by Bliss Bennet
Now, you will say she is passing lovely, but do but remember your Proverbs: Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.
“Ho, sir! Have a care!”
The cry from above jerked Kit to a halt, just in time to prevent his imminent collision with a ladder. His eyes hitched to the workman perched at its top, bucket and cloth in hand. Devil take it, he’d almost brought a pail of dirty water crashing down on his head. And on the damned letter he’d received just this morning from Fianna’s aunt, the contents of which had absorbed so much of his attention that he’d not paid the least heed to his surroundings. How had he walked all the way back to his rooms without taking notice?
Kit waved a hand in apology, and the workman responded in kind. “Gen’lemen,” the man muttered, shaking his head as he returned to the washing of his windows.
“Has the beauteous Miss Cameron taken to writing you love notes, Kit?”
Benedict stood leaning against his front door, his stern face struggling to hold back a grin. His brother had witnessed the entire ridiculous episode, had he? Well, at least word of his absentmindedness would go no further than his own family.
“Back to try your hand at drawing Miss Cameron again, are you, brother?” Kit asked, shoving the note deep in the pocket of his greatcoat. He’d no wish to share its cruel contents with anyone, family or no.
Benedict shook his head as he followed Kit inside. “Can’t seem to make any of my portraits come right since I’ve been back in London. Viscount Dulcie’s been bruiting it about that an artist who’s lost his touch must go all the way back to the beginning, and take up still life again. As if I were a child with his first drawing master! Bah.”
“Then why are you here?” Kit asked as they climbed the stairs.
“A summons from the esteemed head of our family.”
Kit halted in front of his door. “From Theo? What reason did he give?”
“None. But since he wished to meet here, not at Pennington House, I’ve hopes that it’s you rather than me who’s being called onto the carpet.” The corner of his brother’s mouth turned up in the hint of a smile. “What have you been up to, brother of mine?
Oh, only informing the head of his family of his intentions to wed a woman entirely unsuitable for a gentleman of his rank and station, as no doubt Theo would rage. But damn, he was tired of stuffing his desires into the confines of the mold his family set before him. Why should Theo care if a third son of a viscount married outside the ton? No matter whom Kit married, within a generation or two his descendants would only be a distant branch of the noble line.
But care Theo did. Enough, it would seem, to interrupt his round of dissipations and call in person to make his objections known. And to gain the higher ground by making himself right at home in Kit’s absence. For there his brother sat, in the middle of the drawing room, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as he watched his younger brothers enter.
But of Fianna, there was no sign. Had she gone out before Theo’s arrival? Or had she hidden herself in a back room?
“Theo,” Kit acknowledged, tossing his hat on the table. “Apologies for not being home to receive you. Benedict tells me you wish to speak with us?”
“I did, yes.”
Kit gritted his teeth as Theo gestured to them to take a seat, as if he were lord and master here rather than Kit. Benedict sat, but Kit remained on his feet.
His elder brother leaned back in his chair. “But it seems there is no longer a need. I’ve taken care of the problem, and with far less difficulty than I had anticipated.”
“What problem?” he asked.
“The problem of your unfortunate infatuation with Miss Fianna Cameron. Did he inform you, too, Benedict, that he intended to wed the wench?”
“Marriage, Kit? Truly? I’d not the least idea.” The look in Benedict’s eyes, equal parts surprise and concern, had Kit clenching his fists.
“As head of the family, Saybrook had the right to be informed first,” Kit said. “Despite his less-than-admirable performance since taking on that role.”
Theo’s lips tightened. “And you’ve kept this family’s concerns so close to heart, have you, Kit?”
“More so than you,” Kit snapped. “What head of family would allow his own member of Parliament to vote against his interests for months on end? Would drink away the nights and sleep away the days instead of paying attention to the duty he owes his name? Would hear that his brother’s been shot, and not take the least trouble to pay him a call?”
“And you would do so much better, would you, Kit? By taking up with radical rabble, as if you’re ashamed of our noble lineage? By allowing the woman who shot you to become your mistress?”
