Redeeming the Rogue

by C. J. Chase

  “Come, Mattie. Caro.” The countess wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and guided them outside. The maids, Betsy included, gathered the boxes of their purchases and followed.

  A raw wind whipped the assembly with threats of rain as soon as they exited the building. Gusts yanked at Mattie’s bonnet ribbons and lunged under the pelisse’s collar, sending a blizzard of shivers skating down her spine. She shoved her hands into the shallow pockets and encountered the orange she’d saved from last night’s dinner.

  The fine wrap had been designed for women such as the countess—women with maids to carry their purchases, women who had little need for the deep pockets Mattie found so convenient in her father’s shop. She hadn’t wanted to leave behind her old coat that so neatly hid her pistol. But how could she explain her acceptance of a new dress—or four, as Lady Chambelston insisted—and then be so churlish as to refuse the offer of an old pelisse? And it wasn’t as if she needed the weapon today. Not without further information.

  “A pity the weather proved so uncooperative for our outing. Did you wish to see Hyde Park? I am afraid it will not be at its best.” Lady Chambelston seemed determined to treat Mattie as an honored guest—much to Mattie’s discomfiture. How could she maintain her justifiable anger in the face of such consideration?

  For the first time, doubts crept into her righteous certainties as she realized the man she sought to kill might very well be Lady Chambelston’s son. “Oh, I couldn’t trouble you further. Besides, I have some personal business to attend to, and as I don’t want to inconvenience you, I’ll just go alone and return when I have finished.”

  Lady Chambelston hesitated. “Very well. I shall send Betsy with you. You must not parade about London alone.”

  Why ever not? Mattie had supported herself for years alone, had faced an invading army alone, had crossed an entire ocean alone. But how to slip away without being detected?

  “Oh, my dear Lady Chambelston!” The greeter’s overly effusive smile revealed a row of ill-fitting false teeth. “I’m so thrilled to meet you here.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. McKeane.” Lady Chambelston tilted her chin the merest degree.

  Mrs. McKeane rested her gloved fingers on the countess’s arm, her simpering smile growing impossibly wider. “My husband said you would be coming to town. He met Somershurst at his club several days ago, you know.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “I’m so thankful you arrived in time for our little musicale Friday. I shall send you an invitation—and one for Somershurst also.”

  “I await the evening with pleasure, as do Caroline and our guest, Miss Fraser, of course.” The countess nodded in their direction. Affront glittered in her normally serene blue eyes.

  Mrs. McKeane’s frown screened her teeth. Her gaze flickered past Caro and Mattie with all the attention she spared for the maids. “Of course. We shall look forward to seeing all the DeChambelles.” She fluttered away, leaving Lady Chambelston to mutter under her breath.

  “My apologies for subjecting you to my tiff, Miss Fraser. My behavior was not very Christianlike.”

  “But it was perhaps humanlike.” Mattie glanced at Caro, who fortunately remained oblivious to Mrs. McKeane’s subtle scorn.

  “Perhaps, but we are called to emulate godliness, not succumb to our human nature.”

  They encountered more ladies with their entourages of men and maids, many of whom looked askance at Caro—though they nodded their deference to the countess. And then once not-quite-discreetly out of earshot, they whispered behind fans, their glares sharp with censure.

  Another wave of doubt surged over Mattie as she realized all the DeChambelle wealth and position couldn’t procure Caro’s acceptance among the so-called enlightened class. An image of Kit DeChambelle embracing his sister flickered in Mattie’s mind. Whatever suspicions she might harbor about his intentions, he cherished his sister despite Caro’s limitations.

  “Oh, Mr. Tubney.” Lady Chambelston halted to speak to a short, squat man approaching from the opposite direction. “How delightful to see you.”

  “Lady Chambelston.” He removed his hat and bowed low at the waist. And then in a first for the afternoon, he aimed watery eyes directly at Caro. “Lady Caroline, how are you?”

  The young woman’s face lit with her smile. “Tub-bie.”

  “A pity the weather is not so fine as yesterday, but there is always sunshine in my heart when I encounter you lovely ladies.”

