A Rebel Without a Rogue

by Bliss Bennet

  Kit shrugged off Miss Cameron’s hand, then turned to face her. “No. This pistol’s the only lead I have.”

  Her face remained impassive, but something in her eyes, glinting in the gaslight from the window, made him feel as if he had done her an injury by refusing.

  “But if you’ve paper and ink, I could copy the words,” he said, the words a reluctant concession.

  “Indeed. And if I were to discover their meaning? Might I demand something in recompense?”

  “You wish to be paid for such service?” Why should he be surprised by such a demand? Was not financial recompense the reason women such as she engaged in harlotry?

  “Not coin,” she said, reaching out to trace the engraving on the pistol with one delicate finger. His eyes followed as it whorled and stroked over the sinuous curves of the Gaelic letters. The small hairs on the back of his neck began to rise.

  He jerked his eyes up to her face. “What else do I have to offer?”

  “Your aid in my own search,” she said, her hand dropping from the pistol. “I’ve not come to London simply for my own pleasure, sir. I’m looking for an Englishman, one who served in the British army in Ireland. It’s vital that I find him, and as quickly as possible.”

  “Do you not know his direction?”

  “No. Only his name. And that he once served in a regiment stationed in my homeland.”

  “Have you checked Boyle’s Court Guide? And Debrett’s?”

  “Of course. What, do you take me for a simpleton?”

  Kit grimaced at the sharpness of her words. “And who is this man to you? Has he done you harm?”

  Her eyes glittered, though with anger or with tears, he could not decide. “Will it satisfy your curiosity if I say that my family will not be complete until I find him?” she whispered.

  Damnation! Had some dishonorable English soldier trysted with an Irish wench and abandoned her with child? An illegitimate child, now woman-grown and standing before him? If so, he understood her reluctance to openly admit the truth of such parentage. But he would not cast aspersions. He’d never agreed with the church’s insistence on blaming the child for the sins of its parents, one of the many reasons he’d grown disenchanted with the profession his father had insisted he pursue.

  Had she agreed to become Ingestrie’s mistress solely so she might travel to England and search for this man? And if Kit helped her find him, would she leave Ingestrie far behind? Even if he no longer wished to pursue a life as a clergyman, he’d far rather a woman follow a godly path than one of debauchery and sin.

  Besides, if she were able to help Kit in return, he’d not have to trouble Uncle Christopher, risk endangering the man’s already precarious health.

  He stared down at her a moment, allowing his instincts to weigh the benefits against the dangers. Then, removing his glove, he held out his hand, as if she were a fellow with whom he was conducting a financial transaction rather than the mistress of another man.

  “A fair trade. Your help, in exchange for mine.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then, unsmiling, placed her much smaller hand in his.

  A brief snap of electric fire shocked through his fingers. But instead of pulling away, he grasped her hand more firmly.

  Only a superstitious man would take such a commonplace occurrence as an omen, a warning to a mere mortal presumptuous enough to strike a bargain with a leannán sídhe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Why are you in London in the midst of term, Christian? Is this how you repay the kindness of the dons, by slacking off your duties?”

  Kit looked away as his uncle struggled to shift his unresponsive legs higher up in the bed. Though some might think him callous, Kit knew better than to offer help to a man as proud, or as sharp-tongued, as Colonel Christopher Pennington. Especially as this seemed to be one of his uncle’s poor days, when the pain of his lingering war injuries forced him to remain in bed instead of sitting up in a chair. As Kit had learned all too well during his visits over the past nine years, any offer of help would only result in his being filleted on the edge of his uncle’s ire, dressed down as harshly as a private who’d had the unmitigated gall to question the orders of his commanding officer. Not at all the right way to soothe a tetchy man.

  Nor would telling him about being shot help, either. No, Kit would be keeping that little incident to himself, especially his suspicion that his attacker had ties to Ireland. Penningtons did not speak of Ireland, not in front of Uncle Christopher.

