by C. J. Chase
“I’m afeared for ye, Mattie.”
“He’s all bravado and no bravery.” Still, she had forgone the evening meal and barricaded herself in her room rather than endure Stumpy’s vulgarities about her sex and citizenship. As with her father, drink intensified the malice on Stumpy’s tongue.
“Ye don’t belong ‘ere, Mattie.”
She didn’t belong anywhere. Not anymore.
They paused at the corner near another squalid but quiet tavern. She squatted until she could look directly into Nicky’s soft brown eyes, nearly hidden under the wet, shaggy hair that fell over his face. “You don’t belong here, either, Nicky.”
“I got no other life to go to, mum. Ye do. Go ‘ome, Mattie, back to America.”
His hand reached toward her, as if to touch. She held her breath, but he backed away. She snatched the bundle from her pocket. “Toast?”
“Thanks.” The too-long sleeves of his green coat, illegally requisitioned from another’s clothesline, slipped back to expose hands even dirtier than his face. He crammed the toast into his mouth in a single bite, then wiped the crumbs from his face with one of those sleeves. “Got some news for ye last night.”
“News?” Anticipation tingled at the nape of her neck.
“I ‘eard there was a bloke at the Duck and Dog that used to be on the ship yer looking for.”
At last! “Can you arrange for me to meet him?”
Nicky cocked his head and studied her with eyes far too old for his face. “I’d rather ye tell me what ye want to ask, and let me meet ‘im.”
“No, I need to do it, Nicky.”
As he opened his mouth to protest, a lumbering farmer’s cart splashed into a puddle. She hauled the boy close to avoid a dousing.
Nicky jerked from her hold. His wide eyes shimmered with longing and uncertainty as he paused two steps away. “I ‘ave to go. I’ll talk to ‘im.”
Mattie shuddered to think what had caused this lonely boy who so wanted friendship and approval to so fear contact. Her heart ached to show him love and kindness. Instead, she rose. “Don’t get into trouble.”
“Ye, too, Mattie. Be careful.” Within seconds he had disappeared, swallowed by the fog.
Her heavy shoes thumped in rhythm with her heavy heart until at last the Admiralty rose before her. Her target was within range, but her heart and conscience conspired to create misgivings. She squashed her feelings of compassion and tried to conjure her brother’s image, but it transformed into Nicky’s face.
She sighed and reordered her scrambled emotions, then entered the building.
“I’m here to see Mr. DeChambelle.”
The same clerk wrenched his attention from the papers on his desk. “Indeed, miss.”
He disappeared through the nearby door and the murmur of his voice, followed by the deeper tones of Mr. DeChambelle’s, drifted to Mattie on the room’s dank air.
“You may go in,” the clerk announced scant moments later.
Mr. DeChambelle stepped from behind his desk. The gray skies reflected on tawny hair that already looked finger-raked. The insubordinate lock fell farther than at her prior visit and brushed a perfectly arched, light brown brow. “Miss Fraser. May I take your coat?” he asked in his clipped, aristocratic speech, so different from the coarse accents and frequent vulgarities one heard along London’s docks.
Though the room was of a size, perhaps larger even than the outer office, it felt suddenly as suffocatingly close as August in Washington. “No, thank you.” Her voice cracked.
“Well, then, let us proceed.” He positioned his hand on her back and steered her toward the empty chair. She started at his touch, just like Nicky moments earlier—and her umbrella crashed to the floor again.
She dropped onto the chair. While Mr. DeChambelle crossed to the other side of his desk she arranged that wretched umbrella under her seat, then clenched her hands together in her lap.
He settled back in his chair, and with that action the room grew larger. “I spoke to the recent captain of the Impatience.”
“The captain is here? In London?” The Impatience wasn’t—the sailors residing at the Captain’s Quarters had assured her the ship was berthed in Portsmouth.
Mr. DeChambelle’s gaze bored through the thick screen of his spectacles. Sympathy, concern, even pity infused the brilliant blue depths. “I am afraid he has no recollection of your brother.”
So, they were going to lie to her. Had she expected less? “But I know George was on that ship. He wrote me a letter.”
“Please, Miss Fraser. I am not saying your brother was never aboard the ship—only that the captain doesn’t remember him. A fully manned frigate has hundreds of men. Factor in those who must be replaced for … various reasons, and a typical captain commands thousands of men over his career. It may be that your brother was not on the Impatience long enough to create an impression.”
The greasy eggs and toast—customary morning fare at the Captain’s Quarters—churned in Mattie’s stomach and surged to her throat. “You are suggesting my brother may have died shortly after his impressment.”
“I fear that is the most likely scenario. We have been at war these many years, and the Impatience was involved in numerous engagements.”
“But the letter—”
“Probably given to someone else—perhaps one of the other men taken from the Constance. I’m sorry, Miss Fraser. I wish I could offer you more hope.”
Strange how his words—not unexpected—affected her. Or perhaps not, given that with his condolences the last potential for reconciliation, her remaining chance to restore her family died. “I … thank you.” The words hitched in her throat. “May I speak to the captain?”
