A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Abigail saw how hard Dominic fought not to flinch when Lady Sudley spoke his name. As if it were of the least consequence, she said, “Lady Sudley, you had spoken to me on the way to London about meeting Mrs. Amsterdam, that she would be eager to talk with anyone from Canada. Would you be so kind as to introduce me to her now? Dominic has been anxious to speak with a friend he saw arrive a few minutes ago, but, dear heart that he is, he did not want to leave me alone.” She continued to prattle, borrowing liberally from Clarissa’s chatter, until Lady Sudley nodded.

  “Thank you, chérie,” Dominic whispered as he squeezed her hand before walking away.

  She kept her sigh silent and put her best smile on her lips as Lady Sudley led her to meet the women grouped together on one side of the dance floor. Quickly Abigail learned all she needed to do was nod and smile. That kept her from having to explain her accent that identified her as an outsider.

  As she edged from group to group, always keeping an eye on the door in hopes that Dominic would return soon, her arm was grasped. She started to pull it away, then smiled at Clarissa, who gave her a beseeching glance before looking back at the short, thick-waisted man beside her.

  Startlingly white hair sprang from his head in every direction. He was dressed in elegant clothes, but his shoes squeaked as he took a step toward Abigail. She wondered if his shoes, like his waistcoat which strained across his wide belly, protested against the extra weight they had to contain.

  “Abigail, this is Sir Harlan Morris,” Clarissa said, relief easing the strain on her face. “Sir Harlan, my friend Abigail—”

  “How nice to meet you,” Abigail hurried to say before Clarissa could reveal too much. She wished Dominic had chosen a name other than his own when he had introduced himself to Clarissa and Newton. That he had been in great pain was his only excuse, one she understood well, but now she had to take great pains herself to prevent anyone from recalling that a French smuggler by that name commanded a ship in Napoleon’s blockade.

  “And you, miss.” His eyes slitted as he appraised her openly. “I was just telling young Lady Clarissa here that—”

  “Oh, excuse us,” Clarissa said, interrupting him as hastily as Abigail had her. “I told Mama that I would bring Abigail to her as soon as I found her in the crowd. Have a pleasant evening, Sir Harlan.”

  Abigail was steered away from the bulbous man before she could do more than nod toward him. As Clarissa led her with rare speed through the ballroom, Abigail asked, “What is amiss?”

  “That man!” She shuddered, an expression of distaste contorting her face. “He comes to London seeking a possible wife for his horrid son. I don’t know why Mama and Papa invited him this evening.”

  “Just because they invited him here does not mean they would allow his son to call on you.”

  “I would think not!” Her eyes nearly popped from her head. “No decent person would allow that.” She started to add more, then sighed as her name was called by one of the dowagers. “Abigail, you are so fortunate that you have found the man of your dreams, so you need not go through this Season having to be at the beck and call of every mother and father with a son they wish were wed.”

  Abigail chuckled softly as Clarissa went to speak with the dowager. Her smile vanished when her own name was called and she turned to see Sir Harlan coming toward her. A single glance at the door told her that Dominic had not yet returned. Forcing her smile back in place, she greeted Sir Harlan politely.

  It was going to be a long evening.

  Abigail hoped no one noticed how often she passed by the door that opened onto the stairs leading down to the front foyer. Like everything else in the Sudleys’ London home, the staircase was perfection. Not a hint of dust nor a single gouge marred its beauty. Admiring it and the artwork edging the walls in the upper corridors would be her excuse for wandering in this direction so frequently.

  Where could Dominic be? She had no idea how big London was, but it could not be that far by carriage to the river and to the port area she knew was called the Pool. He had suggested that he knew several people who could assist in getting both of them out of England. How long would it take to find one of them?

  She remembered to smile each time a dowager walked by and to nod at the gentlemen. She was safe from their attentions because everyone believed that she was Dominic’s wife.

  Dominic’s wife.

