Redeeming the Rogue

by C. J. Chase

  “I will show you to the library.” Mrs. Parker led her through the halls and down the stairs until they arrived at a large room with shelves that stretched to the ceiling.

  “My goodness, what a lot of books!”

  Mrs. Parker’s gray bodice swelled with pride. “His lordship has one of the finest libraries in London.”

  Lordship? Lordship! The shock jolted Mattie back a step. Then anger stirred in its place, amplified by the housekeeper’s superior airs. “My home city of Washington once possessed a fine library, too. Until British troops burned it last year.”

  “Perhaps in your browsing you will find some advice about the futility of waging war against superior powers. Indeed, his lordship might even offer to donate such a work to your countrymen. To replace what was lost.” Mrs. Parker pivoted and marched away, leaving Mattie with a thousand books and her growing trepidations.

  A British lord? The man in the portrait?

  Mr. DeChambelle’s father. What did that make him? Hardly the clerk she had first assumed. Idly she searched the shelves, her mind whirling with the implications of the housekeeper’s words. She browsed past a book of sermons and a few volumes printed in Latin before deciding on a slim collection of poetry. She carried it to a window seat where the afternoon sun provided enough light to immerse herself in the works of Herrick.

  An hour later, as the waning light made the words difficult to decipher, footsteps pattered against the corridor floor outside the library. Mattie strolled to the door and peeked out to where a crowd gathered in the foyer. To welcome Mr.

  DeChambelle’s return? She abandoned Herrick on a table and set forth to investigate.

  As she reached the corner, her gaze skimmed the assembly. Mrs. Parker the housekeeper. Higgins the butler. And … not Mr. DeChambelle, but two people—a man and woman who looked suspiciously like the subjects of the portraits.

  Chapter Six

  For several long moments everyone froze as Mattie and the new arrivals stared at each other. Awkward silence as thick as any London fog hung in the room. Mattie’s muscles tightened around the empty hole in her stomach, replacing her earlier hunger with sudden nausea. Nothing in her mother’s gentle teachings had covered the protocols for introducing oneself to unwitting hosts, and Mattie was quite at a loss for what to say.

  Then a girl of perhaps two and ten years slipped forward and eyed Mattie with unconcealed curiosity. “Who’s that, Maman?”

  The younger sister? As Mattie scrutinized her, she realized the arrival had a young woman’s development despite a height that barely reached to Mattie’s chin. The tilted eyes—set in a round face—revealed a childish innocence at odds with her years.

  Then Higgins opened the door for Christopher DeChambelle’s perfectly timed entrance.

  “Kit!” The girl-woman abandoned her study of Mattie and raced to his side, throwing her arms wide to embrace him.

  “Caro.” His genuine, unguarded delight subtracted years from his face and cynicism from his eyes.

  Shards of jealously sliced Mattie’s midsection. Her own brother’s features as she had last seen them—sneering, contemptuous—flashed through her mind. No congeniality was to be found in the memories of her brother. Indeed, his enraged voice reverberated again in her ears.

  “I’ve missed you, Poppet.” Mr. DeChambelle’s soft, very British voice poked through the bitter memories.

  “Missed you, too, Kit.”

  Mr. DeChambelle—Kit, his sister had called him—leaned over to kiss the straight brown hair on the top of her head. Then his gaze swept over the crowd filling the foyer. “Father, Maman, I didn’t expect you today.”

  The sardonic glint in the older man’s eyes looked so very familiar. “So it would seem.”

  “I see you have already made Miss Fraser’s acquaintance.”

  “Not … exactly.” The in-the-flesh lady wore more years than her portrait. Lines of maturity now framed her deep-set eyes.

  “Well, then. Let me rectify this situation.” Kit DeChambelle’s smile remained in place as if he found nothing extraordinary about the circumstances to which he’d consigned Mattie. “Father, Maman, this is Miss Martha Fraser from America.”

  The tension lingered. What must they think of her, a woman who’d taken up residence in their house with their son—and only their son—as host?

