A Rebel Without a Rogue

by Bliss Bennet

  “Archbishop?” Fianna laughed to hide her confusion. Did Kit think to undertake her religious conversion?

  “Yes, I thought you would find it amusing. What an innocent he is, our Christian, thinking he can rescue all the waifs and strays of the world. Even as a boy, he was always insisting on saving unwanted kittens from drowning, and rescuing smaller boys from the bullies. This time, though, I fear he has spent too much time with Aunt Allyne, listening to her tales of prostitutes miraculously returned to the path of righteousness. Or perhaps it was you who put the idea in his mind.”

  “The idea? What idea?”

  Saybrook drew a letter from inside his waistcoat, tossing it contemptuously on the floor by her feet. “I would not have believed it, even of gullible Kit, if I had not read it myself. And in his own hand, so there can be no mistake. Imagine the scandal if someone besides myself had be the one to open his oh-so-touching declaration that he was to wed a whore.”

  Wed a whore? Fianna knelt down and took up the letter with a shaking hand. Surely Kit had forgotten his misguided offer of marriage. He’d never repeated it, not after that one mad night when he’d discovered her with Sean. And she’d certainly not brought it up again, no matter how often his whispered words of love tempted her to imagine a future with him. To believe the son of an English lord would marry an Irishwoman, let alone one who had been bent on executing his own uncle—why, she would have been a fool to spend even a moment dreaming of it.

  Yet as she scanned the lines Kit had written to his brother, informing him of his intention to take one Fianna Cameron, spinster, to wife, the tight, anxious loneliness inside her, her everyday companion since childhood, began to dissipate, replaced by a lightness and warmth of which she could hardly remember the like. To declare such intentions to an eldest brother, the head of his family. To declare that nothing would sway him from his course. Such words from Kit, a man who held loyalty to family so very dear!

  Fianna clutched the letter to her heart, as if its slight heft could keep her giddy, weightless self from floating clear up to the ceiling. What an idealist he was.

  And how much she loved him for it.

  “Oh, I would not be so quick to smile,” Saybrook drawled, drawing Fianna back from the reverie into which she’d fallen. A keen, knowing expression had taken the place of his previous careless air. “You may have Christian under your thumb, but you’ll not find me so easy to gull.”

  Reaching into the pocket of his frock coat, he pulled out not a pistol, as she had half expected, but a handful of sovereigns. “Do not misunderstand,” he said, tossing them lightly from palm to palm. “I am willing to grant you something for your pains. A princely sum for an Irishwoman, would you not say? Particularly one of dubious morals.”

  With a quick jerk, he tumbled the coins into her lap. They clattered there for a moment until she settled them with a quelling hand.

  With lazy but heavy grace, he rose and moved in front of her, his height and bulk clearly meant to intimidate. “Take them, and be gone before he returns.”

  Arrogant, stupid man. As if he were the only one with a flair for the dramatic.

  Rising slowly from her chair, she forced him to take a step back or be pummeled by the weighty coins that rained down from her lap. They hit the carpet as softly as summer rain. “And if I refuse?”

  He waited, watching a solitary coin that had landed on hardwood floor as it spun on its edge before, with a sickly wobble, it finally toppled to its side. When he raised his eyes, they burned bright with suppressed anger. “Then I’ll not scruple to report you to the local magistrate as a drab of the lowest order. And insist on your prosecution as such.”

  “Kit will never allow it,” she said, forcing ice into her voice.

  “Oh, believe me, madam, he’ll offer no protest. At least not after our uncle has given him a proper set-down. He may not have much respect for my authority, but he has the utmost respect for the Colonel. How he could ever take up with you after what Uncle Christopher suffered at the hands of your countrymen, I can’t begin to imagine.” He kicked at a coin that had landed near his polished boot, sending it spinning across the room.

  “Your uncle,” Fianna whispered, arms falling to her sides. “But I thought he was dead.”

