Fiona shook her head again. And again, too quickly, Kier thought. Before he could ask if she was afraid of Seamus, she changed the subject.
“I ken who Walter Avery is.”
“Ah. So the book helped.”
She looked confused. “The book?”
Kier pointed to the book she’d laid on the desk when she’d first sat down. “The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Since the poem is about a woman who lost her husband, I thought it might help you remember your own.”
Fiona gave him an irritated look. “I have nae husband. I told ye that.”
So the story hadn’t helped her remember. Perhaps she wasn’t ready. “Well, at least, you remember your father.”
Now she looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Of course, I remember my da. He was killed in a carriage wreck, along with my stepmother, when I was young.”
Fiona had mentioned that once before. Maybe he should go along with her story for now. “Then who do you think Walter Avery is?”
She started talking so fast, Kier had a hard time comprehending all of it. Or maybe he didn’t comprehend because it all sounded so unreal. Something about a man named Wesley Alton, who was really Walter Avery, and who had abducted not one but two of Fiona’s sisters by marriage. Her brothers—the ones he doubted existed—had rescued both women and married them. Not only that, this Walter/Wesley person was suspected of killing an earl’s wife, who had been his mistress. To top it all off, the man had been taken first to Newgate and then to Bedlam, from which he had escaped.
“And that is why the beast abducted me,” Fiona concluded breathlessly.
Kier frowned, hesitant to ask Fiona to explain further. None of it made sense and he didn’t want to upset her even more. Still, he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Why would someone who escaped Bedlam want to abduct you?”
Fiona’s expression turned incredulous. She took a deep breath and then spoke slowly as though Kier had only half his wits about him. “He. Wants. The. Titles. Of. Earl of Cantford. And. Marquess of Newburn.”
Kier was more perplexed than before. “Those are English estates, are they not? You are from Scotland.”
Fiona looked heavenward as though praying for assistance from the saints, and Kier got the feeling she truly did think him a dolt. Then she began talking rapidly again. He tried to focus, but this story was even more incredible than the first. One of her Scottish brothers had inherited an English title and married a marchioness to boot, while the Walter/Wesley person had returned from France where his father had sent him after discovering the boy was having an affair with his stepmother and wanted to claim his father’s title—Kier thought it was the marquess, but he wasn’t sure—as well. And…
Kier became aware of total silence in the room. Fiona sat quietly, staring at him.
“Ye doona believe me.”
“I find it hard—”
Fiona jumped up. “Ye doona believe me! I ken it sounds barmy, but I am nae the one who is mad.” She turned and rushed from the room before Kier could gather his thoughts to reply.
Kier slammed his fist on his desk. He was a bloody fool to be lusting after another man’s widow and one whose memory was not intact at that. Fiona had spun an incredible yarn worthy of someone who’d kissed the Blarney Stone. He had to admit she had an extremely creative imagination and she’d looked so earnest in the telling of it. But then, Lady Jane Claire had looked earnest too when she’d explained the investment she had for him…before she took his money and ran away. Had he not learned his lesson in falling for beseeching looks and pleas?
Kier grimaced, knowing he was not doing Fiona justice. She was not Lady Jane Claire Litton, but the tale Fiona told was totally unbelievable, from beginning to end.
Wasn’t it?
Fiona lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the daylight faded into dusk. She hadn’t moved since she’d returned from the fiasco in the library earlier.
How could she have been such a fool? Blethering on like that. If Kier had not thought her a madwoman before, he surely would now. He’d even admitted he found it hard to believe her. Not that she could blame him exactly. The whole thing sounded as fantastical as the story about a mad scientist that Mary Shelley had written this past summer. When Shane had returned from France and told Fiona people were talking about it, she’d thought it utterly ridiculous. No one could create a monster. She still didn’t think a human could create one, but a monster certainly had been born—his name was Walter Avery.
But how could she make Kier believe her?
If only she hadn’t nattered on. Now Kier probably thought her the worst of the lot. Dulcee talked to angels and Lona saw ghosts. Kathleen might give herself fine airs in keeping with an imaginary lord husband, but Fiona had just topped all three of them with her insistence that a madman escaped from Bedlam had arranged for three abductions and murdered the wife of an earl. Worse, she’d mentioned her brothers again, and Kier thought they didn’t exist.
Fiona had meant to stay calm and present the facts of her abduction in a logical way. Instead, she’d gone all soft and mushy inside when Kier had asked if Seamus had touched her. The flash of anger in Kier’s sapphire eyes had sent a corresponding flare of heat coursing through her. She’d let herself think he cared, maybe even wanted to protect her. Then she’d seen the look of disbelief on his face and known he had only been thinking about his responsibility to his guests.
He hadn’t even tried to stop her when she’d run out. What more proof did she need that he took no personal interest in her? And she needed to stop thinking about him.
For now though, she would cease trying to convince Kier of the truth, lest he think she was slipping deeper into the madness he believed her to have. She would have to be careful not to exhibit any strong emotions either, but behave in a ladylike, submissive manner. Fiona tried to smile, thinking how her brothers would laugh at the idea of her being submissive. It was a quality not in her nature, but she needed to survive and would be wise to remember it.
