Sister of Rogues (30 page)

His mother had loved his father, so much so that she had withdrawn from the world and eventually taken her own life, but Kier had never seen his parents show much passion toward each other. His father had set the rules and his mother had followed them without question.

Was that love?

Was that what Fiona wanted?

He had trouble picturing fiery, stubborn Fiona as docile and compliant. She had defended Lona and Dulcee on several occasions, even knowing she risked Ada's wrath and subtle punishments. When the real threat of being moved to the asylum had risen, Fiona had taken matters into her owns hands, something Kier's mother would never have done. Fiona had cleverly plotted her escape and she had been brave too, venturing out into a strange city alone.

Even now, Kier shuddered to think what might have happened to Fiona on the streets by herself. Having met her brothers, he no longer doubted she'd exaggerated when she said she knew how to use weapons. Still, she was a woman, and that, fair or not, put her at risk. And it was his responsibility to protect her.

Not because it was his
duty
as Fiona had interpreted it. She was his responsibility because he
wanted
her to be. He
wanted
to take care of her. He
wanted
to protect her.

“That is love.”

The words were so softly spoken, Kier thought he heard them only in his head. Then he caught the faint scent of roses. His mother's favorite.

He stared as a white haze drifted slowly toward him from the dim recesses of a corner of the room. The cloud-like substance floated above the other chair, shifting and fluctuating, shaping itself into a misty, shrouded form of a woman before settling in the chair.

He gripped the arms of his own chair. By St. Patrick, what was happening to him? First faeries and now…this? Lona's ghost? Or…

The apparition slid back the hood of her cloak and Kier gasped.

“Mother?”

“Only a spectre of her, but, yes.”

Kier's mind reeled, and he wondered if he had slipped into a completely delusional state since last night. He believed neither in faeries nor ghosts, and yet… He caught the scent of his mother's perfume again.

He blinked, trying to bring her into better focus in the dim room. Although the fetch was almost transparent, her long, black hair was lightly streaked with grey as he remembered. Her face was unlined though. Smoother and younger looking as though the cares of the world had vanished from her.

“I…I do not know what is happening.”

His mother's spirit smiled again. “You always were one who wanted proof of everything. Logic always ruled emotion. You must trust your heart.”

“Trust my heart?” Kier widened his eyes. “Do you mean about Fiona?”

“She will make you happy.” His mother smiled. “Do not blame yourself for what I did. I am with your father now.” The wispy image began to fade, lifting tendrils of fog toward the ceiling. “Trust in Fiona.”

And then he was alone again. Kier sat unmoving long after the last scent of roses faded. Whatever was happening to him—or however it was happening—the message could not have been more clear. After Lady Jane Clare's betrayal, what little credence he'd given to opening the door to his own emotions had been shut. Now it was time to open that door.

He loved Fiona. Why had he doubted it?

Kier stood, suddenly eager to get to his room and pack a satchel. He'd catch the next boat—even if it were a fishing vessel—to anywhere on England's coast. He'd make his way to London and tell Fiona he loved her. Really loved her like she wanted him to.

Fifteen minutes later, he rushed down the main stairs, hardly taking notice of two strangers standing with Seamus and Ada in the foyer. They were probably inspectors from the asylum, and Ada could handle that.

“I am leaving for England,” Kier said to Ada. “I trust that—”

“I am afraid your trip will have to wait, my lord,” one of the strangers said.

Kier stopped halfway to the door and turned. “Why?”

The other man held out a document. “We are placing you under arrest for plotting treason against King George, the prince regent, and the Royal Realm of England.”

Chapter Thirty

A light dusting of snow had fallen overnight, turning many of London's streets into muddy slush that splattered from carriage wheels onto the unfortunate who happened to be walking. Drizzle had begun early this afternoon, making things even worse. Fiona peered out the window of the landau as it made its way the short distance to Abigail's father's home.

“I cannae imagine why Abigail wanted us to come over in this weather.”

Mari shrugged. “Her servant said she had someone she wanted you to meet.”

Fiona managed to refrain from groaning. She hoped it wasn't another Almack's matron trying to cajole her into attending the last few social events before Christmas. Since so many of the
ton
had already left town, attendance was sparse. Mari had told her the matrons liked to meet the young women who would make up the Spring Season to decide who would get the coveted invitations to Almack's Wednesday night balls. Yet, it hardly seemed that Abigail, who cared little for Society, would push such a thing.

Even worse would be if the person in question were another suitor. Since Fiona had returned, word had spread like flame to dry tinder of her abduction. She suspected many of the men were more curious about what a woman put in a lunatic asylum would act like than they were actually interested in courting her.

Not that she was interested in encouraging courtship. She loved Kier and she couldn't change that. Nor would she consider marrying anyone for status or convenience. Thankfully, the time when the clans needed to arrange such marriages was long past. Fiona no longer wanted to be part of the
ton
either.

