Sister of Rogues
by Cynthia Breeding
Copyright © 2017 by Cynthia Breeding. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
“Are ye sure this neckline is nae too low, Mari?” Fiona MacLeod asked as she sat in front of the dressing table and viewed herself in the mirror.
“Not a bit,” her sister-in-law answered and tugged one of Fiona’s inky curls down a little more to touch her bared shoulder. “You will make those ninnyhammers at the ball simply green with envy.”
“Then I guess ’tis a good thing my gown is blue,” Fiona replied with a smile. “I feel so nervous though.”
“Totally understandable,” Mari assured her as she fussed with another curl. “The first ball of the Little Season is always exciting. Just remember, you already passed scrutiny at Lady Jersey’s soiree and Lady Sefton’s dinner—not to mention impressing Lord Sefton’s nephew.”
Fiona felt her cheeks warm. “Brice—I mean, Mr. Molyneux—I keep forgetting London society doesnae use first names—was rather attentive.”
Mari giggled. “If that is the word you want to use. He could hardly take his eyes off you long enough to put some food on his fork.”
“Ye exaggerate.”
“Not by much. Several girls were looking daggers at you across the table because he paid no attention to them.”
“But most of them have quines!”
“Beaus,” Mari corrected and then shrugged. “Debutantes like to collect them so they can make the best choice for a husband based on wealth and title.”
“’Tis nae the way it should be. Do they nae want love?”
“Perhaps, but most of the ton do not marry for love.”
“Ye did.”
“Yes.” Mari paused, hairbrush in hand. “Did you know that I thought your brother was the most aggravating man I had ever met?”
Fiona laughed. “Jamie can be that and some.”
“Thank goodness, he is also stubborn or he might not have stayed around long enough for me to come to my senses.”
“Ye are good for each other,” Fiona said and then furrowed her brows. “Jamie thinks Brice is a rake.”
Mari looked heavenward. “Jamie thinks all Englishmen are rakes and dandies.”
“That he does.” Fiona eased the frown. “He can be overly protective.” Not that it was always a bad thing…she knew she could count on him.
“You do not have to tell me,” Mari replied. “When he found out what we did to retrieve your cousin Shane’s letters from the Customs House, Jamie threatened to lock me in our bedchambers.” She dimpled. “I told him only if he stayed in there as well.”
Fiona held up her hand. “Doona tell me!”
Mari giggled. “I was not going to.” She put down the brush. “Come along. We do not want to be late making a grand entrance to your first ball.”
…
Fiona had second thoughts about arriving fashionably late when she saw the throng of people milling about the grand ballroom of Lord Castlereagh’s Mayfair residence. All summer, while she had been at her brother Ian’s country estate of Cantford, she had looked forward to this moment—the beginning of a real London Season. Now that she was here, excitement and anticipation turned to uncertainty. She had tried practicing an English accent while at Cantford to no avail. Scots—her brothers notwithstanding—were not exactly welcome assets to ton society.
The uncertainty rose to alarm when the butler announced her and an instant hush fell on the crowd. Heads turned to stare, the women’s faces either curious or hostile, the men with more appraising gazes.
Beside her, Jamie growled.
Mari raised an eyebrow at her husband and laid an encouraging hand on Fiona’s arm. “Just smile.”
Fiona took a deep breath and did as Mari asked, keeping her eyes on a distant potted palm that didn’t seem too menacing. Slowly, the chatter began again, rising from a low murmur to the near uproar she’d heard upon entry.
Several young men broke away from the masses and rushed toward her, affecting another low growl from her brother. “Why are they coming—?”
“Your dance card,” Mari replied, picking up the small placard that dangled from a blue satin ribbon on Fiona’s wrist. “They want to request a dance.”
“Only one apiece,” Jamie added as the young men approached. “I’ll nae be having some dandy put claims on ye.”
“Shhh,” Mari said and gave Jamie a playful pat. “Let me handle this.”
Thankful that Mari had experience with such matters, Fiona acquiesced, smiling and nodding as names were scribbled on her card and the young men took their leave.
“How am I ever going to ken which one to dance with and who is who?”
