A Brother's Honor (31 page)

“We can play these games all day,” he answered with a sudden grin. “I have my price which ye must pay if ye want the message delivered, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“How do you know me?” she gasped.

He lowered himself awkwardly to a stool and pushed one toward her with his dirty crutch. As she sat, he leaned his elbow on the table and withdrew his knife to continue cutting his nails. “'Tis all about Town that Sir Harlan Morris found himself a lass to marry his witless son.”

“I did not guess you were current with the Polite World's
on dits.
”

“
On dits?
” He grinned. “Did St. Clair teach ye that Frenchie talk?”

Abigail stiffened. Red knew about her and Dominic, so he must know she was here on Dominic's behalf. She must pretend that his words had not unsettled her. “He finds the way the English use French very amusing.”

“Must say ye seem a bit smarter than I expected Sir Harlan's daughter-in-law to be.” Red eyed her with new respect. “Didn't think no smart gal like ye would be marrying that mad lout.”

“Sir—”

“Red be my name.”

“All right, Red. Here is what I can pay.” She pulled the emerald necklace from her bag and dropped it to the table.

He snatched the necklace before it hit the dirty surface. Raising it so the gems caught the light, he whistled lowly. “These stones be real.”

“Yes.”

“'Tis worth St. Clair's ransom.”

She chuckled. “Exactly. In exchange for that, can you deliver this?” She set the sealed letter on the table, but kept her fingers on it. “Can you deliver it unopened?”

“Aye, 'tis possible.” He scratched the stump of his leg. When he saw her flush at the intimate motion, his grin broadened. “Gal, do ye know what ye be letting yerself in fer with this game?”

“Aye,” she answered. He rumbled with laughter at her imitation of his thick accent.

He dropped the knife onto the table, ignoring its clatter and how she flinched, but tightened his grip around the necklace. “All right, gal. Who be the one to get this letter?”

“Unopened.”

“Unopened,” he agreed. “Who be the one?”

“Ogier Broulier, first mate on
La Chanson de la Mer.
”

Nodding with satisfaction, Red stated, “I suspected as much. That will cost ye more, darlin', than even this necklace. I need plenty of money to quiet tongues. I have no interest in hanging next to St. Clair.”

“Nor do I. How can I know I can trust you?”

He laughed and rose. Hobbling to the keg, he drew two mugs of rum. He dropped one in front of her. When it splashed on the table, she stood, moving her arm away in distaste. If she came back to Lady Sudley's house smelling of cheap rum, there would be all kinds of questions she could not answer.

In an eye-blurring motion, Red grasped her hand and pinned it to the table. “Ye can trust me to make it easy for ye.” He picked up the letter and stuffed it back in her bag.

“What? You will not have it delivered?”

“Ye can deliver it yerself.”

Abigail wondered if the man had lost his mind along with his leg. “That is impossible. Ogier is not in London.”

“But Evan Somerset is.”

“Evan Somerset?” She sank to the bench, ignoring the stickiness on it. “You know where he is?”

“I know where ye can find every rat in London.” He chuckled and released her arm. “Ye gave me the necklace, so I give ye his address.”

“All right. Where is he?” As he began to spout the directions, she asked for something to write with and drew a map on the back of Dominic's letter. “Thank you,” she said as she stood.

“Miss Fitzgerald?” Red called as she went toward the door.

“Yes?”

“Don't ye want to know why I am willin' to help ye?”

“I thought you were Dominic's friend.”

His laugh brushed the rafters of the empty tavern. “He's a Frenchie. No friend of mine.”

“Then why are you helping me?”

“St. Clair and ye have made yerselves Sir Harlan's enemies. That makes ye my allies.” Standing, he slapped at where his leg had been. “'Twas because of his tryin' to save money instead of buildin' a decent ship that I lost m'leg. 'Tis time he learned that he can't use people to line his pockets with more gold. Good luck to ye, Miss Fitzgerald. I hope ye and Cap'n St. Clair tweak the baronet's nose good for him.”

“I hope so, too.”

