Sister of Rogues (4 page)

Taking a minute to let his eyes adjust to the twilight filtering through narrow arrow slits now paned over, Kier walked across the empty space that once had been the lady's parlor but now only contained two chairs with faded brocade and a small table with a loose leg. He brushed his hand over the rough-hewn paneling underneath the stairwell, finding the lever that would open a small half-door beneath the steps. He bent to squeeze through the small opening and stood once inside. The room, simply furnished with a cot, desk and two chairs, was deceptively larger than it would appear from the parlor, but it had been intended to hide the lady of the house and her servants during the time when Norman knights fought Irish nobility. Most importantly, the alcove had a postern door well-hidden from the outside by a hedgerow.

That door swung open silently as Kier lit an oil torch and placed it in the sconce on the wall. Only one other person had a key—Finley O'Connell, who had recently returned from France with his cousin Daniel.

“You are right on time,” Kier said as Finley entered. He'd come by himself, as he usually did. The man's skill was stealth, but he also wore black, making it easier for him to slip in and out of places unseen.

Finley nodded, removing the black cap from his ginger-coloured hair. “Timing is everything.”

“Were you successful then?” Kier asked, indicating Finley should sit and then pouring two drams of whiskey from the decanter he kept on the desk.

“'Tis hard to say. King Louis granted us an audience, but he was not overly receptive to the idea of providing either arms or funds for Irish independence.”

Kier raised a brow. “Irish independence? You did not put it to him as a matter of Catholic Emancipation?”

Finley shrugged. “We thought it better to leave religious bias out of the request, considering the Vatican is vying for its papal states back from France.”

“Ah. Yes, perhaps that was wise. What are Daniel's next plans?”

“We will contact the Ribbonmen and start holding clandestine meetings to provide momentum for reestablishing the Irish Parliament.”

“An idea that King George thinks is pure lunacy.”

Finley grinned. “The king is one to talk, is he not?” He finished his whiskey and stood. “This is an opportune time for the Irish to organize. The prince regent cares more for social events—and the gluttony and debauchery that goes with them—than he does for politics. He cares little what happens outside the
ton
.”

“That is true,” Kier agreed. “Still, we must be careful, lest we be accused of treason.”

“It is a risk we must take if Irishmen are to have a voice again. I will be in touch,” Finley said and slipped out the door as silently as he had entered.

As Kier made his way back to the main portion of the house, he pondered on the vast discrepancies between the nobility and the working class. His own grandfather held the title of earl, which had been in their family since the sixteenth century, even though the title was near worthless now. Still, Kier had a sense of what it felt to belong to both the aristocracy and the common class. Worse, though, were the wretches who roamed the streets. Nobody—certain not royalty—cared one whit what happened to them. Many of them ended up in Houses of Industry, which were not much better than asylums.

Which brought his thoughts promptly around to his own predicament and to one very pretty lunatic he would be interviewing in the morning.

Chapter Three

Kier looked up from the papers strewn across his desk to the bedraggled spectacle of Fiona being pushed into his office the next morning and frowned. She was still wearing the begrimed, tattered dress from yesterday and her hair was a tangled mess. He had asked Ada to make sure hot water be taken to Fiona's room and that she be given clean clothes. Obviously, that had not been done. His frown deepened when the matron closed the door and planted herself firmly in front of it.

“I do not think it will be necessary for you to stay.”

“Warden's orders,” Ada answered and didn't move.

Kier fought an urge to demand the woman get out, but he curbed his tongue. He needed the income from the asylum not only to pay taxes, but also the punitive tithing required of Irishmen to the damn English. Besides, the warden was the one he needed to do battle with and soon. The other three women who were inmates in his home were not particularly dangerous in his estimation, and far too many restrictions were being placed on them. The fiery beauty whose fae eyes had haunted him last night seemed much calmer this morn.

“Did you sleep well then?”

Fiona stared at him as though he had suddenly grown two heads. Kier winced inwardly. The question sounded inane, even to his ears. “I realize the circumstances regarding your arrival have been somewhat difficult—”

“Somewhat?” she interrupted. “I doona even ken how I got here.”

He looked down at the papers. The warden had listed amnesia as one of the symptoms her father had described. For Kier, there were a number of things, including Lady Jane Claire Litton that he'd rather forget, but he realized how frightening it must be for Fiona if she truly could not remember.

“Perhaps your memory will return as time progresses.”

“'Tis nae wrong with my memory.”

Not recognizing her problem was another symptom the warden had written down. “Understandable,” Kier said, “since you are grieving for your husband—”

“I told ye yesterday, I am nae married.”

Kier looked at his notes. “Your father said—”

“My father is dead.”

Perhaps her memory loss was worse than Kier thought. “Your father was here yesterday. Do you not remember?”

Fiona's voice rose. “That man was nae my father.”

“I will take her back to her room and lock her in,” Ada said, moving forward. “Mr. Kelly says if a lunatic goes without food, her temper improves.”

“Mrs. MacLeod will not be denied food.”

Ada set her mouth. “Warden's orders.”

“I will not have a person starving in my home,” Kier thundered, nearly losing his own temper. “By St. Patrick, have you no compassion?”

