Patrica Rice Page 20

  He would have liked to shake her for her obstinacy, but he recognized the trait he wore so well himself.

  At least she’d finally trusted him with her family names. Her story of lands and title reverting to the crown when all direct male descendants were given up for dead was nothing new. Her grandfather’s attempts to pass his lands through his daughter to Seamus had been doomed to failure given the political mood of Parliament toward Irish aristocracy.

  But the family name she had given him—MacDermot—worried him more than he’d let on. It was a name from his childhood. As he’d told Blanche when they’d traveled to Scotland, he and Gavin had often used MacDermot as a code word, as their father had before them. He didn’t like coincidences.

  Michael worried about Fiona. A young girl should not wander London’s streets unprotected. He’d sent word to Blanche, hoping she would trace the brat’s direction and offer her assistance.

  Traveling by his wits and talents as usual, it had taken him nearly a fortnight to get here. It was already the beginning of June. He hoped Fiona had not lied about her family’s direction. Every moment he spent away from Blanche worried him. If Blanche took it into her head to flee London for the continent, he would have to borrow from Gavin’s meager funds and follow before he lost her entirely. Or he could tell Neville of the marriage and use the duke’s resources. He would do that if he must, but Blanche would not appreciate his choice.

  But he had to make this journey. It was the only means he saw to end the conspirators’ plots for once and all, if Seamus and William held the key that he suspected they did. In the back of his mind lingered a tiny impossible hope that he would find a clue to his own background.

  Once ashore, he traveled half the breadth of Ireland to reach the place Fiona called home. Sleeping with rocks for pillows and the stars as blanket no longer held the appeal it once had. Michael wanted Blanche’s warmth beside him, her laughing voice chiding him for the error of his ways. He didn’t need her silk sheets or elegantly carved ceilings. He needed Blanche. He didn’t like discovering he needed anyone or anything.

  But the cool nights and long June days with their scuttling white clouds, scented spring breezes, and dancing flowers awoke Michael’s awareness of the vast emptiness in his soul. He’d ignored the yearning for too long. He’d prided himself on his lack of possessions, on his ability to survive without asking anyone’s help. Now he saw only the bleakness of his future.

  When at last he reached the lands Fiona called home, Michael sat upon an overgrown stone wall and contemplated the acres of fallow field beyond. In the distance rose a crumbling stone castle and several thatched cottages. A few cows grazed in a far pasture. He heard dogs barking and the distant cry of children playing. And all around him spread emerald acres dotted with wild rose canes, fallen stone walls, and the bright dots of spring flowers. Possibilities abounded in this rich earth, but the field went unplowed, the seed unsown.

  Michael wasn’t blind to the comparison to his own life. He possessed everything Mother Nature could grant him, and he had wasted it on rambling rather than building. Perhaps he couldn’t call it waste. There was no harm in admiring the natural beauty of the world. But neither had he taken that wealth and multiplied it or made it grow to aid God’s children. A rolling stone gathered no moss, he reflected wryly. Nor much of anything else.

  But that was neither here nor there. He must find Fiona’s family and persuade them to turn from their cause. Then he could return to Blanche and plan the rest of his life. She hadn’t fooled him with her lies. He could barely suppress his panic and excitement at the possibility he might have a son or daughter in a few short months.

  He ambled toward an old woman feeding her chickens, who watched his approach. “Top of the mornin’ to ye,” he greeted her cheerfully, taking off his flat cap and presenting her with a slight bow.

  She stared at him with suspicion, threw out the last of her grain, and came forward, swinging her bucket. She looked frail enough for a good gust of wind to blow away, but only her skirts whipped around her as she stopped on the other side of the rose-bedecked fence.

  “And it’s not Seamus,” she muttered with disappointment, looking him over closely. “I knew ’twas not. These old eyes are not so far gone as that.”

  Michael hid his relief. Fiona had not lied, then. Her family lived in these parts.

  “Not Seamus,” he agreed, “but I look for him. Is he about, then?”