  The table beside his uncle’s bed held only maps and books, with none of the usual powders, pills, or other medicines common to the sickroom. Not even Great-Aunt Allyne, who’d been kind enough to offer the wounded soldier a place in her own home after his brother, Lord Saybrook, had died, was allowed to physic Uncle Christopher, not even with a tot of brandy or rum. She wasn’t his wife, nor even his aunt, after all, only the aunt of his brother’s long-dead wife.

  Kit pretended not to notice the sweat breaking out on the Colonel’s brow as he used his strongly muscled arms to lever himself into a comfortable position. If the man felt any pain, he refused to show it.

  Uncle Christopher cocked an eyebrow as he settled himself against the pillows. “Well, sir? Explain yourself.”

  “It was kind of the dons to extend my fellowship for another year, was it not?” Kit began.

  “They didn’t do it out of love for you, my boy, and don’t you forget it. ’Twas on your father’s account, and in the hopes of continued Saybrook patronage. Felt such a generous benefactor deserved a full year of mourning from his sons, they did. Pious bastards.”

  Kit smiled. Uncle Christopher had never had much use for the more sedentary professions. “No matter on whose account the offer was made, I was only too glad to delay my ordination another year. In fact,” he continued, rising from his chair and grasping his hands behind his back, “the extra time helped me realize that I don’t wish to be ordained at all.”

  A fierce scowl slashed across the Colonel’s freshly-shaved face. “Just because your father’s dead, Christian, do not think you’ll persuade Saybrook to purchase you a set of colours.”

  Kit’s shoulders tightened. If only it were as simple as an army commission.

  “No, sir. I’ve quite reconciled myself to not following the drum. But you know I’ve never been entirely happy at the idea of becoming a churchman.”

  “Yes, but no Pennington worthy of the name just sits about on his arse, sucking the estate dry. I could write to Talbot, now that he’s back from that godforsaken Ireland, see if I could secure you a diplomatic post—”

  “Thank you, but no.” His secrets wouldn’t last very long if Uncle Christopher began exchanging gossip with Lord Talbot, Viscount Ingestrie’s father. “I’ve something else in mind.”

  “Pray don’t tell me you’ve decided to set up as an artist like Benedict. Why, you’ll have your father rolling in his grave.”

  “No, the work I plan to pursue would have been far more acceptable to him, I believe, even if it’s not what he would have chosen for me.” He paused, his hands grasping the back of his chair. He’d forgotten how much he valued his uncle’s good opinion. “I don’t know if you’re aware, sir, but Mr. Norton, the man Father chose to represent our district in the House of Commons, has begun to throw his lot in with the Tories.”

  “Ah, something that truly would have your father rolling in his grave. I imagine Theo has rebuked him for his disloyalty?”

  “My eldest brother is an indifferent politician, sir.” And far too taken up with drowning his sorrows to pay much attention to politicking, it seemed; he’d not deigned to answer any of the many letters Kit had sent calling his attention to Norton’s perfidy. But Kit valued family loyalty too much to tell tales on his eldest brother.

  “But if you help me persuade him, surely Theo will see that Norton must be replaced,” Kit said, stepping closer to the bed. “We need someone we can rely on, someone who will be loyal to the Whigs, and to Pen
nington interests. Someone who will carry on my father’s legacy, support the principles he held dear.”

  The Colonel raised an eyebrow. “Someone such as yourself, Kit?”

  Kit refused to turn away from the gimlet stare that had set many a younger officer a-quaking. “Yes,” he said in as firm and assured a voice as he could muster. No need for his uncle to know it was guilt, as well as principle, that had set him upon this course.

  The Colonel did not burst out laughing, for which Kit was deeply grateful. Shifting higher in the bed, he eyed his nephew from crown to boot, as if inspecting one of his troops on parade. Shaking his head as if not entirely satisfied with what his scrutiny revealed, he crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  “So you want to be a politician, do you? But that’s your brother’s concern, now, his and all the men who own land. What reason have you to become entangled in such matters?”

  “Not everyone has a nobleman, or even a gentry landowner, to look to his concerns, Uncle.” Fianna Cameron certainly hadn’t, not if she’d had to come all the way to England herself to find the father who’d abandoned her.

