A Rebel Without a Rogue (14 page)

Not as many men as she had expected currently served as army agents in the city and its environs. If she knew London as well as Belfast or Dublin, reorganizing the names and addresses by neighborhood would be the simplest of tasks. But many of the addresses here included only a street name; to track down many of the men listed, she’d need a map of England’s capital. An irksome task, without doubt.

She’d throw herself with diligence into one far more tedious, though, if such work would keep Kit Pennington from asking her any more intrusive questions. He’d nearly driven her mad yesterday with his far-from-subtle attempts to pry into her concerns as they’d made their way to and from the War Office, then again this morning as they’d broken their fast. Pretending not to hear, or turning the conversation in another direction, did not stop his inquiries; neither, surprisingly, did any of the subtle sensual lures she attempted to cast his way. He was not indifferent to them, no; his eyes would follow the line of her finger as it carelessly grazed the line of her neck or the top edge of her gown until he realized what he was doing and jerked them away. But he had kept his hands entirely to himself. Not just in public, either, but in private, too.

It was not like her to be so impatient. Far stronger men than Kit Pennington had eventually spilled their secrets in the face of her enticements, had they not? This strange, discomfiting restlessness she felt in his presence must stem from being so close to her final quarry without being able to bring him to heel.

Her restlessness certainly wasn’t from his decision to sleep in his own bedchamber, rather than hers. Two nights ago, when her plea of tiredness had forced him to play the gentleman, she could understand. But last night, when he left her standing by her door to continue down the passageway to his own without even demanding a touch—what could he mean by it? Her thumb riffled down the side of the directory’s stacked pages, but the book held no answers.

“You don’t truly think to inquire of each and every agent listed in that blasted thing, do you, Fianna? There must be more than a hundred.”

Hands clasped tightly behind his back, Kit Pennington paced with barely restrained energy through the patches of sunlight and shadow dappling the sitting room floor. Was he even aware how he’d slipped into informality today, calling her by what he thought was her Christian name? And how she, too, had begun calling him by his, as if they were the lovers in fact that her presence in his rooms suggested?
 

If only he would treat her with the careless regard a man typically showed his mistress. Visiting with her for an hour or two of love play before deserting her for other concerns would have given her time enough to search for Major Pennington without his interference. But Kit had remained inconveniently close since bringing her to his rooms, so close that she’d had to wait until he was fast asleep last night before slipping out and summoning a street boy to deliver the note she’d penned to Sean, telling him of her new location.

How much longer would she have to pursue this task before tedium drove him from her side?

“Not quite that many,” she said in a provokingly even tone. “And once I’ve finished copying down each and every name and address, I’ll need you to help me sort them by the part of London in which they are situated. For instance, I’ve no idea where one would find Hatton Garden, do you?”

“And here I thought all we’d need do was have a little chat with a fellow or two at the War Office. Who knew there were more than”—he reached over her shoulder to poke an accusatory finger at the numbered list she had begun compiling—“fifty men who earn their daily bread bartering commissions for His Majesty’s regiments?”

Fianna stilled, far too aware of the chest only a whisper away from her back. “Have a care. If you upset the inkstand, I’ll have to send you off to find another
Directory
.”

With a grimace, Kit moved away to resume his pacing. But before long he’d returned to peer once again over her shoulder. Fianna bit back the urge to shove him bodily away.

“Why, they’re not all London addresses,” he exclaimed. “Look, Armit & Borough does its business in Dublin. And so does Cane & Son. And Corry & Bristow. No street addresses, though. Do you have any family in Dublin who might search them out on your behalf? Your mother, perhaps?”

Her hand wobbled, allowing a blot of ink to mar the
T
in
Bormor, Thomas, 25 Spring-garden
. Such obvious, clumsy questions would hardly trick a child into revealing its secrets. Still, one had to admire his persistence.

Laying her quill down beside the directory, she rubbed an ink-spotted finger against the blotter. “You are welcome to take up the search again yourself, Kit, while I finish here. I assure you, I’ve no need of a watchdog to keep me company, especially one as restless as you.”

