by C. J. Chase
Hope lightened her gaze to a charming shade of amber and eased the determination in her mouth. “So then you know …”
“No, I fear not. Major Harley-Smith was killed in September of last year—in the fighting near your city of Baltimore.”
Her back snapped straight until it no longer rested against the chair. Her eyes smoldered to umber again, the golden flecks glowing like sparks in their depths. “I’m surprised and dismayed that in two weeks of tramping from one office to another, no one has informed me of this until now.”
Carriage wheels bounced against the cobbled streets outside, echoing through the room. Kit glanced out the window at the darkening sky that reflected his mood, so black since … “Miss Fraser,” he said at last, “our country has been at war a long time. The names of our dead are many.”
“But you knew Major Harley-Smith.”
He turned away from the gloomy view of London and met the challenge in her eyes again. Freckles sprinkled her nose, adding to the sense of girlish innocence. “Drew began a letter to me—one he unfortunately never finished, leaving me with no means of contacting you—before his last campaign. It was among his personal effects when they were returned to his brother and didn’t reach me until months later. By then, our war with America had ended.” And Napoleon had escaped, and Kit was reassigned to France for one final mission.
“But my brother?”
“I fear I have more bad news, Miss Fraser. All the American prisoners were sent home some months ago. If your brother was not among them, you must assume the worst.”
“But my brother wasn’t a prisoner. At least, not that I am aware of. He was a sailor on a merchant ship when a British frigate stopped them and took several of the men, including my brother, for service in your navy.”
“Ah. I fear Drew did not include that information in his note. When was your brother pressed?”
“A little over three years ago.”
“Our officers were only supposed to enlist sailors originally from our country. Was your brother born in the United States?”
“Yes. Major Harley-Smith thought there would be no problem getting him released because his citizenship is undisputed.”
Kit snatched a sheet of paper from the corner of his desk. “What is your address here in London?”
“I’m staying at the Captain’s Quarters.”
“The Captain’s Quarters?” He jerked his gaze from the paper and met her eyes. A face like that, in a place like that, could only effect trouble.
“I don’t know the name of the street—it’s near the docks.”
“I know where it is, Miss Fraser. You should not. If I may be so bold as to say, that—”
“Is none of your concern.” She glared at him with that steely determination.
“But that place is filled with patrons of the worst sort—drunkards and ruffians and the like. It is no place for you.”
“I have supported myself for some time. I know how to manage an inebriated man or two.”
“I begin to understand why our countries’ differences could not be solved amicably.”
Her lips twitched at the corners and once again her eyes gentled, this time with suppressed humor. A solitary ray of light speared through the murky clouds in his mind.
The tic still throbbed in his jaw, but he returned to his notes without further comment about her choice of residences. “What was the name of the American merchant ship?”
“The Constance.”
“Do you know if any of the other men who, ah, spent time aboard our ship went home?”
“No. That is, I don’t know.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Miss Fraser, since your brother has not yet returned, I suspect that we shall learn he suffered a fate similar to that of Major Harley-Smith.”
“I understand. It’s just the … uncertainty of it all.” For once the forthright Miss Fraser fixed her gaze on a point above his head.
A sudden grimness consumed his compassion when she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Perhaps she was only a grieving sister in a faraway land, but war bled the idealism out of a man and replaced it with cynicism. “Do you know the name of the frigate that stopped the Constance?”
“The Impatience.”
He stilled, his hand frozen above the paper. “The Impatience?” No wonder Drew had asked for his help. Did she know?
“So Captain Ramsey informed me when the Constance returned to Alexandria.”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“George. George Fraser.”
“Very well, Miss Fraser. I will try to have an answer for you tomorrow.” His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back. “If that is everything?”
“Yes.” She rose and nodded, and he stood as well.
“Until tomorrow then.” He wrenched open the door and gestured her out.
Her bright hair flashed a final, mocking gleam at him as she exited his office.
Kit set aside Miss Fraser’s address and scrawled a hasty note. “Baxter? See that this is delivered immediately. If Alderston returns, tell him I will be at Hogarth’s.”
“But sir—”
Kit brushed past the clerk and charged out of the office. He needed none of Alderston’s drama and danger in his life tonight.
Outside the Admiralty, gaslights threw a mellow glow onto the wet bricks of London’s streets. Mattie shoved the umbrella under her arm and rammed her hands into her coat pockets. Her fingers brushed steel—round, hard, cold.
Only one day away from learning her brother’s fate. She ought to be thrilled.
So why the nagging doubts?
The soft voices of Evensong drifted through the open door of a nearby stone chapel. Drawn by the music and a memory of a happier time, Mattie edged closer. Large choirs and loud organs were rare in Washington, and her attendance at such services rarer still. Around her, Londoners bustled about their business but she lingered on the street while the melody meandered through her mind and assuaged her apprehensions. The glowing candles inside the church cast colorful light through the stained-glass windows and onto the cobblestones at her feet.
The last notes of the chorus faded, then the sonorous voice of the reader rippled across the twilight. “‘For if ye forgive men their trespasses …’”
Forgive? Tension tightened across Mattie’s shoulders, as if she’d been tricked by the sweet cadences of the song. She lurched away and continued on her journey.