  But the plight of an Irishwoman would hardly move Christopher Pennington. Kit aimed his argument in a more likely direction. “What of the people living in the towns? The ones working in the factories that keep springing up like weeds across England? Who will represent their concerns?”

  Uncle Christopher frowned. “A candidate for reform? Truly, Christian?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you not realize the dangers of such a position? Few radicals find themselves welcome in the homes of the aristocracy.”

  “Should I care more for the opinion of the gossips and idlers of the ton than I do about my duty as a Christian? I may not wish to take on the collar, sir, but I still remember my Bible. ‘Do justice and righteousness, and deliver the one who has been robbed from the power of his oppressor,’ God tells us. What more just and righteous cause than working to aid the disenfranchised?”

  Uncle Christopher shifted his gaze away from Kit’s face, struggling to contain what looked suspiciously like a chuckle. Damnation! Had he bungled it, crowing in priggish self-righteousness like a cock at the dawn?

  But when he spoke, Uncle Christopher’s words held no note of derision. “I could almost imagine my brother still alive, you sound so much like him. Why didn’t you tell him of your political ambitions?”

  Kit shrugged. “He was so ill those last years, and so set on my joining the clergy. With Theo showing such a marked lack of interest in running the estate, and Benedict outright refusing to return to university, I didn’t want to add to his share of disappointments.”

  A rare smile flitted across the Colonel’s face. “Do you know, Kit, your father hoped to name you after me? But your dashed mother insisted on christening each of her sons with a suitably sacred epithet. A compromise, Christian was, but a well-chosen one, I see. You’ve a soft heart, sir, underneath that argumentative front.”

  “I must have a soft heart, to put up with all your bluff and bluster these many years,” Kit ventured, taking advantage of this rare softening in his uncle’s mood. He returned to the chair by the Colonel’s bed. “But now you’ll return the favor by putting them to good use on my behalf. If you back my plans, Theo won’t just grudgingly accept them, he’ll actively support them.”

  His uncle grimaced. “Well, the new Lord Saybrook isn’t much for visiting, I’ve discovered. But if his uncle sends him a summons, I suppose he’ll deign to call.”

  “I should hope so.” Kit struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice. “He’s been dodging me for the past fortnight, but surely he won’t show such disrespect to the senior member of the family.”

  “Damned well better not,” his uncle growled, pushing himself back up in the bed. “Unworthy of a Pennington, such behavior.”

  Kit reached out and grasped the man’s hand, eager to direct the conversation away from his brother’s faults. “You won’t regret it, sir. I will make the Pennington name proud.”

  “Enough, sir, enough,” the Colonel said, pulling his hand free of Kit’s. “You can return the favor by keeping your ears open around your political friends. I’ve heard rumors of Irish radicals infiltrating London, looking for some way to destabilize our government. If you hear tell of any such men, you come to me. Why they do not ban the vermin from entering our country I will never understand.”

  “Of course, sir,” Kit answered. He’d not encourage his uncle’s virulent prejudices by asking any questions about such a purported Irish plot. All just a figment of his uncle’s overly vivid imagination, no doubt, a way to stoke the fire of his biases against the Irish.

  The Colonel reached for a small bell resting on the table beside him. “Now that I’ve granted you your blasted boon, let me ring for refreshments. And while we wait, you can show due admiration for my latest acquisition.”

  His uncle’s eyes lit at the sight of the small box in the hands of his valet. Another Waterloo relic, no doubt. Though Uncle Christopher’s wounds had prevented him from taking part, the final defeat of Napoleon held an indefinable fascination for him, and he had taken to collecting tokens from that memorable battlefield. Each rested in its own special case, as precious as a lady’s jewels.

  Uncomfortably morbid, touching the detritus of such a battle. Yet the old man took such obvious pleasure from his bullets and badges, and from showing them off. Kit suppressed his distaste as his uncle handed him the latest treasure, wondering instead how he might use it to turn the conversation to his other task: the search for Fianna Cameron’s father.