  “And who be ye askin’?”

  That took a moment to translate, but Michael understood the question before the words. He trod dangerous ground now. “Michael O’Toole, at your service, ma’am. ’Tis Fiona who’s after inquirin’, though. I’ve word from her.”

  The old woman nodded. “She up and disappeared before she heard. Is she well, then?”

  “Last I saw of her, a fortnight ago,” Michael promised. “She’s some fear for her brother, and I said I would bring word of him.”

  The woman shook her head sorrowfully, but the suspicion remained in her eyes. “Ye have a look of him about ye, Mr. O’Toole. How is it you come to know our Fiona? Be ye family?”

  “Not unless there’s an American branch.”

  “Gareth, the eldest MacDermot son went to America, as I recall, after the uprising,” the old woman replied. “The British put a warrant on his head, and he fled, along with all the rest of them,” she finished sadly, shaking her head. “All the young men, lost, including my Sean. They’re all gone now, scattered to the winds.”

  With more than casual interest Michael inquired, “And Gareth? Does no one hear word of him these days?”

  She broke the wilted head off a delphinium. “His da wore mourning from the day he heard of the lad’s death. They’re all buried in foreign soil. They could not come home even in death.” Her voice broke with the sorrow of it.

  So much for that lead. Returning to his present mission, Michael prompted, “And Seamus? I take it he has not gone to foreign soil yet.”

  She gave him a sharp look at that. “It would be better for all if he had. He and that fool uncle of his are behind the bars of Dublin gaol. They’ll likely hang for their troubles.”

  * * *

  Blanche wearily listened to her great-aunt recount the evening’s activities as the carriage rolled toward home. Her head pounded, her feet hurt, and her heart had shriveled into a rough pebble. It was the first of June and she hadn’t heard from Michael in weeks. The dreary part was that this was what she’d expected and what she’d wanted, and she must learn to live like this.

  She carried a child and the father was the worst possible choice for husband—should she want a husband, which she most certainly did not. Only weariness made her wonder if perhaps her decision was the wrong one. Michael had vowed constancy, but that was like asking constancy from a thunderbolt.

  Her aunt’s chatter rattled as the carriage halted and the footman hastened to let the steps down. She had spent these last weeks denying her hopes for this life within her, but she could no longer ignore the facts. Her courses hadn’t run for two months now, and her occasional bouts of morning sickness had confirmed even her maid’s suspicions. It was only a matter of time before the whole household knew. She would have to leave London soon.

  She’d already dropped hints to Neville that she wished to visit Paris at the end of the Season. The new steward wasn’t working out so well. The pressure of dealing with daily business decisions as well as keeping up society’s routine was wearing her down. How would she handle the mines and factories from Paris?

  She would have to leave them with Neville. She shuddered at the thought. She hated the business of wealth. As Neville rightly pointed out, she was far more concerned with people than profits.

  Allowing her aunt to take the footman’s arm up the stairs, Blanche lingered a moment in the street, studying the impressive stone buildings comprising her wealthy neighborhood. Gas lamps lit every corner. Well-matched carriage horses plodded sedately down the street, draw
ing an elegant barouche containing laughing ladies and gentlemen. A green park with centuries-old trees provided an aura of security and timelessness. Going to Paris would mean leaving all that was safe and familiar behind.

  The notion terrified her, but the child growing within her gave her courage. For the child’s sake, she would do anything. Michael had that much right—a child needed love and security to grow up straight and true. She could be strong enough for two.

  Turning, she saw a slight motion behind the potted tree adorning the foundation.

  Blanche’s heart skipped a beat She recognized the face peering around the tree, holding a finger at her lips for silence. Fiona.

  Stopping to ostensibly straighten some portion of her apparel, Blanche whispered fiercely, “The mews. I will open the rear door.”

  The figure disappeared as quietly as it had appeared.

  Neville greeted Blanche as she ascended the inside stairs, and she concealed her impatience.