“He declined to be present at this meeting.”
“An extraordinary example of English courage.”
This Englishman leaned back in the chair and hefted a paperweight from the desk. His gaze never met hers as his long, well-formed fingers toyed with the object. “Miss Fraser, I agree that you have a right to know your brother’s fate. An American of undisputed citizenship on one of our ships was inexcusable. Such a lapse should never have happened.”
But it had. Simple misfortune, or had the Constance’s captain seized upon a way to simultaneously rid his ship of an American troublemaker and an English threat by surrendering George to the Impatience? She clenched her jaw, unwilling to voice her disloyal suspicions.
“We must consider other channels to discover your brother’s fate.”
“Such as?”
“You mentioned a letter. Did it contain any useful information? Perhaps the names of other crew members or bunk-mates?”
“Not exactly. Would you like to read it?”
“You have it here?”
“Yes.” Mattie extracted the oft perused note from her reticule and passed him the page.
“‘My dearest sister,’” Mr. DeChambelle read aloud.
“I pray this note finds you in good health. My life at sea has taken a peculiar turn, and I now find myself aboard an English vessel, the Impatience. The food is as bad as I’d feared, but I have made a few friends and collected a few trinkets I hope to someday share with you. I miss you and Papa and even my cramped quarters above the store, which I have come to realize were actually quite spacious compared to a ship. If I do not return, I pray you will forgive me the troubles I caused you and look back on the good times with fondness. Affectionately, your brother, George.”
Her brother’s words in that unfamiliar speech caused a ripple of disquiet to skip along Mattie’s spine. “He mentioned some friends.”
“But not by name, unfortunately.” Mr. DeChambelle refolded the paper and returned it to her. “But we have confirmation that he knew several others aboard the Impatience, though where they might be now is difficult to guess. I shall continue to make inquiries, both here and in Portsmouth. In view of the limited chance of success and the extended amount of time such an investigation will involve, I suggest you return
to America.”
“America?” Not without achieving her objective.
“I will write you when I have a confirmation, one way or the other.” He grabbed a paper from the corner of his desk, then paused, his lips swagging to a frown as he snatched the quill and dipped it into the inkwell. “How can I contact you in America?”
“I sold my house in Washington.”
The quill fell, spattering ink across the desk and dappling his cravat with black specks. Mr. DeChambelle leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. The movement stretched his coat over his arms, and the bulges under his sleeves suggested a strength one would be foolish to discount. What other secrets lurked behind that facade? “You no longer have a home in America?”
“I used the money to finance my journey to London.”
“What about your parents or other relatives?”
Mattie averted her gaze to the window. The clouds had parted and a few scattered patches of blue peeked between them, filling the skies with a brightness that mocked her loss. “No.”
“I see. Then let me give you my address.” He seized the quill again along with a clean sheet of paper. As his hand slashed across the foolscap, a few valiant rays of sunshine pierced the gray clouds and gritty window to reflect on his spectacle lenses. “Write me once you return to America, and I will make you aware of any progress I have made.”
He shook off the sand and slid the paper across the desk, his fingers brushing hers as she plucked it from the surface. She folded the note without examining it, and tucked both pages in her reticule. Unlike her brother’s last words, Mr. De-Chambelle’s address would undoubtedly remain out of sight and out of mind while she conducted her own investigation. The captain was here in London. She would find him.
She slid her hand into her pocket where her fingers kissed the pistol. “You didn’t tell me the name of the Impatience’s captain.”
“Viscount Somershurst.”
A viscount?
“Now, if I may see you to better lodgings until—”
“No. I shall be fine where I am.”
His stare measured her. “Miss Fraser, as I mentioned, the inns near the docks are inhabited by ruffians of the worst sort. For one such as you they are quite dangerous.”
And quite where she was most likely to acquire useful information. “I have fended for myself for some time now, ever since my brother disappeared. I will be fine.” Despite those regular insults from the sailor who had lost his arm to an American cannonball on Lake Champlain. Thoughts of Stumpy’s bitterness to all things American once again raised the question that had plagued her for three years. “You said the Impatience was involved in numerous engagements. Where did the ship operate?”
Mr. DeChambelle sighed, but ceased his futile protests. “If you are worried your brother was forced into a confrontation with fellow Americans, let me assure you the ship served along the coast of France during much of the war.”
She managed a weak smile. At least George hadn’t met his death at the hands of his own countrymen.
“Indeed, due to the Impatience’s proximity to Ghent last winter, she was charged with the delivery of the treaty to America. It was quite an honor for her captain and crew.”
A shame George hadn’t lived to share that honor.
Mr. DeChambelle flattened his hands on the desk and stood. “Unless you have other questions?”
“Not at this time.” She rose and ceded him a curt nod, then whirled and marched out of the office. Her coat billowed with the movement, and the pistol in her pocket whacked her leg.
Kit slid open his desk drawer and snagged a paper. He clenched it in his hand for several long moments while he stared out the grimy window at blue autumn skies. Finally, he dragged in a deep breath and unfolded the stained, creased parchment. Drew’s untidy scrawl covered the page, but Kit’s attention focused on one name—the same name he’d so recently heard from Miss Fraser’s lips.
