by C. J. Chase
He shoved the thought away as he hefted her other bag and passed it to the driver. “Miss Fraser, we must leave before yer friend discovers a couple of comrades and another bottle of courage. Unless ye would rather I found ye a ship bound for America?”
She shoved a hand into her pocket, a steel core of resolution glittering in her eyes. “I came to discover my brother’s fate, and I will not leave until I’ve achieved satisfaction.”
Dismay twisted Mattie’s stomach as Mr. DeChambelle spoke to the driver. The vehicle dipped as he ascended the cab, then rocked with more violence when the driver prodded the dozing horse into action. “Where are we going, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”
“Boldness, Miss Fraser, is a feature of yours I have rather come to expect.”
“Whereas I have come to expect evasion from you. Where do you take me?”
“To lodge with a friend.” He shoved his spectacles over his face again, causing those disturbing eyes to retreat behind the glass. For one moment, the movement revealed the strength beneath the oh-so-ordinary brown coat before its ill cut once again concealed his form.
“A friend?” Mattie looked from the hackney’s stained upholstery to the charming neighborhood beyond the window. Already the narrow alleys and shabby buildings had transformed to wider streets and modest shops. Young misses and their chaperones strolled ahead of package-laden maids while a gentleman escorted a brazenly dressed woman into a milliner’s establishment.
And where did she fit into this tableau?
She glanced at the rear-facing seat. Knowing eyes stared back at her, into her mind. Was that amusement sparking in their blue depths? She’d seen enough of his countrymen not to trust a congenial manner.
And this man warranted particular caution after that display of strength back at the Captain’s Quarters. Obviously Mr. DeChambelle was no ordinary clerk. So exactly what was he?
She slipped her hand into her coat pocket. The pistol barrel welcomed her fingers and provided her a measure of security. “I would prefer another inn.”
He shook his head. His hair fluttered with the movement and fell across his brow, but even that bit of boyishness did not mitigate the marked implacability of his unyielding stare. “No.”
“But I—”
“Need a place to stay that is warm, dry, and safe. The Harri—”
“Safe? But surely Stumpy won’t have the assets or ambition to follow me elsewhere.”
“Miss Fraser, you are a woman alone. I fear you will encounter others of Stumpy’s ilk. The Harrisons are completely respectable. You will find the accommodations tolerable, the company congenial and the food excellent.” He crossed his arms and stretched long legs out in front of him. His foot brushed her skirt.
She stared at the scuffs that littered his worn shoes. Not the same apparel he’d worn earlier. Why the change? And exactly how had he arrived so precipitously to her rescue? She swallowed and sidled closer to the hackney door. “The Harrisons?”
“Lawrence Harrison, er, works for me.”
“I can’t impose on strangers.”
“Mrs. Harrison is a fine Christian woman. She won’t turn you away.”
“No indeed, as a ‘fine Christian’ she will feel obliged to assist the poor American.” Mattie had experienced her fill of Christian charity—“Lady Bountifuls” who swooped in after her mother’s death with a token meal for the motherless children and a self-congratulatory smile for their own beneficence. And then after a week of good works, they’d gone back to their lives, leaving her eight-year-old self to struggle along as best she could.
“The Harrisons would never consider a guest an obligation.” He straightened and reached forward to brush the hand that rested on her lap. Shock jolted through her, supplanting her indignation with confusion.
His sympathetic caress burned through her skin, through her resentment. But was it really sympathy? Mattie wrenched her hand away before misgivings tempered her determination. He withdrew and leaned against the squabs again, eyeing her form as if he could peer through the bulky coat.
She shifted under his scrutiny, for once too warm in the heavy wool despite the damp chill. She stroked the cool barrel of her pistol and forced her mind to the innkeeper’s bizarre behavior.
For what reason would a woman in such straits evict a paying customer?
Had she been the recipient of threats from Stumpy and his like? No, the paper Mattie had found in her room expressed too much sophistication to have originated with the likes of an illiterate sailor.