The matron sniffed. “They are lunatics.”

“They are also human.” His gaze went to Fiona's face again and he quickly looked away before he got lost in her mesmerizing eyes. He should not feel such a strong attraction to her. For all her Scots accent—which the papers also noted she had practiced—she was still
English
. The Hanoverian kings were responsible for much of Ireland's troubles. Hadn't he already learned that lesson? No matter how beguiling Fiona might be, he would be wise to keep his distance, which was why he didn't understand the next words coming out of his own mouth.

“I want the other women and Mrs. MacLeod to join me for dinner.” Ada started to protest, but Kier cut her short. “After the lady has had a bath and been given some clean clothes.”

The matron pursed her mouth. “She cannot be trusted. What if she wreaks havoc?”

“I will take responsibility,” Kier answered and turned back to Fiona. “Dinner will be at seven o'clock. Please use the remainder of the day to rest and ease your mind.”

“Help me to go home.”

Her voice, as soft as a lingering harp's chord, was no less beseeching than her face. Damn it all. Was the woman part-fae after all?

Kier felt as though he were treading on very, very boggy ground.

Not only did Brena and Erin arrive with buckets of hot water a short time later, but the guard from the front door lugged a wooden hip-bath to Fiona's room as well.

“Put it over there, Seamus,” Ada said, pointing to a corner, “and then be gone.”

He grunted something unintelligible and slammed the door behind him. Ada positioned herself beside it, arms folded across her chest.

Fiona hesitated. She'd had maids assist her with bathing and dressing before, but somehow taking off her clothing—and she would have to take all of it off since even her chemise was filthy—in front of the matron was something she didn't want to do. Fiona already felt vulnerable. Allowing Ada to see her naked was like giving her opportunity to decide which areas would bruise least.

“Are ye just going to stand there?” the matron scoffed. “'Tis just like a lunatic not to know the water is gettin' cold.”

Fiona bit her lip to hold back her retort. Until she could figure out a way to fight back and win, she was only asking for more punishment. She turned to Erin, who looked a little less scared of her than Brena. “Would ye undo my laces please?”

As Erin stepped forward, a shriek rose from down the hall, followed by a loud, keening wail. “Hellfire and damnation!” Ada said, reaching for the door. “That fool thinks she's seen another ghost again.”

Once Ada left, Fiona wasted no time in slipping out of her tattered clothes and stepping into the bath. She sat on the small wood perch inside, the tepid water barely covered half of her but it felt heavenly. Erin gave her a bar of what smelled like lye soap, but Fiona wasn't going to complain about that either. Lord, she needed to feel clean.

She heard another shriek and then Ada shouting. Whatever was going on, it was keeping the matron busy. Fiona dunked her head, wishing she had real shampoo, but the soap would have to do. Quickly, she rinsed her hair and then stood. Brena handed her a towel, although she was quick to step back. Fiona thanked her and reached for the plain muslin gown lying on the bed. She slipped the dress over her head. It hung loose and shapeless since it had neither laces or buttons, but at least it was clean. As she finger combed her hair, she looked from one maid to the other. Both were watching her, but Fiona didn't detect as much fear in their eyes.

“Do ye have a ghost who lives here?”

Both maids' eyes widened and then Erin shrugged. “'Tis just Lona who sees them.”

“Lona?”

“One of the other lun—one of the other guests here.”

Fiona smiled at her. “Thank ye for nae calling me a lunatic.”

The maid blushed. “Mr. O'Reilly tells us to call ye guests.”

Fiona felt herself grow warm at the mention of his name. How horrible she must have looked—and smelled—this morning in his office. He had been immaculately clean, his ebony hair pulled back in a queue, his shirt pressed but scandalously open at the throat, revealing a soft dusting of black hair on his chest. The nails of his strong, tanned hands had been neatly trimmed as well.

“O'Reilly is an Irish name,” she said, “but Mr. O'Reilly sounds more English.”

“'Tis because he went to Trinity College,” Brena offered. “Where the fancy English boys were sent.”

“He hates the English though,” Erin added.

Thankful that the maids were answering her questions, Fiona was about to ask why when the door opened and Ada entered. Immediately, both maids' faces turned passive. Taking their cue, Fiona resumed finger combing her hair.

Two interesting facts had surfaced during her conversation. From the maids' demeanor, she sensed they didn't like the matron any better than she did.

And Kier O'Reilly was an educated man, which meant he might just listen to her if she could talk to him alone.

Fiona quickly realized she wouldn't have a chance to speak to Kier alone at dinner. Not only was Ada in attendance, the guard, Seamus, stood like a sentry at the entrance to the dining room lest any of them thought to escape. As if they could get far. Even if someone did manage to access the street, their strange garb would certainly label them as escapees from the asylum.

Since Ada commanded that they stand until Kier arrived, Fiona looked at the other three
guests
with interest. Each wore the same shapeless dress as hers, although the stocky one with silver streaks in her hair had buxom breasts to give the garment more shape. Her green eyes narrowed as she looked Fiona over speculatively. The woman next to her was tall and lanky with non-descript brown hair and eyes, although her gaze was decidedly more curious than hostile. Her height made the diminutive blonde beside her look even smaller.

