Patrica Rice (38 page)

“What book?” That was a facet Michael hadn’t created.

“The family book,” O’Connor responded impatiently. “You need only show them that coin about your neck, and they’ll sign the papers recognizing you as heir to the earldom. Your lovely wife has already had the title and lands researched. They’ve lain in the crown’s coffers since the day they were usurped. It’s just a matter of transferring them to their rightful owner as soon as you present yourself.”

“You found a book with my medallion in it?” Michael asked with disbelief. “You’re more cunning than I thought. I’d like to see that book myself. Did you age the paper properly? Or just fit the loose page between ancient ones? You only saw the coin once. Are you certain you memorized it closely enough?”

O’Connor laughed and winked at Blanche. “He does not believe. That’s what becomes of being a rogue, I suppose. The MacDermots are all liars and thieves when they have to be, but good to the heart of them.”

“You should not tease him,” Blanche protested. “I don’t think he appreciates the humor. Let us just end this charade so you and Seamus may go home again.”

William clucked his tongue at her doubts. “We must have an earl before we can plead our case to the Lords. I’ll admit, I’ll feel safer when I’m elsewhere than Dublin myself. But as an earl’s representative, I’m someone important, and they do not see the O’Connor of Roscommon. And do not doubt that I am an earl’s representative. You see before you the ninth Earl of Aberdare, Michael MacDermot, clear enough, and you, his countess.”

Even though it was utter nonsense, Michael grinned and slapped his arm around his
representative’s
shoulder. “Sure, and it’s that glad I am to hear it, boyo. A penniless Irish earl is all that I’ve aspired to be. Shall we have a wee dram and drink to the auld sod?”

O’Connor threw up his hands in surrender. “You’ll not mock when you see what I have to show you. Perhaps I embroidered a wee bit here and there, but it’s the truth I’m tellin’ now. You’re that infant son the letters speak of. There’s no doubt a’tall.”

Michael winked merrily at Blanche. “Guess you’re an Irish countess after all, my lady. Now will you take my name or must I still call you Lady Blanche?”

“Oh, Lady Aberdare is fine enough with me,” she replied demurely, the laughter in her eyes visible even through lowered lashes. “Just make certain the marriage lines are clear so our son does not have all this to go through again.”

Michael threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

One day later, Michael stood in astonishment before a judge addressing him as
Lord Aberdare
. He stared in disbelief at an ancient volume portraying the hand-minted coin given by the first earl to his only son. The coin matched his own in every detail, and the gilded pages of the volume were solidly bound in leather. He shook it to test it for himself.

O’Connor even brought in a family portrait of the seventh earl to prove the likeness. Michael could scarcely look at the bewigged old man’s eagle eyes staring down from the painting without thinking he should fall on his knees and worship at the portrait’s feet. He didn’t have that kind of aristocratic blood in him.

But the evidence said elsewise. His parents had not only been married, but of the aristocracy.

Still stunned by the judge’s pronouncement, Michael turned to Blanche. When she placed the deeds to his new property in his hands, he shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m really earl and must take responsibility for that whole cantankerous family?” he asked in dismay.

His wife smiled and touched the curve of her abdomen. “As well as responsibility for the family you’ve created.”

“And between us, how many houses do we have?”

Blanche grinned up at him. “Oh, about six or so, depending on which you count.”

He knew he sounded a fool, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ve never had even one before.”

Blanche’s blue gaze pinned him firmly. “You promised you would not disappear without saying farewell,” she reminded him.

Silently, Michael considered the enormous burden of his newly acquired derelict Irish castle, the sprawling wealth of all Blanche’s holdings, and a family that now included everything from a haughty duke to a would-be traitor. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he smiled. “No problem. I shall just learn to juggle houses and families instead of pennies.”

“You would walk into a burning building for me,” she replied confidently.

“To keep you out of it, I would,” he answered, following her toward the door.

“You’re quite mad,” she agreed.

