by C. J. Chase
In a situation that seemed to grow ever more threatening.
Chapter Eight
Mattie could no longer deny the obvious—she was lost.
She forced her exhausted feet on—and on and on—but every street, every turn increased her confusion. After she’d wandered past Sebastian’s Tobacconer Shop for the third time, she stopped to analyze her location. The cathedral’s tall dome disappeared into the darkening clouds. She knew the De-Chambelle residence to be west of St. Paul’s, but those same clouds obscured the sun and prevented her from determining the direction.
Around her the throng of Londoners scurried to and fro about their business. A woman in maid’s attire bumped into her once, then hurried away without apology or even curiosity as to why Mattie would dawdle in the busy thoroughfare.
Worse, she was being followed. She’d seen that man in the black beaver and gray coat even more times than Sebastian’s. He lingered about twenty feet away, feigning interest in a window now that she’d paused.
She ducked into an alley and followed the dark corridor to another street. Two more quick turns and she no longer observed her mysterious companion. She ambled a while longer, then paused once again before the ubiquitous Sebastian’s Tobacconer Shop. The window reflected the street scene behind her as shopkeepers shuttered their windows and locked their doors.
A hackney lurched past. Casting pride aside, she checked her reticule to locate the address Mr. DeChambelle had provided her—and discovered only the sad state of her coinage. She’d left the address, along with her brother’s letter and the menacing note, under the bed with her pistol. What she wouldn’t gladly give to have them all with her now.
Somewhere near Mayfair, Mr. DeChambelle had said. Nicky had assured her he could find the earl’s house based on his name alone. Would the hackney driver know its location? She lifted her hand to—
“Well, if it ain’t the little Yank.” The familiar menace in the strident tones buffeted her like the strengthening wind.
Mattie spun around so fast the pelisse billowed. What was Stumpy doing here? Now? She rammed her hand into the pelisse’s pocket—its shallow, pistol-less pocket—as the hackney clomped away. The few pedestrians kept eyes on their feet or stared ahead, studiously avoiding the incident about to happen. “Did the Captain’s Quarters refuse to serve you drink?”
Stumpy’s harsh laugh echoed against the walls of Sebastian’s ominously quiet shop. “I thought ye’d be ‘alfway across the ocean by now.”
“While you are more than halfway to inebriation by now.” She sidled away from the sour breath he spewed across her face. Fear wrapped ice around her heart but she wouldn’t let this bully see it. She really could use that pistol hiding under the bed though. “If you’d thought at all, you’d have realized I don’t respond to threats.”
“Then I’ll ‘ave to do more than threaten.” Stumpy thrust his thick-set body against hers. She stumbled back, her nostrils filled with his rancid odors.
He grabbed her arm with his single paw, his fingers bruising her through the pelisse.
“Let go!” She jerked against his grasp. The ripping of fabric blasted her ears, but the tar’s hand remained embedded on her sleeve as she fought to free herself. Where was her beaver-hatted companion when she needed assistance?
Stumpy’s snigger punched another gust of his fetid breath into her face. “Ye ain’t so uppity now.”
“I believe the lady asked you to release her.” The glacial voice that erupted behind her sliced through Stumpy’s drink-fueled rage.
Eyes widening, he snatched his hand away at once. “Sorry there, gov’na. No ‘arm done.”
“Except to the lady’s pelisse. Now get going before I demand restitution on her behalf—in one form or another.”
As the snake slithered away, Mattie shifted to face the owner of the unfamiliar voice, her surprise heightening at the sight of his emerald-green coat.
Not her earlier shadow, then. Her benefactor smiled at her from below two of the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. Her gaze slipped lower, over the powerful barrel chest to the rapier he still leveled at the departing Stumpy.
Her rescuer took a polite step backward, sheathed the rapier in his walking stick and tipped his brown silk hat. “My apologies for my impertinence. I couldn’t help but notice your distress.”
“Please, sir. You needn’t apologize. Indeed, I most heartily thank you.”
“I don’t see your maid. Is she lost, then?”
“Ah, in a manner of speaking.”
