Redeeming the Rogue

by C. J. Chase

  After a rut jostled her against him—again—she sought refuge in conversation. “Am I to know about this mysterious paper?”

  Kit leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. The movement seemed to bring him even closer to her. “She deserves to know, Jules.”

  Somershurst tilted his head back against the seat and waved a gloved hand. “Very well, Miss Fraser. Last winter, your country and mine entered into a treaty to end our recent hostilities. The Impatience was charged with conveying that treaty to America.”

  “Yes, Kit related those details to me when we met.”

  “During our voyage to America your brother stole a paper from my cabin—the orders relating to the treaty’s delivery, to be precise. And therein lies the source of all our difficulties.” The muted glow of the gaslights reflected the sardonic gleam in Somershurst’s eyes. “You see, this treaty was not binding until ratifications were exchanged.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand. We sent representatives to the peace talks last year. I thought they signed the treaty last winter.”

  “Indeed, but this treaty was … unusual. Prior treaties between our countries—such as that when we granted the colonies their independence—”

  “When we won our independence.”

  Beside her Kit snorted, and even Somershurst smiled.

  “Er, yes. The prior treaties went into effect when they were signed. This one had to be ratified by both countries, then those ratifications exchanged in Washington before it took effect.”

  “So that is the reason the British envoy came to Washington.”

  “Just so, Miss Fraser. I’d forgotten that you were from Washington and might have heard about such events in your country. I also assume you know what happened at New Orleans shortly before the envoy’s arrival?”

  She lifted her chin and offered him a sugary smile. “Of course. General Jackson routed the British invaders. The battle was a resounding victory and quite celebrated.”

  “Two weeks after the treaty was signed.”

  “No one in America knew the treaty had been finalized. It takes longer than that for news to arrive on our side of the ocean. Besides, your country attacked us at New Orleans.”

  Somershurst stretched out his legs. “Your defense of your country is admirable. Yes, we attacked and lost. New Orleans was our last offensive—planned at the same time we finalized the Treaty of Ghent.”

  “But as you said, the treaty had already been signed. The battle made no difference to the war’s outcome.”

  “But it might have, Miss Fraser. Because of the unusual provision regarding ratification, the treaty was signed—but not yet in effect. The British government has long viewed Bonaparte’s sale of Louisiana as illegal.”

  “Of course it was legal.”

  “Only if one agrees Bonaparte legitimately appropriated Louisiana from Spain. Many in our country—our government—do not. General Pakenham’s orders went beyond the capture of New Orleans. He was to liberate Louisiana from the United States and rule it on behalf of Spain.”

  “And how did your government intend to rule on ‘behalf of Spain’?”

  “Pakenham carried a commission naming him governor of Louisiana. And had we been victorious, a nonbinding treaty would not have stopped us.”

  “Goodness gracious!” Though Mattie’s heart hammered furiously, the blood drained from her face, leaving her dazed. “Those orders instructed you to withhold the treaty if you discovered the British had captured New Orleans. Then you would demand a new treaty, ceding Louisiana to England.”

  “Now you understand our government’s intentions.” Somershurst nodded, a mocking smile fixed on his face. “Think of it, Miss Fraser. Your country locked against the Atlantic on your east and surrounded by British and Spanish territory to your north, south and west.”

  “But—but what difference does it make now? The treaty was ratified last winter.”

  “What difference?” Kit interrupted her whirling thoughts. She chanced a glance at him. Dark anger filled his eyes. “As our treaty with France is not yet realized, our government feels it cannot afford to let the details of this adventure be published. Think what it would do to our negotiating position should any learn of our government’s penchant for international duplicity.”

  It was too fantastic, too utterly unbelievable. Mattie lifted her gaze and stared at Somershurst. “So my brother discovered this stratagem and you had him killed before he could give these papers to the Americans.”

  “Dear me, no, Miss Fraser. Surely you knew your brother well enough not to credit him with altruistic motives. He tried to blackmail me.”

