Patrica Rice Read online

  Book View Café Edition

  July 10, 2012

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-153-5

  Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  One

  England, March, 1819

  “Owning the most extensive pistol collection in the world won’t feed your tenants, Aubry.” Bored, Michael O’Toole leaned against a window frame and shifted his attention from Squire Aubry to a lamb gamboling in the field. “Prélat’s newest percussion pistol might kill a man at fifty paces, but it’s useless for shooting fowl.”

  “A man has the right to protect himself in these uncertain times!” his portly host blustered as he passed his newly-acquired weapon to a more appreciative guest.

  “If a man surrounds himself with friends instead of enemies, he would have no need to protect himself.” Idly, O’Toole juggled silver pieces between his fingers, assuming interest in coins and gamboling lambs.

  A smart man would have heeded Michael’s warning rather than his aloofness.

  Beyond the high hedge shielding the lambs stood tenant houses with leaking thatch and mildewed walls and children running barefoot wiping runny noses—while the owner of the houses stood in his elegant room, bragging of his expensive weaponry.

  O’Toole curled his lip in open derision as one of the guests asked if he might test a fowling piece. Collectors did not use their collections. They merely acquired and admired them. A fourth coin materialized amid the ones spinning between his fingers. He listened to the whispers about him but gave no indication that he heard, or cared.

  “The man’s got no title and little name to speak of. Why was he invited?” a particularly loud, querulous baronet asked.

  “He’s the brother of a marquess,” the squire whispered back, “Or the adopted brother. I’m not quite clear. Effingham sent him in his place.”

  “The Marquess of Effingham? The American? He’s little better than a savage himself,” the baronet replied with scorn.

  Savages were more polite than to insult guests, O’Toole mused, unoffended. Which was more unacceptable—being untitled, adopted, or American?

  As the squire led his elderly guest away, O’Toole shifted his attention to the weapon cabinet. Simple lock. A thief wouldn’t even need to break the glass.

  He spun the coins so they sparkled in the sun while giving due consideration to the cabinet’s contents. Expensive equipment really should be put to good use.

  He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He’d promised his high-and-mighty noble brother he wouldn’t stir more mischief than necessary if he went in his place. But really, this was an opportunity begging to happen. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving man. The squire could regale his dinner guests with the mournful tale for years to come. He would be doing his otherwise boring host a favor.

  Cheerfully, O’Toole pocketed the coins to examine the valuable weaponry. More canny companions would be suspicious of his sudden geniality since it obviously didn’t arise from the rum punch he wasn’t consuming.

  A gale of feminine laughter drifted from the hallway following a knock and bustle at the front door. The racket of more trunks and visitors arriving resounded through the hall. The old fellow had managed quite a house party before the Season reached full swing back in the city.

  Always attuned to his surroundings, Michael listened to the feminine chatter while admiring a particularly clever pistol. He loved watching women in their frilly gowns, festive colors, and soft curls, loved listening to their cheerfully chirping voices. He’d discovered, however, that they were a serious obstacle to a man of his nature. Women saw men and thought nest. He preferred flight.

  “Such an exciting journey we had! Let us freshen up and we’ll tell you all about it. Would you believe….” The feminine voice trailed off as the speaker strolled out of range.

  Michael froze and strained for another note of that once-familiar voice. It had been two long years— Maybe, if he eased closer to the door…

  He daren’t. Returning the pistol to its place, he eyed the casement overlooking the garden. His host wouldn’t miss him. He had a well-known habit of never staying, one of many habits of which the lady disapproved, and rightfully so, did she know the half of them.

  No longer able to hear her lilting voice, he returned to the heavy draperies of the open window.

  He had plans for this household. It would be much safer if the gentle Lady Blanche didn’t know of his presence. The wretched woman had the face of an angel and the character to go with it. Angels frowned upon theft.