  “And you always bring a smile to my face with your droll praise.” Lady Chambelston gestured to Mattie. “This is our guest, Miss Fraser. From America.”

  “Welcome to London, Miss Fraser. I hope you enjoy your visit.” He shoved the hat back on his head and returned his attention to the countess. “Will you be coming to the next meeting of the Society?”

  Mattie shifted from one foot to the other. If she didn’t leave soon she would miss Nicky. And then, how would she ever find him? She turned to Betsy, but the maid directed a sly smile toward a vaguely familiar man.

  Strange, because Mattie knew almost no one in London. She searched her mind to recall where she might have prior acquaintance with the moderately dressed, middle-aged fellow with the round spectacles. No matter. She had other business to concern her.

  The soft voice of the countess and the drone of Tubney’s responses continued for several moments longer, then Mattie hedged away. When no one noticed, she crept farther and slipped around the corner.

  She was free. Alone. She drew a deep draught of London’s damp, smoky air into her lungs and searched the sky above the gathering of roofs for St. Paul’s distinctive dome.

  The door squeaked in protest as Kit pushed it ajar. He paused to glance down the silent hallway—being observed now would pose all sorts of complications should Miss Fraser learn of his foray into her apartment. No one there. He released his tension with a whoosh and slipped into the tidy room, then shut the squawking door.

  What did he think to find in Miss Fraser’s chamber when she’d lost all her possessions to a vandal? And yet, once before he’d believed in a woman’s innocence and that miscalculation had cost him dearly. And cost another even more.

  His gaze circled the room twice—a bed, a wardrobe and two chairs that framed the window. He crept across the rug to the wardrobe and slid open the drawers, unsurprised to find them bare. The lackluster wool coat dangled from a nearby peg. He ruffled through the pockets and discovered a handkerchief, the solitary occupant. A few crumbs drifted to the floor, but otherwise … nothing. No note. No secret stash of funds. Nothing to indicate Mattie Fraser was otherwise than what she claimed.

  The Aubusson rug lay flat on the floor with no suspicious bulges. He checked the fluffy pillows on the bed. Still nothing. He lifted the bedskirt, but the darkness revealed only the chamber pot. With a sigh, he stretched out on his back and shimmied under the mattress, groping the frame.

  Just as he concluded he would find the usual—nothing—his fingers brushed a cold, hard object nestled between the mattress and a slat. He plucked the article from its hiding place and slithered back to the center of the room.

  There, cuddled against palm, rested a pistol.

  “You are a prime piece.” He ran a finger along the stock that gleamed with the same polished brown as Mattie Fraser’s eyes.

  A fine pistol, American made.

  It seemed his guest had managed to save one possession from the villain who threatened her. The well-oiled barrel and unclogged touchhole suggested an owner with a purpose. So where and when did Mattie Fraser intend to fire this weapon?

  Mattie wove through the tangle of streets—streets that gave way to ever more streets and connected buildings to more buildings, as thick as the forests back home. St. Paul’s dome towered above them all, the cross at its pinnacle disappearing into the darkening clouds like the distant, unapproachable God it symbolized.

  St. Paul’s bells began a discordant song, continuing some minutes until the last pe
el rolled across the London landscape. And yet the church seemed as far away as ever. She passed a parked hackney, but after a quick calculation of the ride’s cost she continued her walk.

  As she neared the famous cathedral, her confidence plunged. St. Paul’s was built on the same massive scale as London itself. This was like no church of her experience. Why, all of Washington could worship here and still there’d be space aplenty for many more.

  All around her the jostling, boisterous sea of humanity moved with a steady purpose that didn’t include one slightly lost and very confused American. The biting wind tossed a cautionary raindrop against her cheek.

  How would she ever find Nicky? She hiked the length of the building and around a corner. There. A tower with a clock atop whose hands read half past one. She quickened her steps along the facade.

  “Mattie!”

  She whirled to greet the lad’s broad, enthusiastic smile. “There you are, scamp.”

  He had found her. Her loneliness diminished.

  Somewhat.

  “Where ye staying, Mattie?”

