Patrica Rice Page 3

  * * *

  Blanche fought back the urge to cry as she gazed out on the lawn below. She had always considered tears a highly impractical solution and despised the vaporish maidens who gave into them.

  She supposed she really didn’t have a problem in the general run of things. She knew perfectly well that within a short walk lived people who struggled every minute of their lives just to put food into their mouths. Others fought terrible illnesses or barely survived with crippled or missing limbs. Napoleon’s wars had destroyed so much. She had nothing to complain about other than too much wealth, too little respect, and an empty future bereft of love, family, or any of the things that gave life true meaning.

  Michael couldn’t know how much those few weeks after the fire had meant to her. He’d taken care of her as her family never had, taught her to play, and to protect herself. She’d never practiced deception in her foolish life until Michael had showed her how to hide in clear sight.

  Blanche hadn’t heard Michael enter, but she knew when he had. O’Toole’s sudden appearance worsened her melancholy. Sometimes, she wasn’t quite certain he was human. He had the most amazing way of knowing exactly what she thought and felt. Only Michael didn’t offer comforting words and platitudes like everyone else. No, Michael tended to hurl things if she was angry, or twirl things in the air to make her smile, or kiss her when she needed to know she was still attractive. He meant nothing by any of it.

  Blanche turned and watched as Michael finished pulling what looked like the Anglesey emeralds out of the ear of a petite waif wearing an old gown she’d given her maid. Blanche couldn’t decide whether she should be more amazed at seeing the emeralds, which she’d thought locked in a box in her room, or at the laughing child/woman who so resembled Michael. She should scold him for playing fast and loose with her valuables, but the child held her fascination.

  Not once did she think that a man who could rifle her jewelry box might help himself to more than the gems. Michael’s eccentric propensities expanded with the years, but never had he harmed a friend. Blanche suspected he skirted the law with frequency, but only in what he considered the best of causes. Of course, should he decide someone else needed her emeralds more than she did, he was quite capable of rearranging her wealth to suit his Robin Hood idea of justice.

  But she could almost read his mind when she saw the child who looked so like him. He was hoping he’d found family. A lump caught in her throat. “I trust the necklace will magically return to the box in the same way it appeared?”

  “Repetition is so boring,” Michael answered as he fastened the jewels around her throat.

  He wasn’t as tall as his brother, but his proximity unnerved her. She had forgotten what his skilled hands felt like against her skin.

  “Baubles like these are meant for admiring, not keeping in darkness. There, now you look like a duchess.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  “I am not a duchess. Will you please make the introductions?” Recovering her composure, Blanche nodded at the girl hiding behind him.

  “Lady Blanche, Fiona MacOwen, Catholic, Irish, and if I do not mistake, a lass in dire need of a protector. Shall we give her to Neville?”

  That would serve the damned duke right, but if Blanche read the excitement in Michael’s eyes correctly, the protector he had in mind was himself, curse his Robin Hood hide.

  Four

  Not certain she hid her irritation well, Blanche gestured for Miss MacOwen to take a seat. She wished she could judge the girl’s age, but the cynical green eyes didn’t match the childishly smooth complexion, and the ill-fitting gown with the high, round neckline revealed nothing of her figure other than her lack of stature. She could be anywhere from fifteen to thirty.

  “Now, Miss MacOwen, perhaps you would tell Lady Blanche why you thought to make London on your own,” Michael suggested as he bounced on the balls of his feet. His restlessness seldom allowed him to alight anywhere. Blanche knew he shoved his fists in his pockets to keep from lifting the delicate bric-a-brac from the mantel and tossing it into the air. Since some of the figurines were a century old, she was grateful for his restraint.

  Miss MacOwen blinked her wide green eyes with deceptive innocence. “I wish to visit my aunt, my lady. I meant no trouble for you or anyone, but Mr. O’Toole insisted we come here first.”

  Blanche could see the lie in her eyes. She sent Michael a questioning glance. He shrugged his shoulders in reply. Her curiosity demanded satisfaction. “All right, Miss MacOwen, we will endeavor to see you safely to your aunt’s. London is no place for a lady on her own. Do you know your aunt’s direction?”