Fiona sighed. If only she had been able to snag a candle. Who knew when she’d be getting to the library again?
How one small Scottish female whose wits were somewhat scattered could unsettle him so much, Kier didn’t know, but his usually steely resolve seemed to melt like churned butter left in the sun whenever he was around Fiona. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since their conversation yesterday. When she hadn’t come to lunch today, he’d had to exert every ounce of willpower he had not to go up to her chamber, even though Erin had assured him that Fiona had pleaded a headache and that she’d take lunch to Fiona later.
“Ye have the look of a man about to ascend the gallows’ steps instead of to enter Kildare’s,” Finley said as he met Kier on the street in front of the club that night. “What has your hellcat done this time?”
Kier frowned. “Why do you always think it is Fiona?”
Finley laughed. “A blindfolded man could see in the dark that ye are besotted with her.”
Kier deepened his scowl. “I am not besotted.”
“No?”
“No. She…she just tells some unusual stories.”
“’Tis not unusual for someone who talks to faeries.”
Kier looked at his friend. Finley had attended a hedge school with Daniel and himself when they were younger. Finley had shown a quick intelligence at both ciphering and reading, but it was his astute ability to judge a man’s character that had made him Daniel’s most trusted man. That, and he had a glib tongue that smacked of the Blarney Stone as well. However, Finley did have a strange penchant to speak of the old myths and superstitions as if they were real.
“The one thing Fiona does not do is talk to faeries.”
“She was the day I saw her through the tower window. A right pretty little faerie sprite too, springing right out of the flower with hair the colour of pet
als.”
Or maybe Finley talked like this to aggravate Kier. “If you are not careful, you will end up in the asylum yourself.”
Finley grinned and shook his head. “Ye need to believe, ’tis all. Have ye not noticed Fiona seeming to talk to herself?”
“All of my guests do that. It is one of the reasons they are there.”
“But the other women have not enchanted ye, have they?”
“No, but…wait a minute. I am not enchanted.”
Finley shrugged. “Bewitched or charmed then. Take your pick.”
“No. I am not under any spell.”
“Even if I had not seen Fiona talking to the flower faerie,” Finley went on as though Kier had said nothing, “the lass has the look of the Fae—the slanted eyes, their unusual colour, her fair skin—fairer even than our Irish lasses—the girl looks otherworldly. The Sidhe leave their mark upon those they favor.”
“Stop talking nonsense. We are here to meet Fontaine and his partner. I doubt they will think us strong leaders with the capability to gain freedom for Ireland if you keep spouting gibberish about the wee folk.”
Finley raised an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed. “How else do ye explain the fact that ye have been moonstruck since the lass’s appearance?’
“I am not moonstruck.”
Finley opened the door to the club. “’Tis obvious to me and probably half the leprechaun population of Ireland that ye are.”
Kier shook his head, not deigning to answer. He just hoped Finley would return to sane and rational conversation before their meeting.
He was definitely not moonstruck.
Chapter Seventeen
Fontaine and Algernon were already seated at one of the corner tables, snifters of cognac in front of them. Trust the French to drink brandy when there was fine Jameson whiskey to be had or a pint of Guinness.
Kier and Finley drew up chairs while the bartender brought their drams around. Kier noted that Fontaine had his back to the wall, as he had the last time they met, and that his eyes seemed to rove the room as though looking for someone…or maybe something, like trouble.
Trouble they didn’t need. Funding for the cause—or contacts that could provide funding—they did. Still, he wondered once more what had brought Fontaine to Ireland.
“How is business going for you?” Kier asked.
“Quite well. I received my first shipment of cognac from La Havre just two days ago,” Fontaine answered as he held up his glass. “I dare say it will be better than this.”
“We might be havin’ to put your bottle against one of our fine whiskeys then,” Finley said, lifting one brow in mock challenge.
Algernon gave the shot glass Finley held a dismissive look. “Nothing compares to a good French cognac.”
Spoken like the dandy he was. Kier hid his dislike for the man, reminding himself the French often acted arrogant, but truth be told, Kier had little respect for men who dallied with married women. Then he noticed Fontaine watching him and forced a smile. “Whiskey is an acquired taste.”
“And a worthy one,” Fontaine intervened smoothly. “Perhaps I should look into exporting whiskey along with wool.”
Algeron started to retort but then snapped his mouth closed as Fontaine gave him a cool look.
Kier noticed the exchange with interest. Apparently, Fontaine was in charge, but were the men more than business partners? It seemed strange that an artist would also be a merchant, but then wars took tolls on every country’s economy. “Have you contracted with someone for the wool?”
“I am working on that,” Fontaine replied. “The market in France is open to fine wool, especially this time of year. I want to be able to offer the best price I can to your sheep breeders and still make a profit of course.” He shifted the conversation subtly. “The French investors for woolens would also have an interest in securing Ireland’s independence since that would keep export taxes down.”