Fiona blinked. The blonde was hardly more than a child, probably not even close to Fiona's eight-and-ten years. Her expression was blank, her blue eyes vacant, giving her the appearance of a fragile china doll. Why was she here?

Were any of them truly lunatics?

At that moment, Kier entered the room and thoughts of the other women retreated to the recesses of Fiona's mind. Once again, he was dressed totally in black—trousers, waist and frock coats, shirt and cravat. Fiona didn't think she'd ever seen a black cravat before, but with Kier's ebony hair loose and brushing his shoulders, he was devilishly handsome. The glint of sapphire in his dark eyes as he fixed his penetrating gaze on her nearly took her breath away.

Fiona forced air into her lungs. Kier O'Reilly was not a potential beau at a London ball—nor was tonight a soiree.

Kier moved to the head of the table. “Ladies, shall we be seated?” He pulled out the chair on his right. “Mrs. MacLeod, as the newest arrival, I would be honoured to have you sit here.”

Fiona nodded, ignoring the narrowed gaze of the silver-streaked lady who flounced to the seat on Kier's left. “Thank you,” Fiona said as Kier helped seat her, his manners impeccable. If it weren't for Ada and the guard—and her own lack of a suitable gown—Fiona could almost imagine this dinner taking place in a suitable London townhouse. A gilded chandelier hung overhead, the candles reflecting on real china dishes and crystal glasses—but the absence of knives among the silverware was a stark reminder of the dire situation.

“Allow me to introduce our new guest,” Kier said, causing Ada barely to stifle a snort in the background. Seeming to ignore it, he continued. “This is Mrs. Fiona MacLeod, who was recently widowed and needs some rest.”

With an effort, Fiona reined in a retort. Now was not the time to dispute his misinformation—nor did she want to expound on the real facts. In any case, Kier didn't wait for a response from her.

He gestured to the middle-aged lady on his left. “Kathleen Butler.”

She sniffed. “
Lady
Butler, if you please. My husband is a bloody lord.”

“Is he now?” the tall, lanky woman asked.

Kathleen glared at her. “Because the bloody bastard has a title is why I am in here, and you know it well.”

“Is that the truth?” the lanky woman asked.

“Lona, you know you should not upset Kathleen,” Kier intervened before Ada could take over. “And, Kathleen, we do not use titles here.”

Fiona looked at Lona with interest. This was the person who saw ghosts? Aware she was staring, Fiona looked away, but not quickly enough.

“I be Lona Monahan,” the woman said and grinned. “I do enjoy tweaking the
lady's
nose, I do.” Then she sobered and looked back at Kathleen. “The leprechauns make me do it, ye know.”

Before Fiona could digest that, Kier motioned toward the blonde girl. “And this is Dulcee Donnan. Can you say hello, Dulcee?”

At first, Fiona thought the girl hadn't heard since she made no response. Then she slowly turned her head, her pale blue eyes focusing on Fiona. “Ye are very pretty, like the angel who took my Calum away.”

Kathleen Butler laughed. “The whore who stole your husband was no angel.”

Fiona didn't know whether to be more shocked by the woman's vulgar language or by the fact that child-like Dulcee had a husband.

Kier frowned. “While we are at the table, we will watch our language.”

Kathleen huffed but snapped her mouth closed. Dulcee resumed the vacant look she'd had earlier.

Just then, Erin and Brena brought in the first course of soup, which pretty much ended the conversation. Fiona hid a smile as she noticed the dour look on Ada's face. The idea of
lunatics
being served a proper meal in a proper dining room didn't set well with her. Evidently, it was not the usual procedure either.

“Why are we eatin' in here?” Lona asked. “The last time we did was Yule, near a year ago.”

Kier paused, his spoon about ready to dip into the soup. “I read an article recently that suggests rewarding good behavior is better than punishing bad behavior. I thought I would try that approach.”

Behind him, Ada snorted.

“An excellent idea,” Fiona said, hoping this might provide an opportunity to actually talk to Kier and make him understand she was not a lunatic. “What can we do to earn such a reward?”

Kathleen laughed again. “Spreading your legs would be—”

“Enough!” Kier tossed his napkin down and nodded to Ada who was only too happy to step in and assist. “You are dismissed, Kathleen.”

Kathleen stood and lifted her chin. “I am
Lady
Butler. I was just about to leave since I will not tolerate a whore at my table.” Turning, she walked to the door as regally as she could with Ada gripping her arm.

Fiona stared into her soup, her face on fire. Never in her life had she been so grossly insulted. Worse, the way she had worded the question
had
sounded suggestive. What would Kier think of her? The last thing she needed was for him to think her a…a lightskirt, as Mari called them. Well, she couldn't just sit here cowering. Fiona raised her head. Lona looked amused and Dulcee's expression was puzzled, but it was Kier's steady gaze that made Fiona blush again, only this time her skin tingled as an errant thought swept through her mind. What would it be like to actually kiss him? Oh, Lord…where had that thought come from?