  Uncertainty flickered in Miss MacOwen’s eyes, but she answered firmly enough. “Elton Avenue, just off Half Moon Street, I believe. I’m certain I’ll have no difficulty finding it.”

  Blanche glanced at Michael for confirmation of her suspicions. Half Moon Street was in the Covent Garden area. It contained respectable enough houses, but some of the inhabitants were actresses from the theater, installed in the houses by their wealthy protectors. She had never heard of Elton Avenue, but if it led off Half Moon in the wrong direction, it could easily fall into the notorious slums of Seven Dials. Michael’s grim expression confirmed her fears.

  “Miss MacOwen, does your aunt expect your arrival?” Blanche asked carefully. No decent aunt would lure a child to the nefarious confines of Seven Dials.

  Miss MacOwen sat back in her chair, crossed her hands in her lap, and stared at Blanche defiantly. “That is unimportant. I must reach my aunt. If you cannot help me, I shall go on my own. I will happily reimburse your maid for the clothing as soon as I am able.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Lily only gave you a gown that didn’t look good on herself,” Blanche answered wryly. With relief, she noted amusement lighten the girl’s expression. Perhaps Miss MacOwen wasn’t too thick-headed to realize they meant no harm. “Of course we’ll help you. I’ll have my coach and driver take you to your aunt as soon as they return. I just sent them off with my cousin, so it might be a day or so. I hope that doesn’t matter.”

  Blanche watched the girl’s gaze dart nervously from her to Michael. Michael would know she lied. She owned carriages and horses aplenty. But the longer they kept Miss MacOwen here, the more time they had for investigating this “aunt” and ensuring the girl’s safety. Michael now hummed and tossed coins from his pockets into the air, apparently oblivious to their conversation.

  Miss MacOwen nodded reluctantly. “Sure, and time is of the essence, my lady, but if you think it best.”

  “You wouldn’t like walking all the way to London wearing boy’s clothes and arriving at your aunt’s looking like a ragamuffin would you? And that would certainly take as much time as waiting for the coach. It’s decided then. Shall you have tea with us?”

  Another hour passed before Blanche was able to send Miss MacOwen on a tour of the house with the housekeeper so she could confront Michael alone. She had learned Michael’s tendency to disappear when things became complicated or emotions ran high. As Fiona left with the housekeeper, Blanche glared at the intelligent but elusive man immersed in an illustrated history of the Tudors. “Has no one taught you it is rude to read while entertaining guests?”

  Michael looked up and in the blink of an eye, removed himself from the sixteenth century to the present. “Fiona isn’t a guest. She’s a disaster waiting to happen. There’s no such thing as Elton Avenue. It’s Elton Alley, and I’ll not punish your ears with a description of the inhabitants. Suffice it to say, it’s not a place for young girls. I’ll ride into the city and see if I can find this aunt. I wish you could have pried a name from her.”

  “Since she’s likely lying about the name she’s given us, I don’t imagine she’d tell the truth about her aunt, either. Did you see her hands? She’s gently bred, Michael. They’re red and cracked from whatever she’s done lately, because they’ve never been submitted to such treatment before. And she’s nervous, so nervous she
clung to her teacup to keep from chewing her fingernails. At one point, she even shoved her hands under her to steady them.”

  “She doesn’t have any fingernails left to chew,” he said dryly, putting down the book and taking the seat beside Blanche. “I’ve tried all I know to work her tongue loose, but she keeps close guard on it. I tried ale, but she won’t drink the stuff.”

  Blanche grimaced. “Can’t blame her for that. Perhaps some sherry this evening, on top of wine at dinner. How long do you think we can hold her before she leaves on her own?”

  “Not long. I’ll leave for London this evening. I have the feeling she thinks someone is after her, and she may bolt to protect us from whatever she fears.”

  Blanche suffered a twinge of alarm, then realizing Michael would never have brought danger here, she calmed enough to answer sensibly. “Surely she must realize she’s safe in Anglesey with an army of servants between her and the outside world.”

