The Bridegroom (11 page)

Michael O’Malley believed devoutly in two things: hard work and Irish luck. It was Irish luck that he had encountered the Duke of Blackthorne at a time when Alastair Wharton had amnesia and did not know he was His Grace and not the sort to be socializing with the likes of Mick O’Malley. It was hard work that had resulted in Mick’s appointment as the Duke of Blackthorne’s steward in Scotland.

On the other hand, it was damned bad luck that he had fallen in love with Lady Rebecca Wharton the first time he laid eyes on her. Becky had been sitting on the lawn at Blackthorne Abbey, her lap full of daffodils, when he crossed her path, scythe in hand. She had looked up and smiled at him, a perfect stranger dressed in a coat with too-short sleeves, pants with too-short legs, and boots that were two sizes too large.

Mick had known even then, as a gangly boy of thirteen, that a duke’s daughter was never going to marry an
Irish bastard. He had owed Blackthorne too much to lust after his daughter, when all it could lead to was heartache for both of them. Besides educating Mick and giving him a job, the duke had provided homes and positions for his half brothers Corey and Egan and his half sister Glenna.

To repay the duke’s generosity, Mick had kept his hands and his thoughts to himself, watching Becky all of his life with his love well hidden behind a friendly smile.

Until today.

He did not quite understand what had happened. Perhaps Reggie’s exuberant greeting had broken his reserve. Or perhaps it was the way Becky had stood so still, staring at him, her heart in her eyes.
Love
in her eyes. It was a dream come true, to have her look at him with such longing. He had been so stunned he had …

Oh, God, what had he done? Mick shoved a hand through his hair. He should never have let her see what he was feeling. How was he supposed to face her across the supper table tonight and pretend nothing had changed? Everything had changed.

No, that was not precisely true. She was still a married woman. That had not changed.

And he was still a whore’s bastard son.

Mick groaned. He had no business even looking at Becky, let alone dreaming of what it would be like to kiss her, to hold her in his arms. It was blasphemy even to think of trying to steal her from her husband.

Mick realized that if he did not find something to keep his mind off of Becky for the rest of the afternoon,
he would go mad. Or do something he would regret for the rest of his life.

A paper crackled in his coat pocket, and he pulled it out. It was a letter from a London solicitor urging Mick to see him “at your earliest convenience” on “a matter of great importance to your future.” Mick supposed some lord or another had heard of the modern farming methods he had employed at Blackthorne Hall and wanted Mick to come work for him.

Mick considered the prospect of leaving Blackthorne’s employ. Perhaps that was the best solution. That would take him out of Becky’s orbit. That would remove temptation from his path. Because, if he were honest, now that he knew Becky might return his feelings, he doubted he would be able to keep himself from reaching for what he wanted.

Making her an adulteress. Making yourself an ungrateful wretch
.

Mick sighed and shoved himself off the four-poster bed in the room he knew Becky had prepared especially for him, because it contained a vase of his favorite flowers … daffodils. He imagined how Becky would look with a daffodil on each breast and a cluster of them decorating her mound of Venus. His body tightened viscerally, and he shook his head in disgust at the foolishness of indulging in such fantasies.

Perhaps he ought to take whatever offer was made by that London solicitor. It was an honorable way out of the coil in which he found himself. At least the visit would remove him from the house during the long hours that stretched before him until supper.

In clean linen, with his coat brushed free of dust from the road, his Hessians polished, and his unruly black hair combed, Mick presented himself at the address on Chancery Lane named in the correspondence he had received.

A rotund, bald-pated gentleman looked down his nose through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and asked, “May I help you, sir?”

Mick handed over the letter. “I received this from someone in your office.”

The gentleman took one look at the missive, then leapt to his feet, bobbed his head, and said, “Oh, my goodness. So sorry, my lord. Come with me.”

Mick stared at the man, who had become quite agitated. Before Mick could protest that he was plain Michael O’Malley, not lord of anything, the wizened fellow had cracked his knuckles on a door across the room, opened it without waiting for an answer, and announced, “He’s here! Tenby’s grandson is here!”

Another gentleman, even rounder than the first and with spectacles perched on a much larger nose, appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my. The resemblance is amazing.”

“Yes, Mr. Ellis. Amazing,” the wizened man agreed, tilting his head back and staring down his nose through his spectacles at Mick.

“Would you please come into my office, my lord?” Mr. Ellis said. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

“I think there’s been some mistake,” Mick said.

“No mistake, my lord,” Mr. Ellis assured him. “Please, come inside where I can explain everything.”

Mick was intrigued. It sounded like a case of mistaken identity, with him being mistaken for some lord’s
grandson. But what if there was no mistake? What if he really was who they thought he was?

Mick’s chest felt like some heavy piece of farm equipment had fallen on it. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He and Corey and Egan and Glenna had often speculated on who their fathers might be. Of course, they had no way of knowing, since their mother had spent so many nights with so many different gents. But they had often imagined it was some lord or another and that someday he would come looking for his missing child, because he had no heir for his absolutely huge fortune.

The three boys had all agreed that if any one of them was claimed by Lord Moneybags he would help the others. Glenna had lifted her chin in imitation of some grand lady, patted Blinne’s back to make her burp up a bubble of milk, and said, “If I turn out to be Lady Lots-of-Loot, I shall allow you to work in my stable.” Which had seemed a grand idea to the boys, because there was nothing they craved so much as the thought of sitting astride some fine blooded animal.

Of course, no lord had ever shown up claiming any of them. Until now.

Mick’s feet felt like two anvils; moving in any direction was impossible. He was afraid to hope his dreams had come true, equally afraid to discover they had not. But in this one shining moment, anything was possible.

