by C. J. Chase
“Why, now that ye mention it, I think I do remember him. Nick, ye say? Small lad. Ain’t been well fed.”
“That describes half the children in London.” Kit made as if to leave.
“This one was wearing a greenish coat.”
“I want to see him.”
“Well, sir, I’d like to ‘elp ye. Truly, I would, but it really ain’t allowed.”
Kit’s anger fired hotter as he extracted another, larger coin. While Nicky endured in prison, this swindler practiced legal thievery.
“Perhaps we can make an exception.” The scoundrel seized the blunt, retrieved a collection of keys and shuffled his bulk through the maze of corridors that comprised the gaol.
Kit trailed behind, his senses assaulted by putrid odors of human waste and suffering. The windowless walls dimmed hope grayer than the darkening skies beyond until night and day became as one.
“We ‘ave a lad like that in ‘ere.” The gaoler gestured toward a door.
As Kit peered through the bars, the fulsome odors intensified. The weak light revealed a menagerie of prisoners crowded into the tiny space. Surly-faced men reclined on boards covered with a few wisps of stinking straw while several young boys cowered in a corner. Kit tried to picture Mat-tie’s reaction to this nightmare and gagged on the thought.
The gaoler pounded on the metal. “Nick?”
With a sob, a small boy stepped toward the door into the faint light that filtered between the bars. “Nicky?” Kit’s heart raced as he studied the tear-streaked cheeks. The boy’s coat had disappeared leaving only a ragged shirt to protect him from the cold, dank air.
“Mr. DeChambelle?”
“Let me in,” Kit ordered the gaoler.
“Now see ‘ere, sir. I can’t do that.”
Kit pulled out yet another coin and flipped it to the gaoler. The sluggish man missed, and the coin dropped to the floor. He dropped to his knees amid the filth and scooped up the money.
“Can you let me in now?”
The gaoler hesitated as he studied the coin. His sly glance roamed over Kit’s apparel again, but when it landed on his frown he extracted a key and fitted it into the lock. “Always glad to oblige a friend.”
The hinges shrieked as the door scraped across the floor. Kit stepped into the cell, and Nicky hurled himself against him with such force Kit staggered and nearly fell. As he wrapped his arms around the child, Nicky’s rapid breaths pressed prominent ribs against him. Kit stroked the dark hair, murmuring insensible words of comfort as the boy’s cold hands locked behind his neck.
Behind them the door clanged shut. Invisible bands constricted Kit’s chest as if the sound, the mere thought of being locked away in here, ripped the breath from his lungs. How much more horrifying to a child.
He lifted the boy in his arms until the two were of an eye level and pulled his cloak around Nicky to warm him. “Tell me what happened. I need to know so I can get you released.”
“Nothing, sir. Truly. I know ye won’t be believing me, sir, but I didn’t take nothing.”
“Where were you?”
Nicky’s huge brown eyes stared into him, all the larger because of the room’s murkiness. Gone was the cocky lad who spoke and acted older than his years, replaced by a frightened, lonely child. “I was in front of the captain’s ‘ouse. I’d gone there to see Mattie. A fella accused me of stealing and ‘auled me ‘ere.”
“What fellow? Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“Fine gentleman, ‘e was. Talked like ye.”
Fitzgerald, perhaps? A draft of unease wisped along Kit’s spine. Did the lieutenant linger outside Julian’s house waiting for Mattie, hoping she would leave for a sham appointment in Hyde Park? “What is your full name, Nicky?”
“I told the man I was Nicky Fraser.”
“Fraser?”
“It’s Mattie’s name. I knew she would look for me.”
Yes, in all of London only Mattie Fraser cared enough to find this orphan, just as she sought the fate of her brother. The ache in Kit’s chest concentrated around his heart as if it sought to soften that hard lump. “I’ll get you out of here but you must promise me you won’t describe this place to Mattie. She loves you very much. She would be hurt and unhappy if she knew the truth.”
“I love ‘er, too.”
Kit swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know. Now I need you to be brave and wait for me. I’ll be back for you no matter how long it takes.”
