Come Midnight (15 page)

***

An hour later, Adam paced the drawing room while Caitlin looked on. Andrew was napping, and he'd sent for her the moment she was free. Before the guests left, he and Ravensford had adjourned here, where Brett revealed his duchess's particular reasons for hoping Andrew might visit. Adam had postponed his reply, saying he needed a day to consider it.

Truth was, he wanted Caitlin's opinion. And hungered for her company. But after what had dawned on him earlier, he didn't dare see her privately without a practical matter to ground him. To anchor him to an unemotional plane, for his emotions were something he didn't entirely trust at present. He only knew he must protect Caitlin from himself. And that meant never letting her suspect his feelings. And hoping to hell I merely imagined hers!

Heaving a sigh, he dropped into the chair opposite Caitlin's. "It's the damnedest hare-brained scheme I ever heard of," he told her. "Problem is, every time I'm about to send Her Grace my regrets, I begin to wonder if it doesn't make sense. What's your take on it?"

Caitlin smiled to herself. Her take on it? 'Twas daft to be asking a poor colleen to judge the plans of a duchess. Still, she'd been apprehensive when first summoned here; there'd been that moment in the garden when she feared she'd given herself away. Talk of things daft! She could well imagine his lordship's "take" on the poor colleen losing her heart to him! By comparison, the duchess's plans were child's play. "Let's see if I have it right, milord. The duke and duchess have taken in a score o' children orphaned by the war in Europe, aye?"

"Adopted them, yes. His Grace's mother started the project, but Brett says it's become an endeavor dear to his wife's heart. She loves these children"—recalling the rake he once knew, Adam gave his head a disbelieving shake—"and so does he, apparently."

"And these wee orphans are all ... incapacitated in some way?"

He nodded grimly. "Some are blind ... others crippled ... either from birth or maimed in the war."

"Poor things. Yet lucky, too, t' have been rescued by such as Her Grace." Caitlin had been surprised to learn not all Sassenachs were as heartless as many back home believed. The handsome duke had been a surprise, too. She'd been needlessly intimidated by his title; he'd proved charming, kind, and not at all toplofty. "His Grace and his wife must be good people, milord. Sure and they've added deeper meanin' and enrichment t' their lives by savin' these unfortunate babes."

"I suppose they have," Adam murmured, shaking his head again at the transformation in Brett Westmont. Was it his marriage made the difference? Appears that way, yet I can hardly credit it. Ravensford, head over heels for a woman!

"Now, about this invitation, milord," Caitlin said. "I take it, when the duchess heard about Andrew from the vicar—"

"Or the gossips," he said sourly. "Even in the country, news travels fast—especially bad news. You may depend on it."

She ignored his cynicism. "And when Her Grace heard about Andrew, she thought perhaps he might benefit from playin' with ither children who are impaired?''

"Exactly. She feels it can help him overcome a sense of being . . . different. Not to mention feeling"—he grimaced—"ostracized. Brett said they saw this happen with their own lot."

Suddenly frowning, Adam leaned forward. "Caitlin . . . how much does Andrew understand of his condition? Does he comprehend he'll never ... ." Blood and ashes, I can't even say it!

"Walk again? But he is walkin', milord . .. thanks t' a fine pair o' cr—"

"Devil take it—you know what I mean!" Instantly regretting his temper, he shoved a hand through his hair and sighed. "Forgive me. Never think I mean to devalue what you've accomplished with those crutches. It's nothing short of astounding. But, Caitlin, does my son know he's not expected to walk again—unaided?"

Ah! Caitlin studied the hands folded in her lap. "I'm not certain what he knows, milord. I've not discussed it with him, d'ye see. 'Tis not me place."

"I collect you mean it's not your place, but mine."

She met his eyes. "Aye."

Under the strength of her gaze, Adam's own skittered away. He was at once conscious of the paradox that lay at the root of what Caitlin was: The steadfast wisdom in those green eyes was utterly incongruous with a face so sweetly callow; yet the contradiction made her wisdom all the more apparent. "You're right, of course," he said at length, then heaved a sigh. "I'll need some time to. . . think how to approach it. Deuced difficult, telling your child ..."

"Aye," she said softly.
Andrew's not the only one needs help here. Perhaps two can benefit from Her Grace's scheme.
"In the meantime, milord, 'twould do Andrew a world o' good t' be with ither children. Whether they're ... different or no. I think ye'd do well t' take him."

"Very well," he said after a moment. He met her eyes at last. "But you, my lass, are coming with us."

