A Rebel Without a Rogue (16 page)

His eyes narrowed.

“You read my note,” she said with a quick nod. “But why did you not stay out of sight as I requested?”

Kit frowned. She’d left him a note? What in hell was she about?

“No lady should sit in a London coffeehouse unaccompanied,” he replied, deploying politeness to cover his confusion. “In fact, we should leave. Immediately.”

She pulled back from the hand he offered. “Ah, but we’ve already established my lack of ladylike credentials, have we not? Why should I let such a paltry concern stand in the way of finding the man for whom I seek? Did I not write that my informant specifically instructed me to come alone? And now you burst in, instead of keeping hidden as I had instructed.”

Informant? She’d come here seeking information—but about whom? Her mysterious father? Or Major Christopher Pennington?

 
Her eyes swept the room, then narrowed as they returned to him. “You’ve frightened him off, no doubt.”

Kit held out his hand again. “Oh, no doubt at all. So you should have no objection to leaving.”

Her lips pursed. A small dart of satisfaction arrowed through him. Not used to someone who sparred against her scorn rather than apologized, was she?

 
Before she could rise, though, Abbie pushed aside Kit’s arm and slid onto the bench opposite her. “No wonder you had not the time of day for me, Kit, what with this prime article awaiting you. Please, sweetling, tell me you’ve a sister just as pretty as yourself waiting around the corner.”

Devil take it! Kit grabbed at his friend’s cuffs, jerking his hands away before he could capture Fianna’s. Leave it to Abbie, as arrogant as any aristocrat despite his father’s background in trade, to try to ingratiate himself with a woman even in the midst of a public coffeehouse.

Abbie, like Sam, showed no sign of recognizing her. Could his suspicions be wrong?

“If she’d a sister, she’d not want anything to do with you, you half-sprung lout. Take yourself off, that’s a good fellow.”

“Now is that any way to treat a man whose life you’ve saved?” Abbie slung a careless arm about Kit’s shoulders, pulling him down to the bench. “At least do me the honor of granting me an introduction before banishing me from your lady’s presence.”

Fianna stared with brazen directness straight at Abbie. “Saved your life? You must tell me all about it, sir.”
 

Even the self-assured Abbie seemed momentarily bewitched by those compelling green eyes, for he paused instead of jumping immediately into his tale.

Before he could begin, Sam Wooler rushed over to their table, waving a newspaper dangerously close to the sputtering candle. “I’ve already told the story to Miss Cameron, Abbie. Besides, we’ve far more important things to discuss before tonight’s meeting starts. Miss Cameron,” he added, his acknowledgment of her far more short and clipped than Kit would have expected.

The usually friendly Sam folded his arms and frowned at Fianna, then at Kit. Kit glared right back at him. He wasn’t a child in need of Sam’s protection, or his disapproval.

He stood, nudging Sam out of the way so he could again extend his hand. “Miss Cameron, I believe we must—”

“Sam, how many times must I tell you how rag-mannered it is to barge in on another’s conversation?” Abbie interrupted, pulling Kit back down beside him. He batted down the news sheet blocking his view of Fianna, then set his chin atop his steepled hands with an exaggerated sigh of longing.

“Won’t you introduce me to your friend, Mr. Pennington?” Fianna’s expression remained serene, although amusement, and perhaps a hint of scorn, tinged her voice. Did she find Abbie’s immediate infatuation worthy of contempt? Or was it only his own vile temper that wished it so?

“What a lovely voice you have, Miss Cameron,” Abbie said after Kit had made the introduction. “Nothing charms like the lilt of an Irishwoman’s voice, does it, now?”
 

“Yes, Ireland,” Sam repeated. “I don’t believe the Union of Non-Represented People of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland allows women to join, Kit. Perhaps Miss Cameron should leave before the meeting begins?”

Fianna’s green eyes narrowed. “Should only men be encouraged to throw off the fetters by which they have so long been bound? Is it not time for the clouds of error and prejudice to disperse for all parts of the Creation, female as well as male?”

