by C. J. Chase
No, she supposed not. That decision belonged to the earl, a man who’d been to America, been to war—and yet seemed to hold no animosity against her. Not before. “Would you … would you deliver a note for me?”
“To whom?”
How did she describe Lawrence Harrison? “A friend of your brother’s.” Kit hated her now. Oh, she had seen it in his eyes—bleak, deadened, their color consumed with revulsion—every time the surgeon spoke to her. But perhaps Mr. Harrison, with his simple—authentic—faith could find the words to bring peace.
Somershurst gestured toward the desk. “Paper, quills and such are in the top drawer.”
She crossed the room, her legs not fully steady, and dropped onto the desk chair. Once she had located the items she needed, she stared at the blank sheet of white. How did one confess to so monstrous an offense?
Silence shrouded the room, save for the steady tick of the clock. She started a note, crumpled it up and began again.
“I owe you another apology, Miss Fraser.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Somershurst yet wore the same clothes—a dark coat over a white shirt, now spattered with rusty stains. “Another?”
“When Kit first told me of your presence in London, I … did some things of which I am not proud.”
“The eviction?”
“Eviction? What eviction?”
If not Somershurst, then whom? “Never mind. You were saying?”
“I had notes delivered—first to your room at the Captain’s Quarters and then again at my parents’ house. I thought I might frighten you into calling off your search. I was concerned my reputation would suffer if word leaked that I was so careless with …”
“The paper my brother stole?”
“Er, yes. Let me just say such actions were cowardly on my part, and for that I am sorry.”
“I … accept your apology. Thank you.”
A wry smile—smile!—flitted across his mouth. “If I had known then of your tenacity, I would have conducted myself in a different fashion.”
“What a tangled web.” She finished the note and added her signature.
“If you are done, Miss Fraser, I must be off. I’m going to my parents’ house, so Caro won’t wake to find her family gone.”
Poor Caro. She would never understand this. “What will you tell her?”
“That Maman is sick and will be at my house for a few days until she is better.”
If she got better. Mattie stared at the concern that hollowed his cheeks. “You care for Caro.” Somehow, that made him uncomfortably human. And her own desires and actions decidedly wicked.
“Someday, when my parents are gone, Caro will be my responsibility.” He set his glass down and rose. “I’ll ask Mrs. Parker to send breakfast for everyone here.”
She shook off the sand and folded the paper. “Thank you.”
He glanced at the address as he tucked the note into his jacket. “The Admiralty?”
“I don’t know where he lives.” Not anymore. Had Somershurst also been responsible for the vandalism of the Harrisons’ house? Somehow she thought not. “But Kit said they work together, so I figured someone at the Admiralty should be able to find him.”
Somershurst held out a hand. “Like our two countries, perhaps we could declare a truce?”
She stared into those familiar eyes—eyes so like Kit’s, it hurt. She and Somershurst would never exactly be friends, not with all that lay between them. And yet, they’d discovered a commonality that advanced them beyond enemies. Under other circumstances … “I should like that.” She fitted her hand into his.
After he left, she paced to the window. A faint glow glimmered on the horizon, promising the inevitable beginning of another day, but for now the pre-dawn sky left most of the world in shadows. Like her heart, but without the spark of optimism.
How astonishing to think that only yesterday she had so cleverly questioned the countess about her son the captain. Only to learn now there was a real person behind the object of her hate—a man with faults and foibles and a family who loved him. Not unlike her brother in some aspects. If only George hadn’t become bitter or run away or stolen that paper. So many “ifs,” so many small decisions, each offering an opportunity to correct the course of one’s life.
And what of her? Did she yet have a chance to make amends for the past and alter her future? A daunting prospect, given the magnitude of her crime.
Suddenly Nicky’s face rose in the window—his hair wild, his eyes stark and his cheeks smudged. Heart pounding, Mattie jerked back—until she realized the image was not an apparition. She unlatched the lock and pushed open the pane.
“Nicky! What are you doing? You gave me such a fright.”