  “You’ll never believe. Mr. DeChambelle’s father is the Earl of Chambelston.” And his brother was the captain of the Impatience. Her temper began to simmer again. “I’m staying at his home.” She stripped off her gloves and set them down, then shoved her hands into the pelisse’s pockets. “Wait ‘til you see what I brought you.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Is that a new coat, Mattie?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She passed him the orange.

  “Coo! Share it with me, Mattie?”

  They found a quiet niche in the garden—out of the path of harried travelers and curious onlookers. Mattie peeled the orange and passed half of it to Nicky.

  “Umm.” Juice trickled down his chin and blended with the dirt that grayed his once-green coat.

  Mattie took a bite of her piece. As the sweet-tart liquid filled her mouth, she closed her eyes and savored the taste.

  “Are they treating ye well?”

  “Yes. Despite,” she drilled him with a look, “your misdeed the other day.”

  He flashed her an impish grin. “Aw, Mattie, ‘is purse ‘ad less in it than ol’ Stumpy’s.”

  “You took Stumpy’s, too?”

  “Same day. Deserved it, ‘e did, treating ye that way.”

  “I should reprimand you, but I won’t.”

  “Never could figure out what got into ol’ Stumpy. E weren’t usually so mean.”

  “I’m American.” And that was enough for a man impaired and embittered by war. Mattie shoved another section of the orange into her mouth.

  “I wish I could see America sometime.”

  Homesickness for Washington’s sultry summers and crisp winters gnawed at her stomach. Even its muddy streets teemed with optimism rather than the despair so predominant on London’s east side. “I do, too.”

  Nicky had about as much chance of traveling to America as to the moon. Transportation to Australia or violent death on the streets loomed most likely in his future.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Once. Twice.

  “Mostly, though, I wish ye’d go back to America, Mattie.”

  She’d never intended to leave London until she’d completed her mission. But now? “Soon. I’ve enjoyed seeing London. And meeting you.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of London, and it ain’t pretty.”

  Another doubt took root in Mattie’s conscience and a hole opened in her heart. She ripped her gaze from Nicky’s dirty face to the spectacular facade of the cathedral that towered over them. What kind of God would abandon a child to London’s cruel streets or to a drunk’s lax care? “I have to finish my business here first. Did you learn anything?”

  “Found where that bloke is staying.”

  “The one who remembers my brother from the ship?” Bitterness replaced the nectar in her mouth. “I need to talk to this man. Can you arrange it?”

  “I’ll send word once I talk to ‘im.”

  “But you don’t know where the house is.”

  “You said ‘e’s the Earl of Chambel—Chambelston, Mattie. ‘Ow ‘ard can it be to find an earl’s ‘ouse? Ain’t like there are a lot of them.”

  “Thank you. Can you do one more thing for me?” A gust of wind tossed another raindrop under her borrowed bonnet and against her face, warning her to hurry. “I’m trying to learn the whereabouts of a navy captain, Viscount Somershurst. He’s the son of the Earl of Chambelston, and he’s supposedly left London. I’m less certain.” After all, he wouldn’t have actually left the vicinity if he sought to stop her search, would he?

  “Where think ye ‘e might be?”

  Where would such a man go to hide? Not to the nobles in his community. To the rough sailors who owed him loyalty or favors? “Perhaps the docks.”

  “Swell like that shouldn’t be ‘ard to find.”

  “So you’d think.” She glanced at the darkening sky. “I ought to return.”

  His smile drooped, and he peered at her through his haunted dark eyes. “Take care of yourself, Mattie.”

  He looked so dejected, more than she felt even, that pain snapped like a vise around her heart. She reached into her reticule and withdrew several coins. “Here, take these. I can’t have you going hungry in the meantime.”

  “Still ‘ave some from that swell’s purse. And Stumpy’s.” Despite Nick’s jaunty grin, disappointment shadowed his eyes. “Keep it, Mattie. I ‘ave a feeling ye’ll be needing it worse than me someday.”

  With that chilling prediction, he slipped away into the maze of the city. She stared at the spot where he had disappeared. His words prickled along her spine as she turned the opposite direction and started for the Earl of Chambelston’s residence.