***

"These biscuits are delicious, Yer Grace." Caitlin smiled at her hostess as they sat on the ducal terrace having tea. The two were alone at the moment, Brett and Adam having gone to the stables. His Grace was showing his guest a pair of high steppers he'd purchased at Tatt's. Her Grace, many months pregnant with their second child, had elected to stay and chat with Caitlin.

"I shall tell Anna you said so." The duchess waved a slender hand at a Sevres plate piled high with biscuits. "The child made them herself. She remembered her mama making them, do you see. So when she expressed a longing to taste biscotti again, we turned her loose in the kitchens and—voila!"

Caitlin laughed. "Sure and Yer Grace's cook must be an understandin' sort. His lordship's cook has made it known, whoever trespasses in his domain does so at his peril."

Her Grace chuckled. "Ah, but he hasn't met our Anna! The child has a smile could charm the proverbial birds from the trees."

The duchess was a petite woman, very close to Caitlin in stature. Caitlin thought her the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. She had huge sapphire blue eyes that dominated a delicate, fine-boned face. The tiny mole high on her cheek was a natural beauty mark, calling attention to her creamy complexion. Complementing all was a luxuriant mass of shiny black curls. Caught simply at her nape by a narrow ribbon, they trailed down her back like a young girl's. Indeed, when she smiled, Caitlin was hard put to recall this was not some country lass from the village. Like her husband, she was not at all toplofty. Her next words furthered this impression:

"My dear Caitlin, I beg you will dispense with all these 'Your Graces'! After all, with your young charge insisting we call you by your Christian name, how can I do less? Do please call me Ashleigh."

Caitlin blushed, recalling Andrew's words when his father suggested he introduce Caitlin to the Westmonts. The little slyboots! If it please Your Graces, this is my governess, and her name's Caitlin. We must all call her by her Christian name, do you see, or she faints—dead away! "A-aye, Yer Grace," she stammered. "Ach, I mean, Ashleigh!"

"Well, that's settled, then," said Ashleigh, her reply nearly lost amid the shouts of several children. Below, on a stretch of spacious, well-manicured lawn, a dozen youngsters played an unusual version of Blind Man's Bluff. Because two of the Westmonts' adopted children were truly blind, the other participants wore blindfolds—to even the playing field. Andrew had been invited to join them, but for now he'd prudently chosen to watch. Once I see how it's done, I'll know if I can do it on crutches. Caitlin was glad to see he wasn't alone. She had worried when Jeremy hadn't come, owing to a death in the family. Joining Andrew on the sidelines was a tall boy who stroked the shaggy head of an enormous black wolfhound; the boy was also on crutches, because of a leg that had been amputated at the knee.

" 'Tis a grand lookin' Irish hound ye have there," Caitlin remarked.

"Ah, so you recognize the breed! Not many do. Sadly, they're close to extinction. My Finn's among the last of his kind."

Caitlin nodded. "Unfortunately, we Irish became too poor t' keep the great hounds. Tell me, the lad with him ... is he bein' cautious... because o' the crutches?" She noticed other children on crutches were playing the game and doing well at it, despite the blindfolds.

Ashleigh smiled. "Enrico's played the game dozens of times. I suspect he's chosen to join Andrew to make him feel less . . . singular. He's always been sensitive to others' feelings."

"Ach, the darlin'! He must make ye proud."

"Mm," Ashleigh replied absently. She was eyeing her guest, a pensive look on her face. "Forgive me for staring, Caitlin, but do you know ... that is, you remind me of someone. At first I thought it was the brogue. But the longer I look ... tell me, my dear, have you family in Ireland?"

Caitlin said she was an orphan and left it at that; no sense boring Ashleigh with all the details.

"I see." Ashleigh was still regarding her thoughtfully. "And yet, the closer I look ... well, I suppose it could be the similar coloring." She gave her head a shake and laughed. "You really do resemble someone I know. A person I'm very fond of ... someone I adore, actually."

"I do hope you're referring to me, pet," said her husband as he and Adam strolled onto the terrace. Swooping down on his wife, Brett planted a kiss on her nape. "Or I shall be extremely jealous!" Oblivious to their audience, he growled playfully, nuzzling Ashleigh's ear as he fondly rubbed her belly.

"Brett," she cried, laughing, "behave yourself! I adore you above all, but in this instance I was referring to Megan." She glanced from him to Caitlin and back again. "Don't you think Caitlin looks a great deal like her?"

"I'm no judge." Grinning, Brett kissed the top of her head. "I've eyes only for my wife."

"Oh, do be serious!'' She was still laughing, but Adam saw how she looked at her husband: Ashleigh truly did adore him—and Brett, the lucky, unpredictable bastard, adored her.