  As Mattie hesitated, the older version of Kit DeChambelle stepped forward, his face as unrevealing as his butler’s. “How do you do, Miss Fraser. Please excuse our rudeness. Kit didn’t warn us he’d invited a guest.”

  “My apologies, Father.” Mr. DeChambelle focused a rare smile on his parents though he kept his arm wrapped protectively around his sister. “Miss Fraser arrived here this afternoon. She has of late come into difficulties during her visit to England. Miss Fraser, these are my parents, the Earl and Countess of Chambelston. And this is my sister Caroline. Caro to her friends and family.”

  The countess—countess!—nodded, cool reserve still intact. “Perhaps we can discuss this further after we have refreshed ourselves, Christopher. Caro is quite fatigued, and no doubt Miss Fraser wishes to change for dinner.”

  A grand dinner? The last of Mattie’s hunger fled and a pulse throbbed in her temple as a bad situation turned worse. “I, ah, I fear my belongings were … stolen while I was out this morning.”

  “Oh, dear. You have come into difficulty.” Lady Chambelston’s voice betrayed a hint of accent unlike that of the other English people of Mattie’s acquaintance—a slight stress on the vowels that was at once intimidating and charming. “I will have my maid find something for you. Perhaps with a few alterations we can concoct some appropriate garments for you, yes? Come, Caro, Miss Fraser.”

  Mattie followed the other two women up the daunting staircase without looking back.

  Kit strolled to a sideboard of the same mahogany as Miss Fraser’s eyes and poured a liberal quantity of brandy. The sight of his guest sans her ubiquitous coat had rocked him to his heels, despite her being garbed in the most hideous gown he’d ever seen. Her form matched the dainty facial structure—deceptively delicate and overly thin. The drab color did nothing to enhance her complexion, and yet when she’d followed Maman and Caro up the stairs an hour ago, the ugly gown had swayed in a dance of tantalizing movement.

  Now as he waited for the rest of the family, Maman perched on a chair—back straight, head erect and hands tightly clenched on her lap. Her blond hair complied with perfect order as befitted a woman of her station. “I hope you have a very good reason for entertaining an étranger—a young, unattached femme at that—in our home. In our absence.” Agitation always intensified Maman’s accent.

  He downed the drink in a single gulp. “Captain Andrew Harley-Smith referred her to me.” In a manner of speaking. After years of lying to England’s enemies, this one small falsehood to his family tripped from his tongue with surprising difficulty. And yet, to reveal too many details implicated Julian of incompetence, cruelty or evil. And possibly put him at risk.

  “Harley-Smith—Lady Irene’s son? I thought he died.”

  He ambled to a chair and dropped onto the upholstery. “Yes, last year.”

  “How did this Miss Fraser meet him?”

  “During the war in America. General Ross assigned Drew to protect her during the attack on Washington. He didn’t want the army …”

  Lady Chambelston rested her chin on her fist and pondered the blaze in the fireplace. Old horrors tightened along her jaw. “So why is she in London now? I should think she would avoid all things English after such an experience.”

  The brandy’s siren call beckoned. “She, ah, seeks to know the fate of her brother. She relayed the situation to Drew last year, and he offered to assist her. Alas, Drew died before he completed the task.”

  “I surmise she has no other relatives?”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Poor child. When I learned of my family’s fate …” Maman’s eyes stared across the room to ano
ther country, another time, another tragedy. “Such a waste.”

  Kit hauled his gaze away, unable to witness Maman’s pain when she alluded to France’s Reign of Terror. Thousands died at the radicals’ hands—including Maman’s entire family. What unfortunate events had left Miss Fraser alone in the world? “Unfortunately, Miss Fraser has had a run of bad luck since her arrival, culminating in losing her belongings this morning. Not quite knowing what to do, I brought her here.”

  “So she only arrived here today?”

  “A few hours before you.” Kit rose and retreated to the other side of the room where he refilled his goblet.

  Maman frowned as she followed his movements.

  “I’m surprised Father is not here yet. I’ve never known him to be late for dinner.”

  But Maman would not be deterred. “How much of that have you imbibed?”