At least the man knew his business. The Irish had chafed under high export taxes England imposed on them, while English goods coming to Ireland bore none of that burden. The tax situation was just another way to ensure Ireland remained poor and under English control.
Kier could understand the impatience of some of his countrymen to wrest themselves free. His ancestral Viking blood stirred at times as well, but the age of berserkers was long over. Daniel O’Connell had the right of it—the path to freedom was in reestablishing the Irish Parliament, or at least seats in London. That would come through negotiation, not the use of swords, but they still needed funding.
“That is good news,” Finley said amiably while signaling for the barkeep to bring everyone another round. “How might we best approach them?”
“I will handle that part through my contact at La Havre,” Fontaine said, “but I will need to be able to give them some detailed information—”
“When is the next time you are going to meet with your rebels?” Algeron interrupted. “We need to know with whom we are working.”
“They are not rebels,” Kier replied, his distaste for Algernon rising. The one thing not needed was the word rebel. “We are working for a peaceful resolution through unity with all Irish landholders.”
“Of course you are, mon ami,” Fontaine said, sending Algernon another cryptic look. “It would be most useful for us to meet with your…associés.”
Kier exchanged a subtle glance with Finley. Their next meeting only included a small group of men since they didn’t want to draw suspicion to themselves with a large gathering. The English had already banned the monster meetings that Daniel used to speak to. There was a small risk of exposing those men, but perhaps Fontaine didn’t need to know their names…at least, not right away. Yet, they could hardly expect help from the Frenchman if they didn’t allow him to attend. When Finley nodded his head slightly, Kier knew he’d been thinking the same thing.
“We have a meeting scheduled near Christ Church tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. We would be honoured for you to join us.”
Fontaine smiled and raised his glass. “I will be there.”
Wesley Alton’s mind was spinning with the information he’d just received. By the time he and Nicholas reached the flat they were renting in one of the Georgian townhouses off Merrion Square, he’d devised a plan of sorts. Paying the rented hack, he looked up at the segmented fanlight of stained glass that graced the architrave above the oaken door. Two decades previously, the English aristocrats who had owned these homes would never have considered letting them to commoners, but Ireland had fallen on hard times since its Parliament had been dissolved. As he climbed the steps, Wesley noted the heavy brass knocker on the door needed polishing and paint was peeling from the window sills. The plasterwork on the friezes in their flat was chipped and cracked as well and the carpet frayed and a bit threadbare, but the beauty of the architecture remained intact. That the nobility had deserted these magnificent buildings to return to England didn’t bother Wesley at all. Lack of anyone who might have recently been to London just made Dublin a much safer place for him to be.
Nicholas unlocked the door to their second-floor unit, headed for the small bar and busied himself with pouring drinks. Wesley walked to the window and gazed out at the darkened square across the street. Although the light from the street lamps didn’t allow him to see the broad expanse of the park, the setting reminded him of all that he was entitled to. Bitterness slowly crept over the euphoria he’d been feeling about his latest scheme. He should have spent the last year entertaining in his father’s elegant townhouse in Mayfair, dallying with a variety of lovers, instead of being subjected to an East End tenement, forced to mingle with the rot of London’s humanity. He should be hosting parties at the country estate of Cantford, instead of that bastard MacLeod. The damn Scot had stolen Jillian and the title that should have been Wesley’s. He snarled aloud. That little MacLeod bitch would pay f
or what he’d lost. He’d be sending a letter to the warden soon—a well-worded letter making quite clear if the warden refused to move the Scottish whore to the main asylum, the warden’s own position would be on the line. Wesley had always found it easy to falsify documents.
Nicholas took a look at his face and turned back to the bar to pour Wesley’s cognac into an ordinary glass from the Waterford snifter and then handed it to him. “What is wrong now? I thought the meeting went well.”
“It did, no thanks to you.”
“Moi? What did I do?”
Wesley wondered if the boy had inherited any of his brains at all. “You insult their whiskey and then you call them rebels. Not terribly intelligent, is it?”
“Whiskey is a foul liquor.” Nicholas shrugged. “They are rebels. Beyond the Pale, they are practically heathens.”
“Well, their leader is not. Daniel O’Connell’s family was wealthy enough to send him to school in France.”
“And how did you find that out?”
Wesley drained his cognac. “Because when my esteemed father wanted to get rid of me, he sent me to the same boarding school.”
Nicholas stared at him. “You know Daniel O’Connell?”
“No. He was an upperclassman when I arrived and I was a plebe. Our paths did not cross.”
“If he was educated in France, why would he ever return here to the outskirts of civilization?” Nicholas refilled his glass. “We would not be here if we had a choice.”
As if his son needed to remind him. Rage rose inside Wesley again at all the slights that had been given him. His rightful place was in London, a titled marquess, with Jillian as his wife. If that damn MacLeod—
“So what is your plan?” Nicholas asked, interrupting Wesley’s thoughts. “Why are we supporting the rebel—the Irish—cause? I see no profit in it.”
“Because it benefits us in other ways, at least for now. My first shipment of cognac came through customs with no problem.”
Sister of Rogues Page 16