"I suggest you ask Megan herself," the duke told his wife. "Not ten minutes ago, Ravensford and I spied your brother's carriage coming up the drive."

"What!" Ashleigh rose quickly from her chair. "But I thought Megan and Patrick were in London."

"Not anymore, thank the Virgin and all the saints!" A tall, stunning redhead swept onto the terrace in a swirl of green silk. "Ashleigh," she added, removing her bonnet and tossing it at a footman, "if I iver again set foot in Bond Street this time o' year, mark me ripe for Bedlam!"

"And she means it, too," said the huge man who followed in her wake. "My wife's the only woman in the world who despises the Season, hates to shop, and dares own up to such irreverent thinking! I fear the good ladies of the ton may never forgive her."

Laughing, Ashleigh exchanged hugs with the redhead—obviously the Megan recently under discussion. The image this presented was almost comical: Megan was six feet tall and towered over the tiny duchess. Next, Ashleigh found herself lifted off her feet and soundly kissed on both cheeks by Megan's giant of a husband. "Patrick, you wretch!" she scolded. "Why didn't you warn us you were coming?"

"Pay no attention to her," said Brett, welcoming Megan with brotherly peck. "Ashleigh's mad for surprises. Craves 'em more than any child on that lawn." Grinning at his wife as she pulled a face, he caught her hand and gave it a courtly kiss.

"But come," he said, drawing the couple forward, "and I'll make you known to our guests." He gestured first toward Caitlin at the table. "My dear, allow me to present the St. Clares—the lovely Lady St. Clare and Her Grace's brother, Sir Patrick. Megan, Patrick, this is Miss Caitlin ..." A frown etched the duke's brow as he realized Andrew's; unorthodox introduction had left him woefully ignorant of her surname. "Forgive me, my dear, but I fear you have me at a disadv—"

"O'Brien," Caitlin supplied, dropping her gaze and flushing with embarrassment.

"O'Brien!" It was Megan who interrupted, staring at Caitlin, thunderstruck. "Niver say ye're—but O'Brien's me maiden name! And what's more-—" She turned white as parchment and clutched her husband's arm. "Mither o' God, Patrick, 'tis like lookin' in a mirror!"

Ashleigh took one look at her face and signaled the footman hovering near the door. "Fenton, fetch the vinaigrette—hurry!''

Caitlin gaped at the tall redhead, dumbstruck. She was looking into a pair of Irish eyes the exact shape and color of her own. Russet curls the very shade and texture of her own. A face that could be her own. O'Brien's me maiden name.... Her heart began to thud against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was unable to move, only vaguely aware Sir Patrick helped his wife to the chair opposite hers amid what seemed like a babble of voices:

"I knew there was a resemblance!" exclaimed the duchess.

"Faces like two peas in a pod," His Grace pronounced in amazement.

"Like twins, but for the difference in size," Adam Lightfoot marveled.

It was chaos on the terrace for a length of time. Drawn by the stir, the children as well as the enormous hound gathered curiously about the adults. The vinaigrette arrived along with several servants. One bore hartshorn; another, a glass of water; a third, a burnt feather she waved under Lady St. Clare's nose. The redhead waved it away, insisting she had never fainted in her life and wasn't about to start now.

Fortunately, she was right. A sense of calm gradually prevailed, restoring order to the terrace. And finally the connection between Megan, Lady St. Clare, and Caitlin O'Brien, erstwhile orphan ... itinerant healer ... governess, came to light.

It turned out Megan was the oldest child of Pegeen O'Brien; Caitlin, the youngest: The two were sisters. And yet they'd never met. When her father died, Megan had left Ireland for England, determined to find work and send money home when she could; widowhood had left Pegeen destitute, with too many mouths to feed. But Megan had left before her mother knew she was pregnant ... with Caitlin. And Pegeen, ashamed of having given away her infant daughter to the wise woman, Crionna, had waited years before she told her oldest daughter of Caitlin's existence. Waited, in fact, till she knew she was dying; sending for Megan, she confessed it to her and the priest on her deathbed.

"Ach, wee
sorcha
, "Megan murmured, tears streaming down her face, "it broke me heart, it did. I'm certain our ma loved ye, colleen—niver doubt it. But she couldn't get past her fear o' ye, d'ye see?"

"Fear ... of an infant?" It was Adam who asked. And not just because Megan's use of the word seemed strange. His eyes had focused on no one but Caitlin through the entire sorting out. And Caitlin had just given a violent start.

"Aye, m'lord," said Megan, stroking her sister's tear-stained cheek. "Odd as it sounds, our ma was deathly afraid o' her own babe. Because even in the cradle 'twas apparent, d'ye see — wee Caitlin has the Sight."