Benedict gasped in surprise. No, he’d not shared that bit of the story with his middle brother, had he? How the hell had Theo discovered it?
Theo leaned forward, his round cheeks ruddy. “By having so little pride in the Pennington name that you’d share it with a hardened whore?”
Fury drove Kit across the room. “Don’t you ever use such foul words in my hearing again, Saybrook,” he hissed, hands gripping the arms of Theo’s chair. “And especially not in hers. Fianna may not yet be a member of our family by law, but she soon will be, whether you say yea or nay.”
Theo pushed up from the chair, forcing Kit to take a step back to avoid a collision. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you, brother. Have you not noticed her absence from this intimate family coze?”
“She’s just gone out for a walk,” Kit said, willing the words to be true.
“Yes, but it’s likely to be a walk of some duration. Quite eager to leave, your wild Irish girl, after the two of us had a chat of our own.”
“You’re wrong,” Kit said. “She’d never leave, not without talking to me first.”
“You would know best, of course,” Theo said with a careless shrug. “Although why one would require a heavy valise for a brief afternoon constitutional, I’m sure I cannot say.”
The smugness in his brother’s voice made Kit’s ears burn. He raced down the passageway and shoved open the door to Fianna’s room. But no portmanteau rested at the end of the bed; no hairbrush lay on the bedside table. He yanked each dresser drawer open, one after the other, each rattling as empty as the one before.
Kit strode back to the drawing room, fists furled, ready for once to allow his temper free rein. Benedict, his eyes widening, set himself in Kit’s path before Kit could get anywhere near Theo.
The feel of his middle brother’s palm on his shoulder did little to assuage the flow of blood pounding in Kit’s temples. “What did you say to her, Theo? Did you threaten her?”
Theo crossed his arms. “I simply made it clear she’d never receive my consent to your ill-advised matrimonial plans. And gave her a bit of gold to tide her over until the next gullible gentleman crossed her path.”
“What, without even talking to Kit first?” Benedict asked. “A mite interfering, no?”
Theo drew himself up to his full height. “I am the head of this family, as even our youngest brother acknowledges. As such, I will do as I see fit to protect its members. Even if I have to pay for the privilege.”
Kit shook his head. Haughty Fianna, deigning to accept blood money from a Pennington? Impossible.
“She refused you, didn’t she, Theo? Refused your filthy lucre.”
Theo’s jaw clenched, but his tone remained even. “Oh, she may have put up a token protest, at least at first. But she changed her tune quickly enough. The Irish will always take the easy way out, won’t they?”
Benedict frowned. “Really, Theo? You sound like Uncle Christopher, spouting such prejudicial drivel.”
Uncle Christopher? The blood drained from Kit’s face as he pushed past Benedict. “Theo, did you say anything about the Colonel when you spoke with Fianna?”
“Uncle Christopher? I suppose I might have. Why should you care about that?”
Kit gr
abbed the lapels of Theo’s frock coat, jerking his brother close. “Damn it, Theo! You don’t understand. I told her Uncle Christopher was dead.”
“Dead? Lord knows we’ve all wished the cantankerous old fellow to the blazes every now and then. But why should your lightskirt care about the Colonel’s health?
Kit’s hands dropped, his stomach plummeting. “Because when she pointed that pistol at me in the Crown and Anchor, it wasn’t Christian Pennington she intended to threaten. It was Christopher Pennington. The English army major who ordered the execution of her father during the Irish Rebellion.”
For long minutes, the slow tick, tick of the mantel clock was the only sound in the room. His brothers’ silence, heavy with disbelief, clung to Kit like a pall.
At long last, Theo cleared his throat. “And you offered her shelter? A woman intent on harming our uncle? Why would you do such a thing?”
Kit pulled his hair in his hands. “I didn’t know she was the one who shot me. Not when we first met.”
“But you knew when you invited her here,” Benedict said, his expression even more stony than usual. “That’s why you asked me not to mention our uncle in her presence, not because you feared his antipathy to the Irish might give her pain.”
