Sister of Rogues (12 page)

“May I present Gerard Fontaine and his associate, Nicholas Algernon?” Finley said formally and turned to the men. “It is my pleasure to introduce Kier O'Reilly, the Earl of Adair.”

Something flickered in the older man's eyes for a brief instant and then it was gone. Kier glanced at his friend. When Finley acted like a proper gentleman, he was usually setting something up. Using the title of Kier's grandfather was a bit much though. Kier almost smiled. At least his friend hadn't made him the Duke of Leicester.

Then he paused. The name Fontaine sounded vaguely familiar.

Kier accepted the whiskey Finley had poured from the sideboard and sat down. “What brings you gentleman to Ireland?”

The older man's eyes widened slightly. “You sound English.”

Kier raised an eyebrow, wondering if he should be insulted for being on the winning side of the war or because Fontaine expected him to have a West Country brogue. In either case, if these men could be of help to the Irish cause, Kier could take no affront at a personal remark. He forced himself to sound pleasant. “I was educated at Trinity College, which much of the English aristocracy's progeny attended.”

The older man looked wary, but the younger one, Nicholas, openly appraised him with eyes as cold as Connemara marble while he tugged at the lace frill around his wrists. “I am a painter, rather well-known in France. Perhaps if you introduced me to your circle of friends, some of your lovely Irish women might be inclined to have portraits done.”

Kier bit back a laugh. He doubted a fancy Frenchman could hold his own with a feisty Irish woman. He couldn't picture any of his guests posing for such a thing either, although Fiona possessed a beauty that would make a portrait worthwhile. Irrationally, Keir didn't want Fiona ever to meet this dandy. The man had the look of a predator.

“I am afraid most of the aristocracy who could afford portraits moved back to London when the Irish parliament dissolved.” Kier pressed forward with the question that hadn't been answered. “So why is a French artist in Dublin?”

Nicholas lifted a shoulder, shrugging as only the French can do. “I developed an
amitié
with a subject. Her husband did not approve.” He shrugged again. “I thought it wise to put some distance between us.”

Kier knew only a smattering of French and connotations didn't always translate, but this
friendship
had probably gone beyond convention. Kier had no tolerance for men who dallied with married women. The Lord knew, he was fighting lustful feelings himself and Fiona was a widow.

He turned to Fontaine. “I believe I asked earlier what brings you to Dublin?”

“Nicholas invited me,” Gerard said smoothly. “We are thinking of starting an import business here, now that the threat to the shipping lanes is gone.”

“What kind of imports?”

Fontaine held up his snifter. “Cognac, for one. We would also like to export your fine Irish wool.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I have a good friend at the port of La Havre. Contacts can be made and funds transferred there for your…cause.”

Kier exchanged a glance with Finley. “And why would you be interested in helping the Irish?”

“I understand the plight of the underdog.” Fontaine smiled, although it seemed brittle and his eyes were flinty. “Napoleon had gained too much power. Let us just say I helped England's enterprise at Vitoria.”

Gerard Fontaine. Kier recalled the name now. The man had given the Duke of Wellington vital information that had turned the tide at that battle. Since Arthur Wellesley, the duke, was a native Irish son, the news had been all over the
Dublin Gazette
.

“I am sure my cousin Daniel will be in touch with you then,” Finley said and rose to indicate the meeting was over.

The men stood and Kier did too. Something about the two Frenchmen seemed to be off-kilter, but he didn't know what it was. For now, he would play along, but Arthur Wellesley hadn't totally abandoned Dublin like the rest of the aristocracy had.

Kier had met the man once, briefly, when Wellington had come to let Kier's mother know of her husband's demise. Perhaps if Kier could arrange to meet him again, he could somehow manage to bring the conversation around to Gerard Fontaine.

Chapter Twelve

“Hell, I never expected O'Reilly to be a damn earl,” Wesley said to Nicholas when they were back at the flat his son had rented.

“You do not know for sure he is the one housing Fiona MacLeod,” Nicholas replied, pouring each of them a cognac. “He never mentioned what he did and the name is common.”

“That is true, but the Adair ancestral seat is the damn castle not far from the asylum. The warden said the bitch was housed not far away.”

“Why would an earl agree to house lunatics?”

“Money, no doubt,” Wesley answered. “When Dublin's gentry are in their cups, they wag their tongues more than spinsters on the sidelines of a ball. The old earl lost his lands during the Ascendancy and I thought the title went with it, but perhaps not. The present O'Reilly fell on hard financial times when some strumpet swindled money from him and ran off to America, according to the gossip.”

Nicholas grinned. “She sounds like someone we might like.”

“Women are good for only one thing,” Wesley replied. “And the few that are clever are dangerous. Never trust one.”

Nicholas's eyes turned hard. “You do not have to remind me of that.”

“You were the one who was so sure Mari Barclay would succumb to your charms. Instead, she married the MacLeod bastard.”

“You were the one who let her escape,” Nicholas shot back.

Wesley slammed his glass down. “Only because you told MacLeod where I was holding her.”

