by C. J. Chase
“Your brother’s saving grace. So long as the orders remain missing, his claim that he destroyed them upon arrival in New York stands—though I know better. But should they resurface, no power in England will save him.”
“You cannot ask this of me. Julian is my brother.”
“And that is precisely why I know you will do whatever you must. I suggest you situate Miss Fraser in the path of those most likely to get us that paper. It is to Julian’s benefit. To your family’s benefit.” Alderston spun and jerked open the door.
“Wait. George Fraser—”
“Dead. May his secret die with him—once I have that paper.”
Kit stared at the door as it banged shut behind his old mentor, the man who now ordered Kit to use another woman—an innocent woman?—to further his ends.
He couldn’t.
He had to, if only to prove Julian innocent. Not only for Julian, but for his mother’s welfare. For his sister’s future. Was there enough drink in the world to wash away his guilt should this situation go terribly wrong?
His fingers curled, drawing his attention to the object still in his left hand. As he stared at the black oilcloth, an idea formed in his mind. Miss Fraser’s umbrella provided him the perfect excuse for an unexpected visit. He reached for her London address, which he had left …
Where? Drew’s letter perched amid the clutter of his desk, but a quick search failed to produce his notes from yesterday. He had been so certain he had left them on the corner of the desk.
No matter. Kit quite remembered her questionable address—the Captain’s Quarters—no doubt chosen for its economy, if one were to judge by the commonplace quality of Miss Fraser’s coat. He tugged the door open. “Baxter, find me clothing suitable for a venture to the docks—perhaps a coat and shoes of more subdued color and quality. I shall return for them within the hour.” No need to call attention to himself before he understood the situation. People tended to be more forthcoming with those of like station, a human trait he’d exploited to his advantage during his decade traveling about France.
“Very good, sir.”
Outside the Admiralty’s tall doors, Kit squinted against the cheery autumn sunshine that sparkled on the wet cobblestones and mocked his mood.
“DeChambelle.” A rear admiral in full regalia—the row of gold lace on his jacket cuff winking in the light—greeted him before Kit could escape to Mayfair. “Sorry to have missed Chambelston the last time he was in town.”
“I believe he intends to return soon. I will tell Father you asked after him.”
“Do that. And give my regards to your brother.” The admiral marched to the entrance.
His brother.
Anger and fear frothed in his gut as Kit pointed his feet toward Mayfair. A warm breeze wafted across his cheek and rippled on the surface of a lingering puddle.
Lured outside by the blue skies, a nurse escorted her young charges—a demure girl and two rambunctious boys—to a nearby park before winter’s chill drove them indoors until spring. Their antics tugged Kit into the past, to a time before school and the navy and war had separated Julian from him—forever, he now feared. Once they had chased squirrels across the lawns, fought imaginary pirates by the pond, stood together against their older brother and sisters.
And now that same brother sought to obstruct Kit’s investigation.
At Piccadilly, a carriage bearing a ducal crest splashed through a rut and sprayed Kit’s coat. He brushed water drops from his sleeve and tried to focus his thoughts, but not even the warm sun could melt his suspicions as he pounded on the door of Julian’s townhouse.
“Is my brother home?” Kit strode past the butler.
“His lordship is in a private meeting. Would you care to wait?”
Muted voices drifted to the foyer. Kit did not particularly care if Julian were entertaining a fellow officer, a widow of dubious reputation, or the Prince Regent himself. He thrust his hat at the butler. “No.”
“Sir—”
“I shall announce myself.” He pivoted and marched down the hall. His shoes thumped against the floor in tempo with the anger pulsing through his veins.
Stale cheroot odors caught in his throat as he paused before the library’s shut door.
“No!” Julian’s curses thundered to the hallway. “I will have the blunt tomorrow.”
Debts? Kit paused, fingers curled around the knob. True, the end of the war idled many an officer and reduced him to half pay, but as a frigate captain Julian had collected a fortune in prize money. Or so Kit had always assumed.
Another voice—words muffled by the heavy wood but with tones low, calm, and male—drifted into the hallway.
Kit twisted the knob and nudged the door.
