by Bliss Bennet
She pulled up the memory of the words he had offered—a harp, strings, hearing—allowing them to tease at something long forgotten, tucked away far in the back of her brain. Her father’s voice, deep, impassioned, proclaiming not just a slogan, but a creed. . .
“Equality—It is newly strung and shall be heard,” she whispered, her eyes widening in both awe and dismay. The sheer audacity of Aidan McCracken, to translate the seditious motto of the United Irishmen into Gaelic and inscribe it on his pistol for all to see. Flaunting it right under the noses of the English oppressors, mocking them not only for their arrogance toward the people they looked down upon as so very inferior to themselves, but also for their ignorance of that people’s language and culture. She’d never been prouder of her daring father.
And she’d never been more frightened of another man than she was of the one sitting across from her. O’Hamill knew. Somehow, he knew she was the one who had taken that pistol and aimed it at Kit Pennington, the son and brother of English lords. She could see the knowledge of it in the loose, confident way he held himself in that chair, in the shrewd, cunning glint in those dark green eyes. And he meant to use that knowledge to his own advantage. Despite whatever kinship lay between them.
He took up her cup and downed a large gulp before dropping it back in its saucer with a loud clink. “Bah. It’s gone cold. Why doesn’t the wench bring any fresh?”
Fianna pushed back her chair, groping in her reticule for coin to throw on the table. She had to leave. Now.
But he followed her out the door and over the rough cobbles of the street. Could she lose him in the alleys behind the tea shop?
“I’m to have no thanks for my friendly warning, then, cailín?” he called. “To be sure and I thought you had the look of an O’Hamill, but no child of our Mairead’s would have shamed her family with such a show of ingratitude.”
Fianna stilled in her tracks. “Mairead? Mairead O’Hamill?”
“Heard of the O’Hamill, have you?” he said, taunting her by focusing on the least important of the two names. “Descendants of Binneach, son of Eoghan, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, founder of the Uí Néill dynasty? Poets and wise men, advisers to the mightiest of the land, they were, before the English sullied Éireann shores.”
He paused, as if waiting for her to speak. Did he expect her to claim a place in such an exalted lineage? She would not give him the satisfaction.
Booted footsteps rang against the cobbles, bringing him one step closer, then another. “A McCracken might have forgotten such a proud heritage,” he whispered over her shoulder. “But a daughter of Mairead’s? You’ll never convince me of it.”
Fianna allowed the shudder to finish its course through her body before carefully turning to face the man who should have been a stranger, but was not.
“Oh, and haven’t you just the way of her?” he asked, the ghost of a smile whispering across his lips. “That nose up in the air, those green eyes flashing, cutting a man down to size quicker than a sword. A brave fear, Aidan McCracken, to take up with a sidh such as our Mairead.”
A chill shivered down Fianna’s spine. “Who are you?” she whispered, needing him to say the words out loud.
He took a step closer, lowering his voice as he pulled the cap from his head. “Sure and you’re not knowing your own uncle Sean, Máire O’Hamill?”
Fianna jerked back. This dark, hard man, her mother’s young brother? The same eager boy who’d followed Aidan McCracken about with the devotion of an apostle? Not a distant connection, but the closest of kin?
She shook her head. “But they left—you left. You all fled, before the soldiers could come and take you away. Aunt McCracken, she told me she gave you the money to go to America, so they wouldn’t capture you and hang you, as they did my father.”
He nodded. “’Tis true, my father and my sister sailed for America. But not I. I’ll not be abandoning the cause of Éirinn so quick as all that.”
The Sean O’Hamill she remembered had been a boy, only a handful of years older than herself, far too young to take part in any of the fighting the rebels had planned. But he’d hung on Aidan McCracken’s every word, whispering under his breath the pledge taken by the United Irishmen, determined someday to play a role in bringing liberty and equality to their people.
Her mother, Mairead, would sit and watch, pride warring with worry, as her young lover set her even younger brother aflame with visions of Irish freedom.
Her mother—
Fianna’s breath caught in her throat. “Is she here with you? Mairead?” she whispered.