Mari smiled. “Do not worry. They will find you, and I dare say, they will also talk non-stop about themselves, so you will have no doubt who each of them is.”
“I hope I am not too late.” Brice Molyneux appeared beside her. “Pray tell me you have saved a dance.”
Stricken, Fiona put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I—”
“She did save you a dance, Mr. Molyneux,” Mari said with a practiced smile and held up Fiona’s arm. “I believe the last dance is yours.”
Fiona widened her eyes as she looked down at the card. Sure enough, the last line was blank. She glanced at Mari who winked back.
“Très bien,” Brice said as he wrote his name and then bowed to brush a kiss across Fiona’s gloved knuckles. “Time will linger long until then.”
Jamie began to growl again, only to have Mari tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. “Perhaps we should get some punch?”
“Yes, let’s do,” Fiona said, her voice a bit shaky as she watched Brice’s retreating back. He certainly did look dashing in the black frockcoat that set off his blond hair.
Jamie shot her a sharp glance. “Doona be getting daft in the head about that one.”
Fiona gave him an annoyed look. “I like him.”
“I doona.”
“Why not?”
Jamie shook his head. “’Tis just a feeling I have. Ye ken nothing about him.”
“Ye ken nothing either.” Fiona turned to Mari. “Is Mr. Molyneux nae the nephew of an earl?”
“Yes, the Earl of Sefton.”
“Lord Dashalong,” Jamie added derisively.
“What kind of a name is that?” Fiona asked, her interest piqued in spite of the fact that Jamie was really acting the overly-protective brother.
“’Tis what he’s called since he drives his team like a madman, nae caring how reckless he is. Ye ken how I feel about nae caring for yer horses.”
Fiona knew. “I agree with ye on that, but how can ye lay the blame on the nephew? ’Tis nae his fault.”
“Mayhap. Just have a care, lass.”
“I will, but remember I can take care of myself.”
Jamie burst out laughing.
Fiona set her mouth. “Well, I can.”
“Here comes your first partner,” Mari said as the band began to play. She tugged on Jamie’s arm. “And I would really like some punch.”
He glowered at the young man who stopped a good arm’s length away and Mari tugged again, this time succeeding in getting Jamie to move toward the punch bowl. Fiona stared after him. Mari had the right of it. Fiona loved her brother, but he could be both annoying and stubborn. How in the world was she ever going to have a good time if he frightened off every potential beau? She glanced at the young man who stood waiting, an anxious expression on his face. She forced a smile and held out her hand. With one more glance in Jamie’s direction, the young man took it and led her to the dance floor.
Once Fiona’s feet started moving, she forgot about Jamie. The reels she knew, but she finally had a chance to test her skills in the quadrille and cotillion she had been practicing all summer. A little breathless, she moved from one partner to the other, flushed with the pleasure of dancing until suddenly it was time for the last dance of the evening. Looking around the room, she couldn’t find Brice. Had he forgotten? Or left with someone?
“I am right behind you,” he whispered in her ear as he placed one hand on her waist to turn her. “You did not think I would leave, did you?”
Fiona felt herself blush. Had she been that obvious? “I…no, I guess not.”
“Faire ne souci pas. I have been looking forward to this dance all night, mademoiselle.”
“You speak French? I thought you were English,”
He smiled easily. “I am, but I have been travelling in France the past year.”
“How exciting. I would love to hear of your adventures.”
“Certainement.” Brice took one of her hands in his and placed the other on his shoulder. “Have you danced a waltz before?”
“Nae. I mean, no.”
He smiled again and put his arm around her waist to draw her closer. “Relax. Just follow me.”
The intimacy of his embrace made Fiona tingle all over. She’d heard of the waltz but had no idea being held so close could have such an effect. Lord, if Jamie saw… In near panic, she scoured the room. The last thing she needed was for her brother to come thundering across the floor to land Brice on his arse. To her relief, Jamie was dancing with Mari. Fiona blinked. Jamie was dancing?
“Would you like to take the air with me?” Brice asked when the waltz ended. “We could step out to the veranda.”
With a quick glance to make sure Jamie was still preoccupied, Fiona nodded. “I would love to.”
