A Rebel Without a Rogue (10 page)

Might this one need to be approached through his mind, rather than his body?

She cleared her throat. “He’s an intemperate liar, that Sir Richard. Not that an Englishman such as yourself would see it.”

That had him raising his eyes. “Is he, now? Why then did you purchase his”—he paused, his finger tracing the title embossed on the book’s spine—“
Memoirs of the Different Rebellions in Ireland
?”

“Because I wanted to see what falsehoods the English public is being fed about my country, my people.” Because she’d hoped to find mention of her father, more fool she. But none of the Northern rebels warranted mention by name, at least not in the mind of a conservative such as Sir Richard Musgrave.

“And what lies did you discover?”

“That the Irish Rebellion of 1798 was just a Catholic conspiracy against the Protestants, not a quest for political rights and freedom from oppression. And that all Catholics and Protestants were mortal enemies, rather than partners in calling for an end to religious discrimination and a greater franchise for the people.”

“But Musgrave writes with such authority. And here, he vows he makes the truth his ‘polar star.’”

Could the man truly be so naïve? Or was that a hint of irony edging his words?

“And look, here, he writes that the officers of the military, as well as the civil magistrates, confirm the accuracy of his account.” He held out the book for her inspection.

Yes, that merest wisp of a smile surely hinted at a far keener intelligence than one so easily taken in by the blatantly biased arguments of a Sir Richard Musgrave. How novel, to be invited to engage in a war of wits with a man, rather than serve as the object of his lusts. Fianna quelled the unfamiliar urge to offer her own hint of a smile in return as she took the volume from his hands.

“Ah, the officers of the
English
military. But I see little mention of him speaking to any Irishmen to discover their motivations.”

“And you have? But no, how could you? You couldn’t have been more than a babe when these events took place.”

“A bit older than that, sir. And even the youngest child can listen to the stories her elders tell, can she not? Stories they’d never share with a man such as Sir Richard, one who deems them savages, barbarians, and fanatics.”

“And what do you deem them?”

Words her McCracken relatives had used when speaking of her father swirled in her brain.
Courageous. Idealistic. Impetuous. Rash.
She finally settled on the one nothing she could do would ever change.

“Dead.”

The bitterness of that one word would have pushed another man away. But she had gauged him well, this Kit Pennington. Though he sat abruptly back against the squabs, his back taut, she had seen the sudden pity flaring in his eyes.
 

Sit beside him. Place your hand on his arm. Whisper in his ear.

But somehow her body would not obey.

Why? Why should she be plagued by such reluctance now, when her final quarry was almost within reach?

“Where are you taking me?” No sweet whisper that, but a rasp as harsh as a file against steel.

“To the Guardian Society.” He crossed his arms and gazed out the window. “A benevolent institution for the reform and rehabilitation of penitent prostitutes. My aunt is one of its patrons.”

Her fisted hands pressed hard against her stomach, as if she’d received an actual blow. Mother of God, he thought her a prostitute. Of course he did. He only knew Fianna Cameron, the mask of the practiced courtesan she’d worn to lure Ingestrie, to persuade him to pay for her passage to England. Be glad that he’d never see past it, never catch sight of Máire O’Hamill, or Maria McCracken, the child and woman buried far beneath.
 

Ignore that weak, gut-sick feeling. Think instead about this philanthropic aunt, the one simple enough to take pity on the fallen women of the world. A lady of such sensibility would surely be less of a threat, and far easier to fool, than the man opposite. Perhaps she might even prove to be the wife of Major Pennington.

Yes, far better to keep this one at bay, and use her wits on another.

It must have been the devil in her, then, that pushed the goading words from her mouth. “You think me capable of reform, do you, Mr. Pennington?”

“All God’s creatures are capable of reform, ma’am.”

“Capable, of course. But desirous of?”

Good, that made his eyes widen. But after considering a moment, he shook his head. “A lady who has traded her person only to help her family is no hardened whore.”

“And who’s to say I’ve not traded my person to others? Why, for all you know, I might have sold my body up and down the coast of Ireland long before I ever took up with young Ingestrie.”

He shook his head. “You’ve not the look of a practiced jade.”

“Are you so familiar with the look of a jade, sir? No wonder you think yourself unsuited to the clerical life. But then, what Englishman truly is?” Ah, that should set his hackles a-rising.

But instead, he reached out his hands, taking one of hers in his gentle grasp. “You’ve been deeply hurt by an Englishman, haven’t you, Miss Cameron?”

She found herself frozen in his gaze, unable even to blink. So long, it had been, so long since anyone had spoken to her thus, not with disgust or desire, but with simple kindness. Touched her intent on offering sympathy, rather than satisfying lust.

Back in Ingestrie’s rooms, she’d accused this Kit Pennington of indifference. But
his
indifference wasn’t the trouble, was it? The real trouble was her own unexpected, unwelcome awareness of him, of the compassion written as clearly on his face as the crimes of a wanted man screamed from a broadsheet.

How she longed for it, that fellow feeling, that sharing of a burden with another.

But how quickly such compassion would be jerked away, once he discovered her true reason for pursuing him.

With a sudden rush of breath, she pulled her hand free, staring down, away, anywhere but into the charity of his eyes.

“A miracle, it would be, to find any Irishwoman who’d not been harmed by the English in some way or another, Mr. Pennington,” she said, her voice flattened of all emotion.

The carriage bucked to a halt before he could answer.

“And this must be the Guardian Society of which you spoke. Will I be able to keep my own clothing, do you think, or must I garb myself in sackcloth and ashes, like a true penitent of old?”