He climbed over the sill. “Sorry, Mattie. I came to see ‘ow ye are doing.”
A difficult assessment to make at the moment. “Where have you been?”
“Mr. DeChambelle’s ‘ouse. There’s a lady there—Mrs. Parker. She got me a place to sleep. But then I wanted to see ye, Mattie. I was so scared when I ‘eard the gun.”
“Me, too.”
“Did that fancy-pants captain try to attack ye? Is ‘e keeping you ‘ere?”
“Oh, Nicky, I did something so wicked.” She crouched to his level and wrapped her arms around him. His ribs poked through the coat that now carried the metallic scent of Lady Chambelston’s blood. Through the haze of regret, she felt his small hand patting her back in an awkward attempt to comfort her. “And you know the irony? The captain claims he didn’t impress my brother. Such jobs are done by the first officer …”
Nicky pulled away. “Mattie?”
The first officer? Somershurst hadn’t mentioned the officer’s name—he’d no reason to. But Mattie knew it.
George had stolen a paper and it seemed someone wanted her dead. Someone—but not Somershurst, she now realized. He could have hauled her to gaol last night and demanded justice. No English court would accept the excuses of a penniless American nobody against the testimony of an aristocratic English war hero. Wasn’t that why she had determined to undertake vengeance herself? And yet, Somershurst—who held her life in his hands—hadn’t succumbed to the same temptation.
How, in all of London, had Lieutenant Fitzgerald—the man responsible for George’s impressment—been in exactly the right place to rescue her from a footpad? Unless he had been following her.
For how long? She skipped back over the memories to the day she’d met the Impatience’s first officer. Kit had claimed Fitzgerald knew of her presence in London, knew of her search for her brother.
“Mattie?” Nicky’s question arrested her speculations.
“Can you do one thing more for me?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a man, a naval officer from the Impatience. Will you see what you can learn?”
“What’s ‘is name?”
“Fitzgerald.”
“I’ll be back in a few hours. Will you be here?”
“I hope so.” If she wasn’t in gaol.
Chapter Thirteen
The midmorning sun blazed through the window and burned Kit’s gritty eyes like a night of overindulgence. What a shame the irritation derived from a lack of sleep instead. At least drink would have dimmed the memories that flamed in glowing, horrifying, infuriating intensity. His fault. His fault he’d brought Mattie Fraser into their lives. His fault he’d ignored the evidence of her duplicitous intentions. He rubbed his hands across his forehead and closed his eyes, but the images appeared again. The muddled pictures tortured his mind—a fearsome combination of old regrets and new terrors.
At least Maman yet lived.
Her complexion matched the pallor of the sheets and her eyes still reflected pain, but her jaw had regained its stubborn tilt. “You will do it for me, Kit, no?”
“Maman—”
“That is what I want.”
“What do you want, dearest Maman?” Julian swept into the room with a tray. “Breakfast
? Because Mrs. Parker sent more than food. She insisted she come—with Cook. And Cook insists you begin the morning with some of her special broth.”
A smile tweaked Maman’s pale lips. “I shall be so spoiled by this fussing I will not wish to get well.”
“The surgeon said you are to get lots of rest. You will suffer from ennui before we permit you to exert yourself.” Julian set the tray on a bedside table.
Maman stared at Kit, one brow raised. “Julian can stay with me while you are gone. No more excuses—go.”
“She may not be here—”
“And why not?” Maman’s gaze flickered to Julian. “Mattie is here, yes?”
“I believe she is yet in the library.”
Kit folded his arms across his chest. “Maman would like some time alone with her. I suggested she wait.” At least until they’d hauled the malefactor off to gaol. Maman could send her counsel via the post—to Australia.
Julian glanced at Maman, then studied Kit until he shifted in discomfort. Years of staring into the sun had prematurely etched lines around his older brother’s eyes. “Maman is old enough to know her mind, Kit. You speak to Miss Fraser while I assist Maman with her breakfast.”
