The Widow and the Rogue (3 page)

He was still the muscular, well-kept gentleman she first met when she disguised herself as a page boy to deliver news of the whereabouts of the then kidnapped Lady Beatrice O’Brien. She remembered the first time she had laid eyes on him. He was standing beside his friend, the handsome Earl of Drennan, who’d launched the search for his beloved Lady Beatrice, after she’d been kidnapped by the evil Viscount Linley, her former fiancé. That loathsome toad had kidnapped the wealthy heiress, known as the Spinster of Brightwood Manor, to force her hand in marriage. The earl, who’d fallen in love with Lady Beatrice, had gone after them, his good friend Beau Powers by his side. The Earl of Drennan was indeed handsome with his rugged good looks, but Beau Powers was simply beautiful, like a statue of a Greek god.

She’d never before seen such a man. Compared to her odious, shriveled husband, he was the epitome of youthful manhood. When his striking blue eyes had smiled at her, she’d felt a lightning bolt of awareness course through her body, making her toes curl. She’d been completely awestruck.

The Earl of Drennan had noticed her reaction and said, “Looks as if you’ve snared yourself another admirer, Beau.”

Her face had flushed at the comment. But she had been truly mortified when Beau had stared at her, for she was wearing rags, hiding her true gender and station in life.

She’d cleverly disguised herself as a stable boy in order to escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper, who was the intimidating woman her husband had appointed to guard her. She’d been essentially kept a prisoner in her own home, unable to do what she’d wanted for her entire marriage.

But upon learning of the kidnapped Lady Beatrice’s secret whereabouts during a dinner party hosted by her husband, she’d vowed to help her escape. She’d not wanted the dear lady to share her fate and be trapped in a similar marriage to a coldhearted, domineering man.

She’d heard that Beau Powers had been the first to volunteer to help the Earl of Drennan. They said he’d stood by his friend throughout the daring rescue, risking his own life against a room full of cutthroat mercenaries, who’d been hired by Linley. During the ensuing brawl, it was he who enabled the earl to defeat the viscount by throwing him a sword just in time as the viscount charged the earl with a blade of his own.

*    *    *

Aye, Beau had not changed a wit, she decided glancing at him. Outwardly, he’d remained the epitome of gentlemanly perfection. She could tell by the way his double-breasted coat stretched across his broad shoulders and the authentic manner in which his breeches fit around his trim waist that he carried none of the usual corpulent fat associated with other gentlemen of the ton. That was not surprising, considering he was both a noted horseman, as well as an excellent marksman.

But did he always behave in such an honorable manner? She frowned, doubting. She was reminded of the expression that stated clothes did not make the man. He hadn’t become a top solicitor in court by being nice. Such men were known to be heartless rogues of the first order. She’d merely to remember how the law had overlooked her being underage when she was forced to marry at fifteen to Lord Langtry, to know rules were easily broken by such men.

And she knew he could be at times ruthless—even in her small country village, rumors of his exploits were repeated by the gossipmongers. They discussed with avid interest, the duels he fought when challenged by those who lost their cases to him in court. In anger, the losers chose to settle the matter again with drawn swords, fruitlessly hoping to achieve a more favorable end. But that never happened. Master Powers had always been the victor. And any man with a bit of common sense would not dare to challenge such a skilled fighter, unless he had a secret death wish.

She shuddered, thinking of his piercing eyes when she’d spoken to him and the earl about the kidnappers. His had been filled with deadly intent. Faith, she would not want to be the man facing him at the sharp end of a sword.

But what was he doing here? She wondered, peeking up at him through her heavy widow’s veil
.
His solicitor’s business was located in Tipperary—why was he attending her husband’s funeral? To her knowledge her late husband and the handsome Corinthian were not known to one another.

Could it be he was here because of her? Her heart pounded a little at the audacious thought. But she quickly dismissed it as an improbability.

For who was she to him? No one.

She hadn’t seen him since the kidnapping of Lady Beatrice. It was the only time they’d ever met. And she knew he’d not known who she was back then.