“Yes, sir.” Nicky’s stare, laden with so much trust and even reverence, pierced Kit’s heart with cuts so deep the scars would last a lifetime.
The tightness in his chest forced the last remaining air from his lungs. As Kit called for the gaoler, he released Nicky and stripped off his cloak, then his coat. The sleeves nearly dragged on the ground as he wrapped the garment around the boy. “That should keep you warm enough until I get back.” He pulled his cloak back over his shirt.
The door clanged as the gaolkeep fitted the key into the lock. Once outside the cell, Kit began to breathe again.
“Anything else I can do for ye, gov’na?”
Vulgar words jumped to Kit’s tongue, but he swallowed them before they escaped and the offensive man loosed his anger on Nicky. “What did you say your name was, my good man?”
“Wilkie Fodgel, sir.”
“Well, Wilkie, see the lad still wears that coat when I return, and I’ll see you well rewarded.” With the recompense the man deserved.
Kit whirled and strode out of the building in silence save for the slap of his heels against the floor. Once outside Kit drew in a deep breath of London’s air. Smoky as always, but sweeter than the putrid scent of the gaol.
But where to now? He hadn’t a pigeon’s sense of the criminal court system, having worked for Alderston who was a law unto himself.
Alderston—the man who seemingly knew more about Mattie Fraser than she did. He would have the wherewithal to attain Nicky’s release.
Kit’s boots pounded the bricks with renewed purpose as he pointed them toward the elegant Mayfair house.
Moments later the director of clandestine services welcomed Kit into his study. “Kit.” He gestured to a chair. “I trust your presence indicates you have met with success?”
“Not yet, sir.” He eyed the chair but kept to his feet. “In truth, I don’t believe Miss Fraser has the connections to help us.”
“Brandy?”
“Ah, maybe not tonight.”
Alderston nodded and poured a single drink. “Why do you think so?”
“She had not seen her brother in some years.”
“But I wager few people know that. Certainly not those who would steal this paper to embarrass our country at this delicate time.” He sipped his drink. “You do realize that if you are not successful, your brother’s reputation—your family’s reputation—will be forever tarnished.”
As Kit stared at Alderston’s cold, unrelenting eyes, a shiver swirled up his spine.
“But what brings you here tonight, if not news of your most recent success?”
“I need to get a boy out of prison.” Briefly Kit explained, leaving out a plethora of details including Nicky’s past successes in crime.
“What was this boy—Nicky, I believe you said—doing in Mayfair?”
“He works for me.” The lie flowed easily from Kit’s lips, too easily. He had lied on many other occasions during that interminable war and justified them with reminders of his country’s peril and his own small part in England’s survival. Never had he lied under such circumstances.
For himself—to Alderston of all people. And yet, not for himself. For Nicky. For Mattie.
Alderston stared at Kit for long moments, as if reading the meaning behind Kit’s words.
“Come. If we are to get the lad out tonight, we’d best be about this business as quickly as possible.”
Alone in the library with only her fears, recriminations and Harrison’s Bible for company, Mattie read and rer
ead the same Psalm, trying to calm her frantic thoughts. A fire now burned in the grate, and yet a chill wrapped around her heart.
Twilight had darkened to evening, and still no Kit. What if he returned without Nicky? Her imagination vaulted from one terrifying scenario to the next. What if? What if?
Footsteps scraped against the floor. Mattie held her breath and lifted her head in hope, only to feel her heart drop as the earl—Kit’s father—shuffled into the library. He advanced several feet into the room, then spied her and lurched to a halt.
“My apologies, Miss Fraser. I didn’t realize the room was occupied.”
She popped to her feet. “I was just thinking I ought to retire to my room.”
“Don’t leave on my account. Stay.”
She lowered herself onto the seat again. As Lord Chambelston dropped wearily into the other chair, she tried to read the emotions in his cloudy gaze. “It seems I’ve apologized to everyone but you, sir. I wish …”
“As do I, Miss Fraser. I want to hate you, but I, of all people, understand better than any.” He stared at the flames as if mesmerized.