Kit aimed one last look of fury at Julian, then strode to the library. He peeked in—cheered when he didn’t see Miss Fraser—until he chanced to spy her curled in a chair. A pity she hadn’t run away and afforded him reason to reject Maman’s request.
Miss Fraser’s chest rose and fell with her deep, even breathing. The sunlight streaming through the window burnished her deep red tresses and her new brown dress matched the color of the freckles crossing her nose. The dark curve of her eyelashes lay on her pale cheeks like black crescents. In sleep she looked young, vulnerable, innocent.
A shame it was all an illusion.
She jolted awake, as if suddenly mindful of his presence even in sleep. Her eyes blinked open, dark and disoriented.
Disingenuous. Then awareness roused, shriveling the smile that had started to take shape on her lips.
“Did you sleep well, Miss Fraser?”
She slumped in the chair, as if the sharp edge in his voice had cut her. “Not … particularly.”
He swiveled and presented her with his back. A mostly full decanter of brandy beckoned from Julian’s desk. He didn’t see a goblet, but no matter. He confiscated the drink and sauntered back to the chair that sat opposite hers. “I see you left me a drink.”
Shadows obscured the brown eyes until they were nearly black. “You do seem to have a fondness for the stuff.”
“Especially this morning.” He yanked the stopper off, tilted the decanter and guzzled straight from the bottle.
“And on other occasions. Have you suffered from this thirst for long?”
Only since the last time his stupidity—arrogance, really—led to tragedy. “I need to wash away the taste of Judas’s kiss. Drink dulls the memories, you know.”
She stared into the empty fireplace, her form as still as a wax figure. “Only temporarily. Only until the morning.”
“Hence the reason I begin drinking so early in the day. I intend to stay drunk.” He took another swig of the brandy. And yet, the taste didn’t satisfy as much as his first sip. Taut silence constricted around the room and fed his exhaustion, his hurt, his anger. “You do realize what will happen to Maman if infection sets in?”
Her lashes drifted down and her lower lip trembled. “I … I want to tell you how sorry I am, Kit.”
“Sorry?” He smacked the decanter against the hearth and surged out of the chair. In two paces he loomed over her. “A fine time to feel regret, Miss Fraser.”
She shrank back against the seat. From his anger or the brandy on his breath? He reached inside his coat and whipped out a pistol—her pistol. He dropped it onto her lap. Her head snapped back and a soft cry escaped her mouth.
“How sorry, Miss Fraser?” The black barrel gleamed malevolently in the sunlight. “I believe this weapon belongs to you. Keep it. Cherish it. Remember what you did.”
She stared at him, round eyes glittery.
“And if those memories don’t drive you to despair and drink, you are more callous than I.”
“I …” She tentatively traced a finger over the gun’s stock then yanked her hand away, as if it were a feral dog that might bite her. “Is this why you came to see me?”
He paced to the window and stared into the sun’s glare, welcoming the throb it brought to his temple. “Partly. Maman wishes to talk to you.”
“Your mother is awake?”
“Yes. But obviously not of sound mind.”
“Why does she wish to see me?”
“I don’t know.” Rancor contorted his lips and clenched along his jaw. “Don’t upset her. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she insisted.”
“And your father?”
Kit rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Sleeping, last I knew.” He glanced over his shoulder.
Miss Fraser gripped the gun between her thumb and finger. “I can’t take this into your mother’s room.”
“It isn’t loaded, you know. Not anymore.”
She flinched, as if he’d discharged the ball into her. “Will you be coming also?”
“I have more important matters to address.”
Miss Fraser uncurled from her awkward position and rose from the chair. Stiff creases wrinkled the gown’s hem where his mother’s blood had dried on the fabric. She shuffled to Julian’s desk and tucked the pistol in the drawer. “I hope the matter concludes to your satisfaction.”
He waited until she had trudged from the room. Then he retrieved the gun and dropped it into her coat pocket.