“Actually, it will do you good to get your head out of those papers you have been reading,” Mari said. “I swear, you are getting as bad as Abigail.”

“I find the research interesting.”

Mari rolled her eyes. “How in the world can anything with titles like
Report from the Committee on Madhouses
or
Description of the Retreat for Insane
possibly be interesting? None of it pertains to you, Fiona. You never were mad.”

“That is the point, Mari. I doona think a lot of the inmates housed at the asylums are mad either, yet they are treated worse than animals or slaves. The same thing goes for prisons. Ye remember what Shane said about that. Something has to change.”

“But what can you do? Women are not allowed to be members of Parliament and that is where laws are passed.” Mari paused. “Of course, if you married someone with a title, he could stand up for your cause.”

“Nae. How can ye even suggest that?”

Mari sighed. “I understand how you feel about Kier, but he has not come for you nor has he written and it has been—”

“Three weeks. Ye doona have to say it.”

“I am sorry, Fiona. No one expects you to marry for convenience. It is just that I think you should at least give another man a chance.”

“I cannae go against my heart, Mari. Ye wouldna.”

Mari sighed again and patted Fiona's hand as the carriage pulled up in front of Abigail's. “You are quite right.”

“We willna speak of it again.” Fiona lifted her head determinedly as she stepped out of the carriage and walked toward the front door. She did not dare tell Mari about the dream—or vision or whatever it was—she'd had a week ago. As long as the faeries gave her the gift of visiting Kier, she could not let him go.

“Welcome,” Abigail said as she met them in the foyer. “I cannot wait for you to meet my guest. Come with me.”

The woman who sat on the sofa in the parlor certainly didn't look like a member of the
ton
. She looked to be in her middle years, dressed simply and wore a Quaker cap instead of a fashionable hat. Her face was kindly, her smile lighting her eyes as well.

“I would like you to meet Elizabeth Fry,” Abigail said. After the women had all murmured their salutations, she smiled and added. “Betsy is known as the angel of prisons. I think she has some information you might like to know, Fiona.”

“Angel of prisons?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Abigail tells me you are interested in improving conditions in the asylums for the insane?”

Fiona sat down beside her. “Yes. Very much.”

“Perhaps I can help then. My mission is prison reform, which is not so very different. This past year, I founded a prison school for the children who are housed there. I am now in the process of trying to create an association for reformation of female prisoners as well. Perhaps you would like to help?”

“I would.” Fiona felt herself smile genuinely for the first time in weeks. “Just tell me what I must do.”

“In time, Fiona,” Abigail said and handed her a cup of tea and poured another for Elizabeth. “For today, why do you not just get to know one another?”

“Aye. 'Tis a good idea,” Fiona replied, although she felt like she'd known the woman forever already.

Finally she had something worthwhile to do.

Perhaps a title, although stripped of its wealth, still had some use. As the Earl of Adair, he'd been taken to the Richmond General Penitentiary instead of the old gaol. Kier supposed he should be grateful for that since this institution, foreboding as it was with its narrow straight front and huge clock tower that sounded like cannons being fired, concentrated more on reform than punishment. He'd been put to labor but not beaten. He'd also learned the prisoners were given meat on Sundays instead of cheese to go with the bread and potatoes. Not an ideal diet, but better than what was offered at the asylum.

Being housed at Richmond also meant he had a good chance at not being shipped to Australia either.

“Have they read the charges to ye yet?” Finley whispered as he sat in the small visiting booth and peered through the bars at Kier.

“Nothing in writing.” Kier kept his voice low as well since the surly looking guard stood not far away. “I have been accused of arranging meetings.”

“'Tis not illegal to meet,” Finley said.

“Supposedly, the men who gathered had
suspicious
motives.”

Finley frowned. “Do ye think the O'Briens or the Kildares have been sounding off? They're the ones willing to risk blood.”

“Doubtful,” Kier replied. “Letting anyone know would defeat their purpose.”

“Who then?” Finley asked.

Glancing over to the guard who had narrowed his eyes at the low-toned conversation, Kier cleared his throat and spoke louder. “I am concerned about Gerard Fontaine…missing a payment from me for the shipment from France. Would you check into that for me?”

Kier hoped Finley would understand his intent. Fontaine and his partner, Algeron, were people Kier didn't trust completely. Although they
seemed
supportive, they weren't Irish, nor had they been in the country long.

Finley studied him and tilted his head slightly to indicate he understood. “I will be sure to check on the payment.” He glanced at the guard and then back to Kier. “French cognac was what ye were expecting, aye?”

In his peripheral vision, Kier noticed the guard's eyes had sharpened with interest. “Aye,” he said more loudly, “and if it be allowed, perhaps you could bring a bottle for the guard station as well.”

Finley smothered a grin. “Aye,” he said equally loud, “I think ye can spare a bottle or two.”