The horse plodded to a stop before a tenement squashed between two other structures of similar modesty. A young boy, smaller even than Nicky, observed their arrival through wide blue eyes, then dashed into the building.
“Shall we?” Mr. DeChambelle jumped from the vehicle and extended his hand. “If you don’t feel comfortable with my friends, I will find an inn for you. But meet them before you decide.”
She hesitated, then placed her palm against his. Strong, warm fingers encased hers, holding them fast. As soon as her feet reached the ground, she tugged her hand away and wiped it surreptitiously on the back of her coat as if she could scrape away her perturbation. The driver tossed her bags to Mr. DeChambelle, who set them down and searched for the fare.
His eyes glittered like ice as he patted his coat.
“Gov’na?” The hackney driver waited.
The lines around Mr. DeChambelle’s mouth tightened. “Ah …” He reached inside the coat again.
Mattie stifled a giggle. That imp. She had a few things to say to Nicky if they met again. “I’ll pay the fare.” She extracted several English coins from the dwindling collection in her reticule.
“Thank ye, miss.” The driver glared at Mr. DeChambelle.
“Yes, thank you, Miss Fraser. I fear a pickpocket lifted my purse.”
“I’ve heard London is a dangerous place, filled not only with drunken sailors but also thieves and cutthroats.”
“Indeed. I fail to understand, though,” he continued as he hefted her bags with a single hand, “how this particular thief missed your reticule.”
She coughed and cleared her throat. “Perhaps he assumed your purse would provide the greater bounty.”
The tenement door squeaked open to reveal a short woman with a wide smile and wider belly. Even her eyes were wide, their blue depths conveying trepidation as she offered a nervous curtsey. “M-Mr. DeChambelle? Is something wrong? Is Lawrie …?”
“He’s fine, so far as I know. I came to request a favor.”
A frown furrowed her brow. “A favor?”
“This is Miss Fraser. From America. May we come in?”
“Oh, why, ah … yes, of course.”
She stepped back from the doorway and gestured to the dim interior.
Mattie’s misgivings scratched in her stomach. She seized Mr. DeChambelle’s sleeve before he could follow. “You can’t ask this of her. It is too much.”
“If it will ease your mind, I’ll see the Harrisons receive some remuneration for their troubles. After all, you are here to put right our government’s error.” He shook loose from her grasp and followed the other woman inside.
For several more awkward seconds, Mattie lingered on the stoop. But with her belongings already inside, she shrugged and joined the others.
The tang of stale bacon fat and wet wool hung in the air. Clothes in an assortment of sizes dangled from the rope that stretched the length of the room. Children in sizes corresponding to the laundry bounced about the guests with such a flurry of activity so as to make counting them difficult if not impossible. Mattie ducked under several small stockings and joined the other two adults by the stove.
“Where is Harrison today?” Mr. DeChambelle was asking Mattie’s potential hostess.
“At the docks, unloading a ship.”
“Do you know which ship?”
“The Laughing Mary, I believe.” Her mouth softened as she spotted Mattie draw closer. “Good morning, Miss Fr
aser. I am sorry to learn of your difficulties. Of course we would be delighted to have you as our guest.”
“All is good, Miss Fraser.” Mr. DeChambelle reached down and patted the top of a tow-headed toddler who was tugging on his coat. “Not today, Peter. I can’t stay.”
The lad’s lower lip began to curl. “Pwease?”
“Very well. But only to the door.” A smile—the first of Mattie’s observation—flashed across Kit’s countenance. He crouched low to the floor and assisted the lad onto his back. As he rose, he focused those startlingly blue eyes on Mattie. “I’ll continue my investigation tomorrow.”
“I want to come with you.”
The silence stretched for several moments, long enough to make the young boy on his back wiggle impatiently. “Very well, I’ll come for you at nine.” He galloped away, ducking clothes and dodging chairs and trailing giggles until he reached the door. Then he slid the boy from his back and slipped out of the building.