  He had extended more civility than usual these past weeks, escorting her to affairs he normally scorned, aiding her in dealing with the multifarious legal papers littering her desk, expressing solicitude instead of his usual absent-minded impatience. She hoped that did not mean he courted her again. Right now, it just meant he stood between her and Fiona.

  “Did you enjoy your evening?” he asked.

  Garbed in black frock coat and breeches, he had apparently just returned from some court function, though he’d rumpled his golden-brown hair at some point. Blanche detected no impatience in his concerned gaze as he waited for her answer. Blanche wished she could confide in him, but it was impossible. Even Neville couldn’t marry her now. His first son had to be a Perceval, heir to his title. The child she carried was an Irish O’Toole, heir to nothing.

  That rebellious thought brought a smile to Blanche’s lips. “The evening was abominably boring and prodigiously dull, as usual. And yours?”

  Neville looked vaguely startled, then grinned in agreement. “Much the same. Do you still wish to visit Paris? Might I come with you?”

  It was Blanche’s turn to be startled. Neville? In Paris? She could scarcely persuade him from London long enough to oversee Anglesey. She would never in a million years imagine Neville going to Paris. The idea alarmed her thoroughly.

  “Do you run mad?” she asked. “Whyever would you go to Paris?”

  The disarming grin disappeared behind his usual cool demeanor. “A momentary flight of fantasy, I suppose. I must speak with you in the morning, but you look weary. I won’t delay you now.”

  Relieved and concerned, Blanche watched him disappear into his study. Blanche retreated to her chamber and waved away her maid with a plea for some time alone. She would make certain everyone had retired behind closed doors before sneaking down the back steps to let Fiona in. She wished Michael had taught his protégé how to let herself in and out as he did.

  * * *

  Leaving the door of his study cracked open, Neville waited for the sound of footsteps in the hall. He’d seen the shadow hiding in the shrubbery. This time, he meant to catch the Irish bastard before he could sneak into Blanche’s chamber. And then he was going to nail the bastard’s hide to the wall and flail him within an inch of his life.

  Twenty-seven

  Fiona heard the click of the back door latch from where she hid behind the yew, but she’d seen two of the kitchen staff sitting on the steps of the servants’ entrance, and she didn’t dare risk creeping past them. One by one the lights in upper windows went out, then someone hissed at the courting pair from the kitchen, and the two returned inside.

  With a sigh as much of weariness as relief, Fiona crept to the garden door. She wanted her own little bed again, her cracked water pitcher with the pretty shamrocks on it, the lace curtains blowing in the fresh breeze from the open window. She wanted no more of this hiding in the stench of filthy attics and alleys, eating what she could find. She’d give a year of her life right now for a good bowl of porridge. And she hated porridge.

  But Seamus and William were all she had. Should they hang, she would not only be forced to this life forever, but she would have no family or home at all.

  She found the inside back stairs, and stayed on the side of the treads to avoid squeaks. Not that a duke’s stairs would squeak, she supposed. He probably had a man who went about all day killing squeaks. But she feared running afoul of one he may have missed.

  Lost in her sarcastic thoughts, Fiona almost missed the thin line of light from the study door. She’d learned the arrangement of all the rooms in her prior visits. She knew the duke used that room, and that he’d come home early this evening. But she must go past it to reach Blanche.

  She debated going to the next floor, then coming down the stairs on the other side. But that route took her too near the servants’ sleeping quarters. Besides, by now the duke was probably snoring over a glass of brandy or deeply immersed in some weighty tome. He would never notice one small footstep in all this echoing vastness.

  The instant she reached the line of light, the door flew open, and a hand grabbed her.

  With a shriek, Fiona fought the hold, but a hard fist clutched her as the door slammed shut. Within seconds, she had her back against the door with the Duke of Anglesey scowling at her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing sneaking about like that?” he demanded. He seemed more puzzled than angry. Fiona studied the duke’s aristocratically long face, trying to read his mind, but she knew too little about this man to begin to guess. Impatiently, he swept a hank of hair from his eyes. She smiled at the gesture, and surprise momentarily replaced the scowl. For a duke, he had a lot to learn about intimidation.