“Unfortunately, it seems many others feel the same way,” Brice said as they moved to the crowded porch. “Perhaps you would care to walk? The garden paths are well lit.”
Fiona looked out on the grounds. A few couples were already strolling, so it should be fine. “Yes.”
Brice tucked her hand inside his elbow and guided her down the steps. “Oh, look,” Fiona said and pointed to an ornamental building to her right. “A folly.”
“Everyone will be heading to the gazebo.” Brice gestured to the left. “Let us go that way instead.”
The path wound around several trellises covered in ivy, the dense foliage dulling the light. “Perhaps we should turn back,” Fiona said as the pathway narrowed toward the edge of the property.
“In a minute,” Brice said and stepped off the stone walk, pulling her with him. “I thought I might steal a kiss first.”
Fiona inhaled sharply. Did she want Brice to kiss her? Mari had warned her such behavior was considered scandalous. But then…no one was going to see. It would just be one kiss—and she’d not had a real kiss before.
Something rustled in the bushes. “What was that?”
“Probably another couple who got here before us,” Brice said, stepping closer. “Close your eyes, chérie.”
As Fiona did, she heard a solid thud and felt Brice toppling over. Before she could bend to help him, a burly arm was wrapped around her throat and a foul-smelling cloth pressed against her nose, cutting off her air.
…
“Did your ruffians have to hit me so hard?” Brice asked as he touched his swollen jaw gingerly an hour later when he met with Wesley Alton in a seedy flat far from Mayfair. “I got the girl outside like you asked.”
“The strike needed to seem authentic in case there were witnesses to see you both dragged away,” Wesley replied as he handed Brice a cognac. “The last thing you want is for one of those damn MacLeods to suspect you.”
“Why would they suspect me? I have the proper credentials of gentry.”
“Credentials that also got you into Faro games you could not afford,” Wesley answered, “which is why I hold your vowels.”
Brice looked around the shabby tenement with a cryptic eye. “I am going to get paid, am I not?”
For a moment, Wesley was tempted to throw the arrogant bastard out. He’d spent the better part of a year in the slums of the East End, assuming the alias Walter Avery, wearing disguises, and keeping well-hidden from the authorities who wanted him in connection with his lover’s death—not to mention his escape from Bedlam. Did this young pup think himself superior?
“You will get paid,” Wesley snapped. “Despite these sordid trappings, my son Nicholas sent me more than enough money to take care of this…situation.”
“If I had not met Nicholas in France last year, I doubt you could have convinced me to help you with this…situation.”
“If Nicholas had not picked up your debt, you would probably be dead.” Wesley watched as the young man turned an unbecoming shade of red. It had truly been a stroke of luck that his son was an excellent gambler. “Did you follow the rest of my orders?”
Brice nodded. “The girl is trussed up in the carriage outside.”
“Still unconscious?”
“I would assume so. One of your blackguards had the ether handy.”
“Good. I do not want the little MacLeod bitch coming to her senses until she’s safely locked up and can’t escape.” He’d been plotting this abduction all summer, ever since he’d learned the girl was in town. Nothing had better go wrong now.
“Why do you hate the MacLeods so much?”
Wesley ground his teeth. “Let us just say Ian MacLeod was responsible for my losing my title and the woman who was rightfully supposed to be my wife.”
“Did he not marry Mari MacLeod’s sister, the Marchioness of Newburn? I remember my aunt writing to me about a huge scandal…something about the marchioness nearly being raped by the lover of the Countess of Sherrington, who died unexpectedly at Newburn. It was quite the talk of town. The countess’s lover was a suspected madman…” Brice paused and a look of alarm crossed his face. “You. You were the one…”
Wesley narrowed his eyes. “I am sorry you made that connection. I had fully intended to pay you in cash, but this may be just as well.” He took a step closer, slipped the knife down from inside his sleeve and thrust it deep into Brice Molyneux’s gut. The man gasped, clutched his abdomen and sank to the floor.