Mrs. Harrison shook her head as she watched him leave behind a whirlwind of energetic children. “He needs several of his own. Lawrie said—” She pursed her lips. Her throat moved with the swallow that consumed the remainder of her thought.
Mattie waited, but the other woman offered no further confidences.
“Come, let me show you to your room.” She snatched the handle of Mattie’s bag.
“You mustn’t carry that!”
Mrs. Harrison’s laughter tinkled like a fistful of silver coins. “This is my lightest burden of the day. I have four children, Miss Fraser. Indeed, I hope you don’t mind sharing space with my daughter.”
“Of course not. I only hope she doesn’t regret having to share with me. And please, call me Mattie.” She followed her hostess into a tiny room whose only furnishing, a none-too-large bed, filled the available space.
“And my name is Alice.” Mattie’s unexpected hostess set the bag at the end of the bed. “I’ll leave you to a few moments of privacy. I’m afraid you won’t get many.”
Alice exited and pulled the curtain across the doorway. The fabric swished over the opening, separating the room from the remainder of the house and shielding Mattie from curious eyes. Quickly she withdrew the pistol from her deep coat pocket and caressed the polished curly-maple stock, stroked the smooth barrel.
But where to stow it in the meantime? Particularly in a place where curious little fingers wouldn’t discover the weapon. She glanced about the unfamiliar room. A black wool scarf shrouded the tiny window and draped the room in gloom and privacy. Mattie retrieved a dark stocking from her bag and dropped the gun inside. Reaching behind the curtain, she tied the stocking to the nail holding the corner, then moved the fabric back in place. A faint bulge, only visible under close scrutiny, hinted at the curtain’s dual purpose.
Then Mattie hauled another item from the other coat pocket. Elegant script contradicted the vile sentiments on the paper she’d discovered in her room at the Captain’s Quarters a mere hour ago.
“Go home, Yank, lest you meet with an unpleasant end.”
Chapter Four
Kit exited the hackney where he’d spent the better part of this glorious day. If only the building before him reflected some of the afternoon’s splendor. He ducked and entered the ramshackle pub once again.
“What do you want?” Polly marched forward to guard her domain from his entry.
“No one evicts a paying customer unless she ‘as a better offer.”
“Now see ‘ere, that woman created a disturbance.”
“Aye, she appeared the sort to get drunk and rowdy.”
Polly tilted up her chin. “Women like that don’t need to cause the trouble. It follows them naturally like in a place with lots of men.”
“But Miss Fraser’s trouble stemmed from a single man, one who offered coins.” Kit extracted two silver pieces—for which he’d traversed the length of London—from within his coat and flashed them before the woman’s eyes. “One for a description. Double if you give me a name.”
Interest flared on the woman’s face. “What’s that Miss Fraser to ye?”
“Business. Do ye ‘ave a name?”
“Some red ‘eaded chap. Never seen ‘im before.”
“A plain enough depiction to describe a hundred men. Was ‘e tall? Short? With a beard? Did ‘e walk like a sailor?”
“I didn’t notice nothing—’e was … ordinary.”
Kit clamped his teeth together and shoved the coins back in his coat. “You waste my time.”
“See ‘ere, I gave ye a description.”
“No, you gave me generalities. Give me something useful.”
Polly scratched the top of her head. “Blue eyes. Not tall, but powerful. Scar on the back of ‘is hand.”
Kit tossed the woman a single coin, then stomped back to the waiting cab. “Belgrave Square.”
As the vehicle lurched forward he leaned back against the cracked upholstery, plucked the bent spectacles from his face and rubbed his throbbing brow. Without the spectacles’ assistance he observed no clear delineation amongst the various buildings, no way of determining decrepit ruins from charming homes. A little like what he was doing now, trying to make sense of an ambiguous situation.
Who would want Mattie Fraser evicted from her humble lodging—enough to part with good money to make it happen?
