A Rebel Without a Rogue

by Bliss Bennet

  Kit shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. So very, very sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Uncle Christopher’s eyes watered. “For what do you have to apologize, Christian?”

  “For forcing you to be someone you’re not. Forcing you to hide your pain, to keep it inside and allow it to fester. For refusing to see the truth of you, the noble and the cowardly, the sacred and the profane. For being so blindly loyal, I couldn’t imagine injustices you might do, or help you to lift their painful weight from your soul.”

  “Then see justice served. Allow me to die, as I deserve!”

  Kit shook his head as he reached out, laying both his hands over his uncle’s. “Being blindly loyal may be unjust, but what is justice if it is not tempered by mercy? What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy? No, if taking your life would have truly served justice, sir, Fianna would have pulled this trigger herself.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Kit slowly pushed the pistol’s hammer back to half cock. Then, with painstaking care, he drew the weapon from the Colonel’s unresisting grasp.

  With a groan, Uncle Christopher’s upright military stance crumpled. Before his body could reach the floor, Benedict and Theo each caught him underneath an arm. Setting down the pistol, Kit took his uncle’s feet; together the three brothers laid their uncle gently back on his bed.

  Uncle Christopher’s eyes fluttered, but did not open.

  “Summon his man, and call for the physician,” Kit said as he tucked the coverlet over his uncle’s chest. Theo nodded and left the room.

  Pulling up a chair beside the bed, Kit sat and reached for his uncle’s hand. Benedict took up a stance close behind him.

  “You think Fianna acted from mercy? And not from love, Kit?” Benedict murmured, his tone low. “Love of you?”

  “I don’t know. I love her. Love her so much that it hurts. But she—” Kit couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

  “You love her.” Benedict took a deep breath. “And since the Penningtons seem to have discovered a new penchant for truth telling, I’ll say what I’ve been thinking ever since I heard you utter those words, back in your rooms. You love her, but you don’t trust her.”

  Kit turned to stare at his brother. “Trust her?”

  “No. Not entirely. You would have told her that Uncle Christopher was still alive if you did.”

  “Is that what you think? Not that I lied at first, but that I kept lying because I didn’t trust her?”

  “Yes,” Benedict answered, his arms tight against his chest. “You’d never have kept such a secret from me, or from Theo. Not from a member of your own family.”

  “No. I wouldn’t.” Kit swallowed down the painful lump in his throat and looked up at his brother. “I love her, but I’ve lost her, haven’t I, Ben? Not because she betrayed me. But because I betrayed her.”

  At Benedict’s nod, Kit dropped his head into his hands, fingers pressing hard against his skull.

  Minutes passed in silence until at last Theo returned with Mr. Acheson. Kit moved to stand beside his brothers as the physician began his examination.

  “Do you know where Miss Cameron might have gone, Kit?” Benedict asked.

  Theo’s eyes narrowed. “As long as she doesn’t return here, why should any of us care for Miss Cameron’s whereabouts?”

  “Because Kit does,” Benedict answered. “He loves her. And he needs to tell her the truth.”

  “I know where she’s gone,” Kit whispered, his stomach roiling at the realization. “God in heaven, she’s gone to an uncle as mad-brained as our own. To O’Hamill.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The smell of roasting pork, rich ale, and men’s bodies after a hard day’s work washed over Fianna as she took a few cautious steps into the interior of the Green Dragon Tavern. The patrons of this establishment were a different sort than those who frequented the Patriot Coffeehouse. Workingmen both, but the laze of contentment, rather than the fire of injustice, held sway here. A haunt of men employed by England’s wealthiest families, mayhap, men far more likely to take pride in their employers’ rank than to chafe against their own lack of status. No, Sean would be giving no incendiary political speeches at the Green Dragon.

  Why, then, had the note she’d found in his rooms after her return from Major Pennington’s asked her to meet him here?

  Heads turned and eyes widened as she threaded through the crowd, once again the only woman in a very public room. But no one offered challenge or insult. Good manners? Or fear of the man glowering from a table at the corner of the room?

