A Rebel Without a Rogue (17 page)

“‘Whoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also’? A worthy sentiment, sir, but not one likely to lead to political change.” Sean smiled dismissively, then turned toward Mr. Wooler. “Will you join your friends in supporting—”

“And will thievery and murder bring about change, Mr. O’Hamill, when turning the other cheek will not?”

The room fell silent.

Her uncle rose and faced Kit. “Do you accuse me of a crime, sir?”

Kit rose, too, leaning on fisted hands set on the scarred wood of the table. “No, sir, I do not. But I do wish to know whether this money you collect tonight will pass into the hands of those in need, or instead to those who see violence as the means to freeing themselves from oppression. If the latter, I’m afraid I will not be able to contribute.”

 
Fianna stared at the stern set of Kit’s jaw, willing the fluttering in her belly to still. Could this forceful man be the same one she’d regarded as a mere stripling only a few days earlier?

Sean sneered. “Ah, one of those who believe only the deserving poor merit help, are you? Only those who snivel, and grovel, and accept that it’s God’s will that they be forever ground beneath the heels of their ‘betters’—these are the only ones who merit our aid?”

Kit raised his voice, just loud enough to be heard over the renewed murmuring of the crowd. “You misunderstand me, sir. I have no argument with those who openly resist such false, pernicious doctrines. Only with those who believe using force is the best means of so doing. I’ve heard reports that some Irish insurgents, under the guise of collecting for the destitute, use those funds to purchase firearms. I’ve heard they conduct raids and thefts to secure additional weapons. I’ve heard they’ve beaten and mutilated those who protested such infringements of their property and persons, or who reported such attacks to the constabulary. And yes, I’ve heard they’ve even committed murder, when such raids go awry. According to reports in the
Dublin Evening Post
, the county coroner conducted twenty-five inquests for murder in Limerick alone these past six months, the majority reputedly perpetrated by insurgents. Do you wish to claim that all these accounts are false?”

Several hands besides Mr. Wooler’s pulled back from the collecting hat, waiting for an answer.

Fianna bit down, hard, on her lip. To contain the torrent of denial his words provoked? Or the shocking smile that rose in admiration of the skill, and passion, with which he had uttered them?
 

The taste of blood on her tongue jerked her free from the tumult of her emotions, sharpened her focus once again on the murmurs of the men circling their table. Sean was not the only accomplished speaker in the coffeehouse tonight. Which man would the crowd follow?

Sean’s hands fisted, then slowly unfurled. “You would be right to call me a liar if I made any such claim, sir. Men who have watched their children wither and die from want, watched their daughters and wives insulted and abused by English ‘gentlemen’”—Sean’s eyes shot in her direction before returning to Kit’s—“such men sometimes find themselves overtaken by uncontrollable anger. Yet should the innocent many be made to suffer for the sins of the few?”

“Not if you assure us that these funds you collect will be used to support the innocent, not those who raid gentlemen’s homes in search of cash and arms.”

“You would accept the assurance of a man such as myself?” Sean scoffed, his smile tight with scorn. “An Irisher, with no claim to the lofty title of gentleman?”
 

Fianna held her breath. How cunning of Sean, not only to recognize the innate sense of justice that lay at the heart of Kit Pennington, but to manipulate it to his own advantage. For somehow she knew, even before he spoke the words, what Kit’s answer would be.

“I accept the word of any man, no matter his rank or station. That is, until he gives me cause to doubt it.”

The two men stared at each other across the table, the tension between them as palpable as if each strained at opposite ends of a rope.

After nearly a minute’s silence, Sean reached out and took the collection cap from Mr. Wooler. The coins within it jingled as he thrust it toward Kit.

“For the women and children. I give you my word.”
 

Kit reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a sovereign, then placed it with deliberate care into the hat. “For the women and children. And for any who work through peaceful means to secure the rights of all.”

Kit stepped away from the table and held his arm out to Fianna. “The hour grows late, Miss Cameron. Shall I summon a cab, and see you back to your lodgings?”

Even now Kit thought to protect her honor, pretending that she had rooms of her own. Would Sean be taken in?

She nodded her assent, then watched as he made his way to the coffeehouse door, his friend Abbie dogging his steps.

“Not willing to wait for my help,
cailín
? I might have saved you from such a fate, trading yourself to your enemy’s kin.” Sean spoke from behind her, his body turned so as to give the impression he was engrossed by the conversation of the men beside him. “But at least you’ll gain something from the devil’s bargain, which is more than most
bean na hÉireann
who’ve had the misfortune to be defiled by an Englishman can claim.”

His breath whispered against her neck, raising a horripilation of anger and shame.

“But when your task is done, Máire O’Hamill, you come to me. Young Pennington’ll not bother you again, not after these hands have taken recompense for what he’s stolen.”

Her cloak fell over her shoulders then, held in place for a moment by the heavy weight of her uncle’s palms.

She held her shudder in check until they lifted, and Kit was once again by her side. “Bid you good evening, sir,” he said to Sean, holding out his arm to her.

Sean bowed and stepped aside.
 

“
Go mbuailimid le chéile arís
, Miss Cameron,” he murmured as she brushed by him.

Until we meet again
.
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

“See you at Milne’s dinner party, Kit? Or do your
affairs
keep you otherwise occupied?”
 

Abbie’s playfully lecherous leer was surely meant to amuse, or even to welcome, a gesture from one fellow man of the world to another newly joining the mistress-keeping club. Yet as Kit watched Fianna disappear behind the door of Benedict’s lodging house, he felt none of the anticipation of a man about to join a paramour for a night’s pleasure, warmed by the certainty that his lust would soon be satiated. Oh, anticipation, yes, and lust, damn him for a fool, most certainly. But suspicion and self-righteousness, and, if he were being truly honest with himself, the unfamiliar burn of barely suppressed jealousy, promised the next few hours would end with little satisfaction for either party.