“I preferred not having my throat slit.”

They glared at each other. “We cannot afford to fail this time,” Wesley snapped and then poured another drink. “There will have to be a change in plans though.”

“Why? This business alliance might be more to your benefit than you thought.”

“Are you daft?” Wesley sometimes wondered if Nicholas had inherited his whorish mother's stupidity. “I was to call on the warden next week to have a visit with the little bitch. I had already planned how I could refute any claims of sanity she has made and reinforce the need for her to be moved to the main ward. Now I will have to postpone that. If O'Reilly accompanies the MacLeod bitch to the asylum, she will tell him I am Walter Avery who claims to be her father.”

“Perhaps he will not accompany her.”

“You
are
daft. If O'Reilly has not already plowed that furrow—the girl is comely and ripe—he certainly will not want to lose the money he is receiving.”

Nicholas poured himself another drink too. “So how important is this alliance we seek? Ireland's future is not our concern.”

“I care not what happens to Ireland in the future. For now though, it suits our purpose. I had grown quite weary of the tenements of London's East Side and I could hardly put in an appearance anywhere else.”

Nicholas frowned. “So you want to be a part of society over here? I can make a living painting portraits that make hags look young, but—”

“
Mon Dieu!
Have you totally lost your wits? Fitting in to society is only a means to an end. In case you have forgotten, I had to leave a large sum of money in France when I was caught at Vitoria spying for Napoleon. Luckily, those English fools believed I had turned traitor on my own country. I intend to get that money back.”

“But how? According to
Maman
, you are a
personne non-gratis
in France.”

Wesley felt rage build inside him at the mention of Nicholas's mother. The woman was a damn whore who preferred women to men. She had betrayed him just like his step-mother had, like his last lover had, like Jillian MacLeod had… Wesley threw his snifter against the wall, shattering the crystal.

“That was Waterford,” Nicholas said. “Perhaps you should lose your temper with something less expensive.”

“When I get my money, I will buy all the damn Waterford I want,” Wesley snarled, clenching his teeth.

“Just how do you propose to do that?”

“Your half-brother, Richard.”

“Richard?” Nicholas asked, pouring Wesley another cognac, this time in a regular glass. “He bungled siphoning money from the MacLeod shipping line and barely escaped imprisonment. How is he going to be of help?”

Wesley drained the brandy in one gulp. He needed a stiff drink to put up with his stupid son. “Richard returned to France. The clever boy got a position at the very bank that holds my money.”

“It is rather more difficult to maintain a second set of books at a bank than it is a shipping line—”

“Richard is an accountant. He will manage,” Wesley interrupted. “He will be sending various sums in the cognac cartons. My responsibility on this end is to make the shipments appear legitimate. I need clientele to buy the brandy and that is why I need to fit into what is called society here. Exporting Irish wool will only endear me to the idiots.”

“And the
cause
they talk about?”

Wesley smiled. “Contributing to their cause will be the ace up my sleeve to ensure transactions at the docks go smoothly.”

“And if you are successful, what then? You cannot return to either England or France obviously.”

“Obviously. But there is a new France in America. The name of the ship that brought me to Ireland reminded me. The French have established a cultural center in the States—the city of New Orleans. I shall retire there once my business with the MacLeods is finished.”

“New Orleans,” Nicholas rolled the sound of it out slowly and sighed. “To speak French again. To flirt with women who know
how
to flirt. The risqué dalliances…” He finished his drink. “I could paint there.”

“Indeed you could,” Wesley replied and finished his cognac as well.

“What is your opinion of the Frenchmen?” Kier asked Finley before they parted ways a short time later. “Do you think they are sincere?”

“Algernon strikes me as a rake, though 'tis a common enough characteristic among those who associate with the
ton
.”

“He has all the marks of a dandy, from his dress to his speech, and he admitted to loose morals.”

“Aye, well. The French see things differently than we do.” Finley grinned. “Daniel and I had quite a time of it over there, staying a step ahead of the courtesans promising things I ne're even heard of.”

Kier shook his head. “Courtesans are not married women.”

“That's a truth, but how many married English men do not keep mistresses?”

“That does not make it right.”

“Another truth for sure.” Finley grinned again. “But if ye are to judge a nobleman for his indiscretions, ye'd have no one left to rule England.”

“Now that is a complete truth,” Kier said and smiled. “The prince regent's set would be the first to go.”

“Not a bad idea, now that I think on it,” Finley replied. “Ireland could do quite well without another Hanoverian on the throne.”

Kier grimaced. “I suppose we ought to be glad the prince does not take much of an interest in what we do over here.”

“Aye. The prince's love of debauchery is a bright rainbow in our sky, even if there is not a pot of gold at the end of it.”

“Speaking of pots of gold,” Kier said, turning his thoughts back to the point of the conversation. “Do you think either Algernon or Fontaine will provide funds?”

Finley shrugged. “'Tis not unusual for an ex-patriot of one country to want to support the cause of another's.”