  The warmth from deep within her unfurled like the softest flower petal. She was not sure how she had changed so completely in the past fortnight, but she could no longer imagine a life without Dominic in it. She wanted to savor his teasing laugh, his enticing eyes, his touch that led her to ecstasies she had never imagined.

  Yet she knew too well that his life was his blasted ship. She had seen the life her aunt had, waiting always for the few short weeks when her uncle returned home before sailing again. This love of the sea was an alluring mistress no woman could compete with.

  Dominic could take me with him on his ship.

  She tried to ignore that thought which had taunted her when Dominic slept beside her, his cheek against her breast: More than once, she had almost asked him if he would consider letting her come with him when he rejoined his crew on La Chanson. She had not, because she feared he would give her dozens of logical reasons why she should not be on a French ship in the blockade against England. Then her dreams would be cold ashes.

  Abigail gasped out an apology as she bumped into someone. She backpedaled, then looked up.

  Two men stood in front of her. She had walked into the taller man, whose hair was a sandy brown. Next to him stood a man who had no more hair than a chicken’s egg. Both were dressed well, but not with the elegance of the ton. Yet neither wore the sedate gray livery of the Sudleys’ household. She wondered who they were.

  The taller man stepped forward and held out his hand. “Miss, forgive me for failing to watch where I was going.”

  She stared in disbelief. She could not mistake his accent. “You are an American!”

  “Both me and Mr. Edwards.” He smiled, the expression transforming his long, narrow face. “As you are, I would hazard a guess.”

  “What are you doing here in England?”

  His smile did not waver, but his voice was cool. “Even in the midst of war, there is the need for diplomats to seek a peaceful ending to it.”

  “You should not ask Mr. Munroe anything further in that direction,” Mr. Edwards said.

  “Of course. I understand,” she replied, although she did not.

  “And, miss, may I ask why you are here? You clearly are an American, and I do not recall you among our small delegation.”

  “I am only recently arrived in London.” Abigail wanted to tell the truth for as long as she could. Where was Dominic? This game of half-truths was one he excelled at.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, miss.” Mr. Munroe glanced at his shorter companion. “One grows eager to hear the voices that bring home to mind.”

  “Yes.” That she could agree with wholeheartedly.

  “May we speak privately?” he asked, glancing about the room.

  “Of what?”

  “I have orders to bring information about any Americans in London to my superiors.” He gave her a wry smile. “No need to look abashed, miss. You can ask anyone in this room, and they will tell you that what I am asking is commonplace when one is among one’s enemies.”

  “Anyone else in this room would rightly consider any Americans their enemies, Mr. Munroe. I doubt that you or Mr. Edwards would be so foolish as to announce your citizenship here without great thought. Nor would I.”

  Mr. Edwards chuckled. “She is right, Munroe. You shall have to be honest with her.”

  The taller man glared at him, then nodded with clear reluctance. “Miss, we have heard that there are those who would do any American here great harm. We have a description of this man, but I do not want to speak of it here.” His eyes brightened as he said, “How nice to see you again, my lady!”r />
  Abigail looked behind her to see Clarissa walking toward them. The young woman’s smile warmed as she held her hand out to Mr. Munroe. He bowed over it, and she giggled.

  “Mr. Munroe,” Clarissa said as she waved her fan in an imitation of her mother, “I see you have already met my friend Abigail—”

  “Yes, we have met,” Abigail hurried to interject before Clarissa could say more. Although Abigail was not an unusual name, the addition of Dominic’s surname might betray them. “And you clearly know these gentlemen.”

  “They are friends of Father’s.” Clarissa started to say more, but was called away by another full-bosomed dowager. Without excusing herself, she rushed away.

  “Miss?” asked Mr. Munroe with a half-bow and a motion toward the hallway.

  When Abigail hesitated, Mr. Edwards murmured, “’Tis for your own good, miss.”