“Are you by chance lost?”
“I—I …” Though her pride itched to contradict so embarrassing a muddle, her common sense suggested otherwise. She offered him a rueful grin. “Yes.”
The smile he returned was amiable, not mocking, altering his features from merely ordinary to almost handsome. He sketched her a courtly bow. “Neville Fitzgerald. Perhaps I might be of assistance. What street do you seek?”
“If I knew that, I would be considerably less lost.” A couple of raindrops sprinkled her cheek.
His smile broadened. Unlike Stumpy, Mr. Fitzgerald possessed an entire set of teeth. “I can understand how that might contribute to your problem. In what part of the city are you staying?”
“Pardon?”
“Belgravia, Mayfair, St. James,” he ticked off the list.
“Near Mayfair, I believe. I’ve only been staying with these … friends for a day.”
“Ah. Well, you do remember their names, do you not?” His eyes twinkled with ill-suppressed mischief. “Perhaps I will recognize them.”
“DeChambelle.”
“The Earl of Chambelston?”
“Yes.”
“Rather august company for an … American, is it?”
“Yes, I’m an American.” Did that bother him?
Nicky’s premonition rose in her mind. At least he’d had the foresight to refuse her money. Several more raindrops splatted against her face. She’d find a room for the night before the storm worsened, then appear, slightly rumpled, at the Admiralty in the morning. Certainly the clerk could direct her to the correct residence. She reached for her reticule—
It was gone!
Fear smashed into her gut and shot bile to her throat. Futilely, she stared down the alley where Stumpy had disappeared with all the money she had in the world.
“Are you feeling well, Miss …?” Mr. Fitzgerald’s unexceptional brown brows rose above eyes that studied her face.
“Fraser. I—I think that footpad stole my reticule.”
“London is so dangerous these days.” He offered her an elbow. “Allow me to escort you to Chambelston’s residence.”
Was it proper for her to accept his company? Or more to the matter, was it prudent? She hesitated, but as no other options presented themselves, she placed her hand on his sleeve. Her bare fingers brought to mind Lady Chambelston’s gloves, now blooming on the ground of St. Paul’s garden.
Mr. Fitzgerald set off in what she presumed was the proper direction, the two of them accompanied by a steady drizzle. “So what is an American doing in London, Miss Fraser?”
She eyed Mr. Fitzgerald’s elegantly cut coat, his polished boots. “I’m searching for the whereabouts of my brother, an American sailor pressed into your country’s navy.”
“A terrible practice, impressment. Unfortunately, one must sometimes take exceptional measures when resisting tyranny.”
“By committing more tyranny?”
“I suppose it rather does seem that way from your perspective.” He tilted his head. “And what ship of ours committed such a dastardly act, Miss Fraser?”
“The Impatience.”
“Ah.” He nodded. Every hair stayed in place, and the unsettling image of Kit DeChambelle and his boyishly disarrayed locks spiked through Mattie’s mind. “That explains your relationship with the DeChambelles.”
“Then you know the earl—”
“Miss Fraser.” A deep, masculine voice slashed through
her question—and her composure.
She skidded to a halt.
As if her thoughts had conjured his presence, Kit DeChambelle’s frowning countenance emerged from the mist. His gaze lingered on her gloveless fingers resting on Mr. Fitzgerald’s sleeve then raked over the rent in his mother’s ill-fitting gray pelisse.
“DeChambelle.” Fitzgerald’s greeting wrapped untold implications into the smoothly spoken name. “I was conveying Miss Fraser to your father’s townhouse.”
Mr. DeChambelle’s frown cut furrows into his cheeks. “I will see Miss Fraser home, Fitzgerald.” His precise British speech suited the coldly furious light that glittered in the eyes behind his rain-dotted spectacles. Once again she glimpsed another man, a potentially dangerous man, behind the fissures in his urbane exterior.
Her hand trembled as she released Mr. Fitzgerald’s sleeve. “Thank you again for all your help.”
“Delighted to have made your acquaintance, Miss Fraser.”
She smiled at him, endeavoring to ignore the forbidding aura that swirled from the other man.