The silence that followed her impassioned pronouncement was broken by a slow, steady clap.

“It is time, is it not,
cailín
, for the great nation of Ireland to set the example to her neighbors?”

Kit jerked in his seat, fists clenching. The expression on the face of the man who approached signaled approval, not derision, but Kit’s eyes still narrowed when he realized who had spoken.

Sam jumped up from his seat and held out a hand in welcome. “Welcome, sir, welcome. Kit, Miss Cameron, surely you remember our speaker for this evening. Abbie, may I introduce Mr. Sean O’Hamill?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“And this is the wretched state of the Irish population, and the manifold grievances under which they suffer. Absentee landlords; a ruinous collapse in grain prices; tithes levied only upon those who till the land, not the cattlemen and sheep masters who might better afford them; the most crippling of taxes falling upon those least able to pay them. And so I ask you tonight, good gentlemen, to offer what you are able in aid of my long-harassed and afflicted people. Support our efforts to gain equal rights for
all
Irishmen!”

Applause rang out from all corners of the room as Sean O’Hamill made his bows. But Fianna kept her hands clenched in her lap. How young they all seemed, these men, many just boys, really, thronging in the tight confines of the coffeehouse, their dreams fired by the idealism of the yet untried. Did they truly think their paltry donations would do anything to help a land that had suffered the tyranny of English rule for centuries?

And what of Sean? The boy she remembered from her childhood had always grown red with frustration whenever he’d tried to persuade others to join the cause, the very fervency of his beliefs overwhelming his ability to speak. How had he learned to address an audience like this, with conviction stirring enough to lead strangers not only to praise his words, but to open their purses?

The boy she’d known then would have done anything for his family, even a bastard niece. But would the man?

From across the room, Sean caught her eye, then moved on to stare fixedly at Kit. The smile he wore to greet others faded, giving her a glimpse of the far more bitter man secreted behind the genial front. Had he discovered information about Major Pennington’s whereabouts in the week since they’d first met? Or had Sean summoned her here for some other purpose of his own?

By her side Kit stared just as intently at Sean as her uncle glared at him. Before his speech, Sean had followed her lead when Mr. Wooler introduced him, pretending he and Fianna had no prior acquaintance besides their meeting of the week before. But if he continued to glower at Kit with such obvious dislike, he’d be bound to raise suspicion. As if Kit weren’t already likely to find her actions tonight suspect. How many more tales could she spin before she trapped herself in the tangle of her own falsehoods?

“A powerful speaker, is he not, Miss Cameron?” Kit whispered. “He’s taken the entire crowd here well in hand.”

“Powerful indeed. But the Patriot is known as a gathering place for London’s radicals and reformers,” she answered, gesturing to the men crowding around her uncle. “I doubt few others in England would be as receptive.”

“Or less willing to consider what he
hasn’t
said, as well as what he has,” Kit replied, rising as Sean made his way through the crowd to their table. She frowned at his cryptic words.

Sean greeted them affably. “Thank you again, gentlemen, for attending my talk this evening. And for bringing such a flower of Irish womanhood to listen, too.” He nodded in her direction as he took the seat offered him by Mr. Wooler. “Mother Erin and her real-life daughters ever inspire us to sacrifice in the cause of our aggrieved nation.”

As he sat back beside her, Kit’s arm pressed casually but firmly against her shoulders. Damn these forward Englishmen! Even if he meant it as a sign of protection, not possession, Sean would likely read it as the latter. Kit was not the only man whose suspicions would be raised this night.

Leaning forward out of Kit’s embrace, she set her hands on the table. “Are Irishwomen to play no role in the struggle for freedom, then, besides that of muse?”

“Oh, surely not, Miss Cameron,” Mr. Abbington-Pitts exclaimed. “Governing is the work of men, not of ladies.”

