Redeeming the Rogue

by C. J. Chase

  His own brother?

  The irony nearly choked Kit. Julian had no secret to protect if Alderston already knew about the orders’ disappearance.

  Childish voices drifted through the doorway, followed by lyrical tones of Alice Harrison and the deep chuckle of her husband.

  “Wait here.” Kit glared as he repeated his order of only moments ago. The one she’d disobeyed seconds later. “The children mustn’t see this.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Kit darted outside and intercepted the family in the street. “There you are. Did the service go long?”

  Harrison stopped and grabbed Sarah by the hand, his eyes narrowing. “DeChambelle?”

  “Miss Fraser and I concluded our business somewhat sooner than expected. Alas, when we arrived, we discovered the fire had gone out.” He targeted Harrison with a look. “I fear the stew is quite inedible.”

  “Oh, no!” Alice toddled to the door. “How could—”

  “Dear me.” Harrison threw his other arm around her shoulder and arrested her progress. “I must have forgotten to stoke the fire in all the excitement this morning. I’m so sorry I ruined everyone’s meal.”

  Four small pairs of gloomy eyes looked at Kit. He tweaked one of Sarah’s curls. “It’s a fine day for a picnic.”

  “A picnic! Oh, do say we can, Papa.”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?” Harrison withdrew several coins and passed them to his wife. “You know that widow lady down the street who makes the best meat pies? You and the children go. I will speak with Mr. DeChambelle and join you shortly.”

  Andrew tilted his head and studied the adults through suspicious eyes. “But what about Miss Fraser?”

  Kit forced an unconcerned smile. “Not this afternoon. Miss Fraser has to leave. She has a family situation requiring her attention.” Namely, that her search for her brother threatened those who assisted her. “But perhaps she’ll be able to visit again before she returns to America.”

  Trepidation flickered in Alice’s tired eyes as she grasped Peter by the hand. “Come, children.”

  Kit waited until the children had skipped away, then lowered his voice for Harrison’s ears alone. “I never meant to endanger your children.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  “No. Only that I am worried. And now my brother appears to have vanished.” Willingly—or not? In his annoyance, Kit hadn’t considered that aspect of Julian’s disappearance. “I would appreciate your help.”

  Questions percolated in Harrison’s eyes—questions he would never ask. “Of course. You protect Miss Fraser. Leave your brother to me. Where did you last see him?”

  Mattie reclaimed another shredded stocking from the wreckage on the floor. Unfortunately the vandal had reduced all her belongings—even the bags she carried them in—to ribbons. Another warning, like the note and eviction? Or had someone searched for something specific—something he thought she possessed?

  A shadow reached across the doorway. Fear fisted in her belly and clawed up to her throat.

  “Mattie?”

  Her head snapped up, even as Nicky’s voice registered in her conscious. “How did you get in here?”

  He shrugged, and the too-large coat drooped off a scrawny shoulder. “Probably the same way as the wretch who did this to ye. Broken window in the other room. Mattie, ye’ve got to leave.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m going to find somewhere else to stay.” She considered her dwindling collection of coins. “I don’t suppose you know of any place—”

  “No, not ‘ere. Ye got to go far away. Back to America.”

  “Soon, I hope. Did you talk to that bloke you mentioned?”

  “Not yet. If I find ‘im for ye, then will ye go?”

  “Meet me tomorrow afternoon at … where would be a good place?”

  “St. Paul’s.”

  “Isn’t that a church?”

  “One even an American can find. I’ll be under Big Tom—the clock.” With a jaunty wave, he crept away, leaving her strangely alone.

  Lonely.

  Footsteps tapped against the floor of the parlor, then Mr.

  DeChambelle stood in the bedchamber doorway, lips pressed into a stern line. “Come, we must leave this place.”

  “The Harrisons?”

  “We sent Alice to get the children some meat pies for a picnic. Harrison will find someone to tidy the mess, then join them. That should spare the children the worst.” His head tilted as he regarded her for one overlong moment. “A shame we can’t join them—a frolic would do you good. But we must get you settled elsewhere.”