She glanced back to take a better look at him. What purpose had brought him to Dovehill Hall? Did it involve her husband’s death? Or was he here for some other reason?

Unbeknownst to Kathleen, he was there for all three—she was soon to discover the reason why. And it very much involved her.

*    *    *

When the short service ended, Kathleen’s uncle led her back to the hall. He was acting very solicitous of her, which she expected given the size of her husband’s estate, and her uncle’s greedy nature. A hearty repast had been laid out for the wake, but she didn’t partake. She had no appetite. Her stomach was in knots, so she merely fidgeted with the plate of food a servant handed her. It was time for the reading of her husband’s will. She was finally to learn her fate.

Either she was to continue the controlled life she had been leading until now, dominated by the housekeeper and her in-laws—or perhaps, and this next thought caused her a surge of hope—her late husband’s relatives would inherit Dovehill Hall and she would at last be set free to live an unencumbered life.

That was indeed wishful thinking. She sighed.

She’d noticed the leering manner in which her nephew, Henry, inspected her. His watery eyes deliberately stared at her well-covered bosom. It was as if he were mentally undressing her—waiting for the moment until he could lay his pudgy hands upon her.

Feeling a wave of sickness overcome her, she handed the untouched plate to a passing servant. The idea of Henry touching her was repulsive—a continuation of the nightmare she’d been living. From past experience, she recalled how Henry had treated her . . . like a woman of easy virtue. Despite being his uncle’s wife, Henry would reach out and touch her in an unwelcome manner whenever she passed him in the dimly lit corridors of Dovehill Hall. In the dark she would gasp in shocked surprise at his audacity. He would laugh, enjoying her obvious discomfort.

She had mentioned these humiliating moments to her husband. But he’d paid no heed. He’d dismissed the episodes as nothing more than boyish pranks. He told her she had an overactive imagination and had mistaken Henry’s intentions.

“He’s just having a bit of high-spirited fun. Do try to be less of a country innocent,” he’d say and that would be the end of it.

Grimly, she decided she would run away and become a nun before she would permit Henry or any other man to ever again rule her life. But she set aside those glum thoughts, deciding to patiently await the reading of the will. It was her only hope.

*    *    *

As the mantle clock bonged the hour, the family met in the red salon. To her surprise, Beau Powers stood by the marble fireplace waiting for them to enter.

“Lady Langtry,” he said approaching her, his brilliant, sapphire eyes never leaving hers. “May I tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss. Such a regrettable accident . . . how terrible it must have been for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, barely able to speak as he took her hand.

He bowed over it.

“It is most gracious of you to be concerned, Master Powers. But why are you—”

“Why am I here?” he said, finishing the sentence for her. “Indeed, you must be astonished to see me. Especially considering the unique circumstances under which we last had the pleasure to meet.”

He smiled down at her. A faint dimple appeared at the corner of his lips.

She couldn’t help but return it, despite the somber event taking place. She remembered the moment when one year ago her broad, brim hat had flown off.

Her golden hair had tumbled down to reveal that she was not a serving boy, but a young woman in disguise. She’d laughed at his stunned expression and merrily rode off on her pony, having accomplished her mission of informing the rescuers as to the kidnapped Lady Beatrice’s whereabouts, which she’d overheard being discussed when her husband invited Viscount Linley and a priest to dine with them.

Aye, she smiled. He remembered that moment, too. It had been one of the few happy ones she’d had during the last few years. The restraints of where she was allowed to go, and with whom she was allowed to associate, had been very limiting.

She’d never been permitted to go anywhere, unless she was accompanied by her husband or the housekeeper. With the exception of the bilious toadies her husband invited to dinner, she saw no one and had not a single friend she could count upon.

“I am to act in the place of your husband’s solicitor,” he explained. “The one he had originally hired preceded him in death. It occurred two days in advance of this dreadful accident. I suppose your husband had not yet been notified before he died?”

She shook her head. And if Bangford had been informed of the death, she knew he would not have confided in her. He’d kept her ignorant concerning all his legal affairs. All of this was a revelation.

