Countess of Scandal (21 page)

He was not that difficult to find. The moon was bright,
the clouds vanished, and thick droplets of blood stood out on the pale gravel. It trailed away into the park, the footprints thick and blurry in the dirt

Will found him collapsed in a pile of old leaves, moaning softly as he clutched at his shoulder. Will knelt down beside him, and as he turned him over, he recognized him. It was Tom O'Neil, the grandson of some of the estate pensioners. He couldn't be more than seventeen—too young to be out marauding at night, or trying to maraud anyway.

But he wore a white badge on his sleeve, the mark of the radical Catholic Defenders, violent allies of the United Irishmen. A badge now stained with blood.

"I see your friends have abandoned you, Tom," Will said.

The boy stared up at him with burning, hate-filled eyes.
^l
1
told them to go on. No sense letting a redcoat like you kill all of us."

Will glanced around cautiously, but it seemed Tom told the truth. He sensed no one else around them, waiting to jump out. But he still held his weapons ready.

"What makes you think I'm going to kill you?" Will asked.

"You shot me!" the boy cried.

"You're alive, aren't you? If you get it seen to soon, it will be nothing. A scar to brag about with your Defender cronies. You're lucky I didn't blast your whole arm off for terrorizing innocent women like my mother."

Despite his dire situation, despite the fear in his young eyes, Tom snorted. "I wouldn't say Lady Moreton is all that
innocent.
Been bleeding her tenants dry for years while you were off fighting for the limeys. But it weren't me who tried to burn her house."

Will felt the chilly night wind on his bare, sweat-streaked back. "I suppose that bush just happened to burst into flames by itself?"

"Don't you ever read the Bible, redcoat? Maybe it
was
me tonight, but that was just a warning. Weren't me the last time."

"Then who was it?"

"Don't know."

"Oh, I think you do, Tom. And I am tired of no one talking to me." Will suddenly tossed his dagger down, the blade's tip sinking in the dirt right by Tom's head.

The boy's eyes widened, and he tried to roll away. He fell back with a grunt of pain. "I don't know, I swear! Could be one of a dozen groups nearby. But it weren't us. We don't hurt women, not even ones like Lady Moreton."

Will glanced over the wound, still seeping blood. "It looks like you're losing more blood, Tom. We need to get you home to your grandmother."

Tom stared at him in suspicious disbelief. "You would take me home? You're not going to finish me off?"

"I just might But I will take you home on condition that you tell me what I want to know of these dozen groups." Will pulled his dagger from the ground. "Especially any plans they might have for Killinan Castle and the ladies there."

Tom shook his head. "I don't know anything about Killinan, I swear!"

"Oh, Tom, I think you do." Will let the moonlight catch on the blade. "And I think you
will
tell me. Now."

Chapter 16

Part Two, May 1798

I don't know what will become of us. A tithe collector was tossed off a bridge to his death yesterday, and there are nightly raids on local houses by rebels looking for arms. And I have your sisters to worry about! Anna thought someone followed her when she went for a ride last week on our own estate.

Eliza glanced up from her mother's letter, staring sightlessly out her open bedroom window. The spring days had turned hot and dry, with no welcome cool breeze stirring the green leaves. Outside, even now as the sun started to set and the day slid into evening, the sounds of war preparations went on: hammers, the slap of sandbags piling up, the firing of cannons, shouts and cries. It never ended.

She rubbed at her pounding temples with a rosewater-soaked handkerchief. It had been like that in Dublin for months. In March, sixteen United Irish leaders had been
arrested at a meeting at Oliver Bond's house, and now only Edward Fitzgerald was free. But surely he would not be for long. There was a reward of a thousand pounds for his capture.

And the city was caught up in the scandal of the upcoming Kingston trial. The spectacle of a wealthy duke being tried for killing his pregnant daughter's seducer, his own wife's cousin, was a vivid distraction from rebellion, from what was happening in counties all over the Midlands and the south.

Martial law had been declared with free quarters— the forcing of private homeowners to give lodging to soldiers—imposed everywhere. There were rumors of the most violent measures to disarm Kildare. Floggings occurred at every crossroads, and in every village center, there were burnings and rape.

A United Irish suspect captured at Wexford had been pitchcapped, a cap of linen filled with gunpowder and tar slapped on his head and set alight, and in his agony had named names. Certainly more arrests would very soon follow.

And now Eliza's own family was caught in the maelstrom, just as she had long feared. Her mother hated to complain; it was beneath the dignity of a lady, she always said. And dignity and position were all to her. If she wrote these things to Eliza now, matters must be even worse than she said.

Eliza turned back to the letter, smoothing the pages on her desk.

So many of our neighbors have gone. Lady Moreton and your husband's mother at Mount Clare. Even
Lady Conover. No one has yet disturbed the peace here at Killinan, but perhaps I was mistaken to stay here, with what happened to Anna. I fear we have waited too long, though. They say Athey town is already occupied by the rebels.

I have visited Killinan village to assure them of my loyalty to them and to ask for theirs. For have I not cared for them all these years? Yet so many of the young men are gone, and some of our own ash trees have been cut down in the night for pikes. But I am sure we will be safe here; this is our home, after all.

Oh, Eliza, it has been too long since we have seen you or had word from Dublin. I pray for your health and safety. Your ever-loving mama.

Eliza carefully folded the letter. It
must
be bad at Killinan, she thought sadly. Her mother did so pride herself on her self-control, her propriety, her duty. She was called the Angel of Kildare for her goodness and beauty. Between those neatly penned lines, Eliza saw those traits cracking and falling away. Just like everything else in a world catching fire.