“Ah, Christopher.” Not an irate creditor. Neville Fitzgerald smiled and greeted him with smooth charm. No longer in British naval uniform, Julian’s former first lieutenant flaunted an elegant coat above fitted breeches.
“Kit!” The look Julian hurled at him embodied little warmth despite his flushed face and fiery eyes. He radiated tension, anger, and … fear? The room crackled with it despite the chilly dampness.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a chair?” Kit’s gaze darted from Fitzgerald’s seated form to Julian’s erect one pacing before the empty fireplace. The two had served together since they were midshipmen, and their relationship, so far as Kit knew, was underscored by professional respect and personal regard.
So what didn’t he know?
His gaze slipped to Fitzgerald’s bland smile, then back to his brother.
“Two visits within as many days.” Julian had once again adopted his imperturbable mask, yet shunned to offer Kit a seat in the other, empty wingback. “To what do I owe this great honor?”
“Your reticence. I came to demand some answers. The woman I spoke of last evening has a letter purportedly from her brother, and he mentions the Impatience by name.”
Julian paused before the barren mantel and arched a brow. “She must be a singularly fine-looking woman.”
Kit clenched his jaw but ignored the subtle insult in Julian’s remark. He was not doing this for her—he was involved to protect Julian. “You could meet her and judge for yourself.” Kit folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door post as he fixed a pointed stare at his brother.
“Not interested.” Julian’s lips flattened as he looked away.
More ugly suspicions invaded Kit’s mind. He glanced once again at Neville Fitzgerald. It was the first officer’s responsibility to procure sailors—by whatever means necessary—and to complete the mission in the event of the captain’s incapacity. How much did he know about George Fraser? And the orders? “Perhaps you can help me, Lieutenant. I met a woman, an American, who claims her brother was impressed onto the Impatience.”
“Kit, I told you we never had such a man,” Julian interrupted.
“No, you told me you ‘never heard the name before.’” Kit kept his focus on Fitzgerald as he dissected that man’s response, but the former officer’s controlled expression revealed nothing. When his accusation aroused no response, Kit continued, “You were her first lieutenant. Do you recall an American seaman named George Fraser? I agreed to help Miss Fraser learn his fate.”
“George Fraser?” Fitzgerald shook his head. “No, sorry, Christopher. I didn’t press any American citizens.”
Kit sensed the lie in the too-mild tone. “But you did stop American ships.”
“Of course, Kit,” Julian interrupted again. “We were at war. We boarded dozens of ships.”
Kit spun around and glared at his brother, his shoe beating a challenge against the floor. “Then meet with Miss Fraser and give her your answer.”
“Perhaps … when I have more time.”
An officer on half pay with more leisure than funds?
Fitzgerald rose to his feet. “I have other business to attend to, Somershurst,” he said as he sidled towards the door. “Do remember what we discussed e
arlier. I await your response.”
“Of course.” Julian smiled despite the implicit threat lacing the other man’s words.
Satisfaction gleamed in Fitzgerald’s eyes, then he whirled and strode into the hall with steps more akin to an infantry sergeant’s march than a mariner’s swagger.
“What was that about, Jules?”
“What?”
“Fitzgerald. You said something strange just before I opened the door.”
The flush deserted Julian’s face, leaving it a green that clashed with his coat. “Oh, I lost some blunt to him at cards.”
“Cards?” Kit almost believed him. “How could you be such a nodcock?”
“It was no great amount.”
“If that is true, then why is Fitzgerald so anxious to collect his winnings?”
“My affairs do not concern you, Kit. You aren’t my mother to lecture me about my vices.” His insolence echoed Kit’s of two days prior.
“Maman has grief enough without you adding to it.” Even as the words shot from his mouth, Kit wasn’t certain whether he spoke of Julian or himself.
Julian crossed to the desk and scooped up a long-neglected book. He flipped through the pages in an infuriating display of bad manners, yet the hands that held the dusty book trembled. “If you are quite finished?”
No, Kit was not.
But obviously he couldn’t trust Julian to help absolve himself.
