by Bliss Bennet
“Kit! Well-timed. We’ve just now finished the binding.”
Sam, who had been minding the counter, darted back into the depths of the shop. A moment later, he returned, a single volume balanced like a tray on one open palm. With an exaggerated courtly flourish, he presented it to Fianna. “Your book, my lady.”
Her words had been bound not in leather, suitable for a gentleman’s library, but in the newer, cheaper stiff boards covered in paper. Yet Fianna’s fingers hovered over the title printed on its front cover with as much reverence as if Sam had handed her the rarest of illuminated manuscripts.
How expeditiously the Woolers had transformed her words into print. Over Fianna’s bent head, Kit smiled his thanks to his friend.
Sam folded his arms over his chest and nodded. Sam’s suspicions of Fianna had certainly faded, hadn’t they?
Heavy footsteps sounded against the uneven wood floor—when had the thump of the press stopped? A man several years older and several inches taller than Sam bustled up to the front counter, wiping his hands on an already ink-stained apron. “Mr. Pennington. Do not tell me this elegant young lady is your collaborator?”
Kit’s smile grew wider. “Miss Cameron, may I introduce Mr. T. J. Wooler, printer, publisher, and leading advocate for the rights of the English people. And, of course, Sam’s uncle. Mr. Wooler, my writing partner, Miss Fianna Cameron.”
Fianna made her curtsy, one more elegant than any he’d seen her offer any nobleman. “Sir, it is an honor to make the acquaintance of the publisher of The Black Dwarf. Rarely have I read so intelligent an advocacy of the rights of the people as in the pages of your newspaper.”
“And rarely have I read so thought provoking a discussion of the Irish Rebellion as in the pages of this book, ma’am,” Wooler answered, tapping a finger atop the volume in question. “Few in England have any idea that any Protestants joined Catholics in protesting the oppression of the Anglo-Irish landlords. A misperception that will change, I hope, if the critics aren’t too craven to review your work.”
“Not many men are willing to stand up for their principles the way you are, sir,” Kit said. “Not if they know they’ll be imprisoned for it.”
“Bah.” Wooler shook his head. “Who would not appreciate a holiday in Warwick Gaol?”
“The accommodations must have been very fine for you to have devoted eighteen months of your life to them, sir,” Kit answered.
Fianna’s eyes widened. “I honor you, sir.” She curtsied again, this time in appreciation.
Wooler looked remarkably like his nephew as he waved aside their praise, the color rising in his round cheeks. “Someone will always be found bold enough to brave an arbitrary law, and publish truth, in contempt of penalties. Although I’ve rarely encountered any who can combine rationality and passion with as much success as you and Mr. Pennington have done here, Miss Cameron. Have you ever considered writing more regularly, say, for a weekly newspaper? I’d be well pleased to have you take up a pen for the Dwarf.”
Kit’s breath caught at the sight of eager interest flaring in Fianna’s eyes. Lord, just imagine if she allowed the deep well of passion she’d kept so hidden to break free, even just in print. Railing against the injustices of the world not just to him, but to the entire English public, calling for wrongs to be righted, for the people to join together to claim their rights? By God, she’d set the world afire.
“Now, Uncle, I told you that Kit has his eye on a seat in Parliament,” Sam said. “What time has he for scribbling?”
“Bah.” Mr. Wooler waved a dismissive hand. “Any scoundrel who can bid the highest price can walk into the British House of Commons. But it takes a man of both courage and talent to challenge the people to become political actors themselves. Or,” he added with a nod toward Fianna, “a woman.”
“How kind you are to suggest it,” Fianna replied, her fingers grazing lightly over the volume on the counter before her. “Perhaps after I’ve had a chance to read through the fruits of this current labor, and have set to rest my own doubts about my skills, we might speak again on the matter?”
“Of course, ma’am. You and Mr. Pennington will always be welcome in Sun Street.”
