by C. J. Chase
“Can I get you anything else?”
“A hot drink sounds divine. Coffee, preferably.”
“Very good, Miss Fraser.” The door snicked shut as Betsy withdrew.
Mattie splashed warm water on her cold cheeks. The mirror on the stand reflected haggard eyes underscored with dark crescents. Damp tendrils of hair framed her face. Those ubiquitous freckles—the bane of her childhood quest for beauty—contrasted darkly with her wan complexion. She blotted the water from her face, then her depressing reflection vanished as she turned away, propelled by curiosity to the wardrobe.
She slid open the first drawer and caressed the smooth muslin chemises. How soft they would be against her skin. The next drawer revealed fine silk stockings, and—
Her fingers encountered the sharp edge of parchment. Puzzled, she withdrew the crackling paper. Bold, black print shouted the hateful words at her from a piece a paper twin to the one she’d discovered in her Captain’s Quarters room.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slammed the drawer shut, locking away her most personal garments. But it didn’t matter. She could have excused the first instance as a prank, a toothless threat that expired when she left the inn two days ago. No longer. Her nemesis knew where she was, knew how to reach her, knew her most intimate details.
With shaking hands, she lifted the note and read again.
“This is your second warning, Yank. You will not get another.”
Kit poured himself a brandy and sipped it while he waited for the rest of his family. The fine, aged drink slipped down his throat, its sting dulling the lingering edge of his temper.
“Ah, Christopher.” Maman swept into the room with Caro on her arm.
“Good evening, Maman. Caro, you look lovely in your blue dress.”
Maman glanced about the room. “Miss Fraser is not yet ready to depart?”
“Perhaps she got lost on her way to the salon.”
“She does appear to have difficulty with directions.”
In more ways than one. Kit raised the snifter to his lips again.
Maman’s eyes hardened to match the sapphires at her throat. “Are you certain you should be drinking that?”
“Yes.” Anger, boredom and guilt made for a fearsome combination. What would he do when he finished this business? When he once again returned to his aimless existence? The future stretched before him, as dark and bleak as the present. He pushed melancholy thoughts away and took a reverent sip of the excellent brandy. “I am unconvinced as to the wisdom of taking our … guest with us.”
“You invited her into our home, Christopher. It is only the opera.”
And yet with Miss Fraser even the simplest activities were fraught with danger. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, alerting him to her presence even before the rustle of silk reached his ears. He pasted a smile over his misgivings and turned to face their … guest.
His hand shook and brandy sloshed onto his shoe.
Miss Fraser hesitated in the doorway, a dress of ivory and green hugging her too-thin form. And yet, despite the sharp edges of her slender frame—a parallel to her sometimes prickly behavior—the gown’s proper fit and appropriate colors transformed her from pretty to stunning. Her striking hair had been swept into an elaborate coronet of braids and curls and a few green feathers. Despite their formal style, those tresses flashed fire. Kit’s heart momentarily stopped beating—and when it started again, it raced ahead.
A yank on his sleeve hauled his gaze away.
“What?” He looked into Maman’s amused gaze.
“Be careful lest you drop your drink.”
He glanced down at the vintage brandy soaking the carpet. Suddenly the fire in the grate was much too hot and the drink’s bite much too potent. He needed some crisp autumn air to clear his head. The recollection of his calamitous lapse in judgment sobered him to restraint.
“Miss Fraser.” Maman swished across the rug, grabbing each of the young woman’s gloved hands and drawing her into the room. “You look lovely.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve kept you waiting.”
“Only a minute or two. No more.”
“Shall we leave?” Kit pivoted to set down his now unwanted drink and bumped into Caro.
The remaining brandy splashed over the rim of his goblet onto Caro’s glove. At least it missed her new dress on its way to join the drink on the rug.
“Kit!” Caro stared at the stain that blotched the snowy satin. Dismay slumped her shoulders and trembled on her lips.