The cab slowed to a halt before the imposing DeChambelle mansion. He pushed his spectacles over his nose again, bringing the faint signs of adversity and neglect into focus. The roses in wont of pruning. The trim calling for a new coat of paint.
“’Ere ye are, Mr. DeChambelle.”
Kit stepped onto the street. “Come early tomorrow. We have more work to do.”
“Aye, gov’na. And be certain to refund the lady’s money.”
As the hackney pulled away, the front door swung open to reveal the butler’s prim and proper form. “Good evening, sir. Will you be dining here tonight?”
“No, tell Cook not to trouble herself. I’ll eat at my club. Have the carriage brought around in fifteen minutes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Kit mounted the stairs two at a time to the room he’d occupied since childhood—past the daunting portraits of celebrated DeChambelles who reminded him that a man of eight and twenty should have his own lodgings.
His siblings, all but his youngest sister Caroline, had homes of their own. Families. Futures. Kit had a past … a past of which he couldn’t speak. A past that included a profession disparaged in polite company.
Espionage.
Alderston had made the scheme sound so exciting ten years ago when he’d come offering adventure wrapped in mantle of patriotism—an opportunity to outwit the French in service to his country. And Kit had chosen excitement over stability only to discover disillusionment—a life in the shadows where black and white didn’t exist, only shades of gray.
He kicked off the bulky shoes and shrugged out of the homely jacket. Once properly attired as a gentleman of means, he departed. Minutes later, he faced Julian’s door for the second time that day.
But despite his increasingly emphatic knocks, no butler answered his summons with even so much as an admonishment to depart. Kit stalked away, anger bubbling low in his gut.
He needed to speak to Julian. But if he couldn’t have that, he would settle for a drink.
“Would you get the stew, Mattie?” Alice nodded to an enormous pot that contained a little meat and a lot of potatoes. “I hear Lawrie arriving. At last.”
Mattie moved dinner to the center of the table. Shouts and giggles reverberated from the other room, then Mr. Harrison hitched around the corner. A towheaded tot wrapped his arms around one leg, an older girl with brown curls tugged on an arm and a third child climbed on his back.
“Sarah tells me we have a guest.” Mr. Harrison wasn’t tall or imposing or particularly handsome, and his clothes matched the undistinguished condition of his house. His receding hair lengthened his forehead, leaving his aquiline
nose too prominent on his face. And yet, a peculiar joy glowed on his smile.
“Miss Mattie Fraser, from America. Mr. DeChambelle suggested she stay with us for a few days.” Alice gestured the family to take their seats on the benches that stretched the length of the table. “Mattie, somewhere buried under all those children is my husband, Lawrie.”
“Welcome, Miss Fraser from America.” He peeled the child off his back, then assisted the smallest one onto the bench. “Sarah would like to sit beside you, if you don’t mind.”
All eyes in the room—six pairs, to be exact, focused on Mattie. Unaccustomed to so much attention, she stiffened. The tiny room seemed to contract even smaller around her.
“Perhaps Mattie would prefer—”
“No, no. I don’t mind. Indeed, I would be delighted.” She slid onto the already crowded bench.
Sarah smiled then slipped her hand into Mattie’s. Alice grabbed her other one as the entire family created a chain around the table.
“Our Father, we thank thee for thy bounty—for providing us with good food, good friends and good fellowship.” Lawrie Harrison’s voice rose over the rustlings of wiggly children. “We ask thy blessing upon this family and upon our guest. Amen.”
The family dropped hands, and the noise began in earnest. A lump caught in Mattie’s throat as she glanced at the oldest child, a lad within a year of two of Nicky’s age. Poor Nicky, who suffered more than physical deprivations. He lacked even what the Harrisons had—good food, good friends, good fellowship.
A good family.
Perhaps if she finished her business quickly, she would have funds remaining. Would the Harrisons accept yet another child if Mattie provided his financial support?
“Some stew, Miss Fraser?” Mr. Harrison held up a hand for her bowl. “It’s long on potatoes and short on beef, I’m afraid.”