Mattie’s leaden feet resisted her every step. What did she say to a woman she’d nearly killed? Who might yet die from wounds Mattie had inflicted?
“Pardon me, Miss Fraser.” Mrs. Parker materialized in the hallway. “I must speak to you.”
“I’m afraid Lady Chambelston has asked to see me. Perhaps afterward …?”
“I’ll only take a moment.” The housekeeper aimed singularly grim eyes at Mattie. Did she know of Mattie’s offense? Most likely. At least now Mrs. Parker had a reason for her animosity.
“I really must—”
“’Tis about Master Nicholas.”
“Nicky? Is anything missing?”
“Only the lad, but he gave Betsy a message requesting you meet him at the gate to Hyde Park.”
Alarm screeched through Mattie with the volume of an opera singer. Nicky had promised to return here. He knew the danger—he would never ask her to leave the house. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.”
“I will send Betsy with you when you are ready.”
“That won’t be necessary. I won’t be able to make the appointment.”
Mrs. Parker’s lips compressed into a disapproving gray line that matched her steel-colored hair. She stepped forward, her fierce face some inches above Mattie.
Mattie tried to retreat but bumped against the wall.
“Miss Fraser, you cannot leave that young lad to wait for you. Master Nicholas might be in serious difficulty.”
Mattie stared at the adamant Mrs. Parker. Suspicions surged through her mind. If she were to leave now, were to give the DeChambelles the impression she was intent on escape, they would of a certainty order her arrest—and disbelieve her very real declarations of regret. The walls of the narrow hallway closed around her like a prison cell. “I wouldn’t worry about Nicky. No one knows London better than he does. He’ll return when he gets hungry.”
Mrs. Parker’s gray eyes heated to the temperature of smoke. “Very well, Miss Fraser.”
Mattie sagged against the wall as the housekeeper marched away. A test? Or a threat?
Either way, the true trial was yet to come. Mattie forced her reluctant feet up the stairs, one impossibly high riser at a time. Once on the landing she raised an arm as heavy as her feet—and her heart—and tapped on the door. It swung open to reveal S
omershurst on the other side. His lips curved into a weary smile that lightened her burden. Strange, how her relationship with this man had evolved so unexpectedly in the past twelve hours.
He gestured her into the room and leaned over to whisper, “There’s a chair next to the bed. Don’t stay too long.” Then he squeezed her shoulder and slipped out, pulling the door shut with a gentle click.
Against the snow-white sheets, the grayish cast of Lady Chambelston’s face bespoke a long recovery. And yet when her gaze flickered to Mattie, an inner glow lit her countenance. Like staring into the sun, the radiance hurt Mattie’s eyes. And heart.
She trekked the five paces, the weight on her shoulders, on her soul, pressing harder with each step until she reached the bed and fell to her knees.
Burying her face in the sheets, she could only murmur, “I’m so sorry” over and over.
And then a whispered caress smoothed her hair. Mattie peeked up into gentle blue eyes. “I had Julian bring a chair for you.”
She scrambled from the floor and settled in the chair.
“Did you eat this morning, Mattie?”
“I … haven’t much of an appetite.”
“I did not ask if you were hungry. I asked if you have eaten since yesterday.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Please, help yourself to whatever you find.” Her gaze swept past Mattie to the breakfast tray. “I know that sick feeling in your belly when you’ve done the seemingly unforgivable.”
That sick feeling sloshed around in Mattie’s stomach, but she buttered a piece of cold toast for Lady Chambelston’s sake.
“I once …” The countess’s fingers twisted around the top of the sheets. “There once was a young couple who were compatible, but their relationship lacked depth and commitment and spirituality. When troubles came—and troubles always come, Mattie—the wife became withdrawn. Angry. Bitter. The husband responded in the manner of most men in his class by finding a woman who was always cheerful and always available—for the right remuneration, of course. The wife escalated with infidelity of her own. And Caro was the result.”
Mattie jolted in the chair, her back straightening with her astonishment. “I …” How did one respond to such a revelation?