  If only his country’s army had shown such concern when they’d occupied—destroyed—her country’s cities. “I …” She extracted the bent remains of her umbrella from the wreckage, suddenly aware she had nothing but the clothes on her back and a few coins in her reticule. And the pistol in her pocket.

  “Leave it. I’ll replace what was ruined.”

  “I can’t accept charity from you.”

  “Must you debate my every attempt to help?”

  “I don’t.”

  “No?” The curve of his mouth warmed to the kind of roguish grin that could make an ordinary woman feel beautiful and his soft chuckle crawled under her coat, sweeping shivers up her spine. Perhaps she should be thankful he didn’t smile more often. He clasped her elbow and hauled her to her feet. “Come.”

  She cast one last look at her ravaged belongings, then followed him into the warm sunshine. “And to think, had I taken your advice I would have lost my coat with the rest of my clothes.”

  His brow rose as he eyed the ancient wool. “No great loss, that.” He matched his steps to hers and guided her back in the direction from which they had so recently come.

  “I hope you don’t intend for me to stay with any more of your friends. Not after what happened.”

  “As a matter of fact, Miss Fraser—no.”

  They continued in silence while she waited for him to elaborate. The buildings transitioned from modest tenements to fashionable shops and then to ever finer homes. “Are we returning to Mayfair?”

  “Near there, Miss Fraser.”

  The noon sun, beautiful for its scarcity, glittered on spacious houses that towered over the wide road like a row of castles. Behind garden gates, solemn statuary guarded lush greenery.

  “I doubt my purse can afford such luxury.”

  “Fret not, Miss Fraser. I have the perfect place in mind—comfortable, secure and economical. Do you trust me?”

  Did she? He had listened to her when all others had ignored her petitions, and assisted her during troubles and threats. And yet as she stared into the blue eyes behind their glass screens, suspicions lurked in her mind as if she sensed hidden depths. Hidden dangers. Nicky’s warning echoed in her mind.

  Mr. DeChambelle paused in front of a glorious mansion of gleaming white. Below the arched windows, flowers bloomed in boxes and scented the air with perfume. Square columns flanked the portico’s three steps that led to a door. “The chez DeChambelle, mademoiselle.”

  “The what?”

  “My parents’ London residence.”

  “Your parents’ house!” A hundred orphans such as Nicky could find refuge in a house as large as this one. And Mattie would be as out of place as every one of them. “I can’t intrude on your family.”

  “You won’t. My parents and youngest sister are in Somerset.”

  The import of his words washed over her. Wealthy landowners involved in American politics often had multiple residences, one in their home state and one in the new capital. They had shopped at her father’s store where their daughters bought imported silks. They had not shared their tables and beds with the likes of Mattie Fraser. “Your youngest sister? How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

  “One brother and four sisters, but only Caroline and I yet live with our parents.”

  She schooled her features to betray nothing though her bitterness grew. He had five sibli
ngs and two parents—and she had herself.

  “It will be perfect. There are rooms aplenty, a well-stocked larder and an army of servants to prevent further attempts at intimidation.”

  The door of the mansion opened to reveal the general of that army—a proper English butler. His impeccable attire, far superior in quality and style to anything she owned—or rather, had once owned—exaggerated the drab color of her coat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Christopher.”

  “This is Miss Fraser, Higgins. From America.”

  Mattie turned to the man beside her, the clutch on her composure ready to shatter. “I … you …”

  “She will be staying with us for a few days.” Mr. DeChambelle clamped his hand to her back and whisked her through the door.

  “Very good, sir,” the butler intoned as if such occurrences were altogether natural. He gazed down his long nose at Mattie, but his cool eyes betrayed no surprise at the ragamuffin before him.