  “I didn’t want to wake your butler,” she answered pertly.

  “That’s a pity, because now I’ll have to do it when I have him call for a constable,” the duke growled, leaving his guarded stance to prowl back and forth. “I’d suggest you come up with a better excuse than that. What relation are you to O’Toole?”

  That seemed an odd tack under the circumstances, but Fiona shrugged it off. “None, that I’m aware of. I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  “Ladies do not sneak about other people’s homes in the dead of night while wearing boy’s trousers,” he returned irritably, ignoring her comment.

  “They do if they don’t want to be caught,” she answered honestly enough. “I think you’d best summon Lady Blanche, if you’re worried about what ladies do. I don’t think gentlemen usually stand behind closed doors with them unchaperoned unless they’re married. Or betrothed,” she added wickedly.

  “You’re no more lady than O’Toole is gentleman.” But he looked anxiously toward the door. “Why are you looking for Blanche?”

  Honesty had its limits. She didn’t know this man. He represented a powerful government she despised with all her heart and soul. Even O’Toole had gone to Lady Blanche instead of the duke, and that said much when a man preferred talking to a woman instead of another man. She didn’t think the duke would appreciate her family’s predicament.

  “Because I’m hungry and I want to go home,” she answered, hedging the truth.

  They both heard the footsteps in the hall. Blanche had decided to investigate. Fiona had spent too much time on the streets to mistake the indecisive look on the duke’s face. She had no more desire to be caught alone with the gentleman than he did with her. With a mocking smile, she curtsied, and slipped out the door.

  Blanche looked startled when Fiona emerged in the hall in front of her. She cast a suspicious look in the direction of the lighted study, but Fiona grabbed her arm and hurried back toward her chambers.

  “What took you so long?” Blanche asked as they entered the bedchamber and closed the door behind them.

  Fiona curled up in a satin brocade bed chair and wrapped a lacy coverlet around her to stop her shivering. “Your servants don’t go to bed early,” she said evasively. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I’m scared to death and
don’t know what else to do.”

  “Why did you come here? Why not Dillian?” Wearing a silk wrapper that flowed around her feet and hands, Blanche paced, creating a breeze of her own that billowed the frail silk.

  “The marquess has no power,” Fiona answered defiantly. “He is all that is kind, but he can do nothing. I need someone with the power to open cell doors.”

  Blanche halted and turned to stare. “Cell doors? Is Michael in prison?”

  If she weren’t so frightened, Fiona would smile at this blatant proof of her suspicions.

  Perhaps she ought to say yes. Would that gain the lady’s aid? But she couldn’t lie so cruelly. Trying to remain calm, Fiona said, “Not O’Toole. My brother and uncle. In Ireland. I just heard tonight. They’ll hang or waste away and die like all the others who disappear in Dublin prison and never come out.”

  Blanche looked stricken. She clenched and unclenched her hands, staring at the wall as if she sought the answer there. Fiona had some inkling of how much she asked of the lady. Society had no sympathy for the Irish or their causes. They certainly had no sympathy for traitors. Blanche must somehow persuade His Grace to act on her behalf, because she had no power of her own.

  With a sigh, Fiona pushed from the chair. “I’m sorry. I should never have come. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  Blanche gave her a curt look that held her in place. “It’s said that money can buy anything. We’ll try the truth of that statement.”

  Fiona blinked. “My lady?”

  “You’ll sleep here tonight. I’ll call a coach in the morning. We’re going to Ireland.”

  * * *

  Michael gazed up at the cold stone walls of Dublin prison and shuddered at the grim exterior. He’d spent this last week or more finding out all that he could about the prison, its workings, and its inhabitants. He liked little of what he’d discovered. If Fiona’s relations were inside, they could be too ill by now to even attempt escaping. And he knew of no other way out short of escape. The system of justice here moved slowly when it moved at all.