Red sat and took another drink. “Now I think ye should be on yer way. Don't need no ladies cluttering up m'place when they ain't doing no business with me.”

“Thank you,” she said, then reached for the door. She hoped she was one step closer to saving Dominic.

Abigail was amazed to discover that Red's directions led to a small French salon not far from Tottenham Court Road. She looked through one of the large windows, but saw no one within. Mayhap everyone was in the kitchen.

A bell rang as she opened the door. The scents of spices and chicken stock welcomed her. For a moment, she imagined herself in Aunt Velma's kitchen, although the garlic and basil here were much more pungent than in anything Aunt Velma had prepared.

She glanced around and saw another door on the far side of the room. A quartet of tables were topped with pale blue dishes and fresh flowers set in small, clear vases. More dishes were stacked in a corner cupboard beyond the salon's larger window.

The other door opened. A dark-haired woman smiled as she came into the salon, wiping her hands on the apron. She was obviously pregnant. “I am sorry,” she said. “We are not open for service this early in the day. If you wish to come back later …”

“I am looking for Evan Somerset,” Abigail replied, knowing that she might not be able to return if she went back to Lady Sudley's house with her errand not completed.

“He is in the kitchen. One moment.” She went to the door and opened it. “Evan, you have a caller.” Coming back to Abigail, she motioned toward a table. “Please be seated, miss.”

“I should not.” She batted at her cloak, which still stank of the tavern beside the Pool. “Your chairs are so lovely, and—” She looked past the woman as a man came through the door.

His hair was light brown, glistening golden where the sun touched it. Of a height with Dominic, he was not quite as broad in the shoulders, suggesting that this man had not led the rough life Dominic loved on his ship.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Evan Somerset. This is my wife, Brienne.” He put his arm around the dark-haired woman who regarded him with obvious love.

Abigail tried to smother the envy that raged through her. She wanted to be in Dominic's arms as he gazed at her with the affection in this woman's eyes, which were as dark as his. “My name is Abigail Fitzgerald. You do not know me, Mr. Somerset, but we have a mutual …” She hesitated, then said simply, “Friend. Dominic St. Clair.”

“Dominic?” Mr. Somerset chuckled. “I was just talking with Brienne about him the other day. About our last trip to France. Remember, Brienne?”

His wife laughed. “How could I forget your outrageous tales of the adventures you shared with Dominic?” She motioned again for Abigail to sit, then dropped gracefully into a chair herself. “Have you heard the story of their escapades in Bordeaux?”

“No.” Abigail sat and fought not to tap her fingers on the table. She did not want to talk about the past. She needed to find help for Dominic right now.

“Evan, you should tell her about it.”

Abigail jumped to her feet. “No!” When the Somersets stared at her, she took a steadying breath and sat again. “Forgive me.”

“What is wrong?” Mr. Somerset asked, his easy smile gone.

“I need your help. Dominic is in terrible trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” His face became serious, his eyes matching the intensity she had seen in Dominic's.

“He is in prison here in England and is about to be put on trial as a spy or as a captain of a ship on the French blockade or something. He will be hanged. Mr. Somerset—”

“Evan,” he corrected, then sat beside her at the table. “Dominic is here in England now? Is he mad?”

“We were shipwrecked when my father's ship's crew blew up the
Republic
and—”

“Whoa!” He raised his hands. “Slow down and start at the beginning.” As she did, he listened intently for a moment, then said, “Brienne, I think Miss Fitzgerald could use something to drink to steady herself.”

“All set.” Brienne placed a tray with a pot of tea and cups on the table.

Abigail tried to smile her thanks, but failed. She had not even noticed Brienne leaving the room. Taking the cup Brienne handed her, she continued with the complicated story of how her and Dominic's lives had intersected and then taken such a peculiar series of turns to bring them to where they were now.

“This is for you,” she finished, drawing the letter out of her bag. She hesitated, then asked, “Do you read French?”

“What I cannot figure out,” he said with a taut smile, “Brienne will help me with. She was born in France.”

Abigail handed him the letter. She tried to sip her tea as he broke the seal and began to read. It was impossible to swallow past her fear, so she set the cup back on the table.