  Abigail nodded. She could not mistake the sincerity in Mr. Edwards’s voice. Although every instinct warned her about leaving the ballroom because she might miss Dominic’s return, she feared that not having the information the men would share with her would be a greater mistake.

  Mr. Edwards kept up a polite conversation, asking her how she was enjoying her visit to London, as they walked along the hallway past a room where men were playing cards. The smoke from their cheroots threatened to choke her. When she waved it aside, Mr. Edwards gave her a sympathetic smile.

  Stepping ahead, Mr. Munroe opened a door and motioned for her to precede him into the room. Abigail went in, for she knew this room. She had taken tea with Lady Sudley here this afternoon while the carriage was unloaded and their bags unpacked.

  The two men entered and closed the door. As she turned to ask them to explain, she stared at a third man who had been behind the door.

  “You are alive!” she cried. “But what are you doing here? You should—” She moaned as something struck the back of her head. Everything vanished into oblivion.

  Dominic walked along the cobbled street. He ignored the walkway, for it was broken in so many places that it was easier to use the street. Especially when he was being followed.

  The man stalking him must not have guessed that Dominic was aware of him, because he clung to the shadows and paused when Dominic turned a corner, before slinking closer again. Dominic had taken note of him first in a tavern only one street back from the wharves. The man was not tall, but Dominic knew a smaller man could be as dangerous as a bigger one. A honed blade or a primed pistol evened the odds greatly.

  If the man wanted to know what Dominic was doing here near the Pool, the answer was simple. He was becoming more frustrated with every tavern he entered. As he opened the door in a building that looked ready to fall into the Thames, he did not look back. It opened again and closed as he walked toward where a keg and tankards were set on a low table amid another half-dozen tables where men hunched over their drinks. His stalker was close behind him.

  Dominic sat at the table beside the keg and set a single coin in front of him. As he had guessed, the sight of gold brought the tavernkeeper himself. Good. He needed to speak with someone who might have the information he sought.

  A full tankard was set on the table. “Join me,” Dominic said quietly.

  The tavernkeeper, a spare man with black hair falling into his black beard, filled another tankard with foamy beer and sat across from him. “This be no place fer fine gentlemen,” he said. “’Specially those foolish enough to flash their gold about.”

  “The coin is for you.” Dominic smiled and put his hand on the gold piece as the man reached for it. “If you have the answers I need.”

  “Ye must want something real bad, gent. That be a fine coin.”

  “Yes. I am looking for someone.”

  “Figured that be so.” The tavernkeeper tipped back his mug and swallowed deeply. “Who be ye lookin’ fer?”

  “An old friend. Evan Somerset. Do you know the name?”

  The tavernkeeper put his mug on the table and frowned, although Dominic could barely discern the man’s expression through the thick bush of hair. “Aye, I know the name. Used to be ’ere regularly.”

  “Used to be?” Dominic could not keep the irritation out of his voice. Where had Evan vanished to?

  “Ain’t been ’bout ’ere in a long time. Two years, mayhap three. Mayhap more.” He took another reflective drink. “There be one who would know fer sure.”

  “Who?” Dominic drew his fingers halfway off the coin.

  The tavernkeeper’s eyes glittered with greed as he stared at it. “Red.”

  “Red who or what?”

  “Just Red. Ye can find ’im at the Brass Fish. ’E knows everythin’ that ’appens in Town. If’n yer friend is in London, Red’ll tell ye where to find ’im.”

  Dominic let his fingers slide back a bit more. “Where is the Brass Fish?”

  The tavernkeeper quickly gave him directions. Dominic picked up the coin and tossed it to the man. It vanished among the tavernkeeper’s rags. Taking a sip from his own mug, Dominic grimaced. The beer was bitter. He shoved it aside and stood. “Thanks, friend.”

  “Any time, gent.” He patted the front of his shirt where he had stored the coin.

  Dominic edged past the other tables and slipped out the door. He walked back toward the center of the street.

  “Gent?”