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Sam and Mr. Wooler returned to their work. The heavy, repetitive thump of the press once again began to shake the floorboards as Kit and Fianna made their way back to the street.
Kit handed Fianna into the cab they’d left waiting, then climbed up to take a seat beside her. With that hint of a smile on her face, how could he resist throwing an arm about her?
“Can you believe it, Fee?” he said, squeezing her tight to his side. “Did you ever dream you’d be holding a book in your hands, knowing that without you, it would never have come to be?”
“Without you, don’t you mean? If you had not known Mr. Wooler and his uncle, or been unwilling to add polish to my dry-as-dust prose—”
Kit raised a finger to her lips, stilling her grateful outburst. “Without us, then, Miss Cameron. You and I, together.”
Ducking under the brim of her bonnet, he replaced his finger with his own lips, a heady mix of pride, gratitude, and sheer joy electrifying his touch. The sum of earthly bliss, it was, to feel her respond with an ardor to match his own.
“Kit, we must stop,” she whispered, even as she kissed a hot trail down the slope of his jaw. “Anyone can see us.”
“Pull down the shades.”
“The cab doesn’t have any.”
The sight of the blush high on Fianna’s cheekbones, the knowledge that he’d been the one to put it there, almost made pulling away worth the effort. Kit dropped his head against the squabs and took a deep breath, willing his own blood to calm.
“Was the elder Mr. Wooler in earnest, Kit? About your writing for his paper?”
“About our writing for his paper, Fianna. He’d not want my overly enthusiastic prosings, not without the curb of logic you provide.”
“You sell yourself short, Kit. Your words, they speak to both the mind and the heart.” Her eyes narrowed as he shook his head in denial. “They speak to mine. And if you can move my cold heart, how much more easily will you appeal to the readers of the Dwarf?”
“What of my political aspirations? Do you believe Theo is right, that it would be madness to pursue them?”
“Madness, no. But perhaps not the best use of your talents? Must not a politician keep many of his passions in check to be skilled in the art of diplomacy, in order to be successful in negotiating for his cause?”
Kit grunted. “I suppose I deserve that, after nearly undressing you in the midst of a public hackney.”
“It was not meant as a criticism, Kit, but a compliment,” she said, laying a hand against his arm. “Your enthusiasm, your passion, they draw people to you. And they’ll draw people to your words, too.”
Even though he stared down at the floor, Kit could feel Fianna moving closer on the seat, taking his hand in hers. “The men in power, men like your father and your brother, once had little need to consider the views of ordinary people like me, even when they made decisions that directly affected our lives. But today, some of those ordinary people are starting to believe that they can and should have a voice in the way their country is run. Public opinion matters, Kit, in a way it never has before. And your belief in them, Kit, your passionate belief that such people have the right to be heard, shines out in your writing. If you can persuade me that I’ve the right to participate, to make my voice heard, do you not think you can persuade others of the same? If you can fire such people with your own passionate belief in them, will that not be an accomplishment well worth the achieving?”
He’d never heard Fianna speak at such length, or with such overpowering emotion. And when he raised his head to hers, Lord, what utter confidence shone from those deep green eyes. How different from the doubt that dominated Theo’s, or the tentativeness that shaded Benedict’s, whenever Kit expressed his political views. Even Uncle Chri
stopher had never looked at him with the absolute faith that animated Fianna’s earnest countenance.
What more could a man want from a wife than for her to believe he could win her the world?
“I don’t think I can do it without you, Fee,” he said, turning his hand to grab tight to hers.
Now it was Fianna’s turn to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid you will have to, Kit. For finishing this book was only the first step in what I hope to accomplish. Now I must return to Ireland, book in hand, and hope it can begin the work of clearing my father’s name. And of earning me a place in my father’s family.”
“A book with so much to accomplish needs to put its best foot forward,” he said, struggling to keep his voice light. “Rebound in leather, I think, rather than this cheap board and paper. With gold tooling on the spine and the covers. Green leather, do you think, in honor of Ireland?”
