Sister of Rogues (17 page)

How one small Scottish female whose wits were somewhat scattered could unsettle him so much, Kier didn't know, but his usually steely resolve seemed to melt like churned butter left in the sun whenever he was around Fiona. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since their conversation yesterday. When she hadn't come to lunch today, he'd had to exert every ounce of willpower he had not to go up to her chamber, even though Erin had assured him that Fiona had pleaded a headache and that she'd take lunch to Fiona later.

“Ye have the look of a man about to ascend the gallows' steps instead of to enter Kildare's,” Finley said as he met Kier on the street in front of the club that night. “What has your hellcat done this time?”

Kier frowned. “Why do you always think it is Fiona?”

Finley laughed. “A blindfolded man could see in the dark that ye are besotted with her.”

Kier deepened his scowl. “I am
not
besotted.”

“No?”

“No. She…she just tells some unusual stories.”

“'Tis not unusual for someone who talks to faeries.”

Kier looked at his friend. Finley had attended a hedge school with Daniel and himself when they were younger. Finley had shown a quick intelligence at both ciphering and reading, but it was his astute ability to judge a man's character that had made him Daniel's most trusted man. That, and he had a glib tongue that smacked of the Blarney Stone as well. However, Finley did have a strange penchant to speak of the old myths and superstitions as if they were real.

“The one thing Fiona does not do is talk to faeries.”

“She was the day I saw her through the tower window. A right pretty little faerie sprite too, springing right out of the flower with hair the colour of petals.”

Or maybe Finley talked like this to aggravate Kier. “If you are not careful, you will end up in the asylum yourself.”

Finley grinned and shook his head. “Ye need to believe, 'tis all. Have ye not noticed Fiona seeming to talk to herself?”

“
All
of my guests do that. It is one of the reasons they are there.”

“But the other women have not enchanted ye, have they?”

“No, but…wait a minute. I am not
enchanted
.”

Finley shrugged. “Bewitched or charmed then. Take your pick.”

“No. I am not under any spell.”

“Even if I had not seen Fiona talking to the flower faerie,” Finley went on as though Kier had said nothing, “the lass has the look of the Fae—the slanted eyes, their unusual colour, her fair skin—fairer even than our Irish lasses—the girl looks otherworldly. The Sidhe leave their mark upon those they favor.”

“Stop talking nonsense. We are here to meet Fontaine and his partner. I doubt they will think us strong leaders with the capability to gain freedom for Ireland if you keep spouting gibberish about the wee folk.”

Finley raised an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed. “How else do ye explain the fact that ye have been moonstruck since the lass's appearance?'

“I am
not
moonstruck.”

Finley opened the door to the club. “'Tis obvious to me and probably half the leprechaun population of Ireland that ye are.”

Kier shook his head, not deigning to answer. He just hoped Finley would return to sane and rational conversation before their meeting.

He was definitely
not
moonstruck.

Chapter Seventeen

Fontaine and Algernon were already seated at one of the corner tables, snifters of cognac in front of them. Trust the French to drink brandy when there was fine Jameson whiskey to be had or a pint of Guinness.

Kier and Finley drew up chairs while the bartender brought their drams around. Kier noted that Fontaine had his back to the wall, as he had the last time they met, and that his eyes seemed to rove the room as though looking for someone…or maybe something, like trouble.

Trouble they didn't need. Funding for the cause—or contacts that could provide funding—they did. Still, he wondered once more what had brought Fontaine to Ireland.

“How is business going for you?” Kier asked.

“Quite well. I received my first shipment of cognac from La Havre just two days ago,” Fontaine answered as he held up his glass. “I dare say it will be better than this.”

“We might be havin' to put your bottle against one of our fine whiskeys then,” Finley said, lifting one brow in mock challenge.

Algernon gave the shot glass Finley held a dismissive look. “Nothing compares to a good French cognac.”

Spoken like the dandy he was. Kier hid his dislike for the man, reminding himself the French often acted arrogant, but truth be told, Kier had little respect for men who dallied with married women. Then he noticed Fontaine watching him and forced a smile. “Whiskey is an acquired taste.”

“And a worthy one,” Fontaine intervened smoothly. “Perhaps I should look into exporting whiskey along with wool.”

Algeron started to retort but then snapped his mouth closed as Fontaine gave him a cool look.

Kier noticed the exchange with interest. Apparently, Fontaine was in charge, but were the men more than business partners? It seemed strange that an artist would also be a merchant, but then wars took tolls on every country's economy. “Have you contracted with someone for the wool?”

“I am working on that,” Fontaine replied. “The market in France is open to fine wool, especially this time of year. I want to be able to offer the best price I can to your sheep breeders and still make a profit of course.” He shifted the conversation subtly. “The French investors for woolens would also have an interest in securing Ireland's independence since that would keep export taxes down.”

At least the man knew his business. The Irish had chafed under high export taxes England imposed on them, while English goods coming to Ireland bore none of that burden. The tax situation was just another way to ensure Ireland remained poor and under English control.

