by C. J. Chase
“She knows.” Alice snagged Mattie’s dish and passed it across the table. “Mattie helped me with the meal. And the laundry. And the children.”
“How long did you say she was staying with us?” Harrison scooped out a healthy portion of stew. “Four years? Five?”
“Only a few days, I hope.” Mattie set the bowl on the table and waited while Harrison served the remainder of the family. “Long enough for me to enjoy your company, but not so long you tire of mine.”
The Harrisons laughed as if she had shared a great witticism.
“‘Better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’ You are welcome at our table any time, Miss Mattie Fraser from America.” Harrison filled his bowl last. “Is Mattie short for Matilda?”
“Martha.”
At the other end of the table, two boys elbowed each other. Their father aimed a stern look at them, then focused his attention on Mattie again. “A good Biblical name.”
“My mother’s father served in the war under General Washington. Afterward, he opened a shop in Alexandria, so my mother had occasion to meet both the president and his wife.” Images of her mother flickered in Mattie’s mind, the pictures growing ever more hazy and indistinct with the passage of time. A wave of loss—burgeoned by the presence of a happy, loving family—surged through her. “And thus, she named her children Martha and George.”
“Peter! Stop that.” Harrison reached across the table and plucked the spoon from the tot’s hand before it became a missile. “And Andrew, if you tease your brother again—”
“I won’t.”
Alice rested an elbow on the table and sighed. “Please excuse us, Mattie. My heathens have yet to learn the finer points of good table manners.”
“Only the finer points? You give them too much credit, my dear.” Lawrie Harrison stood.
Mattie grabbed her bowl and started to rise, only to realize the rest of the family remained seated while the husband and father pulled a large black book from a shelf. Mattie lowered herself back onto the bench.
“We’re reading the story of King David,” Mr. Harrison explained as he resumed his seat.
“About how the king’s son went to war with his father so he could become king instead.” Andrew’s eyes glowed with the excitement of a boy listening to tales of war and glory.
“But tonight’s chapter is the most important because it is about the king’s forgiveness toward those who wronged him.” His father drew the candle nearer and opened the Bible to the marked page. “Second Samuel, chapter nineteen.”
As his voice rose and fell with the quaint passage, forgiveness felt as foreign as ever to Mattie. No, resentment and regret swelled in her throat at the difference between the end of this meal and those she’d experienced in her childhood when the three Frasers went their separate ways—Mattie to scrub the dishes, her brother to engage in mischief with his friends and her father to find comfort in his whiskey. Another spurt of determination shot through her to provide something better for Nicky.
The door of his parents’ townhouse closed behind Kit as he climbed into Turner’s hackney. Church bells chimed in the distance, while closer to home a lark sang her approval of the beautiful morning. A morning Kit wouldn’t enjoy until he completed this onerous task.
What would happen when he introduced Miss Fraser to his brother? And what about when she discovered his own secret, his relationship to the man responsible for George Fraser’s death?
“Where to, Mr. DeChambelle?” Turner gathered up the reins.
“Harrison’s.”
“Ah, meeting the young miss again, are ye?”
The hackney rocked as Kit settled on the seat without answering. Across the street, a man in Sunday-morning finery loitered near a garden gate.
Kit leaned back against the upholstery and closed his eyes. The twinges of the previous night’s overindulgence dulled his thoughts. As the vehicle jostled from one rut to the next, misgivings murmured deep within his mind. How strange, when he’d thought the last vestiges of his conscience long since destroyed.
The hackney crawled to a stop and Kit jumped out, wincing at what the jolt did to his head. The tenement door swung open even before he reached it, revealing an eager face.
“Mr. DeChambelle!”
“Good morning, Miss Sarah. You look especially pretty today. Would you inform Miss Fraser of my arrival?”
Sarah smiled and tripped away as Kit stepped over the threshold.
“Did you find Alderston?”
Kit looked down to where Harrison sat on the floor, fastening shoes on Peter’s wiggly feet. “Spoke to him yesterday.”