The rain had abated, but the misty air condensed the odors. The unpleasant smells intensified the farther she traveled from the Admiralty to less affluent neighborhoods where humanity crowded together in concentrations she had never imagined.
And the smoke! That was the worst, evoking memories of that fateful night a year ago when the British army had invaded Washington. The blaze had lit the sky while the explosions rocked the ground. The acrid stench had hung heavy on the air for days after the flames consumed America’s new capital and reduced its beautiful buildings to rubble.
Washington’s warmth was an ocean away, yet despite the London chill seeping through her clothes, sweat trickled down her back. Forgive? Never. Not the English who had burned her city. Not the father who loved whiskey more than his children. And especially not the God who abandoned her to the vagaries of drunkards and invading armies. She clenched her fingers around the tempered steel, willing the terrible memories to recede.
The streets grew darker, the buildings more squalid, the stench more foul as she drew closer to the inn she had chosen for its affordability and proximity to ships sailing in and out of London.
She turned into an even darker alley.
“All alone, pretty leddy?” A derelict stepped into her path. His clawlike hands lunged for her coat.
“No, I brought a friend.” She withdrew her pistol and pointed the barrel at his chest.
The man froze, except for the oily smile that smeared his face. “Now lovey—”
She cocked the hammer. The click
of metal striking metal reverberated through the street and momentarily surpassed even the ever-present noise of people, animals and vehicles. “Go.”
Her would-be assailant raised his hands and backed away, eyes glimmering in the muted light, until he slithered into a crevice between the buildings.
“Gor, that was a good ‘un!”
“Nicky?”
An urchin stepped from the shadows. The blade of a knife winked as he tucked it into his clothes.
“What are you doing here this late?”
“Been waiting for ye, Mattie.”
Her heart warmed despite the chill. ‘Twas a long while since anyone had missed Mattie Fraser. Or cared enough he would draw a knife on a man four times his size. She uncocked the hammer and returned the pistol to her pocket. “What did you take?”
“Just a few coppers. Bloke didn’t ‘ave much on ‘im.” The boy’s eyes sparkled and his smile flashed white, except for the void created by his missing front teeth.
At what age did boys lose their teeth—seven perhaps? Or had Nicky’s been prematurely removed by an unkind fist? He didn’t seem as old as George was when their mother had died, when life had begun to go so terribly wrong. No, Nicky seemed so much smaller—because of his poor meals or her poor memory?
She shoved those disturbing thoughts into the dark recesses of her mind. “I really oughtn’t reward such behavior. However, since in this case he deserved a bit of his own medicine …” She reached into her pocket and retrieved the remains of her lunch, now slightly squashed by her encounter with Christopher DeChambelle.
Unmindful of the puddles, she squatted to Nicky’s height and offered him the bundle. He tore it open and bit off a sizable portion of the food.
“What do you say, Nicky?”
“Thank ye, mum,” he mumbled around the food. He rammed the rest of the meat pie into his mouth, handed her the handkerchief and scampered into the shadows.
She watched him disappear to a destination probably even he didn’t know. London was filled with such children, orphans who lived on the streets, who grew old too soon and died too young. She wanted to whisk Nicky away, but much as her heart ached for him, she had no future to offer.
Eyes stinging, she rose and shoved the napkin into her left pocket, then patted the right where her American-made stubby pocket pistol, primed and loaded, waited for her to learn the truth of her brother’s final days aboard a British frigate.
The Treaty of Ghent had brought the recent conflict with England to an inconclusive end, but her private war had only begun.
Years earlier her mother had entrusted Mattie with the care of another lad, but she had failed them both. If only she’d been a better sister, a better caretaker, a better person. Perhaps George would have grown to be a better man.
She wouldn’t fail this time. She wouldn’t allow this British official to discount her search for her brother’s fate. And she wouldn’t stop until she had taken action on whatever she learned.
She would win justice for her brother.
Kit took another sip from the snifter in his hand. The brandy’s lackluster quality rivaled the lethargy of his mind. He had been off-kilter all evening, like a child’s top with a lopsided spin.
At another table in the exclusive club, men wagered their fortunes and futures on cards, their voices boisterous with bravado and their eyes bright with belief in their own invincibility. No doubt some of them would lose their joviality before the night ended, or perhaps in the morning when they sobered enough to realize their mistake. Too late.
At least Kit knew better than to combine his recent predilection for alcohol with gambling. He stared into the drink, its rich brown hue reminding him of Miss Fraser’s eyes. Regrets weighed on him, made him wish for simpler times when mistakes weren’t so costly. So deadly. A man might earn another fortune, but where did one go to regain a lost soul?
“I was surprised to get your note.” The familiar voice ripped through Kit’s reverie. Captain Julian Thomas Robert DeChambelle, Viscount Somershurst—and Kit’s older brother—stood beside the table, an imposing figure in his resplendent naval uniform and its many decorations. The chandeliers glittered on his gilded head, like the Heavens’ smile of approval on the golden son.