Wesley stepped aside, avoiding the spattered blood and picked up his valise. The ship on which he’d booked passage would be sailing with the tide before dawn. He smiled. By mid-afternoon, his poor delusional, demented daughter, Fiona, would be safely admitted to the lunatic asylum in Dublin. He’d made the contacts there when he’d learned she was in London. Soon, he would have his just revenge on the MacLeod bastards. If they ever found their sister, she would be a broken person with a fractured soul.
Wesley adjusted his cravat and smoothed his waistcoat. It felt good to be wearing proper clothes again. He might have to keep his alias of Walter Avery in Dublin—where he would visit his daughter to make sure she stayed an inmate—but at least he could walk among proper society again and assume his rightful place.
Wesley glanced down at the bloodied heap on the floor and smiled benignly. “You do understand, sir, why I killed you? I am sure you will agree it is always better to leave no witnesses.” Then he closed the door and descended the steps to where the carriage waited.
…
Fiona woke feeling groggy, her stomach roiling as she fought off a wave of nausea. Her head ached and she had trouble focusing as objects swam in and out of her vision and the room moved around her. It took her a moment to recognize the familiar pitching of a ship and another to realize she was in the dimly lit interior of a cabin. But why? And how had she gotten here? She tried to sit up in her bunk only to discover her arms were bound to the rails of the bed. Panic washed over her. What had happened?
She heard muffled voices outside the door. One sounded American and authoritative, the other French, albeit with a hint of a British accent.
“Your daughter should eat something,” the American voice said.
“She has bouts of seasickness,” the other answered, “but perhaps some tea would be good.”
“I’ll have some sent down.”
“No need. I will go and get it myself.”
The voices faded away along with the footsteps and Fiona stared at the low ceiling. Her woozy mind stuck on the conversation. Whose daughter was seasick? The best thing for that was fresh air and a solid horizon to look upon. Someone had told her that or maybe she had experienced it…she really couldn’t remember. But why was she on a ship in the first place?
The door opened and a middle-aged man with a wiry build and brown hair entered. He set a tin mug of tea on the small table bolted to the wall and undid the leather straps binding her to the bed. Fiona struggled to sit, nearly overcome by dizziness. “Who are you?”
“Ma enfant. You do not remember me?” he asked.
Fiona started to shake her head, but that made everything around her swirl and her stomach roiled again. “Should I?”
“Such a pity what happened,” he replied and handed her the cup. “Here, drink the tea. You will feel better. We can talk later.”
Fiona took a sip and wrinkled her nose at the tangy bittersweet flavor. “This tastes awful.”
The man shrugged. “Americans do not know how to make tea properly. Nevertheless, drink it.”
Fiona took another sip. Surprisingly, her head seemed to ache less. She took several more swallows and then set the mug down and rubbed her wrists. “Why was I tied to the bed?”
“For your own safety. I was afraid you might hurt yourself, given your state of mind when I found you.”
“Found me? Where was I?” Fiona tried to think, but her mind was not cooperating. Her vision started getting fuzzy around the edges too. “I cannae remember…I think…I was in a garden…”
“Completely understandable,” he answered, “considering you tried to kill yourself last night.”
Fiona blinked at him, not sure she’d heard correctly. “I tried…what?”
“Do not worry about it. You were found in time.” The man stood and moved to the door. “I am taking you somewhere very safe.”
Fiona tried to keep him in focus. “Who are you?”
“My name is Walter Avery.” He smiled and opened the door. “I am your father.”
Her father? Her father had died in a carriage accident years ago. What was going on? Fiona tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t support her and she fell back on the bunk. Where was she going? Someone had tried to kill herself…no, that wasn’t right…what had the man said? She tried to think, but her mind was drifting and her eyelids were too heavy to stay open. Maybe she was having a bad dream, and when she woke, everything would be all right.
…
Definitely, everything was not all right. Fiona stumbled alongside Walter Avery, the brightness of the day hurting her eyes as they approached imposing stone walls and an equally intimidating steel-barred gate beyond which stood a massive grey building. She vaguely recalled the American captain’s concerned voice as she shuffled off the gangplank and was put in a carriage with its curtains drawn, but she didn’t remember what he had said.