He considered her for a long moment before answering. “She is not. Did I not say she’d gone to America?”
“Where?”
“I know not.”
Fianna pressed a fist against her chest. How quickly thoughts of vengeance had been forgotten, overshadowed by the yearning for a mother’s arms.
But Mairead O’Hamill did not deserve the name of mother. No, not after abandoning her to the McCrackens, their beloved Aidan’s only child, in exchange for mere coin. Not after purchasing her own freedom at the expense of her daughter’s. Not after leaving Máire behind.
No, Mairead’s daughter was a McCracken now, not an O’Hamill. She’d prove it, or perish in the attempt.
But might even an O’Hamill still be devoted to the memory of a hero such as Aidan McCracken?
She stepped closer to Sean, laying a hand on the man’s rough sleeve. “Help me find someone, Seanuncail?”
He laughed at that, the joke of the old nickname, as if a boy only four years her senior could be counted among the doddering old men typically granted the respectful title of “grand-uncle.” Rougher and lower than she remembered, that laugh, yet in it she finally recognized her childhood playmate, a boy who’d always had time for an illegitimate niece shunned by neighbor and parish alike.
“Come to London chasing after a long-lost love, have you, then?” he asked.
Her hand tightened on his arm. “A lover? Say instead a killer.”
“Aidan McCracken’s killer? Ah, so that’s why you’re hanging after young Pennington. Not being much of a help to you, is he, though, I’d wager. And what’s a wee slip of a cailín such as yourself going to do to the likes of the Major, even if the boy were to lead you to him? Bat your eyes at him until he cries sorry?”
Fianna’s hand jerked away, her stomach seething at the derision in his voice. But instead of backing down, she took a step closer, hands clenching tight by her sides.
“Mayhap, Seanuncail, you’ve not heard what’s become of the other men who betrayed my father? How Samuel Russell lost all his money at cards, trying to win enough to please a ladylove? Or how Alan Simms’s wife won’t let him near his children after catching him with another woman, his trousers down about his ankles? Or of that gaoler at Kilmainham, how his own brother beat him within an inch of his life, all over a mere sidh? Curious, how each lost what he most desired, far beyond the means of its recall. And all taken away by a wee slip of a cailín. Or so I have heard.”
The lines around Sean O’Hamill’s eyes deepened, almost as if they were tempting him to smile. But his lips held fast in a grim line. “Sure, are you, that Old Scratch’s not already called the devil home to hell?”
“Certain,” she lied with practiced ease. Surely the Lord would never be so cruel as to steal Major Pennington away before she had had her chance at him.
Sean stared at her then, his eyes as deep and green as her own mother’s. Could he see it, the hope that burned in hers? The only thing that kept her moving, day through deadened day? The hope that by bringing the men who had harmed her father to justice, and by forcing Pennington to recant his vicious lies, she’d still her grandfather’s pain, and finally prove herself worthy of the McCracken family? A real family to love, one that would love her back?
“They do say no one rejoices more in revenge than a woman, don’t they, now?” Sean said at last. “But the Major’s no player in th
e current game, even if he is still alive. Why should one bother with the likes of him?”
She swallowed, hard. She should have expected it, yet another rejection from her Irish family. Well, no matter. She’d done all the rest by herself, and she’d not shy away from doing this one last thing alone, either.
With a nod, she turned away and began to trudge down the street.
But before she had taken three steps, a weighty hand on her shoulder drew her back.
“For Mairead’s sake, though, and for Aidan’s, I might be persuaded to spend a few hours looking for yon Major,” Sean said. “That whoreson refused my sister even the small comfort of cutting a lock of hair from the head of her own true love before hanging him dead, didn’t he, now? And turned him into a figure of contempt, rather than the martyr he was, all with a few lies whispered in the right ears. What idiots, to believe a man such as Aidan McCracken would ever betray his men.”
A grim smile slashed across his face. “Perhaps such a fiend deserves the fate a mere cailín has in store.”