Fitzgerald gave her one last distracted nod, then his narrowed green gaze focused on the other man. “When you next see Julian, tell him I am still waiting.”
Mr. DeChambelle’s shoulders snapped to attention. “I am not your lackey to do your bidding for a coin, Fitzgerald. Deliver your own messages.” He clamped his hand around her wrist and whirled her away.
Heat radiated through her arm. They marched side by side in formation for several blocks. When they’d left Fitzgerald well behind, her silent escort lurched to a halt.
“Now then, Miss Fraser, do explain what happened.” He cocked his head to one side. Fury yet smoldered in his eyes, suggesting that he had reserved the greater portion of his anger for her. That errant lock of hair dropped across his forehead but nothing erased the intractability in his gaze. It tunneled into her mind, as though he detected more than she could conceal. “Please explain why you drove my mother to hysterics and my sister to tears.”
“I got separated from them. And then I got lost.” To be sure, an abridged version of the truth. A spark of unease kindled at her hypocrisy. Only last night her anger had flared at his incomplete truths and partial lies.
“How distressing. You must have wandered for hours to discover yourself so far from Bond Street. Allow me to demonstrate an easy method for finding your way back to the house.” He flicked a finger at a passing hackney.
The driver steered his horse to the side of the street. “Where to, gov’na?” He eyed Mattie’s mangled pelisse with curiosity flickering in his stare.
“Ayton Street.” Mr. DeChambelle returned his attention to Mattie and gestured to the seat. “A simple wave, Miss Fraser. So effortless and uncomplicated.”
Mattie eschewed his proffered hand and climbed into the cab unaided. “I lost my reticule. I haven’t the funds to hire a cab.”
His hand locked on the hackney, knuckles white and tight. “Lost, Miss Fraser? Or another of your euphemisms?”
“Stolen then, during the altercation that damaged your mother’s pelisse.”
“Your belongings seem to disappear at an alarming rate, Miss Fraser.”
“Only since I met you.”
He bounded into the vehicle and dropped onto the seat beside her, and the driver prodded the horse into motion.
As the cab lurched through a puddle, Kit’s fury blazed anew and a thousand questions pounded through his mind. He considered the split in his mother’s pelisse. Only a few threads prevented the sleeve from falling completely away. With Miss Fraser’s every movement the fabric gaped, revealing the dress beneath. He raked his gaze across her, searching for signs of bruises or blood. Was the attack related to the other incidents that had plagued Miss Fraser? To her purpose in coming to London?
He swiveled on the seat and looked out the back of the hackney but observed only the rain-slicked street and a few hardy souls scurrying to find shelter.
“A footpad attacked me.” An icy edge sharpened Miss Fraser’s drawl. “Mr. Fitzgerald kindly rescued me, but the fiend escaped with my money.”
“Stay away from Fitzgerald.”
Surprise registered in the widening eyes. “But, why? He saved me from the assault.”
Kit hesitated, but recollections of last night’s confession prodded him. His three-day lie of omission about Julian had only deepened her distrust. “Fitzgerald was the first officer on the Impatience.”
“The Impatience! That accounts for his questions about my brother’s impressment. Do you think Mr. Fitzgerald recognized my name?”
How could he not, especially since the lieutenant already knew of her presence in the city? But why would Fitzgerald want such details? “Fitzgerald knows you are in London—he was at Julian’s townhouse that day I questioned my brother about George Fraser.” And Julian had been missing ever since.
Miss Fraser’s back stiffened another degree, drawing his attention again to the pelisse’s rent sleeve.
“Did you get a good look at the footpad?”
She didn’t answer for several long moments. Raindrops pattered against the cab’s roof and invaded its interior on a gust of wind. “The sailor from the Captain’s Quarters. Stumpy.”
“The one-armed man who nearly assaulted you two days ago?” He smothered his grim satisfaction at this reluctant display of trust.
“The same.”
Coincidence? Why had the wretch wandered so far afield from his favorite tavern? “How long has he harassed you?”
“Since the day I arrived. He lost his arm to an American cannonball at Lake Champlain.”