  “Dead? Christopher Pennington?” Saybrook gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Word of Kit’s doings aren’t likely to improve the old campaigner’s disposition, but I don’t imagine they’ll send him to an early grave. How important you imagine yourself, Miss Cameron.”

  She hugged her arms tight to her chest. Important enough to win Kit’s heart. But not to gain his loyalty, his trust. He’d reserved both for his own uncle, his own kin. Not for her.

  She could not even blame him for it, could she? For now that she knew her father’s enemy still lived, was not that cursed old familiar, vengeance, rising up inside her, its icy talons clawing away any softer feelings she had been unwary enough to welcome?

  What right did she have to demand he hold justice for her family higher than loyalty to his own?

  None. None at all.

  She steeled her spine against the shudder that threatened to bring her to her knees.

  Fingers pried open her clenched hand, pressing the smooth, cool metal of a sovereign within the nest of her palm. “Take it, and be gone,” Saybrook whispered. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  How foolish for an Irishwoman to allow her hopes to fly high as an air balloon. Had not the first balloon to wreck fallen to earth in Ireland? And had it not burned an entire street in Tullamore to the ground?

  No, there could be nothing here for her. No matter how much Kit might think he loved her, he’d always put his own family first.

  Fianna’s fingers closed tight about the coin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The twisted maze of streets with their dingy, straggling houses and crowds of idlers loitering about the gin shops surely would have sent any genteel Englishwoman into a fit of the vapors. But to Fianna, the soft vowels and harder consonants lilting off the tongues of its denizens felt uncannily familiar. The parish of St. Giles, which had once served as refuge for a colony of lepers, now housed another race of outcasts: her desperate Irish countrymen, who had flocked to the city in hopes of escaping the grinding poverty of their homeland, only to find themselves ensnared within the filth and squalor of London’s most infamous slum.

  Difficult, it was, to find Sean’s rooms, the way the streets and courts darted in all directions, tangled as a ball of yarn after a kitten’s pounce. Someone less determined surely would have given it up as a bad job hours earlier. But at long last, one listless fellow, leaning with stolid indifference against a post, nodded a lazy head toward the lane for which she searched.

  The woman who answered her knock made no answer to her inquiry for Sean O’Hamill, only turned and plodded down the dank passageway. Fianna shut the door behind her and followed in the crone’s footsteps, taking care not to allow her skirts to skim against the dirty walls. The building might once have held only one family, but the noise and smell suggested that now, each of its rooms housed an entire brood.

  The old woman jerked her head toward the last door before trudging back to the front of the house.

  Setting her portmanteau by her feet, Fianna raised a fist and knocked.

  Her uncle gave no sign of welcome at the sight of her. But neither did he gloat, nor pinch his lips tight in reproach. He simply opened the door wide, gesturing her inside.

  His room was far cleaner than the passageway that led to it, its wooden floor free of dirt, its single bed neatly made. Hardly enough room in which to swing a cat, here, but she’d made do with smaller. If, that is, Sean would have her.

  He took her portmanteau and placed it by the bed. “Wish to talk of it?” he asked as he pulled out one of the two rickety chairs by the scarred wooden table.

  “What is there to say?” Fianna sat down with a sigh. The need to find the Major had once pricked her as sharp as a spur
. But now, after Kit, only lethargy greeted the prospect of resuming the search.

  Her uncle took the chair opposite, resting his folded hands atop the table. “Oh, many a cailín likes to weep and wail over a lost love for at least a few days before turning her attention to more important matters. My shoulder’s a strong one, if you’ve a need of it.”

  “I’d as lief swim back to Ireland in nothing but my shift.”

  Sean bit back a laugh. “Ah, what a bold, free-spoken child it is. That’s the Máire I remember.”

  Hardly a child any longer. And wise enough to keep her thoughts to herself, even in the days when she’d worn skirts far shorter than these. But if it pleased him to think her courageous, she’d not say nay.

  “Bold enough to ask for your help, in spite of the harsh words with which we last parted,” she said.

  He frowned. “Not coin for the passage home? I’ll ne’er believe young Pennington’s cowed a brave O’Hamill.”