“But as an ex-patriot, what kind of access to funds can Fontaine have? When I was in Italy I heard—” Kier stopped. He'd pushed the Italian trip to the far recesses of his mind. If he had not gone, perhaps his mother would still be alive.

Finley laid a hand on his shoulder in silent understanding. “What about your trip? What did ye hear?”

Kier swallowed hard. His mother had been gone well two years. He'd deal with his guilt later. “I heard that even the Vatican was having trouble dealing with King Louis. He refused to return the Papal States to Rome and has commandeered the French banks as well.”

“Only the accounts of Napoleon and his associates,” Finley answered. “Daniel made discreet inquiries as to the state of things while we were there. The king needs his countrymen to spend money to restore the economy. Fontaine provided information against Napoleon, which makes Fontaine a friend of the current court so he should have no problem.”

“I would like to know who his contacts are though.”

Finley frowned. “Do ye suspect something political afoot?”

“I do not know. Maybe I am just naturally suspicious.”

“'Tis not a bad trait.” Finley paused. “Fontaine was a war hero though. Wellington could vouch for him.”

“I thought of that, but I can hardly send the duke a post inquiring. Wellesley has Irish roots, but if he thinks there is a plan hatching for independence he would be honour bound to bring it to the attention of Parliament. Too many people lost their lives the last time the English got wind of a rebellion.”

“Aye. Daniel does not want the bloodshed either,” Finley said. “We will just have to bide our time then.”

Waiting was not what he wanted to do. Not only did he not know when Wellington would visit Dublin again, but Kier had also been biding his time waiting—hoping—for a response from one of Fiona's relatives. Enough time had passed that he should have heard something, but no reply had come. Perhaps those men only existed in Fiona's mind. Maybe she was more delusional than he thought.

By Saint Patrick, he was driving himself mad.

“Kier?” Finley was looking at him curiously. “Do ye agree?”

Kier shook his head to clear it. He needed to focus. “Yes, we will bide our time.”

But the idea didn't sit well. It didn't sit well at all.

“Thank you for seeing us, Your Grace,” Mari said as she and Jamie were ushered into the Duke of Wellington's library and he rose from behind his desk. “I know you must be quite busy.”

“Nothing I cannot put off,” Arthur Wellesley said as he moved around to shake Jamie's hand and indicated they should both be seated. “It is a bit early for spirits, but would you care for tea?”

“Nae—” Jamie stopped as Mari gave him the polite smile she used when he was not acting in accordance to polite English standards. He could almost hear her say that one does not refuse tea when it is offered. “If 'tis nae trouble.”

“No trouble,” Wellesley answered as a servant wheeled in a cart with a silver tea service along with a plate of dainty sandwiches.

Evidently, the staff was trained well. Saying no was not an option either. Would he ever understand the thinking behind society's mannerisms?

“These look delicious,” Mari said as she accepted a small plate from the maid. “Watercress and caviar.”

Jamie looked at the tiny sandwiches. A green leaf with a dab of fish eggs topped a thin, crustless piece of bread hardly more than a bite. Mari gave him another smile and he reluctantly made the thing last for two bites. Then he gave his wife his own special smile that made her blush. She knew there was always a price to pay when she made him be polite. Bedtime would come early tonight.

“So how can I be of assistance?” Wellesley asked, bringing Jamie back from his lustful thoughts. “Your note said Fiona MacLeod is missing?”

Jamie explained what had taken place, finishing with, “It has been over a month with nae word. Ian and I suspect Wesley Alton's—Gerard Fontaine's—hand in this.”

“Considering how wily the man was in convincing both the prince to allow his betrothal to Lady MacLeod and Alton's escape from Bedlam, you would be wise to suspect him.” Wellesley took a sip of tea. “The fact that he sent no ransom note before he left for America with your sister is particularly worrisome. If your cousin does not find Fiona shortly after he arrives, she could simply vanish into the vast wastelands.”

Jamie nodded. “'Tis why we are here. The mon acted as a double spy. Do ye ken if he had any American contacts as well?”

At the mention of spying, Wellesley's face turned grim. “A true shame the man was removed from Newgate to be taken to Bedlam. Alton would have been hanged by now had he stayed in the gaol.” He paused, thinking. “I am not aware that he had contacts in America. As I testified, I had not met Gerard Fontaine in person before the incident at Brighton. England was still at war with the States while we battled at Vitoria, but since Alton worked for Napoleon, I suppose it is possible. The Americans wanted the shipping lanes open for trade and so did France.” Wellesley put his cup down. “I can contact Argyll and Devonshire, of course, and put the word out. I am sorry I cannot be of more help.”

“Thank you for your time,” Mari said as they rose and the butler appeared silently in the doorway to show them out.

“Aye, thank ye,” Jamie added.

“I wish I could have helped. I will let you know if Argyll or Devonshire come up with anything.”

“Thank ye,” Jamie said again and followed Mari out and down the steps toward the carriage. As the massive oak door shut quietly behind them, he felt like he had come to a dead end.

He just hoped his sister was not dead as well.