  George. Faithless to the end.

  “Furthermore, though you may disbelieve me, Miss Fraser, I simply gave the order to retrieve the missing paper. Indeed, I was most distressed when the men killed Fraser in the ensuing scuffle. You may be assured that I, of all people, did not want your brother dead before he revealed his secret.”

  The Impatience creaked with the gentle motion of the Thames. Her masts disappeared into the night, her rigging swaying with the current. She was a huge ship, far larger than the one that had brought Mattie to England.

  And very soon Mattie would retrace that path back to her homeland. Her heart, however, would not go with her.

  Kit held her elbow and assisted her climb up the gangway. His consideration brought her another wave of longing, another wave of regret. “So how did your brother hide stolen money at home?”

  “We lived above my father’s store and George had his own room in the attic. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter and private enough to let him get into all sorts of trouble.” As Kit assisted her onto the deck, she glanced at Somershurst.

  He stood a few feet from Kit and her, very much alone. At her pause, he turned his head and a brief flicker of pain flashed through his DeChambelle eyes before he concealed it again with his sardonic arrogance.

  He missed this life, this ship.

  Again, she felt the odd connection between them, that of no-longer-enemies-but-never-quite-friends. She, too, already felt the loss of what could be no more.

  “Mattie?” Kit’s voice forced her to the matter at hand. Time enough for sorrow later. “What did George do?”

  “Carved out a hollow in one of the beams of the house, then whittled a false knot to cover it. He hid money and jewels in there until I finally caught him one day. My father had been drinking, and he …” She didn’t want to remember any more of that day—the argument, the fight, George’s departure.

  Her own relief.

  And her subsequent guilt.

  “So, we might find the paper hidden in a beam.” Somershurst spread his arms wide. “Miss Fraser, this is an exceedingly large ship. You do realize that searching for the right beam might well take us the rest of our lives?”

  On shore, the lights of London shimmered in the night, hazy from the smoke that hung in the air. Mattie stared at them for silent moments, then shook her head. “No, your ship would have been bursting with men, most of whom would not have taken kindly to an American whittling away the ship. George would’ve had a limited number of places that afforded him the necessary privacy. We need to think like George to guess which beam.”

  Kit’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “So far, we’ve suggested the hold, the galley, or his berth.”

  Somershurst led them to a ladder. “Fraser’s messmates never indicated he’d altered anything there. They were among the first of the crew I questioned.”

  “Could they have been involved?” Mattie asked.

  “I doubt it. They were a vile sort—uncouth and unschooled. Unlike Fraser, I doubt any of them knew the value of those orders. Fraser could not have done as you suggest without their knowing it, and not even the offer of a bribe produced information from them. Poor piece of luck that Fraser could read.”

  “My father,” Mattie interrupted without remorse, “being a shopkeeper, thought it prudent that both George and I
learn to read and compute.”

  Kit tensed and Mattie felt his excitement sizzle through him along the hand that gripped her shoulder. “The purser’s store, Julian. Can you see the irony? Fraser’s father was a shopkeeper. And of all men on a ship, pursers have the worst reputation for corruption.”

  “Not on my ship.” Julian rested his chin against his fist. “Ironic, but not feasible. Too many people about, unless …”

  “The carpenter’s walk behind the purser’s store.”

  Julian drew in a deep breath. “Possible, if not probable. As good a conjecture as any.” He climbed down the ladder to the deck below.

  “Good work, Mattie,” Kit said as he pulled her against him. Oh, so right, and oh, so impossible. “Just a little more, then we will have this ordeal behind us.”

  Except the us would be behind them, too.

  “Let me help you down.”

  “I’ve been on a ship before.”

  A grin tugged at his lips and eased the strain around his eyes. “Just so, my dear.”

  Moments later the two of them joined Somershurst in the dark, dank quarters. Just being belowdeck amid the overpowering vinegar-and-sulfur odor brought to Mattie’s mind her voyage to England.