Becky already has a husband. All the money in the world cannot buy her freedom. It is too late
.

“My lord? Will you join me?” Mr. Ellis said, gesturing him into the chamber.

“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Mick asked in a desperate attempt to control the absurd fantasies of wealth and power that had his heart pounding in his chest.

“Certainly,” Mr. Ellis said. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Mick stepped inside the solicitor’s office. Every surface was littered with stacks of paper and immense, leather-spined books filled cases that lined the walls. He sat in one of the chairs across from the desk, but getting comfortable was out of the question. He felt like he was sitting on pins and needles.

“May I offer you a glass of sherry?” Mr. Ellis asked as he seated himself across from Mick.

“Brandy would be better,” Mick said, feeling the need for something stronger.

“Of course,” the solicitor said. “Jensen, brandy please, and then you may leave us.”

Moments later, brandy in hand, Mick found himself facing Mr. Ellis, who leaned back in his chair contemplatively, pudgy fingers steepled atop his rotund belly.

“I have a few questions,” Mr. Ellis began. “First, what was your mother’s Christian name?”

The personal nature of the question surprised Mick. “Why do you need to know?”

“Please humor me, my lord.”

“I am not—”

“Your mother’s name?” the solicitor interrupted.

Mick was halfway out of his seat when the solicitor said, “Please. If you will only be patient, all will be made clear to you. Your mother’s Christian name?”

“Elizabeth,” Mick said at last. It was such a common name he could not understand what help it could be to know it.

“Did your mother have any distinguishing marks, anything that would identify her to a stranger?”

Mick thought a moment, and a memory came rushing back.

He had woken up to find a strange man shoving his mother up against the wall, his hand fisted in her hair, his mouth pressed against her throat—apparently biting her, because she was moaning with pain.

He had attacked the man, trying to beat him off. The instant the man lifted his head, Mick had seen the red mark and thought his mother was wounded. It had enraged him enough to pummel the man with all his might.

It was much later, when his mother was pressing a cold cloth to Mick’s blackened eye and swollen lip, that she lifted her hair to show him that the man had not hurt her and to explain that the small red mark had been there since birth.

“She had a strawberry mark on her throat, beneath her left ear,” Mick said.

“Anything else?” Mr. Ellis asked.

“No. Nothing else.”

The solicitor templed his fingertips before him and pursed his lips. Clearly he was expecting something else. Mick racked his mind to think what it might be.

“The tip of her right index finger was missing,” he said at last, “but she always wore gloves, so no one would notice that.”

“Very good,” Mr. Ellis said, rubbing his hands together.

“She also had brown hair, blue eyes, and good teeth,” Mick added brusquely. “Is there anything else you would like to know?”

“Hmm. Yes. I see. Well.” The solicitor looked down at a paper on the desk in front of him and adjusted his spectacles.

Mick still did not understand the point of the solicitor’s questions, especially when the only proof that the answers he had given were true was buried with his mother in a pauper’s grave.

“When is your birthday, my lord?”

“I will be five-and-twenty tomorrow,” Mick replied impatiently.

“May 14. Oh, yes. Happy birthday.”

Mick rose. “If you are finished, I will be going.”

Mr. Ellis levered himself to his feet and held out his hands, entreating Mick to stay. He spoke quickly, before Mick could get out the door. “I represent Harold Delaford, the Marquess of Tenby. The marquess has been searching the past twenty-three years for his late son’s wife, Elizabeth, Lady Delaford, who stole his two-year-old grandson Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge, and disappeared. We believe, my lord, that you are Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge and heir apparent to the Marquess of Tenby’s title, estates, and fortune.”

Mick dropped back into the chair, stunned. And then burst out laughing. “Oh, this is marvelous. This is wonderful. The very best birthday present I have ever had.” He had actually believed for a moment that he was heir
to a fortune. He pulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Who paid you? Was it Corey and Egan? Or Glenna? It must have been all three of them,” he concluded.

“You know,” Mick said with a chuckle, “you actually had me believing you. Where are they?” he asked, rising and looking back toward the door through which he had entered. “I want to knock their silly heads together for spending money on such foolishness. I am sure your services did not come cheap.”

“This is no joke, my lord. I am entirely serious. You
are
Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge, Viscount New-bold, Baron Tredington,
et cetera
and so forth.”

Mick sank back into the wing chair. “This sort of thing just doesn’t happen,” he said, rubbing a hand across the tension in his forehead.

“Not often,” the solicitor agreed, resuming his seat.

“How do you know I am who you think I am? I mean, a first name and a missing forefinger and a strawberry mark … that doesn’t seem much to go on.”

“And a birthday. You are forgetting that.”

Mick shook his head. “How in heaven’s name did you put those puzzle pieces together and come up with me? And why did it take so long?”

“Actually, we found you purely by accident,” Mr. Ellis said. “An American gentleman came to me recently seeking help in locating a female bondservant who had run away from his plantation in Virginia. Seems he was in love with her! Said he had bought her from a man who claimed she was purchased from an orphanage
in Dublin. He thought she might have come back to England searching for her family.”

“Blinne!”

“Yes, my lord, it appears so.”

Mick leapt to his feet and grabbed Mr. Ellis by his neck cloth, yanking him out of his chair. “Did you find her? Where is she? How is she?”

Mr. Ellis made one vain attempt to free himself before he explained, “The American gentleman gave me a great deal of information, including the fact that the girl’s mother was named Elizabeth and was missing the tip of her right index finger. I engaged the Bow Street Runners, who investigated thoroughly and—”