She gasped as he plucked the book from her lap. How long did it take for a book to be bound? No matter; he’d make sure the bindery held it long enough for his express to reach Ireland and, if he were lucky, for a response to be sent in return. Yes, he’d formally request her hand from her grandfather, loath as he was to pay such a sign of respect to a man who kept his granddaughter at such a distance. He’d do far more, if it would bring her even a few moments happiness.
Such as admitting his lie about Uncle Christopher’s supposed death. And bringing about a reconciliation between the two.
But first, the easy part. The letter to McCracken.
“Kit, truly, such extravagance is hardly necessary,” she protested, reaching for the book.
“No, I’ll not have your words shame you by going out in public nearly naked,” he said, tucking the book behind his back. “Clothes do make the gentleman, or the lady, and people will judge a book by its cover. Now, what do you say to half-leather with marble boards? Or should we go for the extravagant full?”
Yes, he’d do far more, just to see another hint of that smile teasing at the corners of her lips.
Dear Aunt Mary:
I know how the rumors about my father’s your brother’s betrayal have grieved my grandfather your father
Do you remember the sermon Grandfather McCracken preached about the verse from Romans? For he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him who doeth evil
Please accept the enclosed volume as a token of my respect and affecti
The heavy hand with which Fianna crossed out yet another awkward opening to this impossible letter split the point of her quill, sending a huge blot of ink streaming across the paper. Had all her best words gone into the slim volume resting on the table beside her? Or could she not write because somewhere deep inside she still believed that no words, not even the ones bound between these stiff paper covers, would ever reconcile her grandfather to accepting her in his lost son’s stead?
“Ah, your soul to the devil,” she muttered, tossing the useless implement on the table and rubbing a thumb across her temple. She’d bring on the headache if she kept at this fruitless task much longer.
A sharp rap on the front door drew a wry smile to her lips. Surely her invocation hadn’t brought Old Scratch himself to her door. No, Kit must have forgotten his key.
Her smile of welcome faded at the sight of a stranger on the landing. Well dressed, even dandified, he was, with his many-caped greatcoat, gold-topped walking stick, and creamy silk waistcoat intricately embroidered with tiny flowers and vines. The wrinkles in his shirt and the wilting of his cravat, though, suggested that he’d first donned them not this morning, but sometime the night before. A hint of something she could not quite identify—anger? unease?—teased about the corners of his mouth. Fianna’s hand tightened around the knob, pulling the edge of the door tight against her side.
Sweeping the beaver hat from atop his head, the stranger made her an elegant, if perfunctory, bow. “Miss Cameron?”
She nodded. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
He did not seem to take umbrage at her lack of an answering curtsy, only tucked his arm behind his hip and thrust his chin in the air, as if to give her the clearest view of his person. “Ah, you do not mark the resemblance? How odd. People do say that out of all my siblings, it is Christian who most takes after me. But then, I am a good deal more mature than he. As, I understand, are you, ma’am.”
Fianna blinked. He did look a bit like Kit, this elegant lord, far more than either resembled their middle brother. The same shade of hair hung over the same high brow; the same long, tapering fingers tapped lightly against the same sinewy thigh. But if he shared any of his brother’s affability or kindheartedness, his air of fashionable ennui hid it from view. And if she read his sallow skin and bloodshot eyes correctly, dissipation, not passion, held him under its sway. No, she would not have guessed at their relationship, not even if Kit were standing right here beside him to acknowledge it.
“My Lord Saybrook.” Fianna made a curtsy as slight as his bow.
With a careless wave of his hat, he gestured toward the room behind her. “May I?”
“I’m afraid your brother is not here.”
“Of course he is not. I waited, you see, until I was sure he would not be.” The corners of his lips rose, just the slightest bit. That hint of insolence was not at all reassuring.