But would the rotter treat any other American to the same degree of animosity? Or just one—Mattie Fraser? And then there was Fitzgerald’s fortuitous arrival at the scene of the crime. Did the circle of those who knew about George Fraser and the missing orders include the Impatience’s first lieutenant? Such a man would be familiar with the dockside taverns where newly unemployed tars gathered.
“I’m sorry about upsetting Caro.” The soft brown gaze met Kit’s through the gloom. “I’ll apologize to her as soon as I next see her.”
Her words reactivated his ire. “Before you spend any more time with my sister, Miss Fraser, please tell me—are all your promises equally capricious?”
Grief—guilt?—flashed in her eyes before she jerked her face to stare across the street.
Already he regretted the intemperate words. If innocent, she didn’t deserve such abuse. And if she conspired to exploit his family connections, he needed her to remain unaware of his suspicions. “Excuse me, Miss Fraser. My distress caused me to speak disrespectfully.”
The pert nose rose a fraction of an inch. “I understand.”
Probably—hopefully—not. “Still, it was ill-mannered of me to expend my wrath on you.”
“And I am equally at fault for causing her distress. Indeed, I find your concern for Caro commendable.”
Kit’s pulse quickened at this unexpected praise. And when Miss Fraser rested a gentle hand on his sleeve, his heart raced faster yet. If only he was worthy of such respect. “Don’t make me into a paragon. I make mistakes.” Deadly ones.
“But when it comes to Caro, no doubt even your mistakes are well-intentioned. How long has she …?”
“Been simpleminded?” His tone was harsh, to match the words. “Since birth. Does her condition unsettle you?”
Shadowed eyes searched his gaze. “I’d always considered it a terrible fate to endure, but your sister doesn’t seem to suffer by her affliction.”
The hackney turned onto Ayton Street. Kit rapped on the roof, and the driver drew the horse to a halt.
“Caro lives in a world of simple pleasures. She doesn’t require fanciful gowns or elevated status or the esteem of strangers for her happiness, only the love and constancy of her family. Sometimes I envy her innocence—she doesn’t even understand deceit.”
Whereas he’d known little else for ten years.
> Pushing such morbid thoughts away, Kit jumped down from the cab, shook a handful of coins from his purse and paid the driver. He extended his other hand to Miss Fraser, not quite expecting her to accept his help, but she fitted her palm to his and those deceptively fragile fingers locked around him. A strong hand. Determined. Dependable. “I never repaid you for your assistance the other day when I, er, lost my money.”
“Sir?”
Raindrops sprayed his cheeks. He flipped her hand over and dropped several gold pieces onto her palm.
Her brows drew together as she stared at the coins. “Mr. DeChambelle, the hackney wasn’t so expensive. I can’t accept money from—”
“Yes, you can.”
“Even a simple American like me knows it just isn’t done.”
“I realize such an offer goes against both your feminine and national pride, but I cannot leave you destitute. I ask nothing of you in return.” He shoved away the oppressive weight of the lie and curled her fingers around the coins. “Please keep them, and we will speak no more of this.”
“I—I thank you.” She allowed him to assist her from the hackney and together they hiked through the puddles to the townhouse.
Higgins opened the door. As they pulled off their wet garments, Miss Fraser tilted her head, her gaze level. “I haven’t yet thanked you for coming to search for me.”
He tapped her on the chin. “Try not to get lost again. London is a dangerous place.”
Once again ensconced in the cheerful yellow chamber, Mattie tugged the bonnet ribbons loose and pulled the hat from her head. As she tossed the wilted bonnet onto the bed, Betsy arrived with a pitcher.
“Oh, Miss Fraser, we were so concerned for your safety.”
“I’m sorry I caused you such distress.”
The maid poured water into the bowl. “I put your stockings and shifts in the wardrobe. Oh, and two of your gowns arrived. I pressed the white dress, so you can wear it to the opera tonight.”
The opera. In all her agitation over the afternoon’s events, Mattie had quite forgotten Lady Chambelston’s plans for the evening. “Betsy, you are amazing.”