The bond of common purpose tightened around her then, almost as strong as the ties of kinship she had felt for Sean in their youth.
“And Ireland will soon have need of a daughter who teaches her enemies the price of betraying her,” Sean continued. “One who can do more than just breed, nurture, and give over her men to the republican cause. One ready and willing to exact vengeance upon its worst enemies. Might you be such a daughter, Máire O’Hamill?”
For the first time in a long time, Fianna felt the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Sean had not come to England simply to raise money for the poor, then, had he? A wily man, this newly rediscovered uncle of hers. Was he bent on political reform? Or did he think to organize another armed revolt?
No matter. He’d not turn her from her own purpose. At least not yet.
“Perhaps I might put my hand to your cause,” she said, her tone a tempting drawl.
A dark, satisfied spark brightened his green eyes. He gestured back toward the tea shop. “Then come, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
But Fianna remained where she was. “I’ll be more than ready to help you, Sean. But only after you’ve first helped me.”
She reached out a gloved hand and squeezed his arm in a viselike grip. “I need to deliver God’s justice to a killer, Seanuncail. Find Christopher Pennington for me. If not for my sake, then for my father’s. So he may rest in the peace he deserves, with the glory of a hero, not the shame of a turncoat.”
Sean looked down at her hand for a long moment, then back up to her face. Slowly, the hand of his other arm reached out to cover her own, clenching until she thought her fingers must surely break under the pressure. But the nod of acquiescence he gave left no room for any feeling but elation.
Christopher Pennington would not remain hidden much longer. Not with both Fianna and her uncle now on the hunt.
CHAPTER SIX
Kit should have been home, preparing for his meeting with Theo and Uncle Christopher. But instead, he found himself again at the door of number 12 Seymour Street, eager to find out if Fianna Cameron had found a clue in the Army List he’d lent her. He had the excuse of returning for the book, of course, but perhaps he should have send a note inquiring whether his visit would be welcome. If Ingestrie hadn’t left yet for his daily rounds of the clubs, would he think Kit had designs on his mistress? It wouldn’t do to get the fellow’s back up, or he might find himself in the midst of a ridiculous duel. Perhaps he should send round a boy with a note?
But as Kit searched for a likely messenger, Ingestrie himself stepped onto the pavement. His face the picture of petulant ire, he waved toward two men who followed, urging them not to dawdle. Hauling heavy, hastily packed trunks on their shoulders, the men pushed past Kit to drop their burdens with grunts of relief into a waiting dray, then turned back, presumably for another load.
“Hold there, driver! I’ve need of your services,” Ingestrie shouted as the cabbie Kit had hired began to pull away. Catching sight of Kit, the viscount gave a puzzled frown, as if he couldn’t quite recall who this other gentleman was, though he knew that he ought. “Done with that cab, are you, sir?”
Kit nodded. “Setting off on another voyage already, Ingestrie? Benedict told me you’d just arrived in London.” Would Miss Cameron be accompanying the young lordling on what looked to be a journey of no short duration?
“Benedict?” Ingestrie’s eyes clouded, then widened. “Ah yes, Pennington’s brother, ain’t it? Good chap, Pennington. Give any brother of Pennington’s a drink, I would, ’cept it’s all packed up in the cart there.”
“Removing entirely, are you? Surprised to hear it.”
“Yes, so was I when the pater called me up on the carpet,” Ingestrie said. “No need to rusticate, not over a mere wench. But would he listen? Never saw a man take anyone into such dislike, and for no cause whatsoever! Not as if I’d bring her to Almack’s, or Gunter’s, or any place a respectable girl’s likely to frequent.”
“That’s the last of ’em, yer lordship, ’cept for the ones belonging to the lady,” one of the carters interrupted as he sidled past them to add another box to the pile.
Ingestrie gave an impatient yank to one of the many capes of his greatcoat, pulling it free from where it had caught under his collar. “Be sure you return for the others, man, after you’ve delivered these. And don’t allow her to abscond with them; they’ve all got to go back to the blasted dressmaker.”
“Miss Cameron does not accompany you, then?” Kit asked, working to mask his surprise.