“Sir?”
“I was a young man when my father bought my commission. Too young to order other men into battle or make decisions over life and death. But with the cockiness of youth, I knew best. And two hundred other men paid the price for my foolishness.” He dragged his gaze from the fire to study her face. His lips twitched into a cynical semblance of a smile. “So you see, Miss Fraser, I am yet one hundred ninety-nine to the fore of you.”
A log shifted, sending sparks dancing up the flue. “My father ran away from home to join the army when he was fourteen.” Not unlike her brother who’d fled at a similar age, she now realized. For similar reasons? Had generations of Frasers repeated the same pattern of bitterness and obstinacy? Lady Chambelston’s advice to turn her hurts over to God took on new meaning.
“Julian was about that age when he joined the navy. A better choice because he spent years learning to lead men before assuming responsibility for so many others. Not that he didn’t still make mistakes. He, ah, told me a little of what happened to your brother.”
“I suppose my brother knew the risks when he continued to sail during war time.” And when he stole what did not belong to him. “How—how is the countess?”
“Somewhat better. Julian is with her now.” The earl leaned his head back and let his eyes drift shut. “Would you read tome?”
“Yes, of course. Kit’s friend—Mr. Harrison—marked a few passages for me. My father didn’t encourage Bible reading or church attendance. I think he was angry with God.”
“If there’s one thing that serves a man no purpose, it’s to be mad at God. It’s rather like kicking a boulder. Hurts your toe and doesn’t change the rock at all.”
Mattie chuckled as she opened the Bible to the Psalms. Over the next hour or so, she read aloud the poignant words that had so eloquently spoken to men’s hearts for thousands of years. Sharing the passages with another hurting person brought calmness to her soul. At one point Cook brought tea, which Mattie gratefully sipped to soothe her weary throat.
“My lord?” One of the Chambelston footmen stepped into the room, a silver tray in hand. “A message from Higgins.”
“Thank you.” The earl broke the seal and scanned the note. “Well, Miss Fraser, it seems Mrs. Parker has been found.”
“Is she well?”
“Some broken bones and bruises, but she should recover in time. A carriage struck her near Hyde Park. She was unconscious and unidentified for some hours, but now that she has awakened, she’s been moved to Chambelston House.”
What was the housekeeper doing near Hyde Park?
Lord Chambelston rose. “Thank you for reading to me, Miss Fraser. The words were comforting, but now your voice is hoarse—how selfish of me not to have stopped you ages ago. I’m going upstairs to check on my wife.”
“Good night, sir.” She set the book on the table and rested her eyes. And prayed—for Nicky’s return, for Mrs. Parker’s healing, for Kit’s safety.
In the midst of her petitions, the front door squeaked. She leaped from the chair and ran to the foyer.
The night fog swirled around Kit as he entered the town-house.
Water droplets twinkled on his broad, cloak-covered shoulders. Then, as if sensing her presence, he glanced to where she waited in the doorway and an infectious smile lit his face. The fog dissipated, leaving only the mist that glittered in his hair and on his lenses.
“Nicky?”
“I found him.” He dropped his arm over the shoulders of the boy beside him.
Nicky looked at her and attempted a wavering smile. Then he shrugged off Kit’s arm and a coat more suited to a small giant than to a young boy. He sprinted to her and threw himself into her arms. Mattie staggered, then wrapped her arms around him, feeling the shudders that wracked his body.
She glanced over his head and observed Kit as he removed his cloak—baring himself to his shirt. She started and glanced at the heap of dark fabric Nicky had discarded, then her gaze darted to Kit’s face again. His features blurred from the moisture that flooded her eyes and wet her lashes.
Nicky’s arms tightened around her. “I thought I’d never see ye again, Mattie.”
“I was so worried. You weren’t hurt?”
He shook his head. “I love ye, Mattie. I’m sorry ye were scared.” And yet, he looked less sorry and more thankful. That someone cared for him?
As Mattie stared into Nicky’s trusting brown eyes, something cracked inside her. Maybe it was her heart, because pain pierced her breastbone and tightened around her chest until she could barely breathe.
