure he lies.”

  “I think Jamie is right. I was there,” Mari said. “If I could talk to Brice alone—”

  “Nae. We are done with that subject.”

  Both Ian and Shane gave him knowing looks that said he was not anywhere near through with the subject, but Jamie jutted out his chin, refusing to meet Mari’s glinty gaze. A mon had to have some say.

  “So no one at the ball saw or heard anything unusual. Fiona and Sefton disappear. The mon is found across town with a gut wound. No trace of Fiona at the flat.” Shane continued ticking off facts on his fingers. “The Bow Street runners have nae discovered anything and there has nae been a ransom note.”

  “Aye.”

  “And ye checked the docks for any passengers departing to the continent?”

  “That too.”

  “Did ye…” Shane hesitated, glancing over at Mari, “…did ye check the river?”

  Jamie shook his head. “We thought Fiona had run off to Gretna Green.”

  “But no bodies have surfaced,” Mari said shakily, her face paling. “That is a good sign, is it not?”

  Jamie saw Shane exchange glances with Ian. His brother was as comfortable on a ship as he was on land, but it didn’t take an expert sailor to realize a body could be washed out to sea with a fast tide before it became bloated enough to float. Jamie didn’t think the idea had occurred to Mari and he wanted to spare her that thought. “Aye. ’Tis a verra good sign.”

  A little colour came back to Mari’s cheeks. “But what could have happened?”

  Shane leaned back in one of the over-stuffed chairs and frowned. “Ye remember when I delivered the shipments of cognac last spring?”

  “Of course. You were arrested for avoiding taxes on opium that had been smuggled aboard. Abigail was furious—”

  “I doona think he is talking about his wife, Mari,” Ian said and looked at Shane. “Do ye think there is a connection?”

  “Possibly. Richard, the new clerk I’d hired, arranged for that shipment. I had nae idea opium was concealed in the packing straw. ’Twas too convenient when the buyer here in London wanted to inspect the boxes before accepting them.” Shane paused. “I had wondered why someone buying cases of expensive French cognac wanted me to dock on the East Side instead of Deptford pier past Cutty Sark.”

  “Abigail told me what a wretch Richard was,” Mari said.

  Shane nodded. “’Tis too bad the mon managed to escape before we found out what he was really about.”

  “Ye think Richard had something to do with Fiona’s disappearance?” Jamie asked, furrowing his brow.

  “I doona ken, but I think Richard was working for the buyer of the cognac.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “What did the man look like?”

  Shane shrugged. “He dinnae look like a mon who could afford cases of cognac. He had dark brown hair in need of a trim and a rough beard. His clothing was poorly stitched and his boots scuffed. He looked more like a servant than a merchant. I thought it odd he could afford the liquor.”

  “Did he give ye a name?”

  “Aye. Walter Avery.”

  Jamie bolted upright in his chair while Mari’s face blanched. “It cannot be,” she breathed.

  “Aye, it can.”

  Ian’s sharp gaze shifted from Mari to Jamie. “Explain.”

  Jamie drew a deep breath and reached for Mari’s hand, wishing he could make her forget what had happened that horrible day last year. “Walter Avery is the alias Wesley Alton used.”

  All hell broke loose after that statement. Jamie headed back to Bow Street to hire more runners while Ian left to pay a visit to Arthur Wellesley, who would be at his London residence since Parliament was still in session. The duke held a lot of sway in England and perhaps could bring more forces into play. Shane went once more to the docks, even though Jamie had assured him the passenger dockets had all been checked.

  Two hours later, Jamie and Ian reconvened in the library. “Was the duke in?” Jamie asked, pouring both of them double drams.

  “Nae. He had to go to Hampshire about some business on his estate. I left word with his man of business to contact me about an urgent matter.”

  “’Tis too bad. We could have used his help.”

  “How did ye fare?”

  “I told the runners who we were looking for this time. Three of them left before I scarce finished speaking. If the bastard is in London, he will be found.” Jamie reached for the bottle of whisky just as Shane burst in. Their always calm-and-controlled cousin nearly shook with excitement.

  “Ye found her?” Jamie asked, putting the bottle down.

  “Nae quite, but I did find out where she has gone.”

  Ian leapt up. “Where? When do we leave?”

  Shane held up a hand. “Nae so fast. She is on board a ship to America.”

  “What?” Ian and Jamie asked together.

  “Aye. I made some inquiries at the docks—”

  “But we already did that. No woman had booked passage.”

  “True enough, but I figured Alton would nae go through regular channels, so I asked the quay workers if they’d seen anything the night of Fiona’s disappearance.”

  “And?” Once more, Ian and Jamie spoke together.

  “About midnight, a man fitting Alton’s description—except he was better dressed—boarded a ship with a young woman the workers thought was a drunken doxy.

  “Fiona would never get foxed!” Mari exclaimed.

  “Aye, lass. She was probably overdosed on laudanum. The lads on the dock said the mon was all but carrying her up the gan
gplank.”

  “But would the captain not list his passengers?” Mari asked.

  “’Twas nae a passenger ship,” Shane answered. “’Twas a merchant schooner. ’Tis nae unusual for a captain to accept a paying passenger at the last minute.”

  “Ye ken the name of the ship?” Ian asked.

  “Aye. The New Orleans.” Shane broke into a grin. “’Tis the same ship that put into Edinburgh last spring with a load of cypress. I remember the bill of lading so I ken exactly where she’s bound. As soon as I provision the Border Lass, I sail for America.”

  “I am going with you.” Ian said.

  “So am I,” Jamie added.

  Shane shook his head. “Ye never have liked the high seas, Jamie. I would like ye to stay in London in case I am wrong. And Ian, much as I could use your help. I need ye to go to Edinburgh and see to the office.”

  “And Abigail,” Mari said. “She is not going to be happy about missing a chance to sail to the States.”

  “She will understand ’tis nae a vacation.” Shane sobered. “I will bring Fiona back. I swear it.”

  “Shane will find Fiona,” Mari said later as she and Jamie were preparing for bed and then smiled at him provocatively in the mirror as she combed out her long hair.

  “I ken,” Jamie said, eyeing the back of his wife’s thin, silk negligee, distracting him from his train of thought. In the mirror’s reflection, he could see the taut tips of her breasts poking at the fabric. If she would just stand and turn around, he could catch a glimpse of dusky blonde curls at the apex of her thighs as well. Just the thought made him hard.

  As if she understood—hell, she probably did. They were in accord regarding bed sport—Mari put the brush down and rose. Sauntering over to him slowly, she placed her hands on his bare chest, palms pressed against his flat nipples, creating friction as she slid her hands back and forth. Glancing down at the tent emerging from his drawers, she arched an eyebrow.

  “Are you uncomfortable, my lord?” Mari asked, feigning a courtesan’s tone.

  Jamie grinned, knowing where this was going. “Aye, lass. Verra much.”

  Mari batted her lashes and purred. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance in relieving you of such discomfort?”