“It was only a suspicion. You wouldn’t expect me to condemn an innocent woman without any proof, would you?”
“But you found proof, no? And still you allowed her to stay?”
“Yes,” Kit cried, his voice thick in his throat. “But by then, it was too late.”
“Because by then, she’d seduced you, made you forget what you owe your family,” Theo snapped.
“No. Because by then, she was my family.” Kit slumped in a chair, his head heavy in his hands. “I love her, Theo. I was afraid she’d leave if she found out I’d lied.”
Theo took a step back and ran a hand over the mantel. “And so she has. Left, I mean. Poor sod.” The clumsy sympathy in his brother’s voice grated like chalk on a slate. “Shall we take him to the tavern across the way, Ben, help him drown his sorrows?”
“Before you make yourself or either of us incoherent with drink, we need to find out what’s become of Miss Cameron.”
“What? When I’ve just gotten rid of the wretch? Whatever for?”
“Because if she thinks Kit has betrayed her,” Benedict answered, “what’s to keep her from returning to her original plan?”
“Original plan?”
Kit raised his head, his eyes bleak. “To make Christopher Pennington pay. With his life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“So you’ve come for me at last, have you, daughter of Aidan McCracken?”
Major—no, Colonel now—Christopher Pennington looked nothing like the monstrosity that had haunted Fianna’s nightmares for decades. No dark, looming figure of evil, mocking her feeble attempts at vengeance; not even the tall, haughty officer Aunt Mary had described, striding about Belfast as if the whole of Ireland should bow down to him in homage. No, the man sitting upright in the narrow tester bed was small and wizened, his hair (at least the little that remained of it) faded almost to white. He wore not a uniform but a nightshirt, its wrinkles mirroring the creases lining his forehead and bracketing his grim, set mouth. Even from across the chamber, the fetid odor of the sickroom hung heavy in the air.
But the frail man did not tremble, not even when she raised her father’s pistol and aimed it at his heart.
Christopher Pennington might be old and crippled. Might even be dying. But no one could ever accuse the man of being weak.
Fianna stepped into the room, nudging an elbow to shut the door behind her. More than unwise, it would be, to take her eyes off the vile lie-monger, no matter how unthreatening he appeared.
“Been long expecting me, have you, sir?” she whispered, stepping onto the room’s thin carpet. “For my part, I’ve been awaiting this moment for years. Eternities.”
Pennington’s eyes shifted, tracking her as she moved across the room.“Ever since you saw me give the signal for the hangman to kick away the stool from under your traitor father’s feet?”
Fianna ignored the bite of pain his words were clearly meant to provoke, maintaining a slow, even pace toward his bed. She would not be distracted. Not now, when she finally had her prey in her sights.
“No, Major. I assure you, I had eyes for only my father that day.”
Pennington’s eyes were the same blue as Kit’s, that pale blue that washed the sky on an unclouded spring day. But they held none of the warmth that his nephew’s did. Only a determination as stark as her own.
He folded gnarled hands across his lap. “Typical of the Irish, to allow a child to witness its own father’s execution. Barbarians, the lot of them.”
“My mother forbade me to go,” she answered, stopping beside the chair someone had set next to the Major’s bed. He’d not be inviting the likes of her to sit, now, would he? “But my uncle would not dishonor Aidan McCracken’s sacrifice by refusing to bear witness. Nor allow Aidan’s only child to, either.”
“Ah yes, your uncle. O’Hamill, isn’t it? Hatching even grander plots than even your misguided father ever dreamed. As if he could singlehandedly wrest Ireland from British rule.” The Major’s mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “He’s a damned fool if he thinks assassinating anyone in the government will forward his cause.”
“Even Lord Castlereagh?”
“Even bloody Castlereagh. Why, if I’d thought it would free my country from that wretched bog in which it’s mired, I’d have put a bullet through him myself, years ago.”
She gestured with her father’s pistol. “Unfortunately for you, it appears I’m the only one with a weapon here today.”