George Fraser.
The note begged Kit to use his contacts to learn the fate of the American sailor, brother to a lady Drew had encountered during the campaign.
Dated 1 September 1814, the letter cut off in mid-sentence with no further particulars about the request or details of George Fraser’s service. Kit leaned back, pondering what great event had interrupted his friend before he finished. A battle? Drew’s death?
What had been the nature of Drew’s relationship with Miss Fraser? A mere two days’ acquaintance forged in fire? Kit sensed something amiss in her story. A lie? An omission? He glanced at the empty chair opposite his desk as he—
Froze. A dark and peculiarly shaped object on the floor captured his attention. Every muscle in his body tensed, then relaxed when he identified the article as nothing more threatening than Miss Fraser’s umbrella, overlooked in the luxury of the clearing skies. He abandoned Drew’s letter, skirted the desk and knelt to retrieve the object, not at all surprised by its questionable worth.
Heels clicked against the floor in a familiar tattoo. Kit glanced over his shoulder at a pair of riding boots, their black sheen dulled by the mud of a hard ride. His gaze flickered up over the nondescript coat to the equally unremarkable face.
An advantage in their line of work that let one assume many a disguise.
William Alderston latched the door shut. “Where have you been, DeChambelle? I’ve had men searching the countryside for you.”
“So I heard, though I cannot imagine why.” Kit straightened, Miss Fraser’s umbrella still in hand. “As I keep reminding everyone, the war is over.”
“Not completely, it seems. I understand a young woman called upon you.” Alderston leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. “An American.”
Kit didn’t bother to question the man’s sources. Alderston knew everything that happened in London—even all of England and the continent, too—most often before it happened. Information was, after all, his profession and his passion. “Miss Martha Fraser, from Washington. She came to inquire after her brother, a sailor pressed into service on the Impatience. I spoke to Julian last night, but he has no recollection of the man or his fate.”
“Do you believe him?”
Kit strove to imbue his voice and features with a lightness he didn’t feel. “I fail to understand how that—”
“Do you believe him?” Alderston’s pale eyes blazed with patriotic intensity as he repeated the question, his stare piercing through Kit’s pretense.
“Miss Fraser makes a compelling argument for her allegation. The letter purported to be from her brother—”
“A letter? Do you know when it was written? What it says?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, only that he missed her and hoped she would remember him fondly if he failed to return home.” Kit braced a hand against the desk as he studied Alderston’s features—the tight line of his jaw, the shadows of anxiety not quite hidden behind the fierceness of his gaze.
“Why the peculiar interest in an American nonentity—when our war with them ended nearly a year ago?”
Alderston paced to the window and stared at the tableau outside. “Your brother lied. He did indeed know George Fraser—the man stole a paper while on board the Impatience. A paper whose very existence was a secret—should have been a secret—to all but four men.”
“When was this?”
“February.”
When the Impatience delivered the treaty to New York. “And where is this paper now?”
“We don’t know.” Alderston whirled around to face him, head cocked to one side. “But I find it most fascinating that Miss Fraser has come to London. To you. How many Americans would venture so far, particularly unmarried females traveling alone, unless the reason was … compelling?”
“Perhaps Miss Fraser considers her brother just such a significant cause. She asked a mutual friend to investigate his fate last year.” Kit slid Drew’s note across the desk. “He wrote me—I suspect due to the nature of my relatio
nship to Julian. I hardly see how her inquiries begun so long ago could involve an event from February.”
“You seem quite taken with the young lady.” Alderston seized the unfinished letter and skimmed the contents. “Be careful, DeChambelle.”
The not-so-subtle reminder of his folly lanced straight into Kit’s stomach. He had allowed a pretty face to dupe him, and while he had unmasked the traitor selling secrets to the French, the victory had come with a price.
The death of an innocent woman. And Kit’s soul.
Kit swallowed, but the ever-present awareness of failure remained in his throat. “I am only suggesting that Miss Fraser’s arrival in London may be unrelated to her brother’s actions on the Impatience.”
“Be that as it may, as she has initiated contact with you, we intend to use this connection to learn what she knows—or what she might discover.”
“What, precisely, was this … stolen paper?”
“Your brother’s orders concerning the treaty’s delivery.”
“He was to present the treaty to the Americans for ratification.”
“The orders were a bit more … complicated than that.”
“Rumors abounded last winter that the American president might reject ratification and demand further concessions.”
“I will only say there are delicate issues involved that we do not want to see made public. And neither would your brother.” Alderston tossed Drew’s note back onto the desk. “You will find those orders and give them to me, and then you will immediately forget everything you know about them. Had your brother been anyone other than Chambelston’s heir, he would have been tried for treason.”
The frothing in Kit’s belly now surged to his throat.
Treason.
No wonder Julian was so closemouthed last night. Kit fought to keep his face impassive though his mind whirled with the implications. “The crown couldn’t try him for treason without admitting to the contents of those orders.” Contents Alderston seemed reluctant to share even with him.