“Good evening, Jules. How is peacetime treating you?”
“It is … an adjustment. I didn’t know you were in London.”
“Just arrived today.” Kit gestured to a footman to bring a second glass—and a second bottle—as Julian dropped into an adjacent chair. “Drink?”
“None for me. I can’t stay.”
“Then I’ll be brief. I have a question about your old ship.”
“My ship?” The creases around Julian’s frown deepened. Years of exposure to the elements had weathered his face before its time, and his eyes had hardened since Kit had last seen his brother a year ago. But then, consider how much he had changed in that time. “The last I knew, the Impatience moored at Portsmouth.”
“I’m seeking information about an American named George Fraser. You pressed him into service on the Impatience three years ago.”
Had Kit not been so attuned to reading others’ reactions, he would have missed the slight tensing of Julian’s shoulders and the subtle narrowing of his lips. “George Fraser, you say?” Even the pitch of his brother’s voice rose a half step.
Kit nodded.
Julian shook his head. “Wish I could help you, Kit, but I never heard the name.”
Never?
Kit wanted to believe him for the sake of their parents—and the chums he and Julian had once been as children, before school and work and war had separated them. Unfortunately, he no longer trusted his brother. He couldn’t.
And yet, the disloyalty engendered by those doubts hit him surprisingly hard.
In recent years he and Julian had been compatible, if not precisely affectionate. Indeed, they scarcely knew one another anymore, Julian having joined the navy nearly two decades ago. Save for their blood ties, they might well be strangers now. However, family loyalty demanded Kit accept his brother’s word, despite his senses’ deduction to the contrary.
A portly gentleman, perhaps a score years or more Kit’s senior, paused beside their table. He gave Kit a brief nod, then focused his attention on Julian. “Somershurst. Heard you were in London. Regretted to hear about your brother’s demise. How are your parents?”
“Good evening, McKeane.” Julian returned the other’s greeting. “As well as one might expect. They’ll be coming to London shortly.”
McKeane lingered by their table a few seconds longer, as if angling for an invitation to join them. When none was forthcoming, he offered a hopeful smile. “Be certain to give Chambelston my regards.”
“I’ll tell my father you asked after him.”
“Good. Good. Perhaps I’ll see him when he arrives in town.” McKeane shuffled away to join several of his contemporaries.
Julian waited until the man had passed out of earshot. “Spare me any more fathers with eligible daughters.”
“A complicated position, to suddenly be so popular.”
Julian was silent several moments. “Are you jealous?” Their brother Gregory’s sudden death last year had promoted Julian from second son to heir apparent. Once Kit and Julian had stood shoulder to shoulder, two younger brothers in a society ruled by primogeniture, before Julian’s naval service and Kit’s secret life working for Alderston in France had sent them different directions. Now as the eldest surviving son, Julian stood to inherit lands, wealth, prestige and power while Kit had to make his own way on wits and talent alone. Their relationship would be forever, irrevocably altered.
“You contributed more to the family coffers than any of us. I don’t begrudge you the estates.”
“Good to know. Especially since you are my heir.”
“Only until you marry and produce a child of your own.” Kit leaned back in the chair and smirked. “I understand Mc-Keane could assist you with procuring a b
ride.”
“Thank you, no.” Julian shuddered. “If you have nothing else to ask, I am expected elsewhere.”
His words, another reminder of the distance between them, brought Kit back to his original purpose. “This American, George Fraser—his sister is in London. If you would meet with her—”
“Wish I could, but I have other plans.”
“I meant—”
But Julian shoved his chair from the table and jumped to his feet, leaving Kit only a view of his escaping back. And a host of questions about his brother’s strange reticence. Kit had lived with secrets for too long not to recognize obstruction.
Chapter Two
The London streets should have been less frightening by day than at night. However, the morning drizzle exacerbated the smoke stench, and the fog created a peculiar feeling of isolation.
Mattie unfurled her umbrella and peeked over her shoulder. The inn’s door remained closed. The drunken tars who frequented it at night had staggered to their beds to sleep off the cheap ale and women.
A shadow streaked from a crevice between the buildings and brushed against her coat.
Her breath locked in her chest. She shoved her hand into her pocket and whirled to face the threat behind her. Her umbrella bounced against the cobblestones.
“’Morning, Mattie.” Nicky materialized out of the fog. His eyes glimmered with welcome and the undisguised desire for approval.
“Oh, Nicky,” she gasped his name on the breath that swooshed from her lungs. “You startled me.” She uncurled her fingers from the pistol. Her heart still thudded against her ribs as she accepted the fallen umbrella from his outstretched hand.
“Sorry to scare ye, Mattie.”
“I’m a little skittish this morning.”
Nicky fell into step beside her, under her umbrella. “That Stumpy bloke bothering ye again?”
“Not since last night.” She had arrived at the Captain’s Quarters after the patrons had begun to fill the tap room. Being a young female in a roomful of sailors accounted for only half her problem. Sentiment against Americans ran strong among those English mariners whose pride and flesh had been put to rout by the upstart American Navy, especially now that peacetime had cast so many adrift into London’s slums.