  “Borrowing,” he called it, not theft. Thieves stole for ill-gotten gain. His intentions were as pure as the driven snow. Angels wouldn’t see it that way, and he had no particular desire to waste his days in gaol.

  * * *

  “The entire weapons collection disappeared, Gavin! My word, a thief would have needed a cart to haul off that much armament.” Dillian Lawrence, Marchioness of Effingham, shook her head in disapproval as she rocked her babe in her arms.

  “I thought you told me Michael was supposed to attend the house party.” Scribbling replies to the Season’s invitations while the rain dripped outside the parlor windows, Lady Blanche Perceval raised her head as if she asked only an innocent question.

  Both her cousin, Dillian, and Dillian’s towering husband, the Marquess of Effingham, lifted their eyebrows in surprise. Blanche always felt fragile and insignificant next to her imposing relations. She didn’t like being reminded of her resemblance to a porcelain figurine.

  “Michael isn’t a thief,” Dillian protested Blanche’s insinuation.

  “The squire has more interest in his weapons than his tenants,” Michael’s formidable brother corrected with an air of resignation.

  The accusation hung in the air. Michael was too clever to be caught by a country squire, but his relations knew his dangerous predilections.

  “Will he never grow up?” Blanche asked in despair. “Or does he intend to play Robin Hood forever? Theft is theft, no matter what face he puts upon it. One of these days, he will hang.”

  The scar on the marquess’s face wrinkled with his wry grimace.

  “Michael just acts as others ought to act,” Dillian defended him loyally.

  “Men are fools, and Michael is no exception,” Blanche replied, cutting her off. “Men think they can go about, doing as they please, without any responsibility to their families.” As her father had, until he was lost at sea, casting her forever into the hands of servants. “Does he not consider what would happen to you and Gavin should he be caught?”

  “He is not a thief—”

  The slim figure of the Duke of Anglesey strolled into the room to interrupt Dillian’s protest. “Creating dissension among the ranks, are we, Cuz?” he commented, raising unperturbed eyebrows at his relations as he regarded their frozen expressions. “Which of your suitors are we slandering today? You will not be content until all the bachelors of London stand with pistols drawn at one another’s heads.”

  Blanche gave her paternal cousin a frosty look. “That is none of my concern, to be sure. If you’ve come to nag me some more, Neville, you may depart now.”

  The duke returned her look with a lofty smile. “It may be your coin that pays the staff, but the house is still mine, if you recollect rightly. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

  Dillian laughed, handed the infant to her husband, and rose from the sofa. “I think it time we depart the family argument. Really, Blanche, you shouldn’t go about slandering suitors, or even poor Michael.”

  “I shouldn’t?” Blanche inquired mockingly. “Shall you meet a few of my glittering beaus? They have no true care for what I think or feel. They merely see wealth begging to be taken. And if Michael wanted my wealth,
he would merely help himself without bothering with the niceties of courtship.”

  His Grace helped himself to a cup of tea since neither of the women offered to pour. Like Blanche, he had come into his inheritance unexpectedly and had not yet learned the arrogance due his rank. He lifted his quizzing glass and peered with dubious interest at the infant in the marquess’s arms. “Those things come dashed small, don’t they? Hard to believe in a few years it will be a conniving female like any other.”

  “They wouldn’t seem so small if you had to bear them,” Dillian replied. “I’m making Gavin work on a bill for female emancipation so Madeline needn’t marry.”

  The duke rolled his eyes at the prospect. “You did say you were leaving, didn’t you?” he prompted. Before Blanche could protest, he held up his hand for silence. “I have some private matters to discuss with you, and I shan’t leave until I have done with them.”

  “We’re leaving now.” Dillian brushed a kiss across Blanche’s cheek. “Behave yourself for a change. Neville can’t help who he is.”

  Blanche frowned but gave her godchild a wistful kiss. “I wish I could buy one of these for my own.”