Tightening her own lips, Fianna pulled the door wide. Her nose wrinkled at the fume of tobacco and spirits he brought with him into the room.
“Ah, Benedict’s work, I see,” he said as he followed her into the drawing room. “He always did admire green.”
Fianna took a stance by the window, her hands folded neatly at her waist. Far better to let a potential enemy make the first move.
Saybrook held out his cane, hat, and gloves, as if expecting a servant to take them; when she remained still, he shrugged, then tossed the lot onto a side table himself. He then spent some minutes gazing about the room, examining its contents with the eye of a connoisseur.
Only then did he spare her his attention, considering her with the same dispassion he had paid to the furnishings and decorations. Then, after looking his fill, he lowered himself into the most comfortable chair in the room. He leaned back and stretched out his legs before him as if he were readying himself for a lazy afternoon’s nap.
Such an obvious mark of incivility told her more quickly than any words that Theo Pennington knew at least some of who and what she was. And that he wanted her to be well aware of the regard, or rather lack thereof, in which he held her. No, this would be anything but a friendly visit.
“I received a quite interesting letter this morning, Miss Cameron,” he began, in a tone as negligent as his posture. “Perhaps even upsetting, if one may admit to having feelings in this day and age. Might you guess what said letter contained?”
Fianna took a seat on the settee opposite, clasping her hands beneath her chin as if deep in thought. “I cannot begin to imagine. A billet-doux from your chère amie? A dunning note from your tailor?”
Theo Pennington’s eyes narrowed. He might think to intimidate her, but she was not entirely without resources of her own.
“A peer of the realm would hardly find any such news the least bit disturbing,” he answered. “No, the letter I received was of a more personal nature. From my youngest brother.”
“Oh? But I understand Christian has written to you many times over the past two months, all without causing you the least alarm. Or perhaps I misunderstood; were you too prostrated by his news of Mr. Norton’s disloyalty to pen even a line in return?”
“I took steps to address the issue of Mr. Norton, I assure you, ma’am. There was no need to inform Kit of every detail.”
“How unfortunate that your brother has not the skill of reading minds. For then he might have known just what you were about, without your having to take the trouble to write him of every detail.” Fianna gave him a polite smile, then lowered her eyes to the hands she had folded in her lap.
“He may not be ab
le to read my mind, but I assure you, ma’am, I am well able to read yours.” He leaned forward, his eyes intent upon hers. “And it holds nothing but trouble, trouble for me and mine.”
“What, did Kit send you a copy of our little book? I admit, some might find it a bit outspoken, but I assure you, sir, nothing we’ve written can be legally prosecuted under the Gagging Acts.”
“A book? I know nothing about a book. I am speaking of Kit’s plans for the future.”
“A future you’ve all but ensured he won’t have,” Fianna accused, her tone far sharper than she had intended. “Refusing to support his bid for Parliament shows a surprising lack of family feeling on your part, sir. Although perhaps one should not expect an Englishman to demonstrate loyalty, even to his own kin.”
“I have enough family feeling to put a stop to the more ridiculous of his schemes. Bad enough to discover he’s been spewing his fantastical ideas about the equality of man throughout the taverns and coffeehouses of London. Did he honestly think I’d allow him to do so in the midst of the House of Commons?”
“Afraid he’ll draw the ire of one of your drinking companions, are you? Or cause one of your gaming connections to call in your debts?”
“Indeed not, ma’am,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and resting his tented hands atop the slight paunch of his belly. “Afraid he’ll be shunned by society for taking up with undesirable acquaintances.”
“You consider me one of said undesirable acquaintances, my lord?”
Saybrook flashed a brief, chilling smile. “An Irishwoman? How could you be anything but? Oh, you’ve a compelling countenance, no doubt, although your person is rather slight to truly delight a man’s senses. Tell me, what tricks of bed sport have you plied to bewitch him? For I cannot imagine any other reason he’d be fool enough to believe another man’s doxy worth the time of an archbishop.”