“I thank you for the ride, Abbie. And Fianna is
not
my mistress,” he heard himself blurt, the feebleness of his response almost as galling as the smile crinkling about Abbie’s eyes. With an inarticulate snarl, he slammed the door of the carriage shut in his friend’s face.

“Drive on,” he called to Abbie’s coachman, slapping his hand against the side of the carriage. Even the noise of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles could not quite drown out Abbie’s shouts of laughter.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he followed Fianna into their lodgings.

She had not even stopped to light a candle, relying on the thin light of a streetlamp to guide her down the passageway. Did she think to bolt herself inside her bedchamber without even speaking to him? He’d kept his silence in the carriage, not wishing to question her in front of Abbie. But no such scruples restrained him now.

Catching up to her in three long strides, he stilled her hand before it could reach the door’s latch.

“Miss Cameron. A word, if you please.”

With his free arm, he gestured back toward the drawing room, then turned back down the passageway, silently willing her to follow.

He pulled off his gloves and lit a single candle, then stalked about the room, peering into its shadowy corners. “You left a note for me, you say? I wonder where it could be?”

“Did you not take it with you?” she asked, settling into the armchair, as self-possessed as a queen upon her throne.

 
“I never read it in the first place.” The flame sputtered as he set the candlestick on a table by her side.

She did not flinch at his accusation, merely turned her impassive face towards his. “You had me followed, then.”

“No. I followed you myself.”

“How tiresome for you.” Her laughter bit far deeper than Abbie’s, though it tinkled as light as a glass bell. “Or perhaps you enjoyed it, skulking about the shadows like a thief in the night. Not an activity in which many preachers engage, I’ll warrant.”

“I’m not a preacher, nor do I plan to become one. As you are well aware.”

“A preacher, a parliamentarian; little difference between the two,” she said with a careless toss of her head. “Both need to avoid offending their patrons. Best not to give alms to the indigent, then, or at least to the undeserving indigent, as Irishwomen such as myself all too often tend to be.” She smiled, as if impervious to the insult in her own words. No, as if such a belief reflected poorly upon him and his people, rather than on her own.

He shook his head. Such taunts were meant to distract him. But he’d not be drawn away from his own purpose.

“Whom did you expect to meet at the Patriot? I thought you had no connections in London.”

“No protectors, nor friends. But one may always make new connections.”

Kit folded his arms across his chest. “Or revive old ones?”

“Mr. Wooler, do you mean?” she asked, her eyes opening wide in mock innocence. “A pleasure to see him again, to be sure. But he was not the connection to whom I referred. Perhaps if you read my letter?” She handed him a sheet of foolscap, pulling her hand away before his fingers could touch hers.

He brought it close to the single candle, reading through it before tossing it back upon the table. Setting the candle on the table beside her, he folded his arms across his chest.

“You would risk your own safety, walking alone about the streets of London at night, just on the chance of hearing word of the man for whom you seek? Why did you not wait until I returned?”

How could she look down her nose at him when he stood so far above her? “You think I need you to keep me safe, Kit Pennington? When I’ve been protecting myself from the likes of you and every other man for nearly twenty years?”

“Every other man?” A hollow, empty feeling clutched at his chest, but he willed himself to ignore it. “Do you count Sean O’Hamill amongst that number?”

“Mr. O’Hamill? But I’d never met the man before last week.”

No, no one seeing the two of them together tonight, or the week before, would have suspected they were anything but strangers. They’d exchanged no whispered words, no half-hidden gestures; not even a hint of recognition had crossed either of their faces. Yet Kit knew as surely as he knew his own name that the two had some prior relationship. It wasn’t injustice in the abstract that kindled anger in O’Hamill’s eyes as he’d spoken of the insults Irishwomen suffered at the hands of the English. No, such ire could only have been sparked by some deeper, more personal injury. Every instinct told him it was fueled not by the presence of just any female compatriot, but by the proximity of one Irishwoman in particular.

By one bewitching Fianna Cameron.

“Never met him before in your life, you say?”

“Never.” Her arm waved away the thought. “I’d not soon forget such a fine speaker as Mr. O’Hamill. Especially after such a passionate defense of Irish womanhood. Would you?”

Kit jerked away from the hearth. He’d never met a person who could lie so easily while staring him right in the eye.

Hands clenched, he strode across the room until he stood directly in front of her chair. Setting a hand on each carved arm, he leaned down, his face within inches of hers.

“You speak a fine game, Fianna. And so does he, your Mr. O’Hamill, protesting the ill-usage of his countrywomen by the likes of me and mine. But what honorable man allows a female relation—his cousin, perhaps, or mayhap even his sister?—to be bedded outside of marriage?”

He’d expected a slap, or at the very least a cry of protest, after the gross insult of this shot in the dark. But Fianna did not even flinch. Her green gaze remained steady, her voice maddeningly silent.

She had never looked so magnificent.
 

His hands clenched the upholstered arms of the chair, nearly shaking it in his desire to elicit a response. “Or perhaps Mr. O’Hamill is an even closer relation. Is he your lover, Fianna? Your husband?”

A hint of a smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. Her eyes alight with something far more dangerous than amusement, she reached out a hand and slid it with sinuous intent down the silk of his waistcoat.

“Jealous, are you, Kit?” she whispered, her voice triumphant with discovery of his weakness. “But truly, there’s no need. Just let me. . .”