He reached out for the door’s handle, but she was there before him, nearly tumbling down the metal steps in her eagerness to escape the close confines of the carriage. Yes, the sooner she could find Mr. Pennington’s aunt and play upon her sympathies, the sooner she could leave this dangerous man far behind.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Pacing back and forth like a caged beast won’t bring your brother here any sooner, Christian. Nor does it demonstrate the patience required of a successful politician. Sit down, if you please, before you wear a hole in your aunt’s carpet.”

The sharpness of his uncle’s tone stilled Kit in his tracks. Aunt Allyne hadn’t mentioned that her boarder was having a difficult day. But the strange restlessness that had driven Kit the past week, ever since he had left Ingestrie’s mistress in the hands of the Guardian Society, would not be confined to a chair, even to soothe a fractious invalid. Instead, he perched against the sill of the bedroom window, crossing his arms over his chest to keep his hands from tapping out a rhythm as irritating to his uncle as the pound of boots across the floor.

The sooner Theo agreed to support his political aspirations, the sooner Kit could travel back to Lincolnshire and begin the work of canvassing for support. Lincolnshire would be a welcome distance from London and from the all-too-alluring Fianna Cameron. More than once this week he’d found his steps taking him in the unlikely direction of the Guardian Society, even though his inquiries at the War Office had yet to be answered. The lust inspired by that sharp, icy beauty—against that he could stand firm. Why, then, should a mere hint of sadness, one that had fluttered across her face when he’d asked about the pains of her own past, prove so much harder to resist?

Kit pushed aside the curtain yet again to look for a sign of his brother. But the street below remained cursedly empty.

“You’re certain it was the fourth and not the fifth?” he asked.

The Colonel shook a piece of foolscap in Kit’s direction. “The fourth
 
of March, clear as day. But look yourself if you think me so feeble as to misread your brother’s own hand.”

“No, no, of course I believe you. And being in good time was never one of Theo’s virtues. But I did think he’d show more respect to you than to forget the appointment completely.”
 

“Not everyone regards their elders with as much consideration as you do, Christian. Witness Ingestrie, Earl Talbot’s heir, kicking over the traces in Ireland when the poor man had all he could do to keep the peace in that godforsaken land. At least he’s back now in a civilized country, where a man can exert due control over his wayward sons.”

Kit rose, striding back toward his uncle’s bedside. Had the earl’s talk extended to his wayward son’s mistress?

“Did the earl pay you a visit, sir? Tell me, what news had he of the unrest in Ireland?”

“Now, no more of that political talk, boys, not when Mr. Acheson has come for a match with the Colonel,” Aunt Allyne said, bustling into the room with a chessboard in hand.
 

Kit bowed to his uncle’s physician, a man whom his uncle would only allow in his rooms on the pretext of a game of chess. If Aunt Allyne had thought it necessary to summon Acheson, his uncle must be feeling far worse than Kit had realized.

“My apologies, Uncle, for taking up your morning on this sleeveless errand. Shall I send a note to Saybrook and arrange another time for us to meet?”

Uncle Christopher gave a short nod, his lips pursed tight. Against pain? Kit cursed himself for an unobservant fool as he followed his aunt from the room.

“Why did you not inform me, ma’am, that my uncle felt poorly?” Kit asked as they reached the bottom of the narrow staircase. “I could easily have postponed our meeting until another day.”

“Oh yes, feeling poorly, to be sure, Christian,” Great-Aunt Allyne answered, her brow furrowed. “What a sad excuse for a nurse you must think me, not to realize the pain the boy must be suffering. But he never spoke a word of it, truly, not to me, at least, and not to Peg, either, for all the silly creature must have seen the blood on the bedsheets when she changed them this morning. And to think I would have missed it, too, if I had not taken a moment from my packing to make sure that wasteful girl did not use too much lye in the washing.”

Blood. From bedsores? Or something worse?

Damn his uncle for valuing his privacy over his health. But haranguing poor Aunt Allyne would do little to persuade the Colonel to be more forthcoming.
 

Before the diminutive woman could set off on another self-deprecating lament, Kit placed an arm around her and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Do not trouble yourself, Aunt. Acheson’s sure to have him on the mend before you even leave for Lincolnshire.”

“But there is so much to do before I may even step foot in the post-chaise!” Aunt Allyne gave a deep sigh. “Saybrook depends upon me not just to bring your sister from Lincolnshire to London, but to oversee the hiring of more staff for the London house, and to ensure it is in a fit state for entertaining. And how can I depend on Peg to properly convey Mr. Acheson’s instructions after this morning’s debacle with the sheets? Oh dear, how long does it take to play a round of chess?”

Theo must be in a truly bad way, to fob off his own duties onto another family member like this. Especially one as aged and anxiety-prone as Great-Aunt Allyne.

Kit caught his aunt’s heavily veined hands in his, stilling their anxious fluttering. “You need not take everything upon yourself, ma’am. Go, meet with the housekeeper, and tend to your charities. I’ll speak with Acheson and leave you a note detailing his instructions, one you can share with the nurse.”

“Oh, Christian! Are you certain? What a dear boy you are! But pray, do not let your uncle hear the word ‘nurse’ pass your lips. He’ll put a bullet in anyone so presumptuous as to play that role toward him, he assures me.”

Kit smiled to cover his worry as he helped his aunt into her cloak and set her and her footman on their way to Pennington House. After a quick glance up the staircase, he made his way into the small drawing room that fronted the house, searching for a newspaper or book with which to pass the time until he could speak with the physician out of his uncle’s hearing. But all he could find were improving volumes aimed at the education of young ladies. Intended for his unruly sister? Or perhaps for the downtrodden women he’d seen at the Guardian Society? He smiled in truth at the haughty disdain with which Fianna Cameron would likely greet the improving words of a Dr. Fordyce or a Hannah More.

The thud of the door knocker jerked him free of the enticing but unwelcome image. Had Theo come after all?