  “Well, buy the proper husband, and you can have one, too,” Gavin said crudely, pushing his wife toward the door. “We’ll see you this evening.”

  Blanche waited until all sign of her maternal cousin and her husband disappeared before returning her regard to the duke. “I’m retiring to the country,” she announced, forestalling Neville’s offensive with her own.

  “You can retire to Australia for all I care, but I need those papers signed allowing me to fence in the pasture before you go. We’re losing sheep, and my hands are tied until you agree to purchase the fencing.”

  Blanche didn’t like arguing with Neville, but someone must, since their grandfather had left his considerable wealth in her incapable hands. “If we fence the pasture, the Goodmans can’t take their cows to water. And Nanny Smith is too old for climbing a stile every time she visits her daughter. Move your silly sheep elsewhere.”

  “Those sheep are the only thing keeping me in frock coats and cravats!” Neville replied. “This situation is no longer tolerable, Blanche. I am doing my damnedest to keep afloat with the meager profits of the entailed land, but you stand in the way of every opportunity to increase them. This cannot continue. Either find yourself a sensible husband who can deal with these matters on some rational basis, or marry me as grandfather intended. I cannot live my life tied by your golden chains.”

  Worn by what seemed like a lifetime of these arguments, Blanche fingered the faint scars at her hairline and stared into the distance. Neville usually had the patience of a saint. She had never seen him so frustrated and harassed before. She didn’t like admitting that she was the cause, but she didn’t like lying to herself either.

  “Find a wealthy wife, Neville. Then your solicitors may talk to my solicitors and we’ll never argue again,” she answered, a shade too brightly.

  “Your solicitor is my solicitor,” Neville said with impatience, “And this is no time for facetiousness. If you’ve discarded all potential suitors and are down to considering that buffoon brother of Gavin’s, I think your wisest choice is marrying me.”

  Mulishly, Blanche refused to consider her duty. Of course a society of men expected her to marry and hand over her trust to her husband. He could spend it as he chose while she would have no more purpose than producing his children on a regular basis.

  Actually, she wanted the children. But should she marry, the children would belong to her husband. She’d had many long nights of convalescence, staring into the mirror as her scarred visage emerged from bandages, to understand that. Men did not want her for herself, but for what she represented. All those years of her father’s neglect did not give her any aspirations to more. If she could not have love, she would not marry.

  She might look like a fragile porcelain ornament, but she refused to break like one.

  Blanche leveled a gaze on her cousin. “I have no desire to be your duchess, Neville. Court Lady Angela. She will suit you, and she has mountains of money.”

  Not pleased, Neville returned his tea cup to the table. “I cannot come begging every time I wish something done, Blanche. And Lady Angela laughs like a horse. I’m not that desperate yet.”

  He stalked out, leaving Blanche contemplating the newly arrived sun rays bleaching the color from her velvet cushions. She couldn’t decide whether she felt more like the fading cushion or the dust motes dancing on the insubstantial beams.

  Perhaps she should do as her mother had done, retire to her bed and let everyone wait on her and never be disturbed by another decision again.

  Two

  A light spring snow wafted through the golden lantern beams of the tavern, landing equally on man and beast, rich and poor as they scurried for the comfort of warm fires. Outside the tavern stood a gentleman in tall beaver hat and loose frock coat. The coat’s sleeves had frayed at the hems, and shiny patches appeared at the elbows, but the gentleman did not look embarrassed by the lack of elegance. In fact, he appeared unconcerned by anything at all as he juggled three pebbles between gloved hands. The gloves had no fingers.

  Passing by the tavern, a stout old gentleman wearing a muffler grunted amusement as the juggler added three silver coins into the configuration of pebbles. The older man held out another coin in appreciation for the trick.

  The beggar’s hat amazingly slipped from O’Toole’s head to his hands while the glittering objects disappeared, along with the man’s coin.

  “Wasting your talents, son,” the old man grumbled. “Ought to be a lawyer and juggle other people’s money.”