  And the voyage she would soon make again.

  Somershurst lit a lantern. The feeble light scarcely cut through the darkness this far below the sky. Below the river, in fact. “This way.” He led them to a tiny tunnel, not even as tall as Mattie, that stretched along the side of the ship.

  “What is this?” She balked at entering such a dark, confined space.

  “The carpenter’s walk,” Kit’s voice murmured in her ear. “It allows the carpenter to make repairs to the side of the ship in the event of a hull breach.”

  Somershurst and the light began to move away. “Alas, Miss Fraser, sailors frequently make use of it for nefarious purposes.”

  Hardly a comforting statement. She crouched and followed, Kit’s steady hand against her back still burning through her skin.

  “Well, the purser’s store should be on the other side of this bulkhead from us. Any idea what might have attracted your brother’s notice, Miss Fraser?”

  She paused beside a heavy beam shaped like an inverted L. “May I have the lantern?”

  Julian shrugged his stooped shoulders and passed it to her.

  She hunkered past several more similarly shaped beams, then turned and crowded her way past the men to the one behind them and stopped. There was something …

  “Mattie?” Kit’s voice had tightened. “Do you see something unusual about that knee?”

  “If by knee you mean this beam, then yes. Look. There is an extra bolt that the others don’t have.”

  “I say! She’s right, Kit.” Somershurst withdrew a knife from his coat and pried the “bolt” loose. It popped out of its spot to reveal a small cavity in the knee. Somershurst stared at the article in his palm. “Ingenious. It is only a piece of wood carved in the shape of a button-head bolt and designed to fit over the hole.”

  “Go ahead, Mattie.” Kit’s voice was low. “You solved the riddle. You should be the one to recover the orders.”

  The darkness magnified the lap of waves against the side of the ship, the ragged sound of Kit’s breathing, the heavy pulsing of the blood in her ears. A chill permeated the air and curled under her skirt, under her skin. Mattie slipped her fingers into the hole and encountered the cold metal of several coins—and then the smoothness of rolled paper.

  “Mattie?” Kit stared into the luminous brown eyes. The flickering lantern threw shadows into them—specters of pain and grief.

  “You read it.” She withdrew a tube of paper and passed it to him, her hand cold, as skin kissed skin.

  Julian edged closer and took the lantern while Kit unrolled the paper and held it next to the light.

  “‘You are hereby directed, that should General Pakenham’s offensive at New Orleans—’” He broke off, nausea sloshing in his belly. His own government, perfidious to the end. He rolled up the parchment again and gave it to his brother. “They’re yours.”

  Julian stared at them, anger hardening in his eyes. “So Fitzgerald never had them.”

  Fitzgerald!

  Kit’s senses screamed an alert.

  “But if Lieutenant Fitzgerald never had them, who else is so desperate he would kill for this?” Mattie echoed Kit’s thoughts aloud.

  A muted squeak filtered through the wall from the hold. The creak of a rocking ship? Or the footstep of a skulking man?

  Kit shifted the gun in his waistband to the back of his trousers, hidden by the folds of his coat. He leaned next to Mattie, so close the scent of her hair teased his senses, and reached into her pocket. His fingers met the barrel of the pistol he’d shoved there during that pique of anger.

  He hefted it aloft—a small, snub-nosed affair, less effectual than the ones Kit was wont to carry but better suited to a woman’s hand. Mattie’s eyes widened—with fright or betrayal? No matter, he’d apologize profusely when they’d escaped. If they escaped. Another rasp like that of a step rustled against the deck. He pushed her behind him where he could see her no more.

  “Once you know who else wants the orders, Miss Fraser,” a voice spoke from the doorway to the carpenter’s walk, “you will know why I am going to kill you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kit’s eyes strained against the darkness. “Baxter?”