  “No, not coin. Only a place to stay. A pallet on the floor will do, if you’ve a blanket to spare.”

  “For the child of my sister? A blanket, mayhap even a pillow, for as long as she needs them.” His lips caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Lord knows I’d not wish any kinswoman of mine ill. But far better to suffer a broken heart than to turn a blind eye to one’s duty.”

  “Duty?”

  “To one’s country and one’s family. You’ve come to help our cause, just as you promised.” He wrapped her hands in his two rough palms and squeezed. “And just when we’d thought all lost.”

  The eagerness animating his face sent her stomach tumbling. She’d come to ask his help in hunting Major Pennington, not to become entangled in whatever schemes he had afoot. How could she have forgotten the bargain she’d made?

  Best to gather all the facts, though, before refusing him outright. “Just what is it that you wish me to do, Sean?”

  “You sacrificed so much, Máire—your name, your family, your very virtue—all for the chance of killing a man already dead.” He leaned forward, his eyes kindling with passion. “But what if that sacrifice was not all in vain? What if it freed you to strike a blow that truly mattered for your country?”

  “A blow against what?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Say rather against whom.”

  “Killing, Sean?” Fianna drew her hands from his. “I’ve little skill with firearms, not even my father’s.”

  “You have Aidan McCracken’s pistol with you? Where?” Sean knelt by the bed and jerked open her bag, rooting around in its contents without regard for her cry of protest. His face lit with the zeal of a martyr as he shook the firearm free from its wrappings and raised it to the light. “How fitting, for Aidan’s pistol to fell his most fervent enemy!”

  “What enemy? Sean, who are you targeting?”

  “Why, no other than the Butcher of Ireland himself. Castlereagh.” The name spit from his mouth with as much vehemence as if it were spread with rancid butter.

  “Viscount Castlereagh? The British Foreign Secretary?”

  “Foreign Secretary now. But he had the gall to call himself Chief Secretary of Ireland in 1798. Was it not Castlereagh who gave the orders then to quarter troops upon the people, to steal their horses and carriages? To demand forage and provisions from the starving populace? And then, did he not put down the rebellion with the brutality of a savage? And was he not responsible for this damned Act of Union, with its false promises of greater rights for Irishmen? Any true Irish patriot should be glad of the chance to send the bastard to his grave.”

  “You wish me to shoot Castlereagh,” she said, her voice as dispassionate as she could make it.

  “No. As much as you might relish such a task, Máire, I’ll be reserving that right for myself.”

  But the thought of Sean committing murder, rather than herself, gave her no relief. “Then what is it you want of me?”

  Sean returned to the table and grasped her upper arms. “Our most comely men have been trying to turn the head of a housemaid, any housemaid, in his employ. To use her to gain access to Castlereagh’s house. But there’s no Irishwoman amongst them, and the English ones all look on us with scorn.”

  Her brows furrowed. “And you wish me to try for a post?”

  “That’s one idea. Or you might befriend a footman or a groom in the bastard’s employ.”

  “Befriend? Or seduce?” Fianna jerked free of her uncle’s grasp. “Just what is it that you’re asking of me, Sean?”

  “Come now, surely it won’t come to that. Not if you use the talents with which the good Lord has blessed you. Your comely face. Your beguiling ways.” His expression hardened. “And if any man offers you insult, he’ll be repaid tenfold. The O’Hamill honor will be avenged. On all accounts”

  A sudden, sick fear darted into her mind. “Did you avenge the O’Hamill honor when my father violated your sister, Sean? Did you betray Aidan McCracken to the English?”

  Sean’s ruddy face paled. “Christ Jesus, Máire! How could you think such a thing? I loved Aidan, loved him like a brother.”

  “But he debauched your sister, did he not? Got a bastard on her, never married her. Why was that not a smirch on the manhood of the O’Hamill?”

  “Damn it, Máire, it was Aidan! He was fighting for us, not crushing us under his boot. His love for Mairead did us honor.”