  O’Toole grinned, and a gleam of light played along disheveled auburn hair. “People pay well for amusement. When I fail to amuse, I shall consider your advice, sir.”

  The old man grudgingly smiled at this impudence. “You consider this earning a living, then? Standing on street corners, hat in hand?”

  “That I do, sir.” Apparently devoid of the coins recently deposited into it, the hat again covered reddish-brown locks. A moment later the coins spun and gleamed in the light. “People pay for amusement as willingly as they pay for ale. I should prefer their coins spent on one than the other.”

  “An evangelist,” the old man growled. “You fail to amuse when you begin to preach.” With that, he turned on his heel and entered the tavern.

  Undaunted, the young gentleman whistled happily, concentrating on setting all the coins spinning as they rotated up and down through the light, circling from one hand to the other. He had no intention of evangelizing, proselytizing, or orating in any manner. In his experience, actions spoke louder than words.

  The rising voices within the tavern warned of the fracas he’d anticipated. O’Toole flipped another coin or two, but one-by-one, the collection disappeared into the pockets of his frayed coat. Human nature being what it was, his instinct for trouble seldom failed him.

  “Out, you young lout! What do you think this here is, a poor house? Out with ye afore I call the magistrate!”

  A ragged bundle of clothes tumbled head over heels into the frozen slush of the street at O’Toole’s feet. A shriek of outrage revealed no harm done to more than pride, and O’Toole gently set his boot on a slender wrist before it could wield the soggy snowball forming between clenched fingers.

  “And stay out!” The tavern owner shook his fist and slammed the door.

  “Divil take ye, why didn’t ye let me at him?” the youth asked angrily, shaking off O’Toole’s hold and scrambling to his feet. “And after sayin’ I’d work for the food! Is it stealing his miserable porridge, I am?”

  Although the angry protest emerged as guttural growls, an interesting note caught O’Toole’s ears. He cocked his head as he examined the slight figure straightening a much-darned coat and jerking a knitted cap further over a grubby forehead.

  “And am I detectin’ a note o’ the old country?” he asked in a lilt m
imicking that of his young companion.

  The angry urchin halted his brushing to stare at the juggler now leaning on a handsome cane. “And what county do ye claim from?” the youngster asked with suspicion.

  “All of them, my friend, all of them, but my spirit lingers in the grand green hills of Galway.” This wasn’t precisely a lie. O’Toole had never lived anywhere more than a year of his life. He’d felt a particular kinship with the inhabitants of County Galway at one time, as he had with many other people in many different places. But he thought he recognized the accent.

  The starch wilted from the youth’s stiff hide. “Well, then, and you’re aftar knowing what it’s like. Wretched Sassenachs think they own the ground we walk on. Not a farthing to be had for the likes of us.”

  “That is as it might be,” O’Toole replied mildly. “I’ll be taking it then that you’re low on funds and have need of a place to stay. It seems as if you’ve already eaten,” he added wryly.

  The youth shot him another suspicious look. “I’ll be doing just foyne on me own without the need of a pervert, thank ye.”

  O’Toole stifled a grin as one more engaging aspect of the little termagant appeared. He’d thought the young beggar oddly dressed and a little too deceitful in his speech to be as young as his size indicated. But if his instincts didn’t lie, that slender wrist and occasional high-pitched note had little to do with the child’s age.

  O’Toole idly juggled the coins from his pocket. “And a foyne idea that is, too, me lad. The more for me, I say. But I’m not avarse to tipping back a wee one in front of a friendly fire on a night like this. Mayhap we can help each other. Is a foyne lad like yourself after having a name?”

  “Mac,” the young person answered reluctantly, eyeing the circling coins with respect. “A mug of something warm and a good song or two might be welcome.”

  Smiling to himself, O’Toole pocketed his coins and sauntered down the street toward a more hospitable inn. “Well, Mac, and I’m O’Toole.”