  Not enough. Not yet. “Anyway, I would appreciate ever so much, Maman, if you would make Miss Fraser feel welcome.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “For one thing she needs new gowns, but she is a proud woman. You will have to be clever with your suggestion.”

  “As long as she is considerate to Caro, Miss Fraser is welcome in my home.”

  An image of Miss Fraser comforting a homeless urchin formed in Kit’s mind. Whatever her feelings toward his countrymen, whatever her true motivations for coming to England, the woman had displayed compassion toward a lonely child and earned the loyalty of a lad who could offer her nothing in return. “I think Caro will be safe.”

  But Julian? Perhaps not.

  Caroline flitted into Mattie’s bedchamber, a lovely sight in pale pink silk—a fairy-tale princess who lacked only a crown. “Dinner, Miss Fra-Fra—”

  “Please, Caroline. Call me Mattie.”

  “Mat-tie.” The young woman formed the name and smiled.

  Mattie analyzed her own reflection. Betsy had arranged her hair into a knot of intricate elegance, but already a few rebellious tendrils escaped. Lady Chambelston’s icy blue gown washed the color—except her ubiquitous freckles—from her face and emphasized the shadows of uncertainty in her eyes. Still, Mattie took pleasure in the change from her customary brown wool. The gossamer fabric gleamed in the candlelight and shimmered when she moved. She twirled, watching the skirt swish out, then whisper against her again.

  Caroline laughed and clapped her hands. “Mat-tie’s dancing.”

  “Mattie’s giddy.” Over the next upcoming ordeal. Dinner. She held out a hand to the girl-woman. “Will you lead me? I’d get lost in your house and never be seen again.”

  Caro smiled and obligingly fitted her small hand in Mattie’s. Together they traipsed down the grand staircase. Mattie clutched the front of the too-long skirt as she stomped in the unsightly shoes that contrasted so peculiarly with the ephemeral gown. Caro clung to her hand, and as Mattie realized the difficulty stairs posed for the young woman, she slowed her steps.

  For the second time in as many evenings, Mattie discovered someone who valued her company. In many ways Caro was of an age with Sarah—both displayed the same unconcern for Mattie’s American heritage and homely attire. For several moments her heart warmed at Caro’s easy acceptance, until she reminded herself she had not come to England to form friendships. No doubt her brother had found the English of his acquaintance less congenial.

  Fleet seconds later Caroline guided them into a room that exerted a formal, masculine intimidation. Candlelight gleamed on the dark wood paneling and created dancing shadows in the corners. A fire blazed in the grate, its sparks igniting awareness along Mattie’s spine and on the back of her neck.

  Kit DeChambelle leaned indolently against the mantel and studied her over the rim of the sparkling crystal goblet. With the tight, formal clothes, his transformation to stiff English aristocrat was complete. He touched his glass against his lips, making her suddenly aware of the dryness of her own mouth. No doubt he preferred a more sophisticated liquor than the second-rate whiskey her father had used to achieve his nightly stupor. But did he consume a lesser quantity than her perpetually inebriated sire? He lowered his drink and curved his lips into a smile as warm as the appreciation gleaming in his eyes. Warning bells clanged in Mattie’s mind, and a chill prickled along the skin of her bare arms. Drunk, her father alternated between amicable and irritable, but painful experience had taught her that drink heightened some men’s amorous natures. Including her host’s?

  “Good evening, Miss Fraser.” The earl’s voice disturbed her musings. He was a gray-haired version of his son, but without the scar along his nose.

  “Good evening, sir—my lord.”

  The clock on the mantel chimed eight o’clock.

  The earl proffered his elbow to his wife. “Shall we?”

  Lady Chambelston inclined her perfectly coifed head and glided from her seat.

  “Caro? Miss Fraser? Shall we go in to dinner?” Mr. De-Chambelle’s baritone caressed her ear.

  A whiff of his drink stirred her senses and sent bitter memories washing through her. Mattie turned her head and found those mesmerizing eyes only inches away from her face. Clear eyes, without a hint of drink-induced haze. Eyes that probed her thoughts, her emotions, her secrets. “I … ah …”

  “Kit!” Caro clasped her brother by the arm.