  The clerk stepped into the carpenter’s walk and shuffled close enough for the lantern’s light to catch eyes that glittered like a rabid feline’s. And the malevolent glint of his pistol. “Greetings, DeChambelle. Fancy meeting you here. Put the pistol on the floor. Slowly. I don’t wish to court an accident with a man of your reputation.”

  Kit stared at Baxter’s eager face, reminded of his younger self—full of pleasure, patriotism and pride. How had he missed what was now so obvious? He stooped and rested Mattie’s unloaded weapon on the deck.

  “Very good. Now you, Somershurst. I’m certain you are similarly supplied. Your weapons, please—including your knife.”

  “Who are you?” Julian eyed Baxter with aristocratic indifference as he lowered his weapons.

  “Baxter,” Kit answered for him. “Works for Alderston, too. He killed Fitzgerald.”

  The clerk shrugged. “The man was a nuisance, and his thugs too much of a danger to Miss Fraser.”

  “So Fitzgerald hired Stumpy. I’d begun to suspect as much when I realized his real objective in stealing Miss Fraser’s reticule was to recover her brother’s letter. When that failed, he set about finding a more permanent solution.”

  “You ought be ashamed, DeChambelle. You almost lost Miss Fraser that day in Hyde Park.”

  “How gratifying to know you weren’t entirely remiss in the duties I’d assigned you.” If only Kit could keep the man talking. “I presume you dealt with Stumpy—after you missed in the park.”

  “Missed?” Baxter lifted his chin, scorn tilting his mouth. “I could hardly shoot him in front of an audience. But I knew how to find him.”

  “Because you’d made inquires at the Captain’s Quarters the night before.”

  “After a certain event, Alderston was no longer convinced he could trust you to complete this job adequately.”

  Alderston, the man whose loyalty to country exceeded all else. Kit’s friend, mentor and now betrayer. And for what? England’s honor, or the Regent’s avarice and pride? “And how does Alderston foresee this job being completed?”

  “You may live, DeChambelle, and your brother also, as a reward for your great services.”

  “And because Alderston knows I will never divulge so shameful an action by my country.”

  “Just so. However, since we cannot trust similar assurances from Miss Fraser, she must die. Fortunately, as an American nobody, she won’t be missed.”

  Except by him. And Caro. And a street urchin named Nicky. “We cannot kill a woman, Baxter.”

  “Why ever not?
It isn’t as if we haven’t done it before for our country, DeChambelle.”

  Not this time. Not this woman. The last time had nearly cost his sanity—this would cost his soul. “The war is over.”

  He glanced at Mattie’s face, pale in the lantern’s glow. The freckles stood out across her nose. Her dress peeped out under her cloak, the hem now stained with grime from her adventure aboard the ship.

  Would this be the image he took to his death?

  Only hours earlier he’d chuckled at her self-conscious attempts at play with his sister. And yet, the sight of Mattie Fraser cradling Caro’s doll had filled him with indescribable longings. Even hope for a future. For him. For them.

  For the past year and more when he’d despaired of the futility of life, death held the promise of welcome relief. Now face-to-face with his own mortality, knowing he might have to sacrifice his life to save Mattie, he at last began to understand a love so great it would surrender all, forgive all.

  He tried to catch Mattie’s eye but she stared at Baxter, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “You killed Fitzgerald yesterday, but Betsy was gone this morning. If you’ve been working to keep me alive, how was she involved?”

  “She thought to sell her services to both Fitzgerald and me, reporting your movements to both of us. She has been dealt with.”

  Kit sidled in front of Mattie while his mind sprinted at racehorse speed. The weight of his pistol—primed, loaded, ready—pressed against his back, waiting for the perfect moment. He would have only this one chance.

  One shot. In the murkiness of a single lantern.

  At this range, he was certain to hit his target. But then, the same applied to Baxter. He had to get Baxter to turn his weapon on him. There’d be little hope for his survival but he could save Mattie.