Redeeming the Rogue (2 page)

“Surely it can wait till later.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Look at him. I’ve never seen William so happy. I doubt he even knows I’m here.”

“He knows,” Nicholas assured her. He linked his arm in hers and walked with her outside. “It gives us the perfect opportunity to speak with you about some surprising news on a recent discovery.”

“News?” She tried to pull back from her brother to better see his face, but he kept her arm tightly linked in his. That more than anything lifted the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She looked at him askance. “William has been quite free with news in his letters. Why should this be different?”

For a moment, her marvelously talented, handsome rapscallion of a brother dropped his rakish demeanor. “Because some things, dear Sister, should not be committed to paper.”

 

SHE AND NICHOLAS WAITED IN WILLIAM’S LIBRARY, THE windows bearing witness to the new vast improvements made in Arianne’s absence. The last time she was here, the abbey seemed to be crumbling about her ears. How serendipitous that while traveling in Switzerland, she had met a wealthy American matron searching for a titled husband for her daughter. Who would have envisioned that today’s festivities would result from that chance meeting?

William entered the library in high spirits, flushed and grinning widely.

“Arianne,” he said, “you grow lovelier every time I see you. Thank you for joining our celebration. You will be staying with us awhile, will you not?”

“Your wife extended an invitation for two weeks,” Arianne said, leaning forward to accept her brother’s kiss on her cheek. “There should be plenty of time for us to speak privately if this is keeping you from—”

“No,” Nicholas interrupted. “It is precisely because you’re staying that you need to know about certain individuals who you might encounter.”

Her two brothers exchanged a glance. “Yes. I’m fairly certain he’s going to want to meet you,” William added with an air of mystery.

Arianne glanced from one to the other, confused and a bit angry that they were obviously keeping secrets from her. “What are you talking about?” She addressed Nicholas, then turned toward William. “Who am I likely to meet?”

“Our father,” William replied, with brows raised. His eyes studied her face.

After a moment of shock, she laughed. Obviously, her brothers had conspired to play a trick on her. “That’s ridiculous. Our father is dead. In case you’ve forgotten, that’s precisely why you’re the new Duke of Bedford.”

Neither Nicholas nor William joined in her laughter. Met with silence, her smile died and faded away.

“We’ve recently discovered that the old Duke did not provide the seed that produced us,” Nicholas said softly.

Arianne shook her head. “No. Our mother was not one of those women. She was good. She was faithful.” Her brothers didn’t offer a word in protest; they just waited. “Look at you two,” she continued. “In spite of the age difference, you are mirror images of each other. Surely the same man—”

“Our mother was faithful,” William explained. “Just not to the old Duke. We’ve learned that due to an infection in his youth, he could not provide needed heirs. He found someone else to take his place in that regard. Someone who has maintained his silence all these many years.”

The air fled her lungs; blood drained from her face. All these years, she’d believed a lie? Her fingers fumbled in the air; her glance darted between her brothers while she struggled to breathe. “Is there . . .”

“Proof?” Nicholas supplied. “Yes. We’ve seen the proof.”

William nodded his head. His voice dropped to a compassionate pitch. “Think, Arianne. It explains so much. Father’s anger. His moodiness.”

His abuse of her mother. Arianne’s fingers dug into her gloved palms at those resurrected memories. Her head throbbed. Her gaze settled on William, on his quiet dignity, on his pride. “But you’re the new Duke of Bedford,” she said, breathless. “How can that be?”

“Legally, we are his heirs.” William’s lips moved into a gentle smile. “That’s why the old Duke took such drastic measures. He acknowledged us as his children, and in the eyes of society and the law, that’s all that matters.”

“But we’re not,” she whispered. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. Such a simple concept, yet it shook all her beliefs. Who was she? Whose blood flowed in her veins? Her life had been defined by her father’s title. If he wasn’t her father, then who was she?

“And,” Nicholas added, his face launching into a grin, “we’ve met our real father. He’s a marvelous chap, Arianne, and he can’t wait to meet you.”

