The Irish Duchess (8 page)

She wondered what he’d done with her bracelet. Aileen’s orphans could have used the coin he’d given that broker. They couldn’t eat jewelry. Buying the bracelet was not one of the duke’s better decisions, but then, she hadn’t explained the problem to him. She’d not let him know how much her grandmother’s bracelet meant to her.

The crowd thinned as they wove their way out of town. Briefly, Fiona considered Seamus’ concern when he found them gone, but he’d find something to occupy his time. He could look for Colin. She knew the man ahead of them wasn’t Colin. That didn’t mean he was the thief or murderer, but he wasn’t Colin.

She watched the duke scan the road. His gelding was taller than her mare, and the duke towered another head taller than she, so his view was less obscured than hers. From his expression, she’d judge that he hadn’t found their quarry. Although why she thought she could judge the expression of a man who never showed emotion was beyond her.

She thought she discerned annoyance in his posture now, but she could just be transferring her own feelings to him. “There’s an inn ahead. We can make inquiries, and perhaps find something to eat that’s bound to taste better than street fare.”

His Grace dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post. His effortless strength as he lifted her from her saddle nearly took Fiona’s breath away. His hands lingered just a moment too long at her waist. His intent gaze made butterflies take wing in her stomach. She stepped away so quickly she almost tripped over her horse.

What was going on in his inscrutable mind now? He didn’t want her going inside a roadside inn but couldn’t leave her alone outside? She could tell him she’d been inside far worse, but she would only irritate him more.

Without comment, she climbed the inn steps, pushing open the door as if she’d done it all her life. Vaguely, she realized a lady didn’t open doors for herself, but if she sat around waiting for men to do things for her, she’d still be sleeping in a cradle.

Behind her, Neville closed his eyes against the sight of swinging hips and long legs. For the first time in his life, he considered prayer as a resource against temptation. Perhaps she’d run about the village in those clothes all her life and the men there had come to accept it. But she was on strange territory now. Someone should have shaken some sense into her long ago.

It wasn’t his place to do so. Duty dictated that he protect her until she was back in her brother’s care again. That was all.

But stepping inside the lowly inn, Neville had a sinking feeling that he stepped outside all propriety now. A gentleman did not escort an unmarried lady into a disreputable roadside inn. He was only thankful that he was far from London and anyone who might recognize him.

The sounds of riot emanating from the tavern erased even that small prayer. The realization that Fiona was nowhere in sight sent him flying across the wooden lobby.

***

Leaning his shoulders against the doorjamb, crossing his booted feet, Michael MacDermot, the Earl of Aberdare, stared at the letter in his hand as if expecting images to appear beyond the hastily scratched words.

“What does he mean, they’re searching for clues? That’s what William’s there for. Dukes don’t grub around village streets looking for criminals. He’s just supposed to bring Fiona back.”

His adopted brother, the Marquess of Effingham, shrugged and contemplated a crystal paper weight that changed colors when he moved it. “I think that crack on the noggin warped Neville’s thinking, not that I ever understood the way his head works, mind you.”

“Simple,” Michael replied. “Duty comes first. Neville would place his vote in the Lords before his own funeral.”

Effingham grinned. “I can see it now, the ghost of Anglesey standing up to be counted and the whole bench fainting dead away. I should live so long.”

Michael scowled. “I’d better go see what this is about. I can’t have murderers running free around my estate.” He levered his slender frame from the doorjamb and dropped the letter on Effingham’s desk.

“Ahem,” the marquess cleared his throat politely. “If my wife is to be believed, Blanche is in the family way again. You might want to rethink that decision. Ladies in their first months are notoriously unreliable.”

Michael groaned and jammed his hands through his hair. “Oh, damn, so that’s why she demanded peaches with her dinner last night. Devil take it, this town’s put me off stride for certain.”

Without further explanation, he dashed from the room, leaving Neville’s letter behind.

Since his younger brother never cursed except in moments of high excitement—usually involving his wife—Effingham forgave his lapse. Picking up the letter, he read it over again.