Sarah danced back into the room. “Miss Fraser is putting on her coat.”
“Thank you.”
A smattering of freckles dotted the girl’s nose, rather like Miss Fraser’s. Alas, the resemblance ended there. Sarah’s jaw lacked the brittle edge of challenge nor did her chin tilt with wary pride. Instead, her eyes danced with joy and happiness and the knowledge she was loved. An ache formed in his chest as he contemplated what circumstances had hardened Miss Fraser’s responses. The loss of her brother, of course. But more?
Harrison gave Peter’s laces one last jerk and rose to his feet. “I don’t suppose I could convince you and Miss Fraser to attend church with us.”
“No, Miss Fraser and I have business to attend to this morning.”
“Certainly your business could wait a few more hours on such a fine Lord’s Day.”
Bitterness lodged low and deep as Kit considered the discomfort such a venture would engender. “This morning is the best time.” Besides, Julian could hardly claim a pressing appointment elsewhere at this hour on a Sunday morning.
“Do what you must, but Sarah will be most disappointed, won’t you, darling? She is quite taken with your Miss Fraser.”
His Miss Fraser chose that moment to stroll into the room, her pursed lips indicating her displeasure at the designation. The same drab coat swallowed her form except for the fingers that locked around her reticule.
“Precisely on time, Miss Fraser.” Kit jumped to his feet and offered her a bow that did little to thaw her annoyance. “Though I doubt you will need your coat.”
“Nevertheless, I prefer to keep it with me.” The tension in her rigid jaw clipped short her drawl.
“As you wish.” Kit ruffled Peter’s hair and offered Sarah a bow deep enough for royalty. “Please excuse our departure, Miss Sarah.”
“Only if you promise to return forthwith.”
Kit chuckled. “Are you—” He looked to Miss Fraser, only to discover a moment of undisguised longing darkening her eyes to the color of warm chocolate. And then, aware of his regard, wariness slammed across her mouth and shuttered her gaze. He turned to Harrison while she composed herself. “Thank you for opening your home to Miss Fraser.”
“Yes, thank you. You have a wonderful family.” Gratitude softened her face as she directed a smile at Sarah. “I will see you in a few hours.”
Kit fixed his hand to the curve of Miss Fraser’s slender back and guided her to the waiting hackney. Despite the layers of wool too warm for the fair day, the muscles beneath his hand stiffened to match the frown that drew her lips into a tight line.
The streets in this part of town bustled with people. Some few, like the Harrisons, traveling to services in their Sunday best. Others simply enjoying a few hours of respite from their weekly labors.
Turner smiled as Miss Fraser climbed into the cab. “Good to see ye again, miss.”
Kit grasped the frame, then hesitated. His nerves jangled with the sensation of being observed. He glanced over his shoulder but could pinpoint no threat. Still, he motioned Turner closer and whispered, “Watch for someone following us.”
Turner nodded and prodded the horse into motion.
Silence settled over the cab. Miss Fraser’s brown gaze stared out the window at a few fluffy white clouds hovering in a blue sky.
“
It really is a fair day—much too nice for such warm apparel.”
She turned her face toward him. “Perhaps your notion of a fair day differs somewhat from mine.”
The peel of church bells ringing out a joyful hymn floated on the balmy air. Kit gestured to St. Paul’s dome, gleaming golden in the sunlight. “Come now Miss Fraser. You are not being disloyal to your American sensibilities to enjoy the beauty around you. Even in London.”
She relaxed slightly against the seat, her lips tweaking up at the corners. “You do have some charming sites. Provided one doesn’t look too closely.”
“I hope you will take the opportunity while you are in London to visit our most famous landmarks.”
“I’ve seen nearly every inch of the Admiralty.”
He allowed a smile to slip onto his face. “Beyond that. We must get you elsewhere before your return to America.” The hackney pulled to a stop before Julian’s townhome. “Unfortunately, we have to start here. Business before pleasure.”