  “It’s done, then?” Sean asked, pushing out a chair for her with his foot. “You’ve taken care of the Major?”

  She answered with only a curt nod.

  He waited for her to elaborate, but she remained silent. How could she explain her choice to her uncle, when she could barely understand it herself?

  Sean stared for a moment, then gave his own brief nod. Raising his tankard toward the serving maid, he gestured for her to bring another. “A toast, then, cailín. To one less butcher in the world.”

  Christopher Pennington might still be alive, but he was a broken man, unlikely to do any further harm to the innocent. Fianna raised her tankard to Sean’s, then drew a deep, bitter sip.

  Sean stretched an arm wide over the back of the chair beside him. “An interesting place, the Green Dragon,” he said, looking not at her but at the men jostling about the tavern’s bar.

  Fianna set down her own tankard, pushing it away from her. She’d never been partial to ale. “This is not just a simple celebration, then, Uncle?”

  A grim smile slashed across Sean’s face. “See that fellow behind you? The lean one by the counter, putting on airs as if he were the very cock of the walk?”

  Fianna turned slowly in her chair, bending down as if to retrieve something that had fallen to the floor. She glanced at the men by the bar out of the corner of her eye. Not the rotund one in blue, nor the one with a laugh as high-pitched as a woman’s. Ah, that one—tall, thin, and surrounded by a claque of fawning plauditors. Still wearing his livery, his dark hair cut in a manner far more similar to that of Ingestrie’s dissipated friends than any servant she’d ever seen. A high opinion of himself, this one had, and no mistake.

  “Castlereagh’s head footman,” Sean said as she returned her attention to their table. Her uncle spoke in a low voice, but intensity underlaid each word. “My friends and I have all tried to ingratiate ourselves with the arrogant bastard, but we’re far too lowly for the likes of him. You’ll soon bring him to a better sense of his own worth, though, will you not, cailín?”

  Fianna frowned. “And how will I be doing that, Seanuncail?”

  “Why, by playing to his amour-propre, of course. Flash those green eyes, fawn over him as if he’s the Second Coming, and you’ll soon have him jumping to do your bidding.”

  “After I’ve gained a post in Lord Castlereagh’s household?”

  Sean shook his head. “Castlereagh’s grown suspicious. Won’t allow any new servants about his London house or his person, only those from his own estate. Besides, this way will be quicker.”

  “What way, Sean?”

  Reaching across the table, Sean took her hands in his. “Just use the talents with which the good Lord has blessed you, Máire. Surely a cailín handsome enough to seduce not one but two English lordlings will have no trouble leading a mere footman astray.”

  Fianna stiffened. “You wish me to seduce him?”

  “I wish you to have him so crazed with lust that he’d do anything you ask for the chance of slaking it.”

  Pulling her hands from Sean’s, Fianna turned and stared at the man in question. Difficult, it was, to summon the glamour of allure for a man other than Kit. This one was so caught up in his own performance as ringleader of the sycophants who surrounded him that he didn’t notice her looking at him at first. But when a few of his cronies began laughing and clapping him on the back, gesturing in
her direction, the footman deigned to turn his eyes to her. His stare contained more insolence than admiration, as if he took it as the natural course of events that all eyes in the room should come to rest on him. He raised his tankard to her, then, with a wink and an overfamiliar smile, drank deep.

  She could not quite contain the shudder that racked her body at the sight. Could she truly allow such a man to lay hands on her person?

  “He’s an arrogant sort,” she observed, careful to keep revulsion out of her voice. “What if he won’t accept such a bargain? If he insists on slaking his lust before he offers anything in return?”

  Sean smiled. “It will be your task to see that it doesn’t come to that, now, won’t it?”

  She could not smile in return. “But if it does?” she insisted.

  Her uncle’s eyes dropped to the table, then shifted to the other side of the room. Unwilling to meet hers? She held her breath, waiting for his reassurance that he’d never ask such a thing of her. No true kinsman would ever ask such a thing of a member of his family, would he?