Kier could understand the impatience of some of his countrymen to wrest themselves free. His ancestral Viking blood stirred at times as well, but the age of berserkers was long over. Daniel O'Connell had the right of it—the path to freedom was in reestablishing the Irish Parliament, or at least seats in London. That would come through negotiation, not the use of swords, but they still needed funding.

“That is good news,” Finley said amiably while signaling for the barkeep to bring everyone another round. “How might we best approach them?”

“I will handle that part through my contact at La Havre,” Fontaine said, “but I will need to be able to give them some detailed information—”

“When is the next time you are going to meet with your rebels?” Algeron interrupted. “We need to know with whom we are working.”

“They are not rebels,” Kier replied, his distaste for Algernon rising. The one thing not needed was the word
rebel
. “We are working for a peaceful resolution through unity with all Irish landholders.”

“Of course you are,
mon ami
,” Fontaine said, sending Algernon another cryptic look. “It would be most useful for us to meet with your…
associés
.”

Kier exchanged a subtle glance with Finley. Their next meeting only included a small group of men since they didn't want to draw suspicion to themselves with a large gathering. The English had already banned the monster meetings that Daniel used to speak to. There was a small risk of exposing those men, but perhaps Fontaine didn't need to know their names…at least, not right away. Yet, they could hardly expect help from the Frenchman if they didn't allow him to attend. When Finley nodded his head slightly, Kier knew he'd been thinking the same thing.

“We have a meeting scheduled near Christ Church tomorrow evening at nine o'clock. We would be honoured for you to join us.”

Fontaine smiled and raised his glass. “I will be there.”

Wesley Alton's mind was spinning with the information he'd just received. By the time he and Nicholas reached the flat they were renting in one of the Georgian townhouses off Merrion Square, he'd devised a plan of sorts. Paying the rented hack, he looked up at the segmented fanlight of stained glass that graced the architrave above the oaken door. Two decades previously, the English aristocrats who had owned these homes would never have considered letting them to commoners, but Ireland had fallen on hard times since its Parliament had been dissolved. As he climbed the steps, Wesley noted the heavy brass knocker on the door needed polishing and paint was peeling from the window sills. The plasterwork on the friezes in their flat was chipped and cracked as well and the carpet frayed and a bit threadbare, but the beauty of the architecture remained intact. That the nobility had deserted these magnificent buildings to return to England didn't bother Wesley at all. Lack of anyone who might have recently been to London just made Dublin a much safer place for him to be.

Nicholas unlocked the door to their second-floor unit, headed for the small bar and busied himself with pouring drinks. Wesley walked to the window and gazed out at the darkened square across the street. Although the light from the street lamps didn't allow him to see the broad expanse of the park, the setting reminded him of all that he was entitled to. Bitterness slowly crept over the euphoria he'd been feeling about his latest scheme. He should have spent the last year entertaining in his father's elegant townhouse in Mayfair, dallying with a variety of lovers, instead of being subjected to an East End tenement, forced to mingle with the rot of London's humanity. He should be hosting parties at the country estate of Cantford, instead of that bastard MacLeod. The damn Scot had stolen Jillian
and
the title that should have been Wesley's. He snarled aloud. That little MacLeod bitch would pay for what he'd lost. He'd be sending a letter to the warden soon—a well-worded letter making quite clear if the warden refused to move the Scottish whore to the main asylum, the warden's own position would be on the line. Wesley had always found it easy to falsify documents.

Nicholas took a look at his face and turned back to the bar to pour Wesley's cognac into an ordinary glass from the Waterford snifter and then handed it to him. “What is wrong now? I thought the meeting went well.”

“It did, no thanks to you.”

“
Moi
? What did I do?”

Wesley wondered if the boy had inherited any of his brains at all. “You insult their whiskey and then you call them rebels. Not terribly intelligent, is it?”

“Whiskey is a foul liquor.” Nicholas shrugged. “They are rebels. Beyond the Pale, they are practically heathens.”

“Well, their leader is not. Daniel O'Connell's family was wealthy enough to send him to school in France.”

“And how did you find that out?”

Wesley drained his cognac. “Because when my esteemed father wanted to get rid of me, he sent me to the same boarding school.”

Nicholas stared at him. “You know Daniel O'Connell?”

“No. He was an upperclassman when I arrived and I was a
plebe.
Our paths did not cross.”

“If he was educated in France, why would he ever return here to the outskirts of civilization?” Nicholas refilled his glass. “We would not be here if we had a choice.”

As if his son needed to remind him. Rage rose inside Wesley again at all the slights that had been given him. His rightful place was in London, a titled marquess, with Jillian as his wife. If that damn MacLeod—

“So what is your plan?” Nicholas asked, interrupting Wesley's thoughts. “Why are we supporting the rebel—the Irish—cause? I see no profit in it.”

“Because it benefits us in other ways, at least for now. My first shipment of cognac came through customs with no problem.”

“And, I assume, Richard's first dispatch of money?”

Wesley nodded. “Layered beneath the straw packing. Several more shipments and I will have all my funds back.”

“And then?”

