Patrica Rice Page 4

  Startled by the hasty departure, Blanche stared at the grandiose doors through which her guest had flown. She would not see them what? The words sounded ominous.

  She pushed back her chair and gestured to one of the footmen. “Send my maid to look after Miss MacOwen. And have tea sent into the salon.”

  In the salon, Blanche picked up the novel she’d been reading. She sipped her tea and tried to concentrate, but her mood wasn’t on Sir Walter Scott’s romantic fantasies. She wanted fantasies of her own. Babies like Dillian’s. She thought she might make a good mother, certainly a better mother than an estate administrator.

  Perhaps she should marry Neville. He could give her children, although she didn’t like considering the act that would create those children with him. Dillian had explained the marriage bed with reference to soulful communication. Blanche couldn’t fool herself into believing she had any soulful communication with Neville. Not like she had with Michael.

  That thought so startled her that she dropped the book in her lap. Michael?

  Rising, Blanche paced the rug just as Michael was wont to do, although she kept a careful distance from the fire. She’d been kissed by other men, but only that one kiss bestowed by Michael lingered in her memory. Could she possibly persuade him to kiss her again?

  And what then? What if Michael aroused her as no one else did? That thought terrified her as much as the fire. Michael was not husband material. She wanted a home and family. Michael would go insane trapped by four walls and the enormous responsibilities of estate and family.

  Sighing, she set aside the sherry. He didn’t pursue her onto private balconies or into cozy mazes as her other suitors did. He didn’t even stay to dinner when invited, the obstinate wretch.

  Five

  Clad once more in his baggy, frayed frock coat, Michael whistled his way through a London spring dusk. Coal fumes choked the moisture-laden air, but the hint of warm breezes carried laughter through lighted windows and lured strollers out to idle in the streets or sit on doorsteps. Michael didn’t waste his time judging their habits any more than he wasted time judging his own. He was here to refresh his memory of Elton Alley. The fact that he should be sitting down to dinner with two lovely women had no relevance.

  A painted woman called seductively from a doorway. Michael tipped his tall hat in greeting, gave her a quick, appreciative smile, and continued on his way. It annoyed him that he felt no tug of desire for a half-naked, obviously willing woman when he could scarcely look at a chaste lady like Blanche without feeling the pangs of lust. God had seen fit to play many jokes on him, but this one bothered him the most.

  He had nothing against women. He had idly contemplated marrying someday should he find a woman willing to accept his eccentricities and vagabond life. He was more than a little jealous of his brother’s rapport with his wife. But he could never support a woman like Blanche, or even treat her as she deserved. So why couldn’t he find a more affordable woman to his liking?

  His solemn vow to never chance leaving a woman with a child he’d never know ensured that he’d never be satisfied unless he married.

  That was neither here nor there. He’d learned to walk through this world of woe without railing constantly at those things he could not change. He knew his limits. He couldn’t have Blanche, but he could work his way through Elton Alley looking for any respectable creature resembling Fiona’s aunt. The sooner he saw Fiona settled, the faster he could take himself from temptation. He didn’t see much hope in it, but he could try.

  He chatted with a ragged urchin selling wilting snowdrops obviously recently dug from someone’s garden. The girl gave him a gap-toothed grin and in nearly incomprehensible English denied any knowledge of an Irish female living in these parts. Michael spun her a coin, and she dropped a pretty curtsy in return.

  Still whistling, Michael filched a pocket watch from a drunken young lordling staggering from the doorway of his mistress. A large gold button disappeared from the coat tails of a liveried footman hurrying through the street to set up an assignation for his employer. A reticule of coins slipped from the pocket of a self-important old woman wearing the wig and copious skirts of a previous era. Michael knew her species well. It was her sort who trapped innocent young women into a profession that would ruin them.

  Feeling no guilt for his depredations, he juggled his acquisitions as he sauntered through the narrow, crowded alley. No fancy gas lamps illuminated this corner of the world’s wealthiest city. The occasional glitter of a linkboy’s lantern or weak candlelight from a window provided all the illumination he needed to assess the inhabitants.