  “Do you have any idea to whom it belonged, Uncle?” Kit asked after offering the requisite praise of the lion head boss that had once decorated the helmet of a French lancer. “Could you find out, if he were still alive?”

  “I wouldn’t have the least idea how to go about tracking down a Frenchie, even if I had the inclination,” the Colonel said, turning the lion over and over in his palms. “But if this had belonged to an English officer, I’d certainly try to find him and return it, to him or to a member of his family.”

  Ah, just the entry Kit needed. “How would you go about such a search, sir?”

  “If I knew the fellow’s name and regiment, I’d start with the Army List, of course.” His uncle laid a hand on a book sitting on the table beside him. “See if he’s still in service or no.”

  Kit eyed the slim volume under his uncle’s palm. “Yes, then you’d find out where the regiment was stationed, and you could contact him there. But what if he’d left?”

  “Been pensioned off, you mean? Well, that’d be a bit more difficult. I’d start by writing to the regiment’s commanding officer, see if he knew where the fellow’d taken himself off to. If he didn’t, I’d ask ’em to check the regiment’s muster roll; sometimes they write down where you signed on, and I could track him down that way. Couldn’t go myself, of course, but I could send a hale nephew to nose around on my behalf,” he said with a grin.

  Kit smiled in return. “And if that didn’t work?”

  “Why, then it’d be off to the War Office for you, my boy. Up to their ears in records books there. Bound to be something that’d tell you a fellow’s whereabouts amongst all that paper.”

  With a sudden frown, the Colonel leaned forward and placed a hand on top of Kit’s. “But your interest seems more than idle, Christian. Why are you in search of some military man?”

  The cold metal of his uncle’s signet ring against his hand brought back a sudden memory, the grating disappointment of the day he’d finally come of age, when he realized that his father, so ill, had forgotten the tradition of gifting each Saybrook son with a signet of his own. Though he’d said nothing at the time, Uncle Christopher must have guessed his feelings; only a week later Kit had found a box by his breakfast plate, one containing a ring that matched his uncle’s, the initials they shared entwined in elegant monogram on its lapis lazuli bezel. How proud he’d felt, final
ly slipping that sign of his manhood, his connection to the house of Saybrook, to his family, over his bare finger.

  He could hardly imagine not having such a family to rely upon. But Fianna Cameron surely could.

  “Such a quick mind you have, Uncle,” he said, pulling his hand from his uncle’s tight grip. “The search, though, is not on my own behalf, but on behalf of an acquaintance. And that acquaintance has not given me leave to share the details.”

  “Sounds a havey-cavey affair. Not involved in anything untoward, are you, sir?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Of course not, Uncle. But might I borrow your Army List, to share with the young la— with my friend? I promise to return it forthwith.”

  Uncle Christopher laughed. “A lucky young la—, to have your aid in her quest. A comely wench, is she?”

  Kit hesitated, at first from surprise, then from reluctance. Embarrassing, just how much Miss Cameron’s person had affected him.

  The Colonel nodded. “Yes, I see. Very comely. Well, no keeping her all to yourself, young man. Bring her round, so I can see if she’s deserving of a Pennington.” He sighed, rubbing a hand against his immobile thigh. “Would do me a world of good to see a handsome countenance around these dull rooms every now and then. Lord knows your great-aunt Allyne is bracket-faced enough to turn the milk sour.”

  Kit forced a laugh, though he felt more like grimacing. How quickly his uncle’s sigh would turn to outrage if he had any idea from whence the lovely lady in question hailed.

  No need to feel disloyal, was there, just for keeping a few secrets from his uncle?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Blister it, but my head aches. Anna, have you seen my other boot?”

  Across the room from Fianna, a bleary-eyed Charles, Lord Ingestrie, sat on the side of the rumpled bed, his as-yet-untied neckcloth hanging limply over his shirt. Late nights of cards, wagers, and, most of all, raising celebratory glasses with every son, brother, or distant cousin of the lords of the land did not have the poor boy looking his best.