  But the words never came.

  “You wish me to prostitute myself?” she asked flatly.

  Sean shrugged. “Have you not done so already? And for a far lesser cause?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that. Not with Kit.”

  “But Ingestrie already had the use of you, Máire, even before young Pennington,” Sean said, impatience edging his voice. “A bit late to turn overdainty, is it not?”

  “Overdainty? What, because I sacrificed myself to Ingestrie for passage to London, and offered my love to Kit, now any fellow is entitled to my person? Whether I say yea or nay?”

  He frowned, his green eyes finally rising to hers. “What matters who else you lie with? No decent man will have a striapach to wife.”

  Whore. The foulness of the word Sean had uttered with such casual, unexpected cruelty sent the bile rising in her throat. Why had she assumed his offer of shelter would come hand in hand with acceptance, perhaps even love? The memory of the brave boy who’d comforted her when their neighbors whispered or shouted bastard must have blinded her to the reality of the grown man before her. He might defend an innocent child, yes. But offer respect to a woman he deemed irretrievably fallen?

  Why had she expected him to feel any differently than did the rest of the world?

  Because Kit did, something deep inside her whispered.

  She pushed back in her chair, squaring her shoulders as she faced her uncle. “No, Sean. I won’t do it. I’m finished pretending to be who I’m not.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, anger tightening his lips. “Pretending? Once a whore, always a whore, cailín. No matter how gentlemanlike the rogues who debauched you.”

  She slapped her hands down against the table. “Kit is no rogue. And I am not a whore.”

  The scowl slashing across Sean’s face made even her cold blood begin to race. “What, you would do such shameful things, and yet refuse to atone?”

  “Atone? For what must I atone?”

  “For the dishonor you’ve brought to the O’Hamill name!” His shout, and the fist he slammed down against the table in its wake, stilled all conversation in the room. But the harshness of his glare persuaded any eyes bold enough to catch his that it would be far safer to turn back to their own concerns than to inquire about his.

  The ale twisted in Fianna’s gut. So this was what her uncle truly thought of her?

  “Come, Máire,” Sean said, his voice lowered. He sat back down in his chair, gesturing for her to do the same. “You’ve brought justice to the Major. Why shirk now from enacting justice on a far larger scale?”

  “Sean, how can you ask me, a member of your own family, to whore for you? To be so loyal to your cause that I must sacrifice every finer feeling in order to achieve it? Can you not see how hurtful it is, knowing a member of my own family holds me so cheap?”

  “But why? You’re a fallen woman, Máire. You can never be pure again.” His rough hands flexed against the tankard he held between them. “And when will you ever have such a chance to make amends? Do this, and prove you’re worthy of Ireland. And of the name of O’Hamill.”

  Fianna rose to her feet. “But my name is not Máire O’Hamill. Not anymore.”

  Sean sneered. “And you think the McCrackens will welcome dear Maria to their table, now that she’s done away with the Major?”

  “No. I’m no longer Maria McCracken, either. I’m Fianna Cameron. And Fianna doesn’t need to kill Major Pennington, or whore for you, to prove her worth to you or to anybody.”

  “No. The only one she has to prove herself to is Fianna Cameron.”

  Sean’s mouth hung open, but the words had not come from him.

  “And anyone with eyes can see you’ve more than done so, over and over again,” Kit Pennington added with a decisive nod.

  Kit drank in the sight of Fianna, thirsty as a desert nomad whose last sip of water was only a distant memory. He could spy no obvious injury from her confrontation with Uncle Christopher. But she hid her hurts well, especially the ones to her heart. Only when he had her safe back in his rooms, back in his arms, would his worry be assuaged.

  If she would come. . .

  “Kit, how did you—”

  The scrape of O’Hamill’s chair interrupted her. “So—you’ll use me to gain justice for yourself, Máire, but betray me to the English? Now who holds family loyalty so dear?”

  “No,” Fianna cried. “I didn’t betray you, Sean. I don’t know how Kit found us.”