“And then,” Wesley said, reaching for the brandy, “I turn Kier O'Reilly, the Earl of Adair, over to the proper English authorities for treason.”

The women had just been seated for lunch two days later when the door-pull sounded at the front entrance. Erin hurried to answer it, only to return a short time later.

“My lord, a messenger from Naas is waiting to see ye in the front parlor.”

Kier rose immediately and excused himself. Fiona watched him go, wondering who would be calling in the middle of the day and why the person wouldn't be invited to share the meal. At home, a visitor would be given Scottish hospitality and fed. London had all sorts of strange rules about when a person could call on a home and who would be received or turned away. Of course, probably none of those rules pertained to a house full of supposed lunatics.

Kathleen watched Kier leave too, her eyes focused blatantly on Kier's buttocks encased in snug breeches that also clung to his muscular thighs as he strode out. Fiona looked quickly down before anyone saw where her attention had been focused as well. The black shirt Kier wore defined the wide expanse of his shoulders and the narrow tapering of his waist into the band of those tightly fitting breeches.

Dear heaven. When had she become interested in men's clothing?

“Do not be getting your hopes up, Scottish whore,” Kathleen said.

Fiona felt her face heat as she picked up her napkin. Her perusal of Kier had been noticed by Kathleen. Fiona could only hope the others—especially Ada and Seamus—hadn't taken note as well.

“Do not call Fiona a whore,” Lona snapped.

Kathleen turned her glittering green gaze to Lona and narrowed her eyes. “I will call her whatever I wish. She thinks she's so smart, readin' and all.”

“Fiona is smart,” Lona replied.

“She is an angel,” Dulcee chimed in. “A beautiful angel that took my Calum home to heaven.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake—”

“Ye should not curse,” Dulcee said.

“I'll curse if I want to,” Kathleen answered. “Just look at your
angel
sittin' there preenin' like she was some lady, givin' herself airs.”

Fiona clamped her mouth shut and laid down the fork lest she be tempted to hurl it at Kathleen. She'd resolved not to cause more trouble, but…

“Like ye are a lady,” Lona commented.

“Well.” Kathleen adjusted the imaginary lace on her cuffs. “I
am
a bloody lady, ye know. My lord husband—”

“Ye may have
blood
on your hands.” Lona sneered at her. “But ye are no lady.”

Kathleen glared at her. “Like ye would know. Ye and that bloody Scot whore—”

Lona glared back. “I told ye not to call her that!”

“She is an angel,” Dulcee murmured.

“She is a bitch in heat sniffin' around after the O'Reilly—” Kathleen sputtered as Lona tossed a glass of water into her face. “Ye little—” She didn't get to finish her sentence because Lona launched herself at Kathleen and knocked her from her chair. They landed in a rolling, tangled heap on the floor.

Dulcee began to wail.

Seamus grabbed Kathleen while Ada yanked Lona up. “Not another word out of either of you,” the matron said and gestured to Seamus. “We will lock them in their rooms for now.”

Dulcee fled the room ahead of all of them, muttering unintelligibly.

It took Fiona a moment to realize she was alone in the room save for Erin and Brena, who stood wide-eyed and pale by the serving board. Fiona's first inclination was to make a dash for the front door before the guard and matron came back, but that would put the maids in danger of dire consequences for letting her escape. Besides, her club and coins were upstairs in her chamber.

Fiona looked toward the dining room door. The hall that led to the library was in the opposite direction than Kier had taken on his way to the front parlor. She pushed her chair back and rose. Erin and Brena both looked worried at her action, but they said nothing. Fiona smiled. “I am just going to the library to look for a book. Ye can keep a watchful eye on the hall to make sure I doona run away.”

They nodded, looking relieved. As she made her way to the library, Fiona realized asking the girls to help her escape would be too risky for them. She'd have to count on her own wits.

A low-banked fire in the hearth cast a welcoming glow as Fiona stepped inside the library. Velvet drapes were partially drawn across the windows to keep the afternoon sun from shining directly on the covers of the leather-bound books lining the shelves. The smell of the leather and furniture polish, along with the faint scent of peat from the fire reminded Fiona of Shane's library in Edinburgh and she felt a pang of longing to return to her family.

She shook her head quickly to dispel the thought. Feeling sorry for herself would do no good. She scanned the library quickly and then moved to take a decent-sized candle off its stand on a corner table. Fiona slipped it into the pocket of her gown, thankful the material was loose enough not to make her theft obvious. At least now she would be able to explore the hidden passageway to see where it would lead.

Glancing around the room again for another candle, her gaze stopped on the maps spread across a table near the desk. She moved closer and bent down for a better look. Erin had said they were from Cobh, near Cork. If she could escape, perhaps she could go there. Fiona quickly spotted it on the map, noting that it was on the water, which meant it would have a port where she could seek passage home. Fiona eyed the distance from Dublin, calculating it would be a good two or three day carriage ride to get there. She had coin, but she didn't know where a public carriage house would be. Turning her attention to the Dublin map, she searched for the convent street. If she could find her way to Erin and Brena's aunt—