  “But mine for Kit does you none?”

  “It’s not love that you feel, cailín,” Sean answered, the line of his mouth grim. “Or it won’t be, not once you know the falsehoods that rogue’s been whispering in your dainty little ear.”

  Fianna dropped back in the chair. “Major Pennington?”

  Sean leaned against the table, his fit of temper already put behind him. “Discovered it yourself, did you? And left him over it? Ah, there’s a wise child.”

  Fianna caught back a curse. “How long have you known?”

  “That yon Pennington lied to you? A few days now. Doubted old devil Pennington cocked up his toes without my hearing of it, despite the tale young Christian spun you. Spent some time tipping a glass in the taverns about town, I did, the ones where old soldiers like to gather and talk of old times. Places no cailín would find a welcome. Took some time, but at last I turned up a fellow who’d served under the Major—no, Colonel, he is now—in the Peninsula.”

  “And you did not think to tell me?”

  “Am I not telling you now?”

  Now, days later. When it best served his purposes. Fianna leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. “You know where he is, don’t you?”

  “As well as young Pennington does, to be sure.” The sourness of her uncle’s smile would have curdled milk, if there’d been any on the table.

  “Then tell me, and let me be done with it,” she bit out from between clenched teeth. Sean’s reminder of Kit’s falsehood had stung. As he damn well knew it would.

  “Ah, and are you forgetting our agreement so soon, cailín? My help for yours, was it not?”

  “The Major’s direction, in exchange for beguiling Castlereagh’s servant? A harsh bargain, even for an enemy, Seanuncail, let alone a member of one’s family.”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. “Any person unwilling to devote himself—or herself—to the cause of Irish freedom is no kin of mine, Máire.”

  “The crow’s curse on you, Sean. You’re as blindly devoted to your murderous purpose as Kit is to his family.”

  “Quick, you are, to realize it. Quick enough, no doubt, to track the Major down without my help, now that you know he still lives. What would it take? A day or two? A fortnight, mayhap, if you were truly unlucky?”

  Fianna jerked from her chair and crossed to the window, staring out at the milling mob. So many people in St. Giles. But not a one, not even an uncle, that she could call her own.

  She felt him come up behind her, his hand falling heavily on her shoulder. “But why wait? Does not this pistol sing to you of vengeance, if only you’ve coura
ge enough to grasp it?”

  Fianna stared at Aidan McCracken’s pistol clutched in her hand. When had she taken it off the table?

  She turned, caught by eyes so very like her own. She’d wanted so desperately to belong to a family. The McCrackens. The Penningtons. Even, perhaps, the O’Hamills.

  But belonging always came at a cost, did it not?

  “I’ve courage enough, Seanuncail,” she whispered, tilting her chin high.

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Of course you do, Máire. Of course you do. Are you not an O’Hamill?”

  He strode back to the table and snatched up a pencil. But he paused before placing it to paper, his green eyes boring into hers. “And if I give you Pennington, you’ll give me Castlereagh? Or do all in your power to help me bring him down?”

  Fianna swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and nodded.

  As Sean began to scratch out Major Pennington’s direction, the voice of Fianna’s grandfather echoed in her ear. Not Grandfather McCracken, but her other, barely remembered O’Hamill one.

  Never forget, Máire, the three greatest rushes—the rush of water, the rush of fire, the rush of falsehood.

  Who would feel the greatest rush from falsehood today? Kit? Sean?

  Or herself?

  You are kind, sir, to offer her your hand, and the protection of your name. But we cannot in all good conscience recommend such a course. Tho’ it pains me to write it, Maria was ever a strange, quiet, unfeeling child, tainted as she was by her Irish Catholic upbringing. My father also fears her moral sense is not all that it should be. The last letters we had from her hint that she thinks to take God’s will into her own hands, wreaking vengeance against those she believes have wronged her. And what is to say that someday she will not regard you as in the same light, and turn against you? Nay, do not trust your future happiness to the keeping of such a woman.