Michael smiled and joy filled him again. “Aye, I’ve already concluded that, and ’tis a fine madness, ’tis.” With the confidence of finally having a name and family, he bent and whispered in her ear as others pushed impatiently from the courtroom. “’Tis a madness called love, I believe. Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

She tilted her face up to his, serenely brushing his lips with her fingertips. “I’ve always known that. I’ve just waited for you to admit it. I love you, Michael Lawrence MacDermot, or whoever you are today. I loved you as O’Toole and I’ll love you as you are tomorrow. I shall always love you. Even though I’ll no doubt regret it in days to come,” she added with a wry truthfulness.

To the accompaniment of his laughter, she took his arm and guided him toward the courtroom door where his new relations awaited him.

An entire village of new relations. Waiting outside the courthouse, they cheered in triumph as the ninth Earl of Aberdare and his countess stepped into the bright light of day.

Roscommon, Ireland
December, 1819

Outside the castle’s library window a late December dawn tinted the horizon a paler gray. Mist swirled at the leaded glass, and a draft clutched at a guttering candle. The men warming themselves near the fire had gone beyond noticing.

“Give him some brandy,” Neville said with irritation as he held his hands to the flames. “I cannot bear those bouncing balls another minute. With luck, he’ll pass out after the first glass.”

At the desk, Gavin glanced up from the papers he pored over. His gaze traveled to his adopted brother who paced up and down the lengthy stone floor, objects of assorted weights and sizes bouncing from hand to hand and occasionally off floor and wall. Gavin had confiscated a medieval dirk earlier, but harness buckles and pewter platters still circled in Michael’s stiff fingers, nothing breakable. Too many of the objects still followed the earth’s pull rather than Michael’s.

“That’s too easy,” Gavin replied, returning to his papers. “Let him suffer.”

Collecting all the items in his hands, Michael turned on the room as if having heard nothing of the previous conversation. “I am going up. I cannot stand it one minute more.”

“Here we go again,” Gavin groaned, laying down his pen. “Seamus,” he called over his shoulder. “Rouse yourself, boy. I’m tired of this job. It’s your turn.”

Seamus lumbered in the direction of the library door. There he settled on a massive mahogany chair beneath the door bolt, crossing his arms over his chest as if the position were a familiar one.

“I rue the day I kept you from sailing off to America,” Michael growled, swinging away and heading across the room. “I’ll leave by way of the window.”

“Do that,” Neville agreed mockingly. “It’s three floors above a rock yard. With any luck, you’ll break your neck.”

Michael flung open the leaded glass and a wintry breeze tore through the room. Behind him, his companions groaned and ran to weigh down papers, books, and other articles. “Why isn’t the scaffolding on this damned side of the house?” The window slammed shut again.

“Because you didn’t want to spend all of Blanche’s money at once,” Neville countered, dropping back to the warm chair by the fire. “You thought you’d waste it in increments, one tottering stone wall at a time.”

“I could have insisted that Seamus and William live at Anglesey,” Michael replied without hostility, pacing the wall and studying it as if looking for a hidden door. “More money goes into that monstrosity than here. I cannot see how even a duke can use a hundred rooms or more when he has no family of his own.”

“You would see it decay until it resembled this damp rot fortress?” Neville asked scornfully. “Anglesey is Blanche’s home. She’s welcome to return anytime she recovers her senses and leaves you behind.”

At some real or imagined cry, Michael stared frantically at the ceiling. His hands clenched. But when no other sound followed, he relaxed and regarded the irritating duke.

Neville had irked him all evening, but Michael understood the other man’s habits. They both needed distraction and for Neville, argument provided it best.

“You’d best search for an heiress, Your Grace, or I’ll persuade Blanche that our child needs more of Anglesey funds for his future. Or better yet, that all the mills need modernizing. The plans for the new one in Manchester are quite enlightening.”

Neville growled and stretched his legs before the fire. “It will take me the next five years of campaigning to persuade parliament into accepting labor laws. I’m earning my keep well enough. I’m amazed, however, that you don’t have your solicitor waiting at the door with a petition for trusteeship. With Blanche incapacitated by childbirth, you’re in a position as her husband to take over the trust. You can rob us all blind anytime you like.”

“I’m what?” Michael whirled around and glared at his antagonist.