  “Sam Wooler told me how to find O’Hamill’s rooms,” Kit said, placing himself between Fianna and her uncle. “You left his note on the table.”

  A cruel, derisive expression drew down O’Hamill’s brows. “But you betrayed him, did you not?” he hissed at Fianna. “How long do you think he’ll go prosing on about how worthy you are after he finds out what you’ve done to his uncle, eh, cailín?”

  She jerked her head toward Kit, the life in her eyes dimming. What, did she think he’d condemn her for confronting the man who had slandered her father?

  “I know precisely what she’s done to my uncle, O’Hamill. She’s taught him a painful lesson, one that I’m certain he won’t soon forget. One about both justice and mercy.”

  “Mercy?” O’Hamill’s eyes burned with incredulity. “What, did you not kill him, then?

  Fianna drew her shoulders back, tilting her arrogant nose in the air. The combination of strength and vulnerability in that oh-so-familiar stance sent shivers down Kit’s spine.

  “I did not,” she said. “I told you true, I’ll not be using violence any longer to achieve my ends.” She took a step closer, laying a hand upon her uncle’s arm. “And, I hope, neither will you.”

  “I’ll have little opportunity to do so, once you hand me over to young Pennington here,” O’Hamill said, bitterness edging his voice.

  “I’ll not be handing you over to anyone, Sean. But please, give over this mad scheme against Lord Castlereagh. Killing just leads to more killing, more bloodshed. Work with us, work to persuade the people to agitate for peaceful change. It’s the only way to achieve justice for our people, our country.”

  But O’Hamill paid no heed to his niece, all his attention now focused upon Kit. “How many officers of the law have you brought with you, sir?”

  Kit spread his hands. “None, sir. My only intention in coming here was to find Fianna.”

  “And found her you have,” he snarled, jerking Fianna in front of him as a shield. The point of a knife pricked at the pale column of her neck. “Now, what will you do to keep her?”

  Kit’s body tensed. Her own uncle, threatening her? And they called Fianna a bastard—

  “Now, O’Hamill, there’s no need for violence,” he said, spreading his open palms in appeasement.

  “Certainly not,” Fianna concurred. A sharp elbow to O’Hamill’s gut and a hard stamp on the instep of his foot sent the knife clattering to the floor.

>   As O’Hamill clutched at his stomach, Fianna bent over to retrieve the fallen weapon. She ran a finger along its edge, shaking her head. “Hardly sharp enough to cut a man’s throat, Sean. You ought to keep your weapons in better order.” With a quick jerk, she stabbed the knife into the table between them.

  The room around them had grown unnaturally quiet. Kit waved a hand toward the silent crowd. “Nothing here to gawk at, good sirs, just a small family squabble. All is in good order, I assure you.”

  It took a few moments, but the tavern’s patrons gradually turned back to their own concerns.

  “What, still here, O’Hamill?” Kit asked, placing a protective arm around Fianna. Not that she needed much in the way of protecting. Still, she might take some comfort from it, knowing she had an ally close to hand.

  O’Hamill shook his head in bewilderment. “And you’ll stand by and allow this, Pennington? Allow me to stroll free, without summoning the watch or the king’s soldiers?”

  “Miss Cameron has shown great mercy to my uncle today. What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not show the same to hers?”

  “Please, Sean. Go,” Fianna added. “But know we will be sending a letter to Lord Castlereagh, informing him of your plans and warning him to take precautions. It might be wise if you returned to Ireland at your earliest opportunity.”

  He nodded, backing away from the table.

  “I’ve Theo’s carriage outside,” Kit murmured, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Will you take a turn about the park, and grant him some time to pack before you return for your things?”

  Instead of answering, she turned back to her uncle. “After I’ve had a word with Mr. Pennington, I’ll come by to pick up my valise. Perhaps it would be best if you and your belongings were gone by then?”

  Sean gave a brusque nod. “Rent’s paid up through quarter day, if you need a place,” he said before turning on his heel and striding to the tavern’s door. Not entirely without family feeling, then. As long as it did not come into conflict with his cause.