  Once inside she stopped, the haughty butler and even Christopher DeChambelle forgotten. A hundred lofty window panes welcomed the sun into the airy foyer where a smiling man and woman in larger-than-life portraits exaggerated her inadequacy.

  Gold-and-white-papered walls stretched to high, high ceilings replete with intricate scenes molded onto the plaster surface, and the floor gleamed where it peeked out from under the colorful rug that led to a monstrous staircase.

  “Have Mrs. Parker take Miss Fraser to her room.”

  The butler never so much as raised an eyebrow. “The yellow chamber, sir?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “May I take your coat, Miss Fraser?”

  She shoved her hands into her pockets, and her fingers once again encountered her cherished pistol. With no way to remove the weapon and unobtrusively convey it to the mysterious yellow room, she dared not relinquish the garment. “No, thank you.”

  She shifted under Mr. DeChambelle’s intense stare. His eyes narrowed, then softened. He gave her shoulder a squeeze more disquieting than reassuring and she ripped her gaze away to the portraits who watched her with censure in their lifeless eyes.

  Then the door thumped shut behind her like the stone rolled in front of the tomb, and her poise died. She cramped her fingers around the pistol stock as she seized control over her response.

  “Mrs. Parker will see to your needs. I am going to see a man who might be able to answer some of our questions.” Mr. DeChambelle’s breath stirred loose tendrils of her hair and whispered against her face. “Don’t surrender yet, Yank.”

  She touched her fingers to her burning cheek, his whisper echoing in her mind as he strode away.

  Yank.

  The same designation as in yesterday’s threat, another reminder of who she was—an American who need bow to no one. Not impervious butlers. Not mysterious gentlemen. And most especially not anonymous cowards.

  As Mattie stared after him, shoes clicked against the floor, then whispered against the rug.

  “Miss Fraser?”

  She turned to confront a formidable woman in gray, from the top of her silvery hair to the hem of her pewter skirt. Her cold, steely gaze pierced Mattie like a saber into flesh. “Yes?”

  “I am Mrs. Parker, the housekeeper. I will show you to your room.” She wheeled and marched toward the wide, curving stairway. The profusion of keys around her waist jangled like a chain.

  Mattie drew in a deep breath of rose-scented air, then followed the rattling up the stairs and through the maze of hallways. How would she ever find her way out of here? She glanced backward, already confused as to which of the myriad passageways returned to the entrance.

  “This way.” Mrs. Parker indicated a door identical to the others they’d passed. She pushed it open and gestured Mattie inside. The keys at her waist clanked in protest as she rapped her toe against the floor.

  Mattie entered, half expecting the woman to slam the door and lock it with one—or more—of those keys. Instead, Mrs. Parker swished across the rug, then paused before the large bed that dominated the room. Its yellow damask coverlet, matched by the upholstery on the two chairs, complemented the deeper golds of the walls.

  The inviting scene would have offered warmth and welcome but for the chilling, gray plume of Mrs. Parker’s presence. “I will send Betsy with water so you may wash. Have you any bags?”

  Heat surged to Mattie’s cheeks. “All my belongings were … stolen.”

  Mrs. Parker’s leaden gaze melted ever so slightly. “Ring if you need anything, Miss Fraser.” She spun and charged to the hall.

  Mattie deposited her reticule on the bed, then removed her coat and draped it alongside, the color appearing even more dreary than usual next to the cheery coverlet. The wool bulged at a peculiar angle over the lump of pistol.

  That would never do.

  Gathering up the coat, she slid the gun from her pocket and checked the flashpan to verify the powder level. Sufficient, but the touchhole was clogged. She tugged a pin from her hair and poked it through the hole. Then she raised the gun and aimed as Major Andrew Harley-Smith had taught her thirteen months ago.

  Memories poured back of one kindly Englishman and three days of horror. Already time muted his features to a vague impression of green eyes and a shadow of a smile. He’d marched out of her life with the same rapidity as he’d arrived, but he’d left her a most valuable gift—the ability to defend her honor and to exact her vengeance.

