Excerpt of A Rebel without a Rogue by Bliss Bennet

Fianna Cameron—at least that was what she called herself
today—slipped a hand inside her cloak pocket and curled
her fingers tight around the butt of her father’s pistol.
Her long, hurried strides had sent it bouncing hard
against her thigh, but even that pain wasn’t enough to
reassure her that the weapon hadn’t disappeared, that she
hadn’t only imagined hiding it there before she’d finally
tracked her prey to his lair. Still, she couldn’t shake
the fear that when the time came for her to act, she
would find herself confronting the man empty-handed,
shaking in impotent fury as Major Christopher Pennington
offered her a condescending smile and walked on, just as
he had so many times in her dreams.

The memory of Grandfather McCracken’s soft, broken voice
reading the Bible verse that had first inspired her—For
he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath
upon him who doeth evil—brought her back to her sense of
purpose. She could not fail, would not fail, not now, not
when she’d given nearly everything for this chance to
bring her father’s killer to justice and redeem the honor
of his name. And to prove herself, bastard though she
might be, worthy of her rightful place in the McCracken
family.

The only family she had left—

Eyes darting between strangers and shop windows,
carriages and carts, she searched the unfamiliar street
for her destination. She’d feared being followed and had
altered her path to throw any pursuer off her trail. But
the evasion must have pulled her off course as well.
She’d come too far, missing Pennington’s reputed favorite
haunt.

Retracing her steps, she discovered the Crown and Anchor
Tavern lay not on the Strand itself, but behind that
bustling street’s houses and shops. Stepping into the
long, narrow passageway between two shopfronts, she
forced herself to slow to a pace painfully at odds with
the rapid beating of her heart.

The sight of the Crown and Anchor’s spacious stone-paved
foyer brought her up short. In Dublin, no place this
grand would ever be termed a mere tavern. Ornate columns,
a sweeping staircase with iron rails and what looked to
be handrails of some dark, expensive wood—why, it seemed
as elegantly appointed as the Lord Lieutenant’s mansion.
And so many people! How would she ever find her quarry
amidst such a throng?

A man in dark livery broke through her dismay. “May I
direct you to the Philharmonic Society concert, ma’am? Or
Mr. Burdett’s meeting to discuss the wisdom of abstaining
from intoxicating spirits? Both may be found on the floor
above.”

Not just a tavern, then, this Crown and Anchor, but a
public meeting hall of no small repute. What a lackwit,
to call attention to herself by staring at its grandeur
like the greenest bumpkin. Lucky, she’d be, not to be
judged an impostor and thrown out on her ear.

Run! her body urged. Hide!

Instead, forcing her hand from the comfort of the pistol,
she pushed back the hood that hid her face.

The porter took a step back, his eyes widening. How
predictable, the catch of breath, the poleaxed, besotted
expression. She’d long ago stopped wondering why God had
gifted her with a face that no man could seem to pass
without falling guilty to the rudeness of staring. Lucky
for her, men only seemed to care about the deceptively
lovely husk of her face, never giving a single thought to
what ugliness might lie beneath.

Lowering her voice to a murmur, she forced the porter to
step closer. “It is so crowded here.” She widened her
eyes. “My footman seems to have gone astray.”

“Might I send a man in search of him for you, ma’am?” he
asked, a blush spreading over already ruddy cheeks.

“My uncle,” she said, taking care to add a shy,
embarrassed frown. “The footman was to take me to my
uncle, Major Pennington. Would you know where I might
find him, sir?”

The man took another step closer, as if drawn to her by
an invisible wire. “Major Pennington? Ah, let me see.
There is to be a meeting of military gentlemen in the
Small Dining Room this evening, but I believe they are
men of the navy. I do know of a Mr. Pennington, though, a
Mr. Kit Pennington. Brother to Lord Saybrook, he is.
Might he be the gentleman you seek?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Pennington. I nearly forgot, he sold out
some years past. My mother always called him the Major,
you see.”

“Of course, ma’am. I believe he is up in the news room,
reading the papers. I’ll send someone to fetch him
immediately.” Reluctance and relief warred over his face
as he turned toward the stair.

“Oh, please don’t,” she cried, placing a palm on the
man’s arm. No need to give the Major any warning.

She felt the porter start, watched him stare at the hand
from which she’d deliberately removed a glove. “It was
meant to be a surprise, you see, for his birthday,” she
added. “I’m sure I can find my way to this news room, if
you give me the direction.”

“But women don’t typically frequent the news room, ma’am,
and—”

Lifting her chin, she turned the full force of her green
eyes upon the hapless servant. “You wouldn’t spoil my
uncle’s surprise, would you?” she pleaded, adding the
softest exhale of a sigh to draw his attention to her
wide, full lips.

The quiver of his arm under her fingers told her all she
needed to know.