Fiona wished she could think more clearly, but her brain was just not functioning. A guard swung open the gate and another escorted them into the building. Inside, the entryway looked as forbidding and dour as the outside. Starkly furnished with a scarred wooden bench and plain walls, she wondered what kind of a place this was. A long, dimly lit corridor led into an even darker interior.
A guard opened a door to an office furnished almost as bleakly and gestured them inside. “The warden will be with ye shortly.”
Warden? Was this a prison?
And then Fiona began to hear the sounds.
They were muted sounds, as though wolves howled in the distance, followed by higher-pitched keening and something vaguely akin to a shrieking wind blowing through the Highland mountain passes in winter. Then, quite clearly, as though a door had opened, came the sounds of cursing and screaming. Footsteps approached in the hall and soon a burly man appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Avery, I assume?” he asked. “I am Mr. Kelly, the warden.” He looked over to Fiona, appraising her much as one might a horse for sale. “This is your daughter?”
Fiona wrinkled her forehead and looked around.
“Yes,” Wesley answered. “As you can see, she is quite confused.”
Mr. Kelly sat down at his desk, reached for a packet and shuffled the papers until he found the one he wanted. “You sent me some background information. Let’s just review it to be sure I have all the facts.”
“Certainly.”
“Your primary residence is Carlisle?”
“Yes, although I spend most of my time in France on business…which is why I cannot take care of my daughter.”
Mr. Kelly glanced over at Fiona and then back to Wesley. “She has been living on her own while you are gone?”
“Well, there have been servants, of course, but yes.” Wesley looked contrite. “If I had been home, Fiona would never have been allowed to marry that renegade.”
Fiona’s ears perked. “What renegade? I am nae married.”
One of Mr. Kelly’s eyebrows rose. “You do not remember marrying…” he glanced at the paper, “…a Brice MacLeod?”
“Nae. My maiden name is MacLeod.”
As Mr. Kelly looked over to Wesley, he shrugged. “She is confused. Her husband—such as he was—got into a fight a few days after they wed and died. My poor daughter has not been able to come to terms with that.”
Fiona turned to stare at him. “What are ye talking about?”
Wesley ignored her question. “Sometimes, she thinks her brothers-by-marriage are her actual brothers. Other times, Fiona thinks Brice is still alive.”
“Ye are lying!” Was the man mad? None of what he was saying made sense. Fiona turned to Mr. Kelly. “’Tis a pack of lies. I doona even know who this man is.”
“You do not know who your father is?”
“Of course I ken who my father is. He was killed in a carriage accident a long time ago.”
“She is talking about her husband’s father,” Wesley said. “It is just one of the symptoms of how she slips out of reality.” He gestured to the ball gown Fiona was still wearing. “That was her wedding dress. She keeps wanting to wear it.”
“My wedding…” Fiona’s mind began to clear as her memory returned and she remembered what had taken place. “’Tis a ball gown. I was in London attending a party. I had agreed to take the air with Brice—”
“So you do remember your husband?” the warden asked.
“Nae.” What was wrong with the man? She’d already told him she wasn’t married. And why was the other man—Walter Avery—claiming to be her father? Her gaze focused on a plaque on the desk she hadn’t noticed before. Dublin Lunatic Asylum. She felt her eyes widen in shock. “Why am I here?”
“Your father thinks you need confinement, and I agree.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. “He is nae my father!”
Mr. Kelly turned to Wesley. “I think I have seen enough evidence to make a case for committing her to the asylum. Cases of insanity due to extreme shock or loss are not uncommon. We do a series of purges and emetics as part of our treatment and bleeding as well, to balance the humours. Sometimes, we are successful within just a few months.”
“I have the means to keep her in your care for as long as necessary,” Wesley said and gave him a steady look. “I will spare no expense to make sure she gets the right treatment.”
The warden held the look and then smiled. “I think we can be agreed upon that. Your daughter will not be released until she is completely well.”