  Michael shrugged and idly shredded one of the tea cakes the maid had not yet removed. “Abused children never feel safe. Someone or something has terrified her.”

  His hostess sat hesitantly upon the gold sofa, her frail gown a bare wisp of material over curves so slender Michael longed to mold them in his hands. He stared down at his hands in incredulity. He’d used them for many things. Other men learned by reading books or listening to lectures, but he learned by touching. He could build a house of bricks and straw, or of jewels and gold. He’d molded clay and dough in his lifetime.

  He’d never wasted time giving thought to molding breasts. But at the sight of this lady far beyond his limited means, physical desire flooded through him. Hastily, he rose and headed for the door.

  “I think she’ll talk more freely when we’re in private,” Blanche said, jarring him back from the dark alleys where his thoughts had strayed.

  “That’s what I hoped.” With door latch safely in hand, he could think more clearly. He had hoped talk might reduce the evidence of his desire, but Blanche drifted closer, and his body reacted accordingly. He opened the door, prepared for escape.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “We’ll have an early supper, and I’ll draw her out while you linger in the dining room.”

  Michael could feel Blanche’s quizzical gaze, but he didn’t dare meet her eyes. “Talk about her family. Usually, the trouble lies there. I’ll check on the horses.”

  Michael fled the room. Dragging in a deep breath, he took the stairs to the stable. He never shared himself with others, not even Gavin. But with Blanche, it was too easy, like turning his face to the sun and burning it in consequence.

  So he saddled a horse and fled into the dusk, leaving Blanche to deal with Fiona on her own. By tomorrow, perhaps he would have learned a few things about Elton Alley and its inhabitants and be better prepared for dealing with Fiona’s problems. Nothing would prepare him for dealing with Lady Blanche.

  * * *

  Blanche wished she knew more curse words when Michael didn’t appear for dinner. She knew perfectly well the scoundrel was capable of leaving without a farewell, but she couldn’t believe he’d leave her alone with this Irish mystery. Miss MacOwen watched with curiosity as Blanche sent her butler in search of the missing guest.

  “Mr. O’Toole tends to forget the time,” Blanche explained, keeping a friendly smile on her lips. “I do believe he lives in a world of his own.”

  Miss MacOwen’s cynical look matched her response. “From what I’ve noticed of Mr. O’Toole, he believes this world is his own. Do you know him well?”

  Blanche offered her guest a glass of sherry since she felt in need of it herself. To her surprise, the girl accepted it. Perhaps she was a little beyond childhood after all.

  “I suppose he’s sort of a cousin-in-law,” she replied in response to the question. “My cousin is married to his brother. But I can’t say that anyone knows him well.”

  Miss MacOwen nodded in agreement. “He’s that much like Seamus, after all. The resemblance is remarkable. It’s that surprising I find it hearing an O’Toole married to English aristocracy. Perhaps I should have visited your foyne country sooner.”

  Blanche heard the mockery in this speech, but she had no desire to explain O’Toole was the adopted brother of an American and not in the least Irish. Even she didn’t understand his masquerade. Michael simply had many names and many appearances.

  Nethers, the butler, returned quickly with the announcement that the gentleman had departed earlier in the afternoon. Wishing she could fling her glass into the fireplace and throw a royal tantrum, Blanche managed a polite nod of indifference and gestured toward the doorway to the dining chamber. “Shall we dine, then, Miss MacOwen? It seems we must entertain ourselves this evening.”

  The girl’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion at Nether’s announcement. “What does he mean, Mr. O’Toole has departed? I don’t mean to be dumped here like a stray dog.”

  The mocking Irish accent quickly disappeared with the girl’s rising ire, Blanche noticed. But she was too angry with O’Toole to take the youngster’s bait. “You needn’t fear for yourself, Miss MacOwen. Or shall I call you Fiona? You may call me Blanche, if you wish. There’s not much point in formality if we’re to deal with O’Toole together. The man is infuriating beyond all else, but he’ll keep his word. He’ll return to take you into the city. He’ll just do it at his own time and pace.”

  “And you endure this?” Fiona asked, following her into the dining room.

