Patrica Rice Read online

  He had her skirts on the floor and her petticoats down when a pair of fine Irish eyes blinked through the hole in the lathe above him. Startled, Eamon dropped his feet to the floor and nearly lost his mug. The eyes hastily disappeared along with his idle daydream.

  Ignoring the startled expression of his companions, Eamon leapt up and rushed out the door, heading for the staircase he’d seen hidden down the back hall. A clatter of chairs and feet behind him warned his actions had not gone unheeded.

  Upstairs, Fiona cursed her daring and ran for the attic stairs. That dratted Eamon would run a hound to the ground when necessary. She had really destroyed herself this time.

  She knew the ancient attic by heart now. Dodging the gaping hole in one floorboard despite the darkness, she ducked under the sagging beams near the window. She pounded the filthy frame at just the right angle so the panel would shove up without sagging and sticking. She heard Eamon’s long legs reaching the landing just behind her.

  She dropped off the window ledge into the fog-shrouded darkness, landing on the roof below just as Eamon reached the attic. With luck, he would fall through the hole in the floor and anyone following him would stumble over him before they reached the window. With even more luck, none of the lard-bellied asses would fit through the tiny garret window. She couldn’t rely on luck, however. It had never stayed with her for any great length of time or she wouldn’t be in this position now.

  Fiona raced across the rooftop along her planned escape route, searching for alternate paths. If they had half a brain between them, they would send someone outside to look for the next break between buildings where she might come down. She heard the shouts below just as she reached the roof’s edge. Cursing, she halted and scanned the rough tile for as far as she could see. Behind her, she heard another shout. Damn, but someone had crawled through the window. They had her coming and going.

  She took the only way out that she knew. Sitting on the brick edging, she groped with her toes for the window ledge on the next floor down. She hoped the whore who worked that bed didn’t have company.

  She achieved the twisting turn onto the ledge, slammed open the loose window, and hopped in, pulling the sash closed behind her. Blinking her eyes to accustom them to even deeper darkness, she sighed in relief at the empty room, and headed for the door into the upper hall of the tavern.

  Below her waited the Bow Street Runner. He’d positioned himself in the same tavern booth every night at the same hour since she’d sent Little Jack to him that first time. The man was persistent, if nothing else. Or someone paid him extremely well.

  She could try escaping past him. He didn’t know her by sight, after all. But she’d lost her cloth cap somewhere on the rooftop, and her hair was a dead giveaway. For the millionth time in these last weeks she wondered at her close resemblance to the extraordinary O’Toole. God had a mysterious sense of humor. If O’Toole had any intelligence, he’d told the Runner she looked like him. She didn’t doubt O’Toole’s intelligence one bit.

  Perhaps it was time she gave it up. She couldn’t go on like this forever. Seamus was out of reach. Perhaps she could arrange for someone to warn him. He could escape to France or America. He wouldn’t be the first MacDermot to lose himself in a foreign country. She didn’t want to see him go, but she must end this senseless plotting before the rebels killed people. Shivering at the thought of confronting a duke, Fiona ran her hand through her disheveled locks, made some effort to straighten the overlarge jerkin over her boy’s trousers, and then marched down the stairs into the tavern.

  The Runner looked up at her and grinned.

  * * *

  Michael arrived at Gavin’s townhouse after three days of hard riding. He’d changed horses and napped in fields and barns when the horses needed resting. He’d eaten when he could raise a few coins. But mostly he’d just rode until both he had reached exhaustion. It kept him from imagining Blanche’s reaction to his departure.

  Dusting himself off as best he could, he climbed off his steed and allowed Gavin’s groom to lead the mare away.

  He thought grimly of Blanche’s inevitable wrath as he climbed the steps to Gavin’s townhouse. He had no solution to the problem of keeping Blanche while pretending they were not married. ’Twas a pity Blanche wasn’t the sort to live with the Indians.

  Not giving him time for a bath and a change of clothes, Gavin stormed out, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him into his study. Too tired and discouraged to fight, Michael permitted the man-handling.