Pennington’s hand rose, sending her jerking away in alarm. But instead of reaching for her father’s gun, his fingers curved, beckoning her closer. “One pistol is more than enough for what needs to be done today, don’t you agree? Come now, cailín, come and finish what you’ve begun.”
Yes, it was time to finish this, once and for all. Lifting one hand from the pistol, Fianna felt for the reticule hanging by her side. Laying it on the end of his bed, she reached a hand inside and pulled out the sheet of foolscap she’d been carrying with her ever since her arrival in London. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it on the bed. “But you’re the one who will finish it, Major, by signing this confession.”
“Confession?” Pennington snorted, his bushy eyebrows rising. “What, do you believe me a Papist? I don’t recall converting, wench, despite the efforts of several of your Irish priests to persuade me of my soul’s dire peril.”
“I care nothing for your soul,” she bit out. “All I want is your signature.”
“Acknowledging what? That I oversaw the execution of your father? It’s a matter of public record.”
“No! Your admission that you spread malicious and baseless lies after his execution. That you falsely cast him as a traitor to his own people. Sign it!”
With a finger, she nudged the paper closer. But instead of reaching for it, the Major leaned back against the pillows. His brows drew down over those pale blue eyes as he folded recalcitrant arms across his chest.
“No.”
“No?” Her free hand returned to the pistol, jerking it higher. “Do you deny that you did it?”
His eyes narrowed. “Of course not. I’d have done anything to stop that foolish revolt from escalating any further. A damned idealist, Aidan McCracken, with his love for Ireland and its craven, stupid peasants. If they’d been able to turn your misguided fool of a father into a martyr for the cause, they’d have kept on, maiming my men, suiciding themselves. Well, I pulled the air from their sails right enough, didn’t I, showing them how he’d betrayed them in the end. And he did, you know, even if it wasn’t in the way I made them think. He betrayed them by making them believe they had a chance in hell of achieving that ‘United Ireland’ he so loved to dream of. What chance did that feeble cabal of rustics have of defeating His M
ajesty’s armed forces, even if they’d gone a bit to seed? So yes, I lied about your father. I asked him, practically begged him, to give up his fellow conspirators in exchange for his own life. But all he ever did was smile, and refuse.”
Fianna’s lips pursed, holding back the retorts she longed to utter. Focus on the task at hand, and the emotions would take care of themselves. “Do you wish to write your own account, then, instead of signing mine? I’ll bring you a fresh sheet of paper—”
“No. I’ll not deny I did it. At least not to you.”
She swallowed hard, the dawning realization bitter in her throat. “But you will to everyone else.”
The man nodded. “I’d hardly wish my family to find out the dishonorable depths to which your hellish country drove me, would I? All my nephews take the gentleman’s code of honor quite to heart, you see. Especially Kit.”
Yes, especially Kit.
Fianna’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell him, Major. I’ll tell Kit all you’ve done.”
“And you think he’ll believe you, over a member of his own family?”
“Yes. He loves me. I’m a part of his family now.”
The old man snorted. “Kit, love a lowborn Irish harlot?”
How strange, to find the blood rushing from her cheeks at the Major’s insult. As if she’d never been mocked before, and with words ten times more vile than his. Fianna shook her head, as if she could will away the betraying emotion.
“Oh yes, wench, I know how you whored your way to England, using that fey face of yours to beguile Talbot’s idiot heir.” The Major leaned forward, his hands fisted in the sheets. “Do you think I’d let a slut like you ensnare a beloved nephew? Love, bah. Kit may feel lust, but lust soon fades when the rottenness at a woman’s core comes to light.”
“And what rot lies in your bones, Major? What kind of man is it who allows the soldiers under his command to pillage the homes and businesses of civilians without restraint? Who watches while they commit every kind of atrocity on the bodies of unwilling women? Who utters no protest when innocents are tortured, even murdered, in a fruitless search for yet another imaginary cache of hidden weapons? England takes pride in her soldiers, sir, but how long would Kit’s pride in you last, if he had the least inkling of all the evil you’ve countenanced?”