But Kit only shook his head. “No good rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. Plan before acting, my father always counseled, though at times I think he despaired of both Sibilla and me, headstrong, tearaway madcaps that we both are. Why, one time, she and I—”

A sharp rap from the entryway, followed by a key turning in the lock, brought him up short.

“Ah. That must be Benedict.”

Quickly, she gathered up the directory and her writing tools, careful to keep the ink from dripping from the quill. “If you keep him from the bedchambers, he should have no idea I’m here.”

“Why should you hide?” He spoke in his normal tone, not in the whisper she’d employed.

Fianna brushed a hand down her dress in exasperation. “I’m no longer wearing the clothing from the Guardian Society, Kit. This isn’t as fine as the gowns Ingestrie gave me, but your brother would hardly mistake it for the dress of a servant. He might even recognize me from Ingestrie’s party.”

A slow smile began to creep over Kit’s face. “Have a care for my reputation, do you, Fianna?”

Her lips tightened. “It would be unwise to assume I have a care for anyone’s reputation but my own, Mr. Pennington. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

He laid a hand on her sleeve, pulling her to a halt. “Don’t concern yourself, Fee. Benedict won’t tattle, on me or on you. He’s family. Besides, I invited him here specifically to meet you.”

As she opened her mouth to raise an objection, he pulled the quill from her hand, then tapped its tip against her lips. He grinned at her widening eyes, tossing the feather back on the table before striding out to greet their visitor.

As the sound of his friendly tenor mixing with the far deeper voice of his brother drifted down from the passageway, Fianna gave herself a brisk shake. Just because he was the only man for as long as she could remember who treated her with such playfulness was no reason to allow her mask to slip. No man would ever want her, not if he truly knew her. The heartless actions she’d taken to avenge her father might earn her a place in the McCracken family, but they’d hardly endear her to a man as untouched by tragedy as was Kit Pennington.

A loud series of thumps and grunts, a muffled curse, and Kit’s warm laugh preceded the two men into the sitting room. A liveried footman hefting a weighty trunk atop his shoulder followed.

“Put the crate by the bookcase,” Kit’s brother directed the servant, “then you may return to Pennington House.”

“Very good, sir.”

Taller and darker than his brother, Benedict Pennington was all sharp planes and angles. His downturned mouth and creased brow suggested a temper far less open than Kit’s, a sullenness that fairly shouted, “Keep your distance.” But something else lurked behind his narrowed eyes, something she recognized from seeing it in her own face when she stood in front of a mirror and stripped away her social mask. Something young and yearning. Something unwilling to give up all hope.

He scowled, yanking his eyes away from her unflinching gaze. Yes, very unwise, not to keep such weakness carefully hidden. Especially from someone who might turn it against you.

“Benedict, may I introduce you to Miss Cameron? Fianna, my brother Benedict.”

Fianna gave the requisite curtsy, but the brother showed no similar courtesy. Shrouding himself once again in arrogance, he crossed his arms and examined her from toe to crown, as if she were something he could purchase rather than a fellow human being. But she’d suffered far more dehumanizing scrutiny in the past. She gazed back, unflinching.

“Damnation, Kit, you weren’t lying. If he weren’t such an imbecile, one could almost be grateful to Ingestrie for bringing her over. Now, where did I leave that sketchbook?”

“Sketchbook?” Fianna looked at Kit as his brother rummaged noisily inside a cupboard.
 

Kit grimaced. “I had to offer him something in exchange for pulling him away from his precious studio, the selfish beast. Aunt Allyne needs my help finalizing her plans for her journey, and as I’m assuming she’d not take kindly to seeing you, I thought it best to leave my brother here while I’m gone.”

He didn’t wish her to be alone. Out of politeness? Or suspicion?
 

“I’ve no need of a nursemaid, Kit.”

“Truth be told, it’s Benedict who’s in need of one. Or perhaps a muse? He’s had terrible trouble with his art since he’s come back to England, haven’t you, Ben?”