“Haven’t I just been saying the pater’s taken against her? And how he got wind she’d accompanied me here, I’ll never know. Traveled steerage on the way over, far away from his sharp eyes, didn’t she? But somehow fathers always know, damn their eyes.”
Ingestrie threw a coin in the direction of one of the carters, then bounded up the steps of the waiting carriage. “I envy you, Pennington, having only an elder brother to answer to. Especially one who enjoys his pleasures as much as does yours. No need to worry about the antecedents of one’s lady friends, not with a fellow like Saybrook as the head of one’s family.”
Kit scowled, but the obtuse fellow paid no heed. Hanging from the open window of the hack, he called, “Wish me luck in finding a girl as lovely as Fianna back in Staffordshire. I dare say she’ll have an easier time finding a new companion than I, more’s the pity. Do you think Saybrook might take an interest? Oh, no need to scowl so, just because you’ve not the blunt to keep her.”
Kit banged a fist against the carriage door, sending the startled lordling flying back into the squabs. “Drive on, growler!”
“Impudent dandiprat,” he muttered as he made his way up the stairs to Ingestrie’s former lodgings. Miss Cameron was no kin to the viscount, but he’d left her behind with as little compunction as if she’d been a soiled napkin, or a wine bottle emptied to the dregs. No matter her own failings, Fianna Cameron was well rid of such a blackguard.
The carters hadn’t closed the door behind them; it swung open at his touch. Miss Cameron sat perched on top of a trunk in the otherwise empty room, her thin brows arching over a small volume she held open in her ungloved hands. No sign of tears, or even of anger, marred her pale skin; from the sight of her, one would never have thought she’d just been abandoned by a feckless lover. Indeed, dust motes stirred in the shaft of late morning sun surrounding her, almost as if they danced at her fey command.
Some strange part of Kit wanted to dance, too, almost as if knowing she was no longer tied to Ingestrie had freed something wild inside him, something he’d not even known he’d been keeping under tight rein.
Mere lust, most likely.
He welcomed the feeling, even while recognizing the need to restrain it. No one in the family had ever spoken of it, but they all eventually realized that the late Lord Saybrook had suffered from a venereal disease. And ever since Kit had realized the true cause of his father’s declin
e into death, he’d found himself indifferent to, put off, even, by the fairer sex. That said indifference was proving to be of limited, not protracted, duration reassured him no end. Yet Ingestrie, damn the insolent pup, was certainly correct that he was in no position to take on a high-flyer. More importantly, he’d promised himself never to allow his baser urges to put him at risk of becoming diseased, as his father had been.
Even in the face of temptation as alluring as Fianna Cameron.
His footsteps echoed against the newly uncarpeted floor as he made his way into the empty room. At the sound, she looked up, her wide green eyes drawing him toward her.
“Mr. Pennington. How kind of you to call.” She closed her book and set it on the trunk beside her. Not the Army List he’d lent her, but some other, weightier tome.
Kit cleared his throat. “Miss Cameron. I came to inquire about your search. But I fear you have more important matters occupying your time.”
“Indeed, sir, you find me woefully unprepared for entertaining.” Her gaze swept over the empty room as if she could not quite believe how quickly it had been denuded of its furnishings. But her voice betrayed no unease. “If you’ve no objection to using a box for a chair, you are more than welcome to keep me company whilst I await the carter’s return.”
Instead of sitting on the box, which rested against the far wall, Kit took up a stance beside the trunk on which she perched. The sunlight lit the back of her head, where her dark, thick hair was dressed in a decorous knot. Tiny wisps along her hairline had pulled free, though, drawing his eyes to her nape. If he blew a puff of air across it, would she react to the glissading curls?
Shaking his head free of the whimsical urge, he tucked his hands behind his back. “Did the Army List prove of help, ma’am?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Pennington. Although it included several men of the same surname, none of them were the man for whom I search.” She sighed, drawing the cloth of her dress tight across her small breasts. “If only you had served in the military, you might advise me on how to go on.”