He continued, “And so it is that I am here. My reputation, it would appear, has spread further than Tipperary County. Until a senior solicitor can be found to replace me, I have been asked to take over the practice and help the partnership in Dublin.”

“Indeed . . . how interesting,” she replied, surprised by the unusual circumstances that had brought them together once more.

“Yes,” he smiled down at her, “it appears to be our destiny to meet again . . . but now I must perform the duty that has been placed in my hands.”

Purposefully, he picked up a document from the mantle. He looked about the room at the assembled family, the glum housekeeper, and the elderly members of the staff who had served Dovehill Hall for years.

“Ah, I see everyone is present. You may close the doors,” he informed an elderly footman standing nearby.

“Now, dear lady, if you will but seat yourself,” he said leading her solicitously to a chair. “I shall begin to read your late husband’s will.”

She sat quietly and listened as he read the document aloud. Her husband had left the usual legacies to the elderly servants of long service, including pensions and promised tenant cottages. The legacies were within the norm, with the exception of Mrs. O’Grady’s, who was deeded an entire house and land.

The remainder of the legacies for the servants of long service occasioned no comments. Pleased faces and nods were given as the staff recognized their names and were told what they had been bequeathed.

When he had finished with this portion, Beau turned the paper over and said pointedly, “Those in service may retire. I shall begin reading the part of the will that concerns only the immediate family.”

After the servants had left, the housekeeper still stood by the door. Her formidable presence was tangibly felt. She sullenly crossed her arms and scowled. She waited for him to continue reading.

He noticed and remarked calmly, “You may go as well, Mrs. O’Grady. Your presence is no longer required.”

“But as head of the servants in service here, I have a right to know what is to happen to the hall,” she said with a small sniff.

She looked pointedly over at Kathleen and Lord Langtry’s relatives.

“I ought to be told who will be the next master or mistress here. So I may inform the others as to who we will owe our living.”

This comment included Squire Lynch, Lord Langtry’s sister, the Countess Deuville, and Henry. The countess, who until now wore a bored expression, transformed into someone keenly interested as to what was about to take place. This was also true of Henry, who had been quietly snoring in a corner. His hands clasped over his protruding middle.

They may rightly assume Lord Langtry has put them in charge over me and Dovehill Hall
, decided Kathleen, inwardly sighing.

She did not trust any of them. They were all cut from the same cloth. As an underage widow not yet one and twenty, she knew one of them might be named her legal guardian. Her life, it would appear, was fated never to be her own.

Looking at the greed-filled faces, she could not decide who would make the better protector. To her knowledge they were all equally dreadful. And from past experiences, she knew they would enjoy controlling her.

Another thought entered her mind . . . Henry might be given the entire estate as the sole surviving male relation. She would then be banished to the dowager house to live out the remainder of her days in genteel poverty.

She felt almost gleeful . . . the possibility of being left completely alone, without someone spying on her, caused a tiny smile to appear on her lips.

Privacy and freedom . . . two liberties she had been deprived of, would be hers. To regain them now would indeed create a blissful existence.

“Very well, Mrs. O’Grady,” Beau said, conceding to the housekeeper’s wish, “as it is in the interest of the new master of Dovehill Hall that the servants keep it running smoothly, you may stay and observe the proceedings.”

He picked up the document again. “Ah yes,” he said slowly, looking the testament over.

He did not look up. He gave no indication as to who would be put in charge of her and Dovehill Hall. She sensed, however, that he knew.

Master Powers had undoubtedly read over the will several times. He was, she could tell by his severe professional manner, putting on a show. It was to give extra weight to the papers he held.

None of them, she knew, would be able to dispute the validity of Bangford’s will. It had been drawn up by one of the most noted law firms in Ireland. There would be no loopholes. It was unquestionably perfect.

He looked up and said with firm authority, “Here we are . . . hmm . . . let me sum up what it says . . . according to the last will and testament of Lord Bangford Langtry, it is his wife, Lady Kathleen, who will be mistress of Dovehill Hall.”