  Turning, he rested his hand on a wooden post that once might have been for horses’ reins but was so full of worm holes that it barely stood. “Yes?”

  The man who had been following him stepped into the light that flowed into the street from another tavern. He held up his hands and turned them one way and then the other to show that he was not carrying a weapon.

  “What do you want?” Dominic asked, motioning the man closer. “It cannot be that important if you have waited more than an hour to deliver your message.”

  “’Tis important, gent.” He grinned and held out a folded slip of paper. “Now, ’tis important.”

  Dominic took the paper. Unfolding it, he tilted it toward the light.

  Captain St. Clair, come to the address below before midnight if you wish to retrieve Abigail Fitzgerald before she is turned over to the English authorities.

  Midnight! It was close to that now. With a curse, he balled the paper and started to throw it away. He halted, not wanting to chance anyone else finding this damning note. Stuffing it beneath his waistcoat, he looked up. The messenger had vanished.

  He swore again. His chance to learn who had given the messenger this letter had disappeared with the man.

  Dominic sped along the street. He had no time to find Red and discover where Evan had taken himself off to, even though he would have liked to have his erstwhile partner with him right now. They had resolved issues this sticky before with easy success.

  But never one that had so high a cost if he failed. That thought trailed him like the messenger had, nipping at his heels. A twinge caught at his ankle, but he ignored it. As soon as he reached an area where it was possible, he got a carriage to take him to the address not far from the old wall of London.

  Dominic was not surprised to find lights blazing from all the windows of the house that was set between a milliner’s and a bookstore on the cramped street. Those within would want to make sure no one was able to sneak up on them unseen.

  Paying the coachman, Dominic strode to the door. He knocked. The door opened, and he knew he had been watched from the moment he stepped from the carriage. As he stepped into the entry hall, he heard distant church bells ringing midnight.

  The woman who had opened the door was elderly. Either she did not hear well enough to take note of his name as he spoke it or she was not surprised to see him. She motioned for him to follow her along the narrow hall that was surprisingly shadowed when the whole house was brightly lit.

  At the single door across from the staircase, the woman opened it and stepped aside.

  “No, Dominic!” he heard Abigail shriek. “Go! Get out of here!”
>
  Dominic ran into the room, looking both ways to find her. His eyes locked with those of a man he had not expected to see again until he reached France. He gasped, “Fitzgerald!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I was wondering if you would come, St. Clair.” Captain Fitzgerald smiled as he glanced at his daughter. “I feared I would not get to see you hang.”

  “Father!” Abigail cried. “Let him go. Let us both go. Please.”

  “Both of you?” Fitzgerald scowled when the two men flanking Abigail, each holding her arms, snickered. He raised his hand and struck her viciously.

  She collapsed in pain to the floor. Reeling in the disbelief that hurt more than her aching head, she heard shouts and a fist striking someone. She pushed herself to her knees, grasping a chair as she tried to stand.

  Dominic would not allow her to be abused. But he must not do something stupid like try to defend her. He must leave. Now!

  She seized her father’s arm and stood. “Stop this!” she cried in horror when she saw Dominic on his knees, a knife at his throat.

  “You are just like your mother!” her father sneered. “A whore who takes up with the first man who smiles in her direction.” His voice rose with fury. “You are worse than she was, because you have allowed this French bastard to bed you. What value do you have for me now?”

  “What value? What do you mean?” She swayed, but he did not keep her from falling. She sat on the chair. “Father, you are alive! I am alive. Let Dominic go, and—”

  “Dominic, is it?” He raised his hand again.

  She cowered away as she had never guessed she would from her father. In a whisper, she asked, “Father, what is wrong?”

  He pushed past her to stare at Dominic. A pleased smile glittered cruelly on her father’s lips. With a malevolent chuckle, he kicked Dominic viciously.

  “No! Stop!” screamed Abigail. She raced forward, but was halted by Munroe. She struggled to escape, but it was impossible. He was too strong.