Although Kier didn't look in his direction, he noted the guard's expression had lightened considerably. He wished he'd thought of a bribe before.

“I'll be off to take care of the matter then,” Finn said, dipping his head slightly to let Kier know Fontaine would be investigated. Then Finley rose and looked at the guard. “Will ye be on duty on the morrow? I'll bring the brandy round if ye are.”

The burly man almost smiled but caught himself. “Aye, I come on duty mid-morning or so.”

“Then I will return,” Finley said and sauntered off.

Kier watched him go. Finn was good at ferreting out bits of information others overlooked. If Fontaine were behind this arrest, Finley would discover it.

But the real question was why would a Frenchman have an interest in getting Kier arrested in the first place?

The guard appeared nearly cordial the next afternoon when he approached Kier's cell to unlock the door. Strange what a free bottle of cognac could do.

“Ye have a visitor,” the guard said.

Finn most likely, Kier thought as he walked toward another secured area. He'd probably have to tell his friend to lessen the visits before he got arrested for conspiring and they would both sit in cells.

But Kier almost tripped over his own feet as he stepped through the doorway and recognized the figure in front of him. The Duke of Wellington stood waiting.

Arthur Wellesley picked his gloves off the table and turned toward Kier. “My apologies for not coming sooner,” he said and glanced at the guard. “Does Lord Adair have any personal belongings here?”

“Y…yes, Your Grace,” the guard stammered. “They will be waiting by the door.”

Kier looked at the duke. “I am free to leave?”

“You are. I've taken care of it,” he replied and moved ahead of Kier, indicating they would not talk right now.

That suited Kier just fine. Once they'd retrieved Kier's few possessions and were inside the ducal carriage and it rolled away from the prison, Kier could no longer contain his questions.

“I cannot begin to thank you, Your Grace, but why are you here? Were you looking for me? How did you know I was imprisoned?”

Wellington smiled. “I remembered you as a rather quiet young man when I came to speak to your mother.”

Kier blinked. The battle at Vitoria had been nearly three-and-a-half years ago. The duke must have made countless other visits letting women know they'd become widows. Yet he remembered? Kier inclined his head. “I was in shock at the news.”

“Understandable.” The duke looked out the carriage window briefly. “War is harsh. Would that we could prevent it.” Then he looked back at Kier. “You sent a letter several weeks ago inquiring if I knew a Walter Avery. The name was unknown to me, but you also mentioned the MacLeods of Carlisle and specifically a Brice MacLeod. Again, I was unfamiliar with any members of the clan being from Carlisle, and no one named Brice MacLeod, but the mention of Fiona made me remember a visit I had from her brother Jamie.”

Kier rubbed his jaw. “I have met Jamie as well.”

Wellington lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, well. Those MacLeods are fighting men from the Highlands, not Carlisle.”

“So that is why the letters were not answered.”

“I do not know about any letters,” Wellington continued, “but Jamie told me of his sister's disappearance. He was worried a man named Wesley Alton may—”

“Fiona said Walter Avery was Wesley Alton.”

The duke frowned. “Yes, I concluded that. Wesley Alton is a deranged man who has sought revenge ever since King George awarded the title to Cantford to Ian MacLeod. Alton tried to abduct both Ian's wife and Jamie's.”

Kier sat back against the leather seat. “So everything Fiona said was true.”

“I was just glad to hear she had been returned safely.”

“So she is doing well?”

“I do not know. I just learned she had been brought to London.”

Did Fiona miss him? Kier wished he knew. Then he drew his brows together as another thought came to him. He hoped the duke didn't think he had anything to do with keeping Fiona an inmate of the asylum. “Since Fiona is safe, why did you come?”

“Oddly enough, it had nothing to do with the MacLeods. Daniel O'Connell sent me a post asking to discuss obtaining Irish seats in Parliament. Since I have not visited my homeland in a while, I decided to come here. Daniel told me you would be the person to contact in Dublin.” Wellington smiled. “I did not expect to find you in gaol.”

“That is a long story.”

“Better saved for another time then,” the duke replied as the carriage stopped, “since it seems we have arrived at your castle.” He opened the door and stepped down, followed by Kier. “You have maintained the keep well.”

“It is the reason I agreed to house inmates from the asylum,” Kier answered. “I could not let my family's history disappear.”

“Quite admirable,” Wellington replied. “Perhaps—”

“Thank the saints and leprechauns ye are back!” Finley rushed down the steps toward them. “Ye were right! Gerard Fontaine was behind your arrest.”

Wellington stopped mid-step. “Gerard Fontaine? He is here? In Dublin?”

Finley shook his head. “He was. When I went to confront him, he was gone.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No. The landlord said he left nearly a week ago without a forwarding address.”

The duke cursed.

Kier frowned. “You know Gerard Fontaine?”

“Oh, yes.” Wellington grimaced. “Gerard Fontaine is Wesley Alton.”