…
Kier O’Reilly watched as the heavyset matron from the asylum next door half-dragged, half-wrestled what appeared to be a furious she-cat of a female into the foyer of his house. This one looked as unkempt as the other three women housed here. Her dress—what appeared to have been a pale blue, satin ball gown—was torn, wrinkled and stained. An unruly mass of raven hair as dark as his cascaded over her face, obliterating her features, although the feral snarl coming from her throat left no doubt that her face would be filled with rage. It wasn’t surprising, considering the circumstances under which his guests usually arrived.
Kier sighed. He was twenty-six years old and held the title of earl, but he had been reduced to housing inmates from the asylum because the damn English had taken away his grandfather’s wealth during the Ascendancy, not to mention much more recently that the cleverly diabolical Lady Jane Claire Litton had taken his savings.
Nor was Kier thrilled to have an armed guard at his front door and an Amazon of a matron in charge of the women, but putting up with them gave him the income he needed. He’d ride into the gates of hell himself before he’d allow a British lord to claim his ancestral home—one that dated back to Strong Bow himself.
“Let her go.”
The asylum matron looked at him as though he were the one who had lost his wits. “She’ll be wreckin’ havoc, that she will.”
“Let her go,” he said again, “and remove the manacles.”
“Ye are daft for certain,” the matron replied as she shook her head, “just don’t be placin’ the blame on me for yer belongings bein’ destroyed.”
“I will acquit you of that responsibility.”
She shook her head again, inserted the key to remove the hand shackles and stepped back quickly.
The woman snarled again and tossed her head back.
Kier started. The woman—a very young woman—was beautiful. The wild mane of black hair contrasted with the ivory porcelain of her face. Her features were delicate—high cheekbones, a small, straight nose, full, rosy lips—but it was her eyes that held him nearly spellbound. Pearl grey, almost silver now as they sparked with anger, and slanting slightly upwards at the corners, they gave her an ethereal appearance. Kier had the oddest sensation she could be part fae.
Except he didn’t believe in the wee folk. The Sidhe were no more real than leprechauns. If those creatures existed, he’d have his pot of gold and not be playing host to asylum inmates.
“What is your name?”
She tossed her head again and jutted her chin, sparks still lingering in her eyes. “Fiona MacLeod.”
Even her voice was musical, pitched low and a bit breathless due to her recent exertion. For a fleeting second, Kier wondered how breathless she’d sound in the throes of lovemaking. Then he inhaled sharply. He had no business letting his mind wander in that direction.
“Mrs. MacLeod. I would welcome you to my home.”
“Welcome?” She looked around. “I am your prisoner, nae?”
Kier winced. He didn’t like that term any more than he did inmate, although, in truth, they were pretty much the same thing. “If you follow the rules, you will be allowed freedom to move about, Mrs. MacLeod.”
“’Tis nae Mrs. I am nae married.”
Kier frowned. “I was given to understand you were a recent widow, grieving in a most desolate way.”
“’Tis lies.”
The matron rolled her eyes and handed Kier a fat envelope. “Her papers. Mr. Kelly said she’s as bad a confused case as he’s seen.”
“Ah,” Kier said as he took the envelope. “Well, we will go over this later when Mrs. MacLeod has had some time to get adjusted.”
“Adjusted to what?” Fiona demanded. “I want to go home.”
“Hopefully, in time you will—”
“Just be countin’ yer blessin’s the asylum’s women’s room is full,” the matron interrupted. “The lunatics stayin’ here are not as crazen as some.”
“I am nae a lunatic.” Fiona turned her pleading gaze to Kier. “I was abducted from a ball I was attending. I awoke on a ship. Some man I doona ken says he is my father and tells a tale that I married and became a widow. “’Tis lies.”
Behind her, the matron tapped her forehead. “Confused,” she whispered.
Kier looked into Fiona’s beguiling eyes and felt himself getting lost again as though he were wandering in swirling grey mists. By St. Patrick himself. What kind of a spell did the lady weave? Kier knew from experience that the inmates often created alternative worlds for themselves, filled with whatever their fancies conjured. If Mrs. MacLeod’s grief were so great she could not admit that her husband had existed, Kier would have to tread carefully so her condition did not become worse than it already was.
Fiona MacLeod was as bewitching as the faeries he did not believe in—and the last thing he needed was to be attracted to a woman assigned to his care.