A dark head emerged from the cupboard. “Can’t paint anything worth a damn. Bloody damp climate.”

“Bloody damn temper,” Kit whispered with a conspiratorial wink. “See if you can’t soothe the brute while I’m gone, will you? He won’t interfere with your list making as long as you don’t move about too much while you do it.”

Taking up hat and gloves, Kit called to his brother, “I don’t know if I’ll be back by dinner. Make sure you feed her if I’m delayed.”

Benedict grunted, then emerged once again from the cupboard, a sketchbook clutched in his hand. “Now where are those blasted charcoals?”

Only the click of the front door answered. Kit had left her alone with his brother.

Might this Pennington male be more susceptible to her charms?

Fianna glanced out of the corner of her eye at the mantel clock, then gave a discreet kick at the charcoal-smudged papers littering the floor. Four hours. Kit had left her with this grunting, foul-mouthed scribbler of a brother for four interminable hours. During which time Benedict Pennington had not had the courtesy to respond with more than a “yes,” “no,” or noncommittal “mhhmmm” to the politely worded questions about his life and family she lofted in his direction. But his single-minded focus on his art seemed to do him little good; each time he roughed out a sketch, he would stop and examine it, then shake his head and tear it from the pad, crushing it into a ball before tossing it on the carpet. His curses grew ever more repellent as the day’s light waned.

And she’d thought an artistic Pennington would be easier to charm than a morally conscious one. But no. Even when she’d given over friendliness for enticement, had begun stroking the tip of the quill against her lips, then along her collarbone, willing him to imagine his own fingers in its place, he’d simply barked at her to hold still and allow him to capture the pose on paper. Oh, he admired her, yes, but just as he would an aesthetically appealing field of flowers or artfully arranged bowl of fruit. Not as a woman whose physical secrets he’d do anything, say anything, to plumb.

She should have found such indifference infuriating. But all she could summon now was a feeble frustration, underscored by—could it be relief?

“You must excuse me, Mr. Pennington,” she said, rising as the clock struck the hour. “I’m afraid I must take a turn around the room, else I’ll fall to nodding in my chair.”

He grunted—in assent or dismay?—but made no further comment as she paced before the hearth. After she added coal to the fire, her eye caught on the trunk Pennington’s footman had left by the empty bookcase. Personal items of Kit’s, perhaps? Lifting her skirts to avoid brushing against the charcoal from the discarded sketches, she crossed the room and lifted the trunk’s lid.

No letters or personal papers on top, at least as far as she could see. She glanced over at Kit’s brother as she lifted a pile of dusty pamphlets from the box and set it on the shelf, but he offered no objection, too involved in his sketching to pay her any heed. Stifling a sneeze, she pulled out another stack, then another.

The trunk seemed to contain little of a family nature, only newspapers and pamphlets and books. Political works, they looked to be, and more than a few of a decidedly radical nature. Surprising, to find such in the possession of an aristocrat’s son. Might one be the news sheet for which Kit’s friend Mr. Wooler wrote?

What did English radicals have to say about the way their government oppressed the peoples across the Irish Sea? She scoffed at an account of George IV’s recent visit to Ireland, and His Majesty’s reported pleasure at the so-called loyalty and attachment manifested by all classes of his Irish subjects. Setting the paper aside, she hoped Benedict Pennington had not heard the derisive snort she’d not quite been able to contain.

Only after she’d nearly emptied the entire trunk did she come across anything the least bit useful. A stack of letters, bound together with rough twine that had caught on a piece of wood splintering from the chest’s side. Her breath caught as she read from whom they were sent:
Maj. Christopher Pennington
. The ones on the top of the stack had been sent from Dublin, she saw as she flipped through the bound stack, the lower ones from various locations on the Peninsula. Her father’s executioner had continued to serve, then, after his regiment had left Ireland. And been promoted, as well—the last letter had been addressed not by a major, but by a colonel. Of course. The English army rewarded its butchers well, did it not?