  She examined the room again, ruling out the most obvious hiding places as being too apparent to the staff. She crawled under the bed and groped along the planks. Aha! A niche between a slat and the soft down mattress. She tucked the pistol—

  A timid knock announced Betsy’s arrival.

  Mattie scrambled out from under the bed. “Come in.”

  The door swung in to reveal a maid encumbered with a pitcher. She was young, probably not more than eighteen years, and rather pretty despite her plain black frock. The maid placed the pitcher on a stand.

  “Thank you, Betsy.”

  Betsy scooped the coat from the bed. “I’ll clean this for you, miss.” She curtsied and left, the door latching behind her with a soft click.

  Mattie stared after her, then glanced at the empty spot on the bed next to her reticule—where her coat had so recently sprawled. Privacy, it seemed, diminished in proportion to the number of servants in an establishment. How did one maintain secrets with so many servants having access to one’s most personal details? Perhaps she would stash her brother’s letter in the same hiding place as the gun.

  “Brandy, DeChambelle?” Colonel Bedell asked after the preliminary greetings.

  Kit nodded, cheered by the notion of a drink before the forthcoming interview. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  The colonel poured two glasses and passed one to Kit, then returned the decanter to the sideboard and gestured to the chairs that flanked the fireplace. “What can I do for you?”

  Kit settled himself on the closest seat and sipped his brandy, disappointed to discover it was as impotent as the king’s mind. “I understand Andrew Harley-Smith served under you last year in America. Drew wrote me a letter last fall, forthwith before he died.”

  Bedell grunted as he dropped into the other chair. He took a long draught of his brandy, its poor quality notwithstanding.

  “Drew asked for my help concerning a woman he met in Washington. I believe he guarded her home to prevent inflamed soldiers from extending the conflagration to private residences. As he never mentioned her by name, I thought perhaps you could help.”

  “Yes, as we were only to target the American government’s property, General Ross assigned men to protect civilians and their possessions. Sad bit of business about Ross,” Bedell said with another gulp. “Great soldier. Great man. He will be missed. More brandy?”

  Kit shook his head.

  Bedell quaffed the contents of his goblet. “Yes, Harley-Smith was assigned to the woman.”

  “Woman?” Kit leaned forward.

  �
�Pretty little thing.” Bedell rose and refilled his sifter with more brandy. “Several of the men were quite envious.”

  Excitement zinged along Kit’s spine. “Did you see her? Would you know her if you saw her again?”

  “Likely not. She spoke to Ross, and I sent Harley-Smith. Never met her myself.”

  “Do you remember anything that would help me identify her? A name? A description?”

  “Small lass with deep red hair, the color of trouble. I believe she lived alone.”

  “Do you suppose I could speak to any of the others who might remember her?”

  The officer gulped more liquor, as if the drink assisted his memory. “Adams died at Waterloo. Winston sold out—probably hunting at his family’s estate in Northumberland. Harley-Smith is dead, of course. Don’t remember that Eyre ever saw the girl.”

  Bedell’s description matched closely enough that if Martha Fraser was a fraud, she was too good for anyone within three days of London to distinguish. No, mostly likely she was as she claimed, a young woman searching for her brother. “Thank you, sir.” Kit rose to leave.

  “Sure I can’t offer you more?” The colonel hefted the decanter.

  “No, you have already provided me all that I can use.”

  Mattie paced to the yellow-draped window and peered longingly at the garden below. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the late-blooming roses with a gold that matched her new chamber. A nap had restored her composure but now left her with a surfeit of energy. Despite the luxury of her surroundings, she felt unnoticed, unneeded, unwanted.

  Unwelcome?

  She traipsed to the other side of the room and tested the doorknob. Unlocked. She slipped into the hallway, leaving the door ajar so she could identify it on her return.

  “Can I help you find something, Miss Fraser?” Mrs. Parker’s icy tone suggested Mattie searched for the silver.

  “I thought perhaps I might obtain something to read.”