It seemed curiously coincidental that a man just viciously attacked and left for dead would stumble across another crime in a sleepy Irish village where he’d gone for rest and relaxation. Michael’s bookish Uncle William was
not
the man to look into the matter.

Tapping a pen against his lips, Effingham considered the alternatives. The bloody proper Duke of Anglesey had his annoying moments, but he was a man who could be swayed by reason. Too few of those existed in the archaic halls of British Parliament. Perhaps His Grace had annoyed one too many people this past year or so. Perhaps it was meaningless coincidence.

In either case, someone should look into the matter. Applying pen to paper, Effingham set in operation the rather formidable network of informants he’d established since coming to this country.

It never hurt to be prepared.

***

Dodging between two stocky farmers, Fiona grabbed a chair, swung on her heels, and slammed it against the skull of the first man crossing her path. The man groaned and collapsed to the floor with a satisfying thud. That would teach the lousy bastard to lay his molesting hands on her.

Fiona thought she caught a grimace of disapproval from the duke, but his fists were otherwise engaged in breaking a man’s jaw, judging by the sound of the crack resonating through the room. They were overpowered five to two, but she thought they stood a fair chance of beating these drunken fools.

Grabbing a pewter pitcher from the table, she flung its contents at the attacker lunging toward her. He scarcely halted his lumbering progress. Fiona darted to one side, thinking to bring the pitcher down over his head, but with more luck than strategy, her assailant grabbed her wrist before she could strike. The pitcher clattered to the floor as he twisted her arm.

With lightning speed, a sword point notched the man’s Adam’s apple. The farmer gulped, dropped Fiona’s wrist, and backed away.

In amazement, Fiona glanced around at the wreckage of the tavern. Four men lay groaning on the floor, clutching bruised and broken parts. She’d brought down only one. The fifth stood at sword point. Fiona’s gaze traced the long black handle of the duke’s walking stick to its source.

With barely concealed jubilation, the haughty Duke of Anglesey twisted the sword cane a little tighter against her assailant’s neck. “How do you like your scoundrels served, my dear? Skewered and roasted over an open fire? Or slashed and stomped into the dust?”

Speechless, Fiona just stared. The duke didn’t look as if he had a hair out of place. His immaculate linen remained properly unrumpled, and he was
smiling
. He had just laid flat three rogues and cornered a fourth, and he was smiling as if he’d made a particularly clever wager. And he’d called her “my dear.” He must have cracked his noble head in the brawl.

His Grace lifted one arrogant brow and awaited her reply.

“Just let him go,” Fiona whispered. “They’re drunk. They don’t deserve to die for stupidity.”

Taking advantage of the duke’s distraction, his captive backed away, spun around, and ran out the door faster than his squat legs should have carried him.

The duke looked mildly disappointed but now that his regard returned to her, he apparently lost interest in his victory. Fiona squirmed beneath his gray-eyed stare and wished for the triumphant knight of a moment ago.

“That’s fair of you,” he said, “since it’s your own stupidity that started this. I suggest we do without your nuncheon and leave this place while we still have our skin.”

Something about the way he said “skin” distracted her from the iciness of his voice. Aware of the flesh exposed by her torn shirt sleeve, Fiona called upon the well of defiance that had sustained her all these years. Grabbing a roasted chicken from a platter on the table, she stalked past her adversary with shoulders thrown back. She’d be damned if she let any bloody Englishman intimidate her.

Eight

Bracing himself for the noise and the filth, Neville halted in the doorway of the orphans’ cottage. Now that he had some understanding of Fiona’s habits, he didn’t have to follow her when she fled the castle.

The brawl at the inn—oddly enough—had given them each a new respect for each other. She still defiantly displayed her figure in the boys’ clothes, but he could almost understand the practicality of them. Actually, he had begun to wonder if the brawl hadn’t been a diversion created by their wily intruder.

He watched as Fiona lifted a heavy kettle from the fire and set it on the hearth. She didn’t seem strong enough for such work, but the brat had qualities beyond the obvious.

Six small heads bent over the trestle table, slurping at porridge. In the corner, the grandmother rocked a sleeping babe. Domestic contentment reigned, for the moment. Neville had already learned how easily the room could erupt in chaos. He’d prefer not disturbing the peace, but Fiona had to face facts sometime.