  As Kit tucked the pistol back into its niche, he encountered three semicrumpled sheets of paper. Curious, he withdrew them, but the darkness under the bed prevented an examination.

  Once again he crawled out, papers in hand. He paced to the window and held them to the faint light filtering through the gray clouds. Flipping through the pages, he identified the first as the address he’d provided Miss Fraser and the second as George Fraser’s letter to his sister. He read the words again, analyzing each phrase for hidden meanings.

  When had Fraser written this note? And for that matter, who’d seen to the letter’s delivery? An ordinary sailor, perhaps another pressed American concerned for a loved one left behind? Or an accomplice to Fraser’s theft?

  The muster books.

  The Admiralty required captains to maintain detailed records of every sailor’s service. After all, the central Pay Office needed to know who was due compensation. The Impatience’s muster books would list the exact dates of George Fraser’s tenure on the ship—and those of the others pressed from the Constance—from the date of their impressments until they ended their service through desertion, discharge or death. A quick visit to the Admiralty and Kit would discover his first clue as to whom Fraser might have entrusted with his ill-gotten prize.

  He started to fold the notes when he remembered Miss Fraser had tucked another page in her hiding place. He glanced—

  And stopped, staring at the hateful threat.

  “Go home, Yank, lest you meet with an unpleasant end.”

  Anger sizzled in his blood, heating the fingers that clutched the note Miss Fraser had mentioned in passing last night. By her own admission she’d been at the Admiralty two weeks before she located him. Anyone could have learned of her search for her brother—presuming this was indeed related.

  Except she’d asked about Andrew Harley-Smith. Few would have made the link between one Martha Fraser of Washington and lowly sailor George Fraser of the HMS Impatience—only those with a vested interest in the missing seaman. Alderston. Julian.

  Kit refolded the missives, wriggled under the bed and—

  “Higgins! Is Kit home?” His mother’s frantic cry reverberated through the house.

  Kit’s chest tightened a
round his lungs. A thousand ominous possibilities created dire imaginings in his head. Caro, hurt by the malevolent fiend who had targeted Mattie Fraser. Mattie, injured … or worse. He shoved the papers back into their niche and scrambled out, whacking his head in his haste.

  Ignoring the throbbing lump forming on his brow, he vaulted down the stairs. “Maman?”

  “Kit!” Caro ran to him, her cheeks streaked with tears.

  He stroked her fine hair and looked at Maman over her head. “What happened?”

  “Is Mattie here?”

  “Here? No, she was with … you.” But she wasn’t. Not now. Fear melded with anger as his past slammed into the present. Had she left of her own accord? Or not? He glanced out the window at the menacing clouds and gestured Higgins to bring his greatcoat. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We chose gowns—all tree of us.” The accent of her native Normandy thickened Maman’s words. “Zen we left and I asked Mattie if she wished to visit Hyde Park.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She mentioned other business. I suggested she take Betsy. But then I stopped for a little tête-à-tête with Mr. Tubney, and I do not remember seeing her after that. Neither does Betsy.”

  Kit weighed the benefits of questioning the maid but decided such course provided nothing further to gain and risked much time to lose. He squeezed Caro’s shoulders and patted Maman’s arm. “I’ll find her.”

  “Will you tell me what this is about, this situation with Miss Fraser?”

  “I … can’t.”

  Maman touched his cheek as if he were once again a six-year-old boy with a scraped knee and bruised pride. “I will pray for Miss Fraser’s safe return.”

  “I’m sure she would appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Come, dear one.” Maman gathered Caro in her arms. “All will be well.”

  If only he could believe that were so. Kit shoved an arm into his coat sleeve—then paused. “Maman, is Julian coming for dinner tomorrow?”

  A couple of wrinkles ridged her forehead as her brows drew together. “I sent a messenger, but he returned and told me there was no one home.”

  So both Julian and Mattie had gone missing. Last night she’d mentioned St. Paul’s. Had she journeyed there, perhaps for reasons other than a tourist’s curiosity? Wherever she’d gone, she was unarmed.