When had she last heard those words? Not from her father, who had turned to the bottle after her mother’s untimely death. Not from her brother—the greedy cad who had stolen what was left of her father’s spirit when he ran off with the family funds.
No, only her mother had used those words, last uttered the same day the dying woman had charged Mattie to take care of her little brother.
A responsibility at which she had failed—just as she’d nearly failed again with Nicky.
She met Kit’s glance over the top of the boy’s head. “Where?”
“Gaol.”
“Prison!” She tightened the embrace until Nicky protested and withdrew.
Kit picked up his discarded coat. “Nicky, have you had anything to eat today?”
“Not since I filched an apple this morning.”
“Why don’t we find Cook?” Kit held out a hand and the boy gripped it with a dirty palm. Mattie followed behind, her feet dragging with concern.
Cook smiled when the trio entered the kitchen. “Mister Christopher. What are you doing here this late at night?”
“I brought some guests to try your tarts. But first, Master Nicky needs to wash.”
Cook examined the greasy fingers. “Come along, Master Nicky. We’ll find the pump—and lots of soap.”
Nicky cast one last pleading look at Mattie before shuffling off with Cook.
“I think Nicky finds the idea of soap more traumatic than gaol.” Kit gestured Mattie to take a seat at a scarred wooden table. “By the by, he knows nothing of Mrs. Parker.”
“We do. Your father received a message. She was struck by a carriage and is recovering at Chambelston House.”
“A carriage? What was she doing on the street? And for that matter, what street?”
“Near Hyde Park.”
“Hyde Park! Didn’t Mrs. Parker claim Nicky was to meet you there?”
“I didn’t go.”
The ache in Kit’s chest intensified as he observed the remnants of tears that still wet Mattie’s lashes like dewdrops and shimmered in her eyes like sunlight on a lake. The same jumble of emotions spiraled through him—anger, admiration, antipathy, affection. Harrison’s assertion that Mattie’s actions were no worse than his own echoed again in his mind and rebuked his stubborn heart. He slid onto the benc
h opposite her and tapped her hand.
“But someone wanted you in Hyde Park. Or near to it. Unlike you, Mrs. Parker had no reason to suspect the message fraudulent. What if upon seeing you decline Nicky’s appeal, Mrs. Parker determined to go in your stead?”
“Mrs. Parker?”
“Don’t let that battle-ax demeanor fool you. She loves children. Believing Nicky to be in trouble, she walked to Hyde Park, only to be struck by a carriage meant for you.”
“Are you suggesting the accident wasn’t an accident?”
“As I said, someone wanted you on that street.”
“But to mistake Mrs. Parker for me …” Under other circumstances Mattie’s disgruntled expression would have amused him. “Her hair—”
“Hidden by a bonnet.”
“But the form—”
“Obscured by a coat.”
“Surely my clothes are not so similar to Mrs. Parker’s. Why, I’ve never seen her wear any color but gray.”
Gray. “Like the borrowed pelisse you wore the day you, ah, ventured to St. Paul’s?” The day she had encountered Neville Fitzgerald.
Mattie’s neck bobbed with her swallow. “Your mother insisted. Unfortunately, my altercation with Stumpy rather damaged the sleeve.”
And she hadn’t worn it since. But Fitzgerald wouldn’t have known such. Grimly, Kit determined to pay the erstwhile lieutenant a visit. Perhaps Julian would care to accompany him.
Mattie’s lashes drifted over her troubled gaze. “How did you get Nicky out of gaol?”
“I used a … family connection. I told him Nicky worked for me.” The past five years of his life had been a lie, so why did one small tale for a good cause bother him so? Had not Alderston used him, because of his connection to Mattie and Julian?
“What would have happened to him?” Mattie’s voice snapped him from his thoughts.
“Given his age, he probably would have been deported.”
“But he’s only a child!”
He’d used the same excuse to justify his actions to himself. “Stealing is a capital crime. He could have been hung.”
“So the poor are allowed to choose between a slow death by starvation or a quick death by execution?”
“Mattie.”