  His face softened and he focused one of those rare smiles at his sister. Then he extended the other elbow to Mattie as he leaned closer—so close his breath brushed her hot cheeks. “Thank you for your kindness to Caroline.”

  Was it merely simple kindness that stirred his approbation? Mattie’s vanity shriveled, only to be replaced by a kindling gratification deep within. She touched the sleeve of his coat, careful to avoid embracing the form beneath. Still, his warmth burned through to her fingers.

  “Relax.” His whisper stirred the unruly hair on the back of her neck. “You’ll survive the mad DeChambelles.”

  She—penniless, pedestrian, provincial—must have been mad to have agreed to stay here.

  Rather than risk another glance at him, she studied the dining room. A large table served as the focal point of the otherwise plain room. A floral arrangement decorated the table’s center, circled by five place settings.

  Rows of silver were arranged at each place, like soldiers lined up for review. Their intimidating presence waited for her to choose wrongly and commit an unpardonable social gaff.

  Two days ago she’d resided in a crumbling tavern typical of London’s slums. Last night she’d dined in the humble home of a poor English family. What was she doing here? In this house? With this family? Beside this man? She stumbled on the hem of her too-long skirt and tightened her grip on his dark sleeve. Cut crystal twinkled in the candlelight as she dropped into the chair he held for her.

  Once Caroline assumed her seat, the men sat, too. To Mattie’s horror, the earl sat at the head of the table to her left while Kit DeChambelle took the chair on her right. She gulped. Across the table Caro smiled, unconcerned by the frightening array of utensils certain to reveal Mattie’s place.

  And then three of the DeChambelles—all save Kit—bowed their heads for several silent moments, raising them only after Lady Chambelston crossed herself and murmured an “Amen” that was echoed by her daughter.

  Who wouldn’t thank God if blessed with such an elegant home and fine furnishings? And a loving family?

  Bitterness filled her belly as Mattie peeked at the man beside her. His eyes gleamed behind their spectacles, and she ripped her gaze away before learning the correct member of the silver army for this course.

  The countess cleared her throat. Mattie glanced her direction, then noted the faint curve of her lips. When the lady chose a utensil with deliberate care, Mattie aped her movements.

  “So sorry to have surprised you today, Kit.” A twinge of … disapproval? laced the earl’s aristocratic tones. At finding her in residence?

  “I’m sure Miss Fraser appreciates the presence of other ladies in
the house.”

  “Your mother wrote Julian to let him know we were coming to London.”

  “Yes, he told me.” Kit DeChambelle’s gaze flickered to Mattie, then he lifted his goblet and sipped the contents.

  “You saw him?”

  “We arranged to meet at his club one evening.”

  Caro tilted her head. “Jule?”

  “Yes, dear. Julian.” Lady Chambelston patted her daughter’s arm affectionately before turning her attention back to her son. “I would have contacted you, but I did not know your whereabouts. When did you arrive in town?”

  “Only two days ago, Maman.”

  “We thought we would visit before winter. Caro could use a few new gowns, and you know how much she loves music. I planned a night at the opera for her. Finding you here makes our journey all that much more worth the effort.”

  Mattie studied her plate while the conversation about unfamiliar people and places swirled around her. A servant—what was he called?—brought in the next course. She waited for Lady Chambelston to start before she reached for the silver.

  “I will send Julian an invitation to join us for dinner Tuesday,” the countess said to her husband.

  Beside her, Kit DeChambelle tensed to stiff-shouldered posture, his fingers circling his glass with dangerous force. A telling reaction for the habitually unflappable gentleman.

  “Miss Fraser, my son tells me you are in England to learn the fate of your brother.” Lady Chambelson’s expression sobered in sympathy. “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” But would the lady be so generous if she knew the other purpose for Mattie’s journey? Agitation tightened around her heart. She took another bite of heavily sauced fish.

  “I hope we can prevail on you to cast off your cares now and again to join us in a few amusements. You should see some of London while you are here.”

  Caught with food in her mouth, Mattie swallowed hastily but the fish mired in her throat. “You are very gracious, ma’am.”

  “Perhaps you would enjoy the opera.”