Chapter Three
An hour later, Kit once again slipped out of the Admiralty and pulled the floppy brim of an old felt hat low over his brow. A fleet of senior officers—including his admiral friend of that morning—sailed past him without deigning more than a flicker of a glance in his direction. Kit smothered a chuckle and hailed a hackney with the requisite distinctive markings. The driver pulled his plodding horse to a stop.
“The docks.”
Turner muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but obligingly prodded his horse into a shuffle and steered the conveyance in the chosen direction. With the animal’s every step, the view deteriorated and the stench heightened. Drunken sailors—idled by the war’s end—slept in the streets. Slovenly women loitered on the rotted stoops of dilapidated buildings while broken window panes watched them from above.
The hackney passed a ramshackle structure with a faded sign sporting a handsome man o’ the sea. Below, a crudely painted caption indeed proclaimed the enterprise to be the Captain’s Quarters.
Kit knocked on the cab. “Stop.”
Turner reined the horse to a halt. The narrow road required him to park in the middle of the street.
“Wait for me.” Kit leaped to the ground.
“A few minutes only, then I’ll leave whether ye are ‘ere or not.”
“No ye won’t.”
The door of the building gaped wide, a ragged, dark-haired urchin of indeterminate age peering through the entrance. Kit walked up behind him. Despite his quiet steps, the boy slunk out of reach and stared at him with wary eyes.
“I want ye out.” The strident tones blasted out of the building and startled the hackney’s swayback horse out of its doze.
Ignoring the curious waif, Kit ducked under the low doorway.
“I paid through the end of the week.” Ice edged Miss Fraser’s soft, slow speech, and anger colored her cheeks a dusky peach that complemented her fiery hair.
The dank, dark room was devoid of occupants save Miss Fraser and another woman, but Kit could well imagine what kind of company would frequent this place come nightfall. Their odor lingered despite their absence by day.
Annoyance at Miss Fraser’s female obstinacy bubbled in his gut.
“Ye ken ‘ave your money. I want ye gone.”
“How inconvenient. I need my room.”
“Well ye can’t—”
“Miss Fraser,” Kit interrupted.
The women started, guarded gazes flicking in his direction. The three of them stilled for several moments, like figures in a wax museum.
“Miss Fraser?” he repeated. He waited additional seconds for recognition to replace the confusion in her eyes. Brows the same remarkable shade as her hair drew together in a frown as her gaze registered his changed attire.
“Mr. DeChambelle. I don’t suppose you have information for me so soon.” Despite the coldness still infusing her tones, her husky drawl sliding over the syllables of his name filled him with … foreboding? danger? longing?
He held out the umbrella. “Ye left this.” His finely tuned hearing—and years of practice—allowed him to slip into local dialect as easily as he had adjusted his attire.
“Thank you.” She accepted the object and waited for him to depart.
His gaze flickered to the stone-faced woman who watched them, fists braced on her hips. “A problem?”
A spark of suspicion flashed in Miss Fraser’s eyes, then she shrugged. “It seems I am without a room for the night.”
How convenient for him. Too convenient. Kit would have smiled had his instincts not produced ugly suspicions about the nature of Miss Fraser’s sudden eviction. Who would want Miss Fraser at his mercy?
None but the all-knowing Alderston.
An explanation, perhaps, for the paper missing from his desk?
Kit glanced about the unappealing room lest she detect the speculation in his eyes. Weak sunlight shone through cracked window panes and reflected on the ale spills that splotched the floor. Watermarks stained the warped walls and hinted as to the condition of the rooms above. He arched a single brow at the old woman who shifted her bulk from one foot to the other. “Not much loss, eh?”
For a moment, amusement softened Miss Fraser’s face, then her expression resumed its customary aloofness. “I can take care of the matter.”
“Get yer belongings.”
Distrust swept across her features. “That’s—”
“Common sense, unless ye intend to leave them behind.”
Resolute brown eyes clashed with his, sparking a bit of life into his emptiness. She shoved a hand in her coat and stared at him before aiming her fire at the innkeeper. “I expect you to refund my money.”