“We still have a few minutes, Caroline.” His mother wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders and guided her to the door. “Let us find you another pair.”
They slipped out of the salon, leaving him alone with Miss Fraser. Kit hastily set down the goblet before he caused further destruction.
“Do you truly think it wise for me to go with your family?” Despite her perfect posture, uncertainty flickered in Miss Fraser’s eyes. She fidgeted with the ivory lace that edged the pale column of her neck, white-on-white against her gloved hand. “I feel like an interloper.”
Kit tried to visualize those same fingers wrapped around the trigger of the weapon hidden in her chamber. Unfortunately the events of the past ten years made once-implausible images seem all too likely. “Caro will be disappointed if you renege now.”
“I apologized to her earlier this evening. I hope she understood. I never stopped to consider how distressing my actions would be to her—a casualty of needing to answer to no one but myself, I’m afraid. I’ll try to be more considerate in the future.”
“Caro finds change unsettling. I suppose the world is a frightening place when one sees no reason for the things that happen.”
“Your sister is … not what I expected.” Shadows crouched in the depths of the dark eyes. “You are very fortunate—in a surprising sort of way.”
“Yes, I am, though few understand.” Perhaps Mattie with all her loss could see what so many others missed. Kit tugged her fingers away from her neck and clasped them between his. He drew her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist. Mattie’s scent wafted through the satin into his awareness.
As he stood above the intricate design of her hair, he inhaled its fresh-washed fragrance. Already the new silk dress radiated with her spicy sunshine scent.
And yet the darkness he sensed in her intensified, surging through his cynicism and provoking an unsettling urge to protect her from further pain. “I will learn what happened to your brother, Miss Fraser—I promise. I can see how very much you loved him.”
She wrenched her hand from his grasp. Grief shot through her eyes and blanched the skin under her freckles, then hardened across her cheeks.
Not the gratitude he expected.
More like … fear?
“Kit, shall we—” His mother’s smile faltered as she and Caro paused in the doorway.
He clasped Mattie’s elbow and ushered her to the other ladies. “Just so, Maman. I have caused us to be late enough as it is.”
Elaborately costumed characters paraded about the stage, their silly antics provoking another burst of laughter from the audience. Except for Mattie. The unfamiliar language left her as disoriented as being lost in London. Worse, the meaningless lyrics and bewildering actions failed to dislodge Kit De-Chambelle’s erroneous conclusion—and the guilt his words provoked.
I can see how very much you loved him.
If only she had been the sister her mother had asked her to be, wanted her to be. Expected her to be.
Mattie closed her eyes and concentrated on the soaring music, letting it suffuse her senses and drown out the rowdy crowd below the box—and her memories of regret and remorse.
The faint creak of Kit DeChambelle’s chair, two seats away and flanked on either side by his mother and sister, once again shattered her concentration. She felt him lean toward Caroline—toward her, reducing the melodies to so much noise.
The music accelerat
ed in time with her pulse then crashed to a halt.
Her heart, however, raced on.
“Mat-tie?” Caroline shook her from her trance.
She opened her eyes. “Is it over?” Her voice cracked.
“Unfortunately Miss Fraser, that was only the first act.” Kit’s deep voice rumbled through her sanity. Despite his smile, his presence crowded the small box and most especially her composure. Vibrations—these having nothing to do with the music or her memories—ricocheted through her.
“How many acts does an opera have?”
“This one has four.”
“Four!” They would be here all night. “When does the second act begin?”
“Not for a while. The musicians need to rest, and all here must make sure that friends, acquaintances and enemies have suitably admired their attire. Alas, the night has barely begun.”
Mattie rubbed shoulder muscles grown taut with the long moments of sitting. And remembering.
“Perhaps Miss Fraser would enjoy a stroll, Christopher.” Mother and son shared a look that excluded the others. Bitterness bubbled in Mattie’s stomach, then rose in her throat until she tasted her pain.