Mattie descended from the cab and gawked at the mansion before her, scarcely registering Mr. DeChambelle’s gloved assistance in her excitement. Trepidation.
Resentment.
At last. At last. At last.
She was here, at the home of the man she had crossed an ocean to meet.
And possibly kill.
Anger swept away her awe as her feet trudged toward the door. That this captain should enjoy such wealth and status and privilege while her brother …
Mr. DeChambelle pounded on the door. The knock reverberated hollowly inside the building. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?” She jerked her gaze to the man beside her. Today he sported a fine morning coat of soft gray. A high-crowned hat covered much of the tawny hair.
Another knock yielded them the same nonresults. Mattie peeked in a nearby window but the reflection of the blue sky stared vacantly back at her. Her disappointment melted her knees. Mysterious. And oh, so coincidental. “Could he have another appointment?”
“On a Sunday morning? Not likely.”
“Perhaps he went to church.”
“Less likely.”
“Well, then, perhaps he is sleeping off a night of carousing.”
“More probable—but his staff would be here, if only to order us to knock more softly lest we disturb his recovery.” He grabbed her by the elbow. “Come, there is no sense wasting further time here.”
Mattie instinctively yanked her arm away. Her coat billowed out then tumbled back into place, the heavy pistol brushing against her thigh. “But we can’t leave.” Not when she was so close.
“And what would you have us do, Miss Fraser? Judging by the abandoned nature of the house, we could be setting ourselves up for a very long wait.” He gestured toward the cab without touching her. “In the meantime I’ll take you back to the Harrisons’.”
“Do you suppose we could walk? It’s such a beautiful day, and after all those weeks at sea I relish the freedom.”
“Yes, one’s mobility is rather limited on a ship.” He paused beside the hackney and murmured to the driver, then turned to her as the cab pulled away. “Well, then, shall we enjoy our stroll?”
Mattie fell into step beside him and gestured to the row of magnificent buildings. “What is this place?”
“Mayfair.”
“Ah.” She studied the stately homes with their cheerful flower boxes below palatial windows—hoping to memorize her location so she could return.
Without her oh-so-diligent escort.
“So what will you do next?” she asked.
“About the search for your brother?” He paused before a rose-covered wall and plucked one of the late-season blooms. “I have some other avenues I’ll try while I wait for Ju—the captain to return.”
“You think the captain will return then?”
“Oh, yes. He is on half pay.” He passed her the flower. “The color matches your cheeks.”
Mattie stroked the soft petals as they moved on. Heat rushed to her face, no doubt painting her skin several shades darker than the rose. “Half pay?”
“Maintaining a large navy is an expensive proposition for any country, but a necessary one during war. There are sailors to be paid, supplies to be bought, ships to be maintained. During peacetimes, we berth some of the ships and furlough their men. Officers collect half their pay in exchange for their willingness to be recalled in a time of emergency.”
She considered a mansion whose wrought-iron fence walled out commoners like her, and tried to imagine the captains of her acquaintance in such fine circumstances. “Being a captain in your navy does seem to pay well.”
“All men on a ship share in any prize money, but yes, the largest portion goes to the captain of the victorious ship.”
“So this captain, Viscount Somershurst, is older? He must have been a captain for quite some time to amass so many prizes.”
“He has great skill, not years.” Pique—or patriotism—sharpened the edge of his consonants.
“You probably say such about all your country’s officers.”
He tilted his head rakishly to one side as if giving the matter great consideration. “No, certainly not all. Merely most.”
They continued in silence—a surprisingly congenial and companionable silence—wandering through ever-changing neighborhoods, each like a town unto itself, until they passed rows of tenements like those where the Harrisons lived.
Nicer than the dockside taverns but not so fine as Mayfair, the buildings huddled together, sometimes brushing against one another, sometimes separated by narrow alleys. As she neared one such opening, a flash of green caught Mattie’s attention.
Nicky? Had the imp followed her, yesterday and then again today? A warmth owing nothing to the fine day filled her heart as the form retreated into the shadows.