  He lingered on a corner, juggling his wealth for all to see, and several ladies of the evening watched him. He grinned, and they called sultry comments. A coin dropped from the reticule he juggled, and he flung it in their direction, sending them in a laughing sprawl to catch it. Ultimately, they had no answers to his questions either.

  Not until he reached the narrowest, darkest stretch of the lane did Michael find any clue to what he sought. By this time, he’d distributed his ill-gotten goods to various street urchins and young prostitutes who needed the gold more than the previous owners. None of them knew of the Irish woman. He hoped they would use the coins for food instead of gin, but he knew better than to ask. With his hands in his empty pockets, he traversed the most dangerous part of the street, whistling an Irish ditty.

  “Seamus! Damn you, is it mad you are, coming here like this? Get your feckin’ arse inside this minute.” A rough hand grabbed Michael’s shirt collar, shoving him toward an unlit doorway.

  His captor smelled of ale, unwashed sweat, and mutton grease, Michael noted as he bounced off the solid door of the dilapidated brick residence. Without turning, he knew the man was broader and heavier than himself, with fists like small hams. Untroubled, Michael dropped to his palms on the top step and shoved off with a quick flip. He landed neatly on the street at his attacker’s side.

  “Beg pardon, my good sir, but I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said in his prosiest tones. “My friends don’t generally treat me like a sack of flour.” Deftly, he brushed at his nearly trampled hat and returned it to his head, sizing up his opponent as he did so. The man was taller and had weight but no muscle on his side. Fully confident of his greater strength, Michael didn’t bother seeking a weapon.

  “Seamus, what the hell...” The burly man squinted in the poor light, seeking a better look at his captive. “What’ve ye done to yerself, lad?”

  “Obviously found better companions,” Michael responded cheerily, holding out his hand. “Michael O’Toole at your service, sir. May I help you find someone?” Was it possible if he looked like Fiona, he might also look like another member of the family?

  The brute shook his head in confusion. “If ye ain’t Seamus, did Seamus send ye? We need the gilt or all’s lost.”

  A blowzy woman appeared in the window above them. Leaning out, she called, “Who’re you talking to, Rob? Come on in now, the others are waiting.”

  The reddish color of her hair had no true resemblance to Fiona’s naturally copper curls. Although not yet past her prime, this woman possessed the pasty gray coloring of unhealthy living. Her dull eyes focused on Michael.

  “Seamus? Are you out of your mind, boy? Get yourself in here immediately.”

  She might have passed for pretty in a better light. Michael politely tipped his hat. “Michael O’Toole at your service. May I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?”

  The woman gave his bulky companion a quizzical look. “Is he drunk?”

  The man heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “Not the lad. Has he got some relation?”

  When the woman looked puzzled, Michael had a good idea what would follow next. Grabbing his high-crowned hat, he ducked the man’s outstretched hand. “I assure you, my good people, my name is not Seamus, and I’m not the least bit Irish. But I have come in search of a respectable lady who might go by the name of MacOwen. Do you
know aught of her?”

  Now they both looked puzzled, and Michael sighed in resignation. Fiona had lied about her name or they’d recognize it.

  If they were up to no good, as he suspected, they’d not be happy with his spying. The bloke still foolishly thought he had the upper hand. Time to disillusion him. With a cheerful grin, Michael bowed. “Sure and it’s glad I am to make the acquaintance of both of ye. I’ll be after seein’ ye now.”

  And with that mocking speech he took to his heels even before the bully’s roar of rage echoed down the alley.

  Michael had no trouble darting in and out of the crowd, leaping over outstretched legs, dodging trash heaps, and merrily begging pardon as he leapt past the skirts of two soiled doves engaged in a loud dispute. The bulky man chasing after him had no such luck. Michael could hear him crashing into bins and tripping over deliberately positioned little feet. He’d salted the street well with his coins. The recipients would amuse themselves by not letting him come to any immediate harm.