I can see how very much you loved him. The disturbing words reverberated through her mind again.
Mr. DeChambelle rose to his feet. “Miss Fraser?”
Even as she started to refuse, his hypnotic stare provoked her unwilling compliance. “Thank you. I should very much enjoy a taste of air.” With a deep breath she rose and placed her hand on the severe black of his proffered elbow. The sinewy muscles flexed beneath her fingers, and warmth permeated the sleeve. “What about Caro?”
“She tires easily and the crowds distress her. She’ll be happier in the box with Maman.”
“Oh.” Mattie gave the girl a quick wave. Her legs trembled as Kit led her out of the box into the frenzy of swirling colors and roaring chatter.
He leaned closer, his breath stirring tendrils of hair around her face. “Are you enjoying the opera?”
“It is … different from what I expected.”
Amusement tweaked his mouth. “I interpret that as a polite denial.”
“No doubt I would appreciate the performance more if I understood what was happening.”
“Yes, I can see where that would diminish one’s enjoyment. Like most operas, this one is in Italian.”
“Does everyone here then know Italian?” Except her.
“Not at all. Most only know the story well enough to understand what scenes the singers are portraying. Besides, Italian sung in such a fashion is virtually unintelligible even to those familiar with the language.”
“Which you are?”
“Familiar with Italian? I learned enough so I wouldn’t starve if I visited the country. Priorities, you understand.”
Oh, she feared she understood only too well. How provincial she must seem. “How many, er, places could you visit without concern of starvation?”
“I can order meals in six languages.” He nodded a greeting to a couple who eyed Mattie with blatant curiosity. “Hanville. Miss Wilton.”
The heat, the perfumes and the conversations assaulted Mattie’s senses as thoroughly as the bustling London streets. So much for that bit of air. Her escort, though, maintained a steady progress as he guided her along some mysterious course among the milling crowd.
“So what is the story?”
“The opera? The count is making, er, improper advances to the reluctant maid. Her betrothed plans to outwit his lord. Very egalitarian, with a villainous nobleman and virtuous commoners. As an American, you should approve.”
“And do you approve?”
“DeChambelle.” A man in a scarlet uniform paused beside them. “Good to see you back in London.”
“Good evening, Major Johnson. Have you met our guest from America, Miss Fraser?”
The officer bowed low. “Miss Fraser, a pleasure. Are you enjoying the performance?”
“It is not what I expected but interesting nonetheless.”
“Excellent. Miss Fraser, I offer myself as a willing escort if you would care to experience other noteworthy sights and events while you are visiting.”
“Mattie.” Kit DeChambelle’s deep, masculine voice—possessive with its untoward use of her Christian name—rippled along her back with shivers of awareness. “It is time to return to our box. The next act is about to begin.”
“Of course. Major, if you will excuse us?”
“Until our next meeting, Miss Fraser.”
Kit clamped down the jealousy that spiked through him at Johnson’s last lingering look. Johnson’s head bobbed on his skinny neck in a manner reminiscent of a pigeon’s strut. Then he disappeared into the crowd.
One could hardly blame the poor blighter for his interest. Mattie’s hair caught the candlelight and flamed, burning even Kit’s reason to ashes. He drew her through the crush, focusing on the glittering assemblage instead of on her nearness. A futile endeavor, that. Lack of sight heightened other senses, making him even more aware of her. The fragrance of her hair. The soft rustle of her dress.
“You seem to have made a conquest, Miss Fraser.”
“A novelty frequently attracts a fleeting notice.”
“You do yourself an injustice.” Indeed, he found her the most beautiful woman in the building. But his attraction extended beyond the physical to the uncommon loyalty that had induced her to travel an ocean for her brother. And though he knew he trod dangerous ground—again—he knew not how to extricate himself.
The swell of gossip crescendoed around them like a soprano’s voice in her death scene. Miss Fraser tilted her head toward him, presenting him with an enchanting study of the slender column of her neck. “Is the audience always so loud during the performance?”