She must have used the coins from the sale of her jewelry to provide food for the children, but surely she must see that she couldn’t feed them forever. A household of eight needed far more than food. Besides a roof over their heads and beds to sleep in, they needed someone who could watch after them day and night. Their grandmother would die of exhaustion just trying.

Fiona stiffened as she noticed him. Her hair had recently been brushed and pulled back in a braid, so only a few unruly tendrils fell about her forehead. Glancing at the hungry children, she hesitated. Evidently his entrance would distract the quiet, as he had feared.

Neville returned to the yard, and she joined him there. In the sunlight, her cheeks had the same soft radiance as the orchids in his conservatory.

He had meant to restore her bracelet when they’d returned, but for some reason, he again ignored it as he sought the coins in his pocket. Catching her hand, he dropped the shillings in her palm.

“I have little enough to get us back to London. If you don’t mind doing without, you can give them to the children. It still won’t be enough, Fiona.”

Black circles beneath her eyes gave indication of her sleepless night. For the first time since Neville had known her, Fiona exhibited none of her usual restless energy. He missed that vitality.

She glanced at the tiny stone cottages of the village leaning one against another, the dirt in the street, the pig rooting through garbage, the bright patch of Michaelmas daisies against a gray wall. She returned her gaze to him, her expression resigned.

“Colin’s gone. There’s those that think he did it.”

“But not you,” Neville supplied for her. He felt a twinge of envy for her loyalty to her old love, but Fiona was meant for finer things than a black Irishman who would drink her life away. But they had no other suspects, and there was little else they could do.

She shrugged. “It does not matter what I think. Burke’s dead; the money is gone. I have no way of providing for even these wee ones and certainly not for an entire village. Perhaps if I talk to him in person, I can persuade Michael to buy the looms.”

Neville breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have to carry her to London in a sack then. “It’s not Michael’s money,” he reminded her cautiously.

Her aura of weariness intensified. He preferred it when she threw him looks of defiance and called him names.

“I know, but Blanche is such a soft touch that it seems a sin to ask it of her. She would give away everything she owned and leave her own family without. We’d not thought to ask it of her. We’d meant to do it all ourselves.”

“We’ve given your uncle a few leads to follow. Perhaps he’ll find the thief.” Neville curled his fingers into his palms and hardened himself against the hurt emanating from her. She was Michael’s problem, not his. “You’ve done all you can, Fiona. You know that.”

Defiance flared. “Not all.” With that enigmatic statement, she marched off.

Neville didn’t bother following her. He knew where to find her if he needed. In the morning, they sailed for London, and he would have accomplished his duty.

***

In London at last, Neville still wasn’t ready to settle into those duties.

“Blanche, you must be out of your mind to think you can take an uncivilized hellion like Fiona and turn her into a proper lady. Do you know I actually found her on the top mast one day? She was looking for London, she said. In front of an entire yacht filled with sailors, she climbed those ropes and made a spectacle of herself!”

Reliving that moment, Neville scowled and upended his cup of tea, wishing it were something stronger. He knew he’d aged ten years since delivering Fiona and her brother to their respective destinations.

Blanche smiled serenely and poured more tea. “She is a breath of fresh air. You know how Michael despises taking his seat in the Lords. He’s been pacing like a caged tiger for weeks. But if they’re to pass the Catholic emancipation bill, he has to be here. I was afraid he would turn the townhouse into a carnival tent and invite the circus if I didn’t do something. Fiona will provide the distraction he needs.”

Neville rose to pace the carpet in much the same manner as Blanche had accused her husband of doing. “Then let her distract Michael with her antics and keep her out of society. She’s a heathen, I’m telling you. She’ll never take.”

He’d debated the problem long and hard. Fiona couldn’t be unleashed on London. Perhaps he could quietly introduce the chit to a respectable man or two without introducing her to society at large. He couldn’t think of anyone he hated enough to wish that fate upon, but he hadn’t had time enough to consider the dilemma thoroughly. “Save yourself a lot of trouble and let her play in the nursery with the children and see the sights, then send her home when the session is over.”