She dared not breathe as Evan began to read aloud, translating from the French.

“
My friend, I need your help. The woman who has had this message delivered to you is Abigail Fitzgerald. You must find her, either in London or at Sir Harlan Morris's estate, and get her out of England without delay. She has saved my life more than once, mayhap because she knew that by keeping my heart beating it would long to become hers.
”

Evan chuckled. “You French are such romantics, Brienne.”

His wife ruffled his hair and smiled. “And you love it, don't you?”

“I cannot disagree with that.” Bending over the sheet, he ran his finger along the words and read,

“
Arrange for her to be returned to her family in America, if you can. There she will be safe and begin her life anew. I thank you, my friend.
”

Evan put the sheet of paper down on the table.

Abigail gasped, “There must be more.”

“Only his signature at the bottom.” He handed her the letter. “See for yourself.”

Although she could not decipher the words written in a bold scrawl, Dominic had been correct when he told her that enough words were similar to English that she would be able to pick out some of them. The letter said nothing of asking Evan to contact his crew to help him get out of prison.

She looked up when a hand settled on her arm.

Brienne Somerset gave her a sympathetic smile. “He clearly loves you very much, Miss Fitzgerald, because all his thoughts are for you.”

“I will not leave him there in that prison to die.” Abigail came to her feet again. Her voice rose, too. “Until he is free, I shall not leave England. You cannot force me to do so.”

“Force you?” The door from the kitchen opened again. “Who is forcing you to do something against your will?”

Abigail's face grew hot as an elderly woman came into the room. The woman's French accent was even stronger than Dominic's.

Brienne went to her and said, “
Grand-mère
, this is Abigail Fitzgerald, a friend of Evan's friend Dominic St. Clair.”

“Forgive me for acting so out of hand,” Abigail said, sitting when the old woman did. “It has not been an easy day. I fear I overreacted to what was so unexpected.” She clenched her hands on the table. “If he thinks I shall leave him here to die, he—”

Mme. LeClerc gasped and grabbed Abigail's hand. “Where did you get this?” She ran her finger along Dominic's ring.

“Dominic gave it to me. He thought I could trade it along the docks for help in having his letter delivered to his ship, but I was told to come here and Evan Somerset would help me.” She drew her hand away from Mme. LeClerc, unsettled by the fervor in the old woman's eyes.

The elderly woman's face became as gray as her hair. She stared at the ring. “May I see it more closely, Miss Fitzgerald?”

Abigail hesitated, then drew it off and placed it in Mme. LeClerc's trembling hand.

Mme. LeClerc unwound the material and tilted it to look inside. “I do not believe it!”

“Believe what?” Abigail asked, glancing at the Somersets, who seemed as baffled as she was.

“The design on the side.” She ran her finger along the bolt of lightning. Looking up at Evan, she asked, “Do you recognize it?”

“The thunderstone design that is on Brienne's vase.”

Abigail did not want to waste time on this conversation that seemed to be going nowhere. “Yes, it is a thunderstone. Dominic told me that. Is it a popular design in France for a wedding ring?”

“Not in the least. See here?” Mme. LeClerc pointed to the etched letters that had been nearly worn away by Dominic's life on the sea. “Can you see the initials?”

“No.” Abigail squinted, but still could not see anything along the polished gold.

“I can. My eyes may be old now, but they were much younger when I first saw this ring.”

Brienne asked, “In France?”

“At Château Tonnere du Grêlon.”

“Château Tonnere du Grêlon?” Abigail gasped. “Dominic said that was his father's home. You were there, too?”

Mme. LeClerc whispered, “I was there when the
duc
brought these rings home from Paris so he might marry his beloved Sophie. See inside? It is engraved
MML & SR
. Marc-Michel Levesque and Sophie Rameau.”

“Levesque?” Abigail shook her head. “Impossible. Dominic said this was his father's wedding ring, and his father's name was St. Clair.”

“It was Levesque.” She turned to her wide-eyed granddaughter. “Do you remember me telling you that you were not the eldest; that you had a brother?”