“In a position to take over Blanche’s trust.” Neville shrugged without turning around. “Any man with half a brain in his head would have figured that out long ago. Childbirth is one of the reasons a man doesn’t leave his fortune to a woman. It’s much too easy for her husband to step in and take over due to incapacitation.”

“Who wrote that bloody law?” Michael shouted. “Insufferably arrogant men like you I suppose!” He increased his frantic pacing. “She’s not incapacitated. Not any more than a man on a drunk. If wives could take advantage of that law, they’d be in control of most of the fortunes in the country by now. I don’t want any damned part in it.”

Laughter tinted the duke’s reply. “You just don’t want the responsibility of all that money, do you?”

“That’s enough,” Gavin declared, flinging down his pen. “You’ll be throwing sticks and stones next. The petition to address parliament is ready, Neville. Go over it, will you? If I don’t pry these Irish rebels from underfoot soon, I’ll turn them in to the crown myself.”

Seamus hooted. “You’re sore because I beat you at chess.”

“No, I just want to see what’s left of Oxford when you’re done with it,” Gavin mocked.

“I’m after thinkin’ it’s the Americas I’ll be seein’ when it comes down to it, even if I declare myself Protestant to attend your damned school,” Seamus answered. “Parliament will have no kindness for the likes of me and William. And there’s no justice in being cleared because we’re kin to an earl and can claim our mother’s religion. What of the others who languish in Dublin gaol while we go free?”

“You’ll obtain your law degree and see them freed,” Gavin replied coldly. “That’s what this is all about. Michael is nigh unto useless at speechmaking, but you can run for his borough in the Commons. You’ll have his vote and ours in the Lords. You can summon more if you apply your mind to it. Then you can emancipate all the Catholics you want.”

When Michael did not argue his lack of ability at the onerous duties of Parliament, all the library’s inhabitants glanced to where they’d seen him last. The fire cast shadows on an empty wall.

“Oh, damn,” Gavin muttered, dropping his chair back on all four legs. “He’s found a way out again.”

* * *

Michael shoved open the bedchamber door. A nursemaid jumped and shrieked in surprise, but recognizing him, returned to washing a screaming infant.

He stared in wonder at the squirming pink flesh in the maid’s hands, then turned to the bed.

“She’s sleeping,” Dillian warned from the shadows. “Do not disturb her. We would have called you when we were ready. You have no right in here now.”

Michael crossed to the bed and the frail figure lying upon it, her long golden hair sprawled in tangled knots against the sweat-dampened pillows, evidence of the struggle that had gone on here this night. He ached with fear in every ounce of his body, and his hand grasped hers with a strength borne of desperation. “Blanche?”

Her eyes flickered, and he breathed deep with relief, nearly choking on the rush of air to his lungs. He sank to the chair beside the bed and caressed her brow. Her smile acknowledged his presence.

“You put me through hell,” he informed her without compassion. Then with no regard to anyone watching, he cupped her breast, seeking the reassurance of her heart beat. “Don’t ever put me through this again. Next time, I’ll throw the lot of them from the window and come after you.”

He could feel her smiling more than see it. “I’m amazed they’re still living,” she whispered. “They are, aren’t they? I wouldn’t wish to rise from childbed to clean bodies out of the library.”

“I’d throw them into the moat for you,” he promised. “But now that you have this foolishness of bearing our firstborn in his ancestral home out of your system, perhaps you will stay in Dorset where you belong.”

“I was right to do it,” she informed him boldly. “You did not even ask, you foolish man. You have a son, sir. He has every right to know his inheritance.”

A son
. The impact of this declaration staggered him. “The child inherits a ducal fortune, you silly goose,” he reminded her, kissing her cheek and stroking the damp hair from her face. “He has no need of a crumbling Irish castle. Seamus will make this his home when he’s ready.”

“Nicholas must come here every summer,” she informed him. “It is the only way for the people to trust him. He will represent them one day. He must know the people he represents.”

This was a foolish argument but, like Neville, Blanche loved arguing. Michael loved her for her vehemence in defense of others. “I love you,” he whispered. The words came more easily with a name and home to give them power.

“I might love you to the point of distraction, but not beyond. You’ll not change my mind,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she rested against the pillow. “Nicholas belongs here. Where is Mary?”