“Women do seem somewhat unfit for the action and decision required of such work, do they not?” Mr. Wooler said with an apologetic nod in her direction.

Yes, no matter how taken with her beauty, any man could regain a modicum of control by asserting his superiority over her sex. One reference to the purported inferiorities of women, and all the males in the room, even one as seemingly shy of females as poor Mr. Wooler, could rest safe in the knowledge of their God-given masculine advantages over the likes of her.

Of course, such mistaken assumptions were precisely what had allowed her to triumph over so many of the foolish men who had betrayed her father. Somehow, though, in the presence of those who claimed to support the rights of all mankind, she could not forbear from protest.

“What of the women revolutionaries in France?”

“Indeed.” Kit’s sleeve brushed against hers as he placed his folded hands on the table, sending a rill of awareness up her arm. “From what I understand, many Frenchwomen participated in the calls for freedom, and even in the workings of government that followed the downfall of the monarchy.”

“Only acting under the influence of their menfolk, surely,” Wooler said.

“Or led astray by their willful natures. Quite unsexed by designing men.” Abbington-Pitts nodded in agreement.

“Hardly women at all,” Wooler added.

Did Kit find such women’s actions admirable? Or did he share the disparaging opinion of his friends?

Her eyes narrowed. Not that Kit’s opinion mattered to her in the least.

“They do say that all a woman can give to her country is her sons, and her tears.” Sean nodded at the two men, then turned sharply back to Fianna. “But perhaps you see yourself playing another role,
cailín
?”

Did Sean hope to draw her into his intrigues? To urge her to leave off her own quest to take up his? Raising funds to assist widows and fatherless children was the least of his reasons for coming to London, of that she was certain.

Might she find the acceptance she sought, the family she longed for, with Sean? The possibility tempted her. But how long could she keep Sean from the knowledge of her illicit arrangement with Ingestrie, and her new one with Kit? Few Irishmen looked with anything but contempt upon a kinswoman who had been taken without leave by an Englishman; she could only imagine the curses likely to rain down on the head of one who had entered into such agreements of her own free will. No, far better to keep to her own chosen path. The McCrackens need never know the lengths to which she’d gone to secure retribution against her father’s betrayers.

Fianna’s lips narrowed. “Whatever role my God and my family deem me worthy of, that I will take.”

“And for now, your family requires you remain in London?” Sean asked, echoing her slight emphasis on the repeated word. At her nod of assent, he added, “Then I have not a doubt that whatever you seek will surely be discovered within its bounds.”

Did a message lie beneath the simple platitude? Was the Major somewhere in London? She grasped her own wrists, feeling her pulse quicken beneath her palms.

“But family ties lead us in many directions, I find, do you not?” Sean added, leaning forward in his chair. “When you have completed one task, may not another one take its place?”

Beside her, Kit stiffened at the clear invitation in Sean’s voice.

Mr. Abbington-Pitts slapped Kit on the back with an uneasy laugh. “Better watch yourself, Pennington, old boy, or O’Hamill here will have spirited poor Miss Cameron away to help with his campaigning before you can blink an eye. Lord knows I’m far more likely to turn out my pockets if a pretty woman does the asking, no matter what the cause.”
 

Abbington-Pitts gestured to the man standing behind Sean, whose upturned cap held a small collection of banknotes and coins.
 

“My uncle will be sorry he missed you, sir,” Sam Wooler said, rising to add his own contribution. “I’m certain if you cared to write down your speech, he’d be most interested in printing it in his paper.”

Sean glanced down at the news sheet resting under Kit’s free hand. “Ah, the radical press. How lucky you are here in England. In Ireland, we rarely have a chance to read dissenting views, as your government pays the publishers to print only its version of events.”

“And you’re certain there is no truth at all to such accounts?” Kit asked, leaning forward and setting his palms on the arms of his chair. “I am, myself, much disturbed by their reports of violence in your country. And not all of it perpetrated by English troops.”