“Louder, at least, in the spring when the ton descends on town. Many retire to their estates after June to escape the summer heat and enjoy the autumn hunting.”
“I suppose the language doesn’t matter so much if no one can hear the performance anyway.” She surveyed the crowd again. “It certainly looks as if all of London is here. I cannot imagine more people.”
“Do you not have a similar summer exodus in Washington?”
“Indeed, but I suspect our notion of heat differs somewhat from yours.”
His chuckle surprised even him. Her gaze flitted back to him, an elfish grin twitching on her lips.
“Miss Fraser.” Neville Fitzgerald halted before them and sketched Mattie a bow. “How delightful to see you none the worse for your ordeal this afternoon. Are you enjoying the opera?”
“Immensely, thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Excuse us, Fitzgerald. Miss Fraser and I really must continue.” He brushed past the other man, their shoulders colliding with Kit’s haste. And anger.
He could conceive of no good reason for Fitzgerald to be so eager to meet Mattie Fraser. Twice, no less.
Chapter Nine
Kit arrived early at the Admiralty and hung his rain-soaked cloak on a peg. Outside his soot-covered window, gloomy skies all but concealed the approaching dawn. He folded his arms over his chest and watched London awake—uniformed officers marching to meetings, a farmer driving his dray to market, maids dashing on morning errands.
Against the outer office’s floor, boot heels tapped an answer to one mystery.
“What happened yesterday?” Kit turned his back to the window as Baxter filled the doorway.
“I did as you asked. I followed the young lady.”
“And stood idly by while she was attacked?”
Baxter’s eyes glittered with affront. “The man was drunk and unarmed and more belligerent than dangerous. I was going to intervene and then Fitzgerald reached her first. At that point I thought it best to remain unseen.”
Kit wasn’t pacified. “Go.”
“The same assignment?” Baxter glanced at the rain-streaked window.
“Yes.” A miserable day for such a task, but after the clerk’s i
naction during yesterday’s crime, Kit could work up little sympathy.
“Will the ladies be going out today?”
The door clicked as Harrison let himself in. Kit gestured him to wait. “I doubt they will venture far to see the sights under such conditions.”
“Very good, sir.” Baxter bowed, looking askance at Harrison as he strode out.
Kit ran a hand through his hair. “That man …”
“Compassion, my friend.” Harrison closed the door and tossed his hat onto an empty chair. “Not everyone was born with your gifts.”
“I see I’ll get no sympathy from you. How is your family?”
“Adjusting.”
“I’m sorry about what happened. I never expected the war to follow us home. When I asked Alice to board Mat—Miss Fraser, I never realized—”
“Of course not. I know if you’d suspected something amiss, you wouldn’t have brought her to our door. And we’d have missed a delightful guest.”
“Who brought destruction to your home. I presume you spoke to Alderston?”
“He’s going to make good on our little problem, so Alice will get some new furnishings—something good out of bad. But speaking of bad, about your brother …”
Kit’s gut clenched. He dropped into a chair and rested his chin on his fist. “Yes?”
“He’s in serious difficulty.”
“Gambling? Bad investments?”
Harrison relaxed against the door. “Not that I can discover. I did, however, pick up an interesting tidbit. My source claims Neville Fitzgerald was due to be promoted to captain last spring, but your brother spoke against the promotion.”
“Are you suggesting Fitzgerald is blackmailing Julian because of a personal vendetta? Julian selected Fitzgerald as his first lieutenant. I thought …” Fitzgerald’s strange words echoed through Kit’s mind. What had caused such a significant reversal in their relationship? And what did it have to do with Mattie Fraser? If Fitzgerald did indeed seek vengeance on his former captain, what better way to go about it than to use Mattie to locate the missing orders—and then publicize them. The ensuing scandal would ruin the entire DeChambelle family.