  Reaching the wider arena of Covent Garden, Michael slowed his pace, removing his hat and coat as he snaked through the crowd. Disappearing into a used clothing stall, he emerged a minute later wearing a loose smock and a cloth cap. As his pursuer shoved past, looking angrily from side to side, Michael whistled down another alley.

  * * *

  After a restless night during which she’d posted footmen at all the doors as a precaution against uncertainty, Blanche wearily descended the stairs to the breakfast parlor. Garbed in one of Neville’s frock coats, Michael was already there. He greeted her with a bow and handed her a plate prepared with her favorite selections. He would make a splendid footman, but a perfectly wretched employee, she observed, as he took the seat at her elbow and returned to the paper he’d discarded with her arrival.

  “How long do you think it would take for anyone to miss you should I shoot you between the eyes and bury your body in the garden?” she asked while sipping her coffee and eyeing the bow window that looked out over the garden she had in mind.

  Without putting down his newssheet, Michael caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips, rubbing at her knuckles as he finished perusing the article that held his interest. The shiver of his touch traveled up her arm, tingling her elbow and all parts beyond. He laid the sheet aside and, freeing her hand, produced the smile that always melted her to her toes.

  “Gavin would briefly wonder why I did not appear with some outrageous gift for his birthday. Dillian might put her head together with that irksome Cousin Marian and decide I haven’t annoyed either of them lately and wonder if I’ve set up a mistress. You, my lady, would roast the devil out of them all until they admitted they hadn’t seen me in ages, at which point they would immediately turn your garden upside down in search of my remains. Either that, or they’d just mount a headstone and save themselves the trouble.”

  Blanche fought back a laugh. Part of Michael’s charm was that he wasn’t insensible to his vexatious ways and didn’t deliberately set out to annoy those who loved him. He just had very odd priorities.

  “I don’t suppose you would save me the mess and bother and just climb into that hole if I had the gardener dig one, would you? I promise you a very fine headstone.”

  He grinned and tilted her heavily sugared coffee to her lips. “A little more sweetening is needed, I believe. I won’t get far with you in this humor.”

  Blanche snatched the cup from him and watched over the rim as she sipped. Michael had acquired a respectable cravat and a morning coat of bottle green kerseymere from Neville’s wardrobe. His features were almost too strong for handsomeness. Unlike many redheads, he had no freckles, and his skin had weathered to a light brown she found more attractive than the pallor of most gentlemen. Deep-set eyes of laughing green watched her in a way that made her feel as if he saw right into her mind, which created a dangerous hum in her lower parts.

  The sensuous fullness of his lower lip caught her interest, and she remembered that she wanted to know his kiss again.

  Michael hastily stood up and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep well?” he asked with seeming nonchalance.

  His abrupt retreat startled Blanche. Had her thoughts been so very obvious? Hiding her embarrassment, she pursued a more important topic. “That’s not important. Did you find Fiona’s aunt?”

  He returned to the table bearing a steaming cup. “I learned that she deals with dangerous people and knows nothing of the name MacOwen, providing the creature I uncovered was her aunt. Seems she thinks I resemble someone named Seamus.”

  “Her brother,” Blanche admitted. “She gave me the name last night. Maybe we should just let her go. She could be a criminal of some sort.”

  “Can you really think so?” Michael chided. “Or is it just more convenient?”

  Blanche poked at her sausage. “You can’t always be right.”

  “Just take my word that I’ve had enough experience to know when a child is in trouble. This one’s in over her head. What else did you learn of her last night?”

  “That her brother’s in trouble and she’s in over her head,” she said grudgingly. “But she’s too bright to let me pry out more. She knew when she’d said too much and fled the room.”

  Michael whistled softly and drank half his coffee before replying. “I don’t suppose she gave details. It’s a pity we can’t just tie people up and prevent them from hurting themselves until they see sense. What do we do now?”