  “Where the hell have you been? And where is Lady Blanche?” Gavin demanded as Michael collapsed onto the leather couch where he’d been shoved. He considered toppling over and falling asleep, but Gavin wouldn’t allow that. When Gavin worked up a full head of steam, no one could stop him.

  “Lady Blanche should be on the way to Dorset by way of Wiltshire,” Michael answered wearily, stretching his tired muscles. “If you think there is any danger to her, I would suggest having the duke send out a small army blocking all roads between Dorset and London to impede her progress. She’ll not stay put for long.”

  She was most likely slitting her garrulous companion’s throat and turning the carriage around on her own, Michael mused.

  “There’s danger enough if we’re to believe your little Irish rapscallion,” Gavin answered ominously.

  Michael came fully alert. “You’ve found Fiona?”

  “She found us, although she won’t tell us why. And I won’t guarantee she’s where we left her, either. I’d have to put iron bars on all the windows to keep that one caged. Are you certain you haven’t duplicated yourself in female form?”

  Michael was on his feet and heading for the door.

  “Michael!” Gavin didn’t raise his voice, but his tone demanded obedience.

  Impatiently, Michael swung around to face him.

  Gavin toyed with the broken handle of a letter opener and eyed him with skepticism. “I’ve never known you to womanize. Would you care to explain what is happening here?”

  “The hell if I know.”

  Since Michael seldom used swear words, his use of them now spoke of his confusion.

  He didn’t take long in locating Fiona. An Irish lullaby drifting from an upper room drew him up the stairs two at a time. He located Gavin’s wife painting flowers on the nursery wall while Fiona crooned to the infant in her arms.

  “And a pleasant good morning to you too, Michael,” Dillian said, with only a touch of sarcasm at his abrupt entrance. “I presume you left Blanche safe and well?”

  “I trust you do not malign the lady’s reputation so crudely around her family.” Michael scowled at the infant in Fiona’s arms. Gavin’s offspring slept soundly, a picture of innocence and helplessness. The sight terrified and stirred him at the same time. “Why did you run?” he demanded, glaring at Fiona.

  Long-lashed green eyes glared right back at him. “I had my reasons.”

  “And did you find your aunt well?”

  “Aye.” Fiona threw the marchioness a nervous look, then rose from the stool and deposited the infant into Michael’s arms. “’Tis not a subject for the ears of innocents.”

  With that, she walked out, leaving Michael with his hands full of wiggling fingers and toes. The infant chose that moment to open wide blue eyes and blink. Michael nearly dropped the entire package. Fascinated, he watched a puzzled, cherubic smile form on tiny pink lips and a fist wave tentatively toward his nose. A child this size had no choice but to trust the adults around her implicitly. How did parents handle such responsibility?

  Dillian stood beside him, waiting patiently until he returned the child to her. Then she gave him a quizzical look. “Is it Blanche or Fiona who has you so befuddled?”

  Michael looked at her blankly as he transferred his niece into her arms.

  Then he smiled. “Your daughter, my lady, completely befuddles me. I find it amazing that so charming a child could come from such demanding, obstreperous parents. If you will excus
e me, it’s time I nail a certain female to a wall.”

  Dillian’s laughter followed him as he wandered down the hall. Michael located Fiona in the front sitting room. She’d tied her thick auburn tresses into some kind of knot on top of her head, but she still looked little more than the urchin he remembered.

  “Gavin said you came to him. I take it this is a recent development?”

  She gave his rumpled appearance a cursory look. “I take it you came at breakneck pace at his call?”

  “He sent a messenger saying Lady Blanche had gone missing. He did not mention finding you. I’ve been on the road for three days, so I’m not best pleased at exchanging pleasantries. Let’s get on with it. Why did you seek Gavin?”

  “Because I was about to be discovered and had no other choice,” she replied. “I don’t know your Gavin and didn’t know whether to trust him. I’m not in the habit of trusting bloody English aristocrats.”