She closed her eyes, picturing Killinan in her mind. The green fields, the shelter of the cool woods, the beauty of the gardens. Her home. But now the fields lay empty, even as summer was upon them. The woods cleared for pike handles and the house her great-grandfather had built vulnerable.

And Will—where was he? What was he doing now? Such thoughts plagued her over these months apart from him, returning again and again even as she struggled to
push them away. Remembering and regretting did no good, and yet she could not stop.

She searched the newspapers every day in vain for word of the Thirteenth. Troop movements were guarded, except for the rumors that flew down the streets and around the drawing rooms. Sometimes she had the foolish hope he might write to her.

During the days, she lost herself in writing, in just moving through a fractured life. But at night... at night she could not sleep. The heat and her reeling thoughts kept her awake, tossing in her bed. And that was when she most remembered him.

She remembered everything they did in that very bed. Every whispered word, every kiss, the way he smelled and tasted. How very, very alive she felt in his arms.

Sometimes, also foolishly, she would close her eyes and feel again his head resting on her stomach. The long, rough silk of his hair as she ran her fingers through it, spreading it over her skin. His cool breath, the trace of his touch on her hip. The perfect moments there in the dark, when it was only the two of them. There was no army, no England or Ireland, just Eliza and Will. Nothing could touch them in that enchanted spell.

But that all seemed so very long ago. Years, centuries, rather than mere months. Winter had given way to the combustible heat of summer. Peace to war. Certainty to terrible doubt And she was alone.

Well, not
entirely
alone, she thought as she stared down at her mother's letter.

She reached for her jewel case, lifting the enameled lid. The rosy-gold sunset light caught on the sparkle of diamonds, the glow of pearls, the mellow amber of her
mother's hair combs. She lifted away the top tray to reveal the compartment beneath, which held the real treasures.

The pastel portrait of her with her sisters, which she had carefully removed from its frame and rolled up to place there. Her wedding ring, a reminder of where she had once been and would not return to.

She added her mother's letter and replaced the top tray, shutting it all up. As she reached for the bell to summon Mary, a loud noise suddenly tore through the tense, deceptively peaceful evening.

Eliza ran to the window, leaning over the sill to peer down at the street below. A contingent of soldiers, heavily armed, clustered on her doorstep, pounding on the front door.

Her heart pounding in echo, she slammed the window shut, throwing the latch into place even as it felt utterly futile. If they had come to arrest her, she could hardly lock them out

And what would become of her mother and sisters, then?

She whirled back to the chamber, her gaze darting from desk to dressing table. She had long ago burned all her letters and papers and had even bricked up the hidden cellar doorway. She had never put her name on any of her writings. Even if they did lock her up in Kilmainham Gaol, they would have no evidence.

Not that
evidence
was required, not when all of Ireland was under the iron fist of martial law.

She grabbed her copy of Paine from the bedside table, stuffing it onto a bookshelf between innocuous volumes of poetry. Surely they would not notice it there.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass,
her pink, flushed cheeks, the curls escaping from her scarf bandeau. Quickly, she tidied them as best she could, straightening the filmy fichu in the neckline of her yellow muslin dress. Did she look like a respectable countess?

Strangely, she felt calm. Removed from the scene, as if she watched it from above herself. Was this how those sixteen men felt when Bond's house was raided?

"My lady!" Mary cried, bursting through the bedroom door. She had lost her cap, her eyes bright with panic. From below, Eliza could hear the pounding on the front door getting louder and louder. "My lady, what shall we do?"

"Have the butler answer the door, of course," Eliza answered, turning away from the glass. "What else do we do when there are callers, no matter how rude they are?"

She took the jewel case from her desk, pressing it into Mary's trembling hands. "Keep this safe for me," she said, hurrying out onto the landing.

She peered down at the foyer as the butler opened the door. He had been summoned so quickly, the collar of his usually immaculate coat was askew. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded as an officer pushed past him. . "We've been instructed to search this premises for arms," he answered, staring around at Eliza's flagstone floors, her paintings, and her antique statues of Hermes and Athena and the Chinese vases of summer flowers on marble pedestals.

"Do you know whose house this is?" the butler cried. "The Countess of Mount Clare! And her mother is Lady Killinan."

"We have our orders," the officer said, waving around some papers.

"Orders that I have a right to examine," Eliza called,
making her slow, dignified way down the stairs. "I have no arms here. Even my late husband's fowling pieces were sent long ago to Mount Clare."

The officer gave her a small, reluctant bow. "I'm sorry, my lady, but we have information about this house we must examine."

"This
house?" Eliza took the documents from him, searching the signatures. It was indeed a warrant to look for illegal arms, though she had no doubt they would keep a sharp eye out for other things as well.

Eliza waved her hand. "Be about your task, then. I trust your men will take care with my furnishings."

"As careful as they are able, my lady. We must do a thorough job."

Eliza stepped aside, wrapping her arms around her waist as she watched the troops swarm through her foyer, up the stairs, into the dining and drawing rooms, the morning room, and the library. There was the sound of breaking china, chairs falling to the floor, and ripping fabric.

As careful as they are able,
she thought wryly. But she couldn't help but feel frightened as they swarmed over her property. She had thought everything was destroyed or hidden, but what if she had missed something?

She turned to find some of the servants clustered in the corner, staring at her with frightened eyes. Yet she still felt nothing but that strange, icy calm.

"It is quite all right," she told them soothingly. 'They will finish their business and soon be gone.
Let us go be
low stairs and have a cup of tea...."