  Blanche took her time taking a seat and signaling the servants to begin serving while forming an answer. “Does one choose to endure thunderstorms, will-o’wisps, or other acts of nature?” she asked. “They happen. Michael is much the same.”

  She smiled in satisfaction as Fiona sipped thoughtfully at the excellent wine. She would have the girl talking before dinner ended.

  “He is much more forceful than my brother, no doubt,” Fiona said. “But he is still a bit of a leprechaun, isn’t he? I would never suspect him of being gentry. No wonder I couldn’t place him as beggar or actor or any of the other things I thought him.”

  Blanche tried thinking of Michael as forceful and widened her eyes as she realized the word fit. Back in the days after the fire when she feared everything and everyone, Michael had appeared no more than a laughing ne’er-do-well. But that was the appearance he’d wanted to give her. Now that she could look back on that time, she could see that Michael had been fierce in his protection, forcing even his aristocratic brother into doing his will.

  She wasn’t certain she liked that realization. She preferred thinking of Michael as a genial companion, one who could make her laugh and think at the same time. Frowning, she stabbed her fork into the delicate sole until it splintered. “Michael would be the first to tell you he isn’t gentry. He’s not even an O’Toole. And he doesn’t claim his brother’s name of Lawrence either. Michael is just Michael, as the wind is just the wind. Mostly, he is excessively annoying.”

  Blanche watched as the footman refilled Fiona’s wine glass. “You spoke of a Seamus. Is he your brother? Is he as annoying as Michael?”

  “And that’s sartin,” Fiona muttered. “Men have no heads a’tall, have they? ’Tis like God carved their faces out of trees and stuck them on their necks so they had something to talk through.”

  Blanche laughed. She couldn’t help it. She doubted she had anything at all in common with this young Irish runaway, but they had much the same frame of mind: men were useless pieces of baggage.

  “I’ll be certain to pass that on to my cousin Neville. He’s forever telling me to marry so he may deal with someone sensible. I suppose that means he needs another tree to talk to.”

  Fiona laughed. For a moment, Fiona was an the attractive, carefree young lady. Shiny copper curls framed her heart-shaped face, emphasizing eyes so much like Michael’s it was eerie.

  “I like you, my lady. I thought English ladies all stiff and proper and haughty, but I’m after seein’ it’s silly o
f me to make such generalizations. I’m thanking you for taking me in, but how do you know I’ll not be robbing you blind during the night?”

  Blanche signaled for the next remove. “I would say because Michael trusts you, but perhaps it is more practical to answer that you would fall over a dozen footmen before you could get out the door. Now let us find more pleasant topics. Is your brother younger or older than you are?”

  Fiona grimaced. “Seamus is not a more pleasant topic. He is years older in age, but years younger in mind. He thinks he can single-handedly save all of Ireland and return our lands to what they ought to be. Fool that he is, he believes the tales our uncle told us as children, of Irish earls and gallant knights and glory days gone by. He cannot understand that the past is dead, that we must look ahead and carve out a future instead.”

  Blanche hadn’t been prepared for what sounded suspiciously like a political diatribe. She knew very little about Irish politics other than that the Irish had always caused trouble and that Catholics were unfairly despised by many. She had enough to deal with here in England without exploring the problems of Ireland, but it seemed as if she must listen if she were to help Michael learn more of his little stray.

  “Glory can put bread in your mouths if it represents the glory of wealth or power,” she said dryly. “We have enough of that thinking here. Does your brother attend school?”

  Fiona sent her a bitter glance. “Hardly. But that is of little account now. When do you expect your coach’s return?”

  “That depends on too many things for me to answer, but I should hope by sometime tomorrow. Perhaps Michael seeks other transportation. If your aunt does not expect you, can there be any reason to hurry?” Blanche couldn’t tell if two glasses of wine and a glass of sherry would loosen the girl’s tongue sufficiently, but she signaled for more in precaution.

  “The sooner I stop this, the sooner I can keep Seamus out of it. Each day brings us closer to destruction. As much as I despise your bloody English parliament, I would not see them…” Fiona abruptly shoved her chair from the table. “You must excuse me, my lady. I do not feel well.” She fled from the room.