  “He’s not English. He’s American. And he’s on our side. You can trust him. Now will you please hurry and tell me what brought you here? I have to head off an angry duke.”

  Fiona’s eyes flared wider at this news. “There’s a conspiracy by radical leaders to blow up the heads of British government. A dinner party at the Duke of Anglesey’s was mentioned. I trust your Lady Blanche has removed herself from his presence?”

  Michael clenched his fists against this confirmation of his suspicions. “Not unless a small army can keep her away.”

  Fiona smiled grimly. “Then find that army. Eamon O’Connor is the best gunpowder expert this side of Napoleon’s finest. He was trained by the French, and he’s in London now.”

  Michael would have preferred not to hear that. He would have preferred it even more if he hadn’t turned to see the Duke of Anglesey standing in the hall right behind him.

  Twenty-three

  Michael was in no humor to appease an angry duke. He’d left Blanche in a fury and probably headed straight for London into the arms of an explosives expert. He scowled and waited for the first round of attack.

  “Where the bloody hell is Blanche?” Neville demanded.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Michael shrugged. “Visiting friends in Wiltshire, last I heard. If I were you, I would find some way of keeping her there. Of course, if I were you, I wouldn’t have a band of radicals hot on my heels.”

  “I’m not afraid of a bunch of sniveling cowards who hide in dirty back streets and mutter imprecations to keep themselves warm,” the duke declared. “I just don’t want them anywhere near Blanche.”

  Blind, deaf, and dumb, these bloody nobles. Michael closed his weary eyes and leaned against the doorjamb, knowing Fiona had left through the back the instant the duke had appeared. “Is Your Grace aware that Lady Blanche owns mills in the north that are currently targets of attack by radicals? And I suspect, if the mills are targeted, then so must be the mines and whatever. And it is your laws that permit the conditions leading to this unrest.”

  “We’ve already instructed authorities to read the Riot Act and send out the yeomanry if these rabble rousers cause any more trouble,” the duke said coldly.

  Michael flinched and rubbed his eyes. “Then you are personally responsible for any danger the lady is in. Go away and leave me alone.”

  Neville grabbed Michael’s coat lapels and jerked him upward. “Where is she?”

  They were evenly matched in height and weight, but Neville played fair by rules Michael had never bothered learning. He caught the duke’s wrists and twisted. Neville yelped and released his grip.

  Dusting his lapels back in place, Michael answered, “She attempted to stop a riot in Manchester. Ask her solicitor. And if you insist on remaining, then keep Fiona from escaping. I’ve better to do than stand here arguing.”

  As he departed, Michael didn’t remind him it would take an army to stop Lady Blanche from coming to London. He would take care of that on his own.

  * * *

  “What do you mean you are in his lordship’s employ and your orders are to take me to Dorset? I do not wish to go to Dorset. I wish to go to London. I order you to turn around and go back.” Blanche balled her hands into gloved fists of frustration as the carriage driver held his cap and scratched his head. She had rid herself of her companion at Wiltshire. To her dismay, she had discovered that Michael had absconded with what remained of the coins she’d removed from her hems, and she must rely on the carriage driver for her accommodations.

  “His lordship might change his mind about hiring me if I were to do that, my lady,” he answered in dismay. “And I’ve a new wife who wants me to take a permanent position. I promised his lordship I would see you safe in Dorset.”

  “I will hire you!” Blanche declared. “You may name your position. I can find you a cottage at Anglesey. You will never worry about money again. Just take me to London now!”

  The driver looked dubious. “If it’s all the same to you, my lady, I’d rather take the gentleman’s word and live in London. Dorset is naught but another two days journey. Once I see you safe there, you may do as you wish. I don’t have my orders for more than that.”

  “The gentleman hasn’t a ha’penny to his name!” Blanche nearly screamed in frustration. “Those are my coins he paid you with. He does not own horse nor carriage or even a roof over his head! You are much better off in my employ.” They’d already spent five days of miserable back roads traveling to Wiltshire. Another two days and Michael could be on his way to America for all she knew.

