Chapter One
London
August, 1816
Ian Campion was bloody tired of being poor.
Making his way through the foul and narrow streets of the
rookery known as the Holy Land for the Irish inhabitants
who lived one on top of another there in unrelenting
poverty, he wondered how he could have ever believed he
could create a better life for his family here than the
one they'd had in Ireland. He hated the closeness of the
buildings, the crushed spirit of the people, and the soot
in the air from the hundreds, no, thousands of smoking
chimneys.
Of course, the last time he'd lived in London, he'd been
on his way to becoming a man of means as a student of the
law at Lincoln's Inn. The streets he'd walked had been
vastly different then. His future had been full of promise
until he'd returned to Dublin and destroyed everything
with his pride and arrogance.
His dark thoughts were interrupted when a half dozen
children in ragged clothes dashed past him on the chase
for a rat one of them had spied. Their mothers sat on the
front stoop sucking down gin and laughing wildly at some
joke one of them had shared. The women fell silent, their
expressions speculative, when a party of barefoot, unkempt
sailors newly off their ship swaggered by on their way to
one of the area's many brothels. Meanwhile, in the
entrance of a supposed butcher's shop, pick-pockets, lazy
and in good humor from working richer areas, haggled with
the "butcher" over fencing their stolen goods.
Ian walked through the party of sailors. They had the good
sense to move out of his way, as he knew they would.
He was a big man, a hard one, and willing to use his size
to his advantage. The wide brim of the hat he wore low
over his eyes added to his dangerous air. His hand rested
on the strap of the leather knapsack he'd stolen off the
body of a dead French soldier during the war over a year
ago. In it was everything he owned, including the
flintlock pistol that could get him transported if it was
found on his person. The English weren't comfortable with
the idea of an Irishman walking their streets with a gun.
Not that they would need the gun as a reason to see Ian
gone.
A whore sitting in a window across the street called in
greeting, "Well, look who has finally returned home." She
leaned forward, her breasts practically tumbling out of
her bodice. "Hey, Campion, are you going to give me a go
this time?"
Ducking into the narrow, open doorway of a corner
building, Ian ignored her, as he always did. He didn't
consort with whores. There was no time in his life for
women or other pleasurable pursuits -- not while he had a
family to support.
The rickety stairs groaned under his booted tread. Sound
carried through the thin walls. A baby cried for milk. A
man and woman argued, an argument that came to an abrupt
end with the sound of a fist hitting flesh. A door slammed
and there was silence, then crying. Ian stepped out of the
way as a heavy-jowled man, his eyes red from drinking,
barreled past him down the stairs.
Three more flights up and Ian reached home to the flat he
shared with his two sisters and their children. But what
he saw made his heart stop.
The door to the flat had been broken off its hinges. It
hung cockeyed and loose, the wood splintered.
Alarmed, he charged in, his fists clenched and ready to do
battle. However, instead of a deadly crime, he ran in on
the sight of the little ones, Johnny and Maeve, at the
table saying their grace before supper. His sudden, angry
entrance startled his sister Janet, who stood over them.
With a startled cry, she dropped the wooden platter she
was holding. The supper sausages hit the floor, but the
children didn't care. They leaped from their chairs, their
arms wide.
"Uncle Ian!" they shouted in unison. Johnny tackled Ian's
knees while Maeve stretched her arms for him to take her
up, which he did.
"You're prickly," Maeve laughingly complained, rubbing her
fist against his beard stubble. "And you have a cut, too."
Maeve, no older than five but a sweet, gentle soul, traced
the line above his eye where Tommy Harrigan's beefy
knuckles had split the skin open.
"It's nothing but a nuisance," he assured her and then
addressed his nephew, "Johnny, you're growing so fast
you're about to knock me over." He'd been gone less than a
month, but children change rapidly at this age.
His words only served to make the lad determined to do
more damage. There was nothing for Ian to do but set Maeve
down and give her brother the quick wrestle he so dearly
wanted.
Janet broke them up. "Here now, that is enough. Welcome
home, brother." She gave him a kiss on the cheek at about
the same time Ian's other sister Fiona, the oldest of the
three of them, walked in the door. They were all dark-
headed, the girls with eyes so blue they sparkled like
jewels, while Ian had the sharp, silvery gray ones of his
father.
"Ian," Fiona greeted him with undisguised relief. "I am so
glad to see you home."
"What happened to the door?" he asked.
"Later," she whispered as she gave him a sisterly
kiss. "After the children have eaten."
He pulled out the cloth pouch he wore on a cord around his
neck. Taking it off over his head, he tossed it to
Janet ...