She pivoted and marched from the common room with the precision of the Foot Guards.
Kit sidled toward the innkeeper, intent upon discovering whom—
A man’s heavy tread echoed against the stoop. “Ale, Polly!” The already inebriated customer lurched into the room accompanied by the stench of cheap rum, powerful enough to intoxicate the hardiest sailor. An empty sleeve brushed the man’s corpulent waist with his tremors.
The proprietress pointed to the open door. “Ye ‘aven’t paid me from this morning, Stumpy.”
“Got me some funds now.” Stumpy jingled his coins, then his watery eyes focused on Kit. “’Ere now, told ye I’d take care of it.”
Kit retreated a step. A wisp of unease, of premonition, curled through him at this forewarning of life as a slave to drink. “I’m sure ye ‘ave.”
Stumpy swayed again, his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes straining to focus. “Aw, ‘e ain’t the same bloke. See that, Polly? Now, ye gots me ale?”
Thunk. The wall reverberated from the thwack of a hard, heavy object, then Miss Fraser’s slender form appeared on the steps, a bag in each hand. Her carriage had lost its customary poise, and as she drew closer Kit observed uncharacteristic apprehension shadowing her eyes.
“Well, if it ain’t our American cousin,” Stumpy slurred, a sneer curling his puffy lips. Malice emanated from his every pore with as much intensity as the rum fumes.
Kit strode to her side and plucked a bag from her grasp.
He tugged on the other one, but she refused to yield it. “Are there any more?”
Her eyes smoldered as she turned them on the innkeeper. “I think this is everything. At least, it’s everything I could find in my room.”
The innkeeper scowled but produced the requisite refund. At Stumpy’s snicker, Miss Fraser whirled to face him.
Kit fastened hi
s hand against the small of her back and nudged her away before she responded with a provocative comment. Warmth seeped through the shabby coat and into his palm. As he propelled her out of the gloom, he whispered, “Ignore him. He’s too drunk to know his name.” He slammed the door behind them.
“Mattie?” The lad who’d lingered by the door scooted towards her.
“I have to leave, Nicky.”
“I ‘eard.” The boy jutted his narrow chin. “Glad for ye, too, I is.”
Nicky did not look happy for himself though. He swallowed twice, and his lower lip trembled. Kit tried to guess his age. Six? Seven? The boy’s stained, oversize coat and Kit’s limited experience with children hampered his judgment.
The inn door flew open and smashed against the wall. The drunken sailor staggered into the boy, his bulk knocking the child to the ground.
“Finally realized ye ain’t wanted ‘ere, Yank?” He spat at the ground, narrowly missing Miss Fraser’s foot. “And don’t come back, neither.”
His single, filthy fist reached for Miss Fraser’s coat, but as his fingers closed over her sleeve, Kit launched himself at the man, his spectacles flying off his face for the second time in as many days. Stumpy’s extra weight was no match for surprise, anger and sobriety. The drunk crashed against the side of the building with force enough to crack the rotted timbers.
Kit coiled Stumpy’s shirt collar around his fist and pinned the man against the wall. “If I catch you disturbing women or children again, I will see you too impaired to drink.” He unthreaded his fingers from the tattered shirt, and Stumpy slumped to the ground.
While the wheezing man pushed himself to his knees and slunk away, Kit retrieved his spectacles and the bag he’d dropped, tossing Miss Fraser’s luggage to the hackney’s still-waiting driver. Her questioning gaze burned through his back, but when he turned to face her, she had crouched down to comfort the boy.
“Nicky?”
Already a welt formed on the boy’s forehead, visible through his unkempt hair. “Ain’t nothing.” The lad stiffened as her arms wrapped around him, then he melted against her.
She burrowed her face against his neck and stroked his coat with graceful, soothing fingers. Whereas before Kit had found her admirably daring and uncomfortably direct, now he witnessed a new aspect of her character, that of kindness and concern. The sun reflected on the two heads, so dissimilar—one as dark as ebony and rank as a cesspool, the other shiny as polished copper and piquant as spring. Yet Kit sensed a camaraderie of spirit that excluded him.