  Bemused that he actually asked her opinion, Blanche watched him warily. He seemed perfectly sincere. All the air left her lungs when he raised troubled eyes to meet hers. She desperately longed to be useful.

  “Fiona gave me no details of her trouble. We could try taking her into London,” she suggested. “Perhaps stay at my townhouse. Then we can take a carriage and footmen with us as far as Half Moon Street. How far can we take a carriage into Elton Alley?”

  “Not far,” he admitted. “It’s a medieval cow path. I don’t want you anywhere near the place. We’ll travel in daylight with several husky footmen. I might call on Gavin’s relations to accompany us. I don’t know that I dare show my face.” He grinned. “I had a bit of a ruckus with one of the fellows last night. He’ll remember me.”

  Alarm shot through her. “You weren’t hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I wanted to draw them out and I did. Unfortunately, I apparently look too much like the lady’s brother. They’ll remember me no matter how I disguise myself. Do you think you could persuade her to send a card around to her aunt and wait for a reply?”

  “We might try. Fiona’s scared. She might agree if she thinks she’s safe. The trick is persuading her to trust us. I don’t think she’s accustomed to trusting.”

  Michael frowned at his empty cup. “No, I don’t think so, either. I wish she would give us her real name. I’d like to find her family.”

  Blanche signaled a footman. “Send my maid for Miss MacOwen. And tell her we’ll leave for London shortly.”

  The footman disappeared down the narrow servants’ corridor.

  When she turned back to her plate, Michael asked abruptly, “Why haven’t you married Neville yet?”

  Blanche’s heart skipped. Disconcerted, she looked away from his all-too discerning gaze and stared out the window again, wishing for some sight of nodding daffodil heads to distract her. “I see no purpose in it. We grew up together. It would be much like marrying a brother. I don’t think I shall marry. Men are too much of a nuisance, and I enjoy doing as I will.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “You’re not like Gavin’s dragon lady. You want someone to look after you, someone you can care for in return. You’ve never had a proper family, and you want one.”

  Tears gathered in Blanche’s eyes. Setting her chin, she glared at him. “I am not some helpless scatterwit who needs a caretaker, thank you. I’ll have you know—”

  The footman interrupted, returning with Blanche’s maid in a panic. “Oh, my la
dy! She was asleep just moments ago, I assure you, ma’am. I checked on her myself. And then when she wasn’t there, I thought she had come down to join you. I’ve sent Brown looking for her. Mayhap she became lost in the corridor?”

  Before Blanche could reply, Michael rose and strode for the front hall.

  With resignation, Blanche nodded to the maid. “Have the house and grounds searched, and check to see if anything is missing. I’m quite certain she’s not lost.” Rising, she followed Michael up the stairs, knowing perfectly well what they would find. Or wouldn’t, as the case might be.

  If she was anything like Michael at all, Fiona had presumably overheard their conversation. And like Michael, she’d escaped like a wisp on a breeze at the first sign of confrontation.

  Six

  Blanche examined Fiona’s note for the hundredth time. “Can Parliament be made to close early? What can it possibly mean?” Nothing good, but she knew that.

  “She cannot get far on foot, my lady. We will find her,” Michael said reassuringly as Blanche paced the drawing room.

  “It has been hours and no one has seen her! What if she has been abducted? What if someone came in this house and stole her away? She’s little more than a child, Michael! I promised her safety.” Blanche strode once more to the windows overlooking the carriage drive.

  “Do you always hold yourself responsible for the acts of others?” he asked dryly. “The little brat took herself off. She didn’t even take your maid’s gown. And if your men can’t find her on the road, I know where to look in town.”

  Blanche swung around and stared at him. Michael spun a walking stick of unknown origins between his fingers. In Neville’s tailored coat, he looked too damned much like a gentleman, except for his glare. She wouldn’t want to be Fiona when he found her.