“He’s here?” Her head was still swimming with the implications of William’s revelation. Her mind raced to recall the titled gentry present in the chapel. Which one provided the seed? Did he know of her existence before this day? Surely, he must look familiar in some regard.

“He’s been here all along,” William said quietly. He, more than Nicholas, seemed to understand her shock. “He watched us grow from afar.”

“Watched us?” How was that possible? Her father was never known for his hospitality. Few visitors came to the abbey. Which could only mean . . .

“Thackett,” Nicholas supplied. “Do you remember him?”

“Lord Thackett?” She frowned, trying to put a face to that name.

“Farmer Thackett,” Nicholas corrected with a grand smile. “I suppose that’s where you get your knack for flowers and things.”

“
Farmer
Thackett? Not a lord or a sir or even a squire?” Her shock must have shown on her face, as even William started to grin in response. They apparently had eased into accepting the different husbandry, but then they were no longer participants in the marriage mart. They weren’t rated on their bloodlines like a brood mare. At least, not anymore. Not like herself.

“So you see, Anne,” Nicholas said, his face flushed with humor. “You truly are the farmer’s daughter.”

Fear of the old Duke had once bound them together. Now the bond dissolved a bit. She felt estranged, adrift, her shock at odds with their easy laughter. What would be the result of this revelation? An anxious thought slipped into her mind. “Who knows about this?”

“Our wives, of course. Fran, after all, uncovered the connection.” William’s pride for his wife beamed from his face.

“I think Emma was actually pleased by the news.” Nicholas hugged Arianne’s shoulder. “Wait till you meet him, Anne. You’ll like him immediately. We all do. You’ll see.”

William looked at her sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Anne. Once the genie has left the bottle, we can’t very well push him back in.”

She smiled for her brothers’ sake. As William had mentioned, it was a relief to understand the old Duke’s anger. His tendency to abandon her at school, even over school holidays, made sense in light of this discovery. But even that knowledge didn’t lessen her lingering sense of foreboding.

WHILE UNEXPECTED ON A HIGH-CLASS MAYFAIR street, the press of a knifepoint to the base of Michael Rafferty’s spine proved annoyingly familiar.

“Your valuables or your life,” a guttural voice hissed. “I reckon a couple of swanks like you two have nice fat pockets.”

Rafferty glanced at his colleague. After receiving his slight nod, Rafferty turned abruptly, rapping the miscreant’s hand with his walking stick. The knife flew from the robber’s grasp and slid harmlessly along the street. Deprived of his weapon, the thief resorted to his fists but quickly discovered he was outclassed there as well. Rafferty soon had the man’s face pressed to the side of a well-appointed Mayfair town house with his arm twisted in a painful hold.

“Well done.” Rafferty’s companion applauded. “You didn’t need my assistance at all.”

Rafferty winced, feeling the sting of a cut on his lip. The bloody bugger had landed one lucky punch. Blast that it had been the fist with a ring.

“Some of that famous sleight of hand would have been appreciated,” Rafferty said, shaking his hair clear from his eyes. “Or is that only for the stage?”

His friend, the renowned Phineas Connor, Master of Illusion, laughed. “My performance onstage is limited to cards and doves. You’re the one, Rafferty, known for his fists.” He glanced at Rafferty’s captive. “At least among the Irishmen who should know better.”

The man squirmed. “Rafferty? Is that you?” He swore like a seaman, which—based on his filthy rags—he could have been. “I swear I didn’t know.”

Rafferty tugged the crook’s arm higher and heard fabric rip. “Check his pockets.”

While Phineas rummaged through the man’s clothing, Rafferty glanced around the corner of the building to a line of hansoms in front of a stylish town house. Such an elite gathering might offer temptation for the kind of criminal he held captive. “This is a dapper neighborhood for a wharf rat like you.”

“I was minding me own business until you two came along,” the thief muttered.