  The driver still didn’t look convinced. Few wives had funds of their own. Even fewer held land or the power to dispense employment, and he thought her Michael’s wife. She understood his dilemma.

  That didn’t mean she would make it easier for him. Throwing up her hands in anger, Blanche picked up her traveling skirts and started marching down the road toward the crossroads leading to London.

  “My lady! You cannot go afoot. It will take you more than two days that way, and you’ll be beset with thieves and the like. Let me take you to Dorset. Then we’ll go to London if you choose.” The driver hurried after her, leaving the groom holding the carriage horses.

  “I...don’t...want...to...go...to...Dorset,” she muttered between clenched teeth, kicking up the dust of the road as she increased her pace. She knew she behaved like a fool. She couldn’t possibly walk unmolested to London. She had no money. Her shoes were paper thin. But she couldn’t let Michael win this battle.

  “I’ll drive the horses faster,” the driver suggested helpfully. “The days are longer. We’ll travel till dark. We’ll make Dorset in one day. Then we may turn and go to London.”

  “We have all of Wiltshire to cross! And then we’re even farther from London than now. If we hurry from here, we can be in London in two or three days. If we go to Dorset, it will be nearly a week before we’re there. And if the rains start, it will be longer. Did he give you enough coins to last that long?”

  She’d caught him on that one, Blanche noted.

  “If your ladyship could explain to his lordship...” the driver answered hesitantly.

  Heady with triumph, Blanche nodded her head grandly and turned back toward the carriage. “I will explain it all. And you will have your position as I promised. Just take us back as quickly as we can go.”

  Her triumph lasted only as far as the next posting inn, where fresh horses were mysteriously not available suitable for a lady and her coach. It took her until the next morning to bribe the innkeeper with promised money to let her use horses that had come in the evening before.

  When the same thing happened again at the next inn, Blanche remembered that Michael had friends in low places all across the country. But she had acquaintances in high places. She ordered the driver to take her to the country estate of the nearest one. She would put an end to this nonsense.

  * * *

  Fiona sat idly in the window seat, petting a long-haired white kitten while staring out at the London street below and listening to t
he argument in the parlor. The two gentlemen O’Toole had summoned did not seem to like him very much, but she judged them less harmful than the terrible duke. So she listened for anything that might mean danger to her family and wondered if she would ever see them again.

  “His Grace has explained all this,” Michael said with unusual impatience. “There have been threats to blow up he duke’s dinner party. We must keep Lady Blanche out of town until we find the terrorists.”

  The idle juggler Fiona had first met had disappeared behind this angry gentleman. She liked the entertainer better, but the gentleman was very good at commanding his troops. Of course, when his troops consisted of dimwits like these, he had some right for impatience.

  “It still ain’t right,” Lord Allendale insisted, stretching his gangly legs and staring at his polished boot tops. “We can’t just kidnap a lady like that. She’ll not ever forgive us.”

  “Benington,” Michael appealed to the shorter, fatter young lord, “Explain it to him, please. She counts you among her loyal friends and has always relied on your discretion.”

  Fiona smiled to herself as Benington gave the same reply he’d repeated in any number of different ways throughout the morning. “I still don’t see how we can hold her against her will. She’ll flay us alive, she will.”

  Michael flung his hands up in frustration. “Then stay and patrol Elton Alley while I stop her. If you cannot control a puny female, you should be ashamed to call yourselves men.”

  “Gentlemen,” Allendale replied huffily. “We’re gentlemen. And gentlemen don’t kidnap ladies.”

  “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you near her,” Benington added. “We’ll take our sisters along and stop her. But we can’t hold her long. Blanche don’t like our sisters by half.”

  From her window seat, Fiona asked with curiosity, “Who does she like?”

  “Lady Effingham,” both young lords answered in chorus.

  Michael and Fiona exchanged glances. Without another word to his troops, Michael left the room in the direction of the nursery and Dillian.