“This one.” Mr. DeChambelle’s voice stopped her when she would have continued down the street.
“Do you think the Harrisons have returned?”
“You would hear them if they had.”
Mattie allowed a smile to escape. “They are a noisy horde, but so much happier than anyone else I know.”
Mr. DeChambelle stiffened.
What had she said …? Mattie’s shoulders tensed and her fingers tightened around the rose stem until the thorn’s prick registered in her mind. She dropped the flower and tucked her hand into her pocket. Her fingers traced the pistol’s stock to the trigger as her gaze followed the hard line of Mr. DeChambelle’s stare to the door.
The door that now gaped—ajar.
Chapter Five
Danger!
Kit’s mind shouted a silent warning as an autumn draft trembled on the door. Harrison would never be so careless. Habits that kept a man alive in war did not easily die in peace.
He nudged Miss Fraser behind him, motioning her to silence as he pressed himself against the wall next to the entrance. The bustle of the street faded from his consciousness as he concentrated on the threat before them. Interminable seconds ticked away.
Nothing.
Quietly he toed the gap open farther. The door’s rusty hinges screeched, a warning to any villain yet lurking within. Kit braced for danger to explode out the opening, like that horrific night in Marseilles when everything went so atrociously wrong.
And yet … still nothing.
A cart lumbered along the cobblestoned street. Its rattling wheels mingled with Miss Fraser’s rapid breathing and the pulse pounding in his ears. Kit raised a silent hand, motioning Miss Fraser to wait.
After several more tense seconds he stretched one foot over the threshold, shifting his weight gradually so as to prevent any squeaky boards from announcing his entrance. Then he repeated the motion with his other foot. Step. Pause. Step. The slow progression moved him farther until at last he stood in the narrow parlor, blinking his eyes against the gloom.
Sunlight sifting through a faded muslin drape revealed the slashed upholstery and broken frames of the room’s humbl
e furnishings. He slid to one side, keeping the wall to his back, and his foot brushed against a book. The shelf above lay bare, its prior contents now tumbled onto the floor in a heap. Kit edged farther into the wrecked home, noting the overturned benches, the shards of broken crockery.
Not a thief then, but a vandal.
Anger mounting, Kit slipped into the bedchamber, only to find the coverlet slashed to ribbons and the tick beneath similarly abused. Straw littered the wood planks like a barn floor while glinting slivers of glass from the broken window sparkled among the debris. The thug’s means for gaining entrance? Kit stalked to a smaller bedchamber, a child’s room—this time hoping to yet find the brute in residence, but knowing him to be long gone.
An image flashed in the back of his mind. A man loitering across the street from his parents’ home this morning as he departed. Following him? To find Miss Fraser?
“You said I needed a safe place to stay. This happened because of me, didn’t it?”
His anger spiked even as he identified the voice behind him as Miss Fraser’s soft American drawl. “I believe I ordered you to wait outside.”
“And I believe I followed you in. Truly, if your man is not in here then he is somewhere out there. I’m in more danger lingering on the stoop.”
That her words held a modicum of truth did not temper his anger. Or his fear. “And you know that how? He could have slit my throat and been waiting in ambush.”
“I can’t stay here. With the Harrisons.” She reached down and retrieved the dismembered remains of Sarah’s ragdoll, her fingers combing its shorn yarn hair and then tracing a path over the mutilated cheek. “Yesterday you said I needed a safe place to stay. You didn’t mean from Stumpy or his like, did you? The threat is against me, and my presence here puts the Harrisons in danger.”
First an eviction, now sabotage. Specters of Emilie Boucher’s bloody body—haunting images of the young woman caught between the vengeful Laura and his duty to his country—coalesced in Kit’s mind.
He had to move Miss Fraser somewhere else, somewhere safe. And yet, would safety lead him to his goal? The attention Miss Fraser had attracted would please Alderston, and he’d expect Kit to use her as an enticement. To trap whom? Who would want to end Miss Fraser’s investigation? Only someone with knowledge of the missing orders.