Silver glinted in Phineas’s hand, the contents of the thief’s pocket. Rafferty gave the man a shake. “A half crown? Who else did you rob tonight?”

“I didn’t rob nobody. That was for a message. Half now and half when I brings the reply.”

“What sort of reply did you expect to a knife in the back?” Rafferty tugged the arm, earning a squeal from the thief.

“The message weren’t for you. I was to hand deliver it to a lady, I was. I thought you two was easy pickings while I waited for her to show.”

Phineas retrieved an envelope from the crook’s jacket. No name or address was noted on the front, but a blob of red wax sealed the back. He bounced the letter off his fingertips. “Nice quality stationery. Too nice for the likes of a gutter rat.”

“Who’s the lady?” Rafferty asked. When an answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming, he tugged the twisted arm higher. “Tell me before your arm leaves its socket.”

“I don’t know her name,” the man bellowed, his eyes squeezed shut. “All I know is she’s dressed in green and she’s going to that party of swells.” He slid his face on the limestone to point the way with his chin. “Barnell said . . .” His eyes widened, and his mouth clamped shut.

“Barnell?” Rafferty glanced at Phineas, who nodded in recognition. “James Stuart Barnell from the House of Commons?” Lord Henderson, Rafferty’s superior at the Home Office, had suggested Barnell would be attending the diplomatic reception at Countess D’Orange’s town house. Rafferty had supposed that was the reason he’d been ordered to attend in spite of a spirited vocal protest. An evening spent in the company of haughty, preening, supercilious diplomats was an even greater insidious torture than the stiff starched collar currently pinching his neck. Now that intelligence listed Barnell as chairman of the Home Rule League, a group advocating violence in pursuit of Irish independence, the British government monitored his every move. Thus Rafferty had to attend the stuffy reception rather than spend a pleasant evening with the accommodating colleens at Brannigan’s Tavern.

Phineas retrieved the knife and handed it to Rafferty, who slipped it temporarily into the waistband of his trousers before releasing the thief. “What exactly did Barnell tell you?”

“I ain’t saying nothing more,” the man grumbled.

“You’re in luck.” Rafferty smiled. “I happen to be going to that particular gathering. I’ll be happy to convey your message to Mr. Barnell’s mystery woman.”

“She’s expecting the likes of me, not you,” the hooligan complained. “How’s I’m supposed to get my other half crown if I don’t bring back her reply?”

“Be content you’re still alive,” Rafferty said, already pondering the identity of the woman. “Now be off with you. Don’t let me see your nose up here again or you’ll be returning to Kerry without it.”

The man began to slink down the road but turned after he’d traveled a safe distance. “It’s a sad day”—he snarled—“when the Irish turn against their own.”

Rafferty’s jaw set, his fingers curled into fists. Had it not been for Phineas’s restraining hand on his arm, he’d have chased the boggler down to make him eat his contemptuous words.

“Easy, Rafe,” Phineas counseled. “It’s a fool that’s talking. Remember who pressed a knife to your back.” They watched until the thief blended into the shadows.

“How can they think I’m not doing my part to fight for Irish independence?” Rafferty grumbled. The insulting moke hadn’t been the first to taunt him about loyalties, and most likely he wouldn’t be the last. “Killing innocent people isn’t the right way to gain home rule.”

“I know, I know.” Phineas slapped him on the back. “It’s true what Samuel Johnson said—the Irish, we’re a fair people. We never speak well of one another.”

In spite of his lingering disgust over the lout’s taunt, Rafferty found his spirits lifting. Phineas was right. The man was a fool. Best to focus on the recent plum that had fallen in his lap . . . the message to a mystery woman in green. His lips twisted into a smile. History had proven that even the most fiery of politicians had a vulnerability where beautiful women were concerned. Could she be the key to the elimination of the violent Fenians? He pulled the paper from his jacket. “This message could prove a stroke of good fortune. Do you think Barnell is establishing a tryst?” He contemplated the red seal. “We should read it before it’s delivered.”