The Irish Duchess (22 page)

Gasping for breath, William willingly halted. “She ran away the night before the wedding. Michael’s scouring the isles in search of her now.”

O’Connor swore vividly and inventively in three languages. “The brat was born with greased heels, I swear.” He suddenly looked alarmed. “She would not have gone back to Aberdare, would she? There’s something afoot, and I’d not have her in the middle of it.”

“We don’t know where she’s gone!” William exclaimed in exasperation. “Michael thinks she sailed from Portsmouth, and a ship arrived from there a day or so ago, but no one on board claims to have seen her.” His expression became even more alarmed. “The duke’s gone to Aberdare in search of her. If there’s something afoot...”

O’Connor resumed hurrying up the street. “That explains it then,” he said grimly. “That explains it all. The bastards think to kill the emancipation and crime bills with a single blow.”

“Don’t be foolish,” William huffed, hurrying to keep up. “Michael does naught but vote yay or nay, then wander off with his head in the clouds. There’s naught to harm him for.”

O’Connor grimaced. “Not Michael by himself, nor the duke, nor the marquess, but together, they’re an unholy triumvirate. Michael has his wife’s wealth, the marquess has his way with words and manner of twisting arms, and the duke has power and experience. The duke would never have signed those bills if Michael had not persuaded the marquess to sponsor them and the marquess had not twisted the duke’s arm. That’s the way of it, William, and if I know it, so do those who oppose them. You’ve sent your niece into a viper’s nest.”

“Fiona sent herself,” William grumbled. “I don’t have a blamed thing to do with anything she does.”

O’Connor stopped at military headquarters and glared at the stone wall of the building rather than the old man beside him. “Her old beau, Colin Moriarity has been meeting with an English lord, so has McGonigle. And you know who lives in the lord’s home?” He gave William a bedeviled look. “The Widow Blackthorne.”

***

“Holy Mother of God, ’tis a zoo,” Colin muttered almost reverently as his gaze encountered the romping children, one of whom tumbled at his feet.

Picking up the child before his whimpers could escalate, the widow gave him a look of disgust. “’Tis yerself you’re seein’ here, Colin Moriarity. Undisciplined and heathen as the beasts in the field.” She patted the sobbing child on the back and glanced up at Fiona. “What do you mean to do with the lot?”

Then her gaze encountered the man in the chair beside the brazier, dangling a toddler on his knee, and she fell silent.

Colin, too, had discovered the stranger, and his brow drew down in a scowl. Glancing over her shoulder, Fiona read the command in Neville’s expression well enough. The dratted man didn’t need words. Just the lift of his expressive eyebrow could order armies about. His words might be scrambled, but she had the rather relieved suspicion that his brains weren’t.

With a sigh, she set the child in her arms on the floor and sent him off to his brother. “Sean, take a coin from my purse and go fetch some apples for the lot. I’ll see to tea in a little while.”

The nine-year old proudly helped himself to the money, gave their visitors a look that would have rivaled the duke’s, and marched out on his important errand.

Without any idea of what else to do, Fiona crossed the room and took the toddler from the duke. She feared he’d topple should he stand, so she pressed his shoulder, hoping he’d stay impolitely seated.

“Neville, this is Mrs. Blackthorne, from the village, and Colin Moriarity, an old friend of mine. Mrs. Blackthorne, Colin, this is my husband, Neville Perceval.” She prayed they wouldn’t recognize the name or that the duke wouldn’t question her labeling of him as “husband.” She didn’t need any more complications.

She should have known better. The widow immediately dropped into an elaborate curtsy. “Your Grace,” she whispered. “I never thought to make your acquaintance.” She rose and aimed a look of irritation at Fiona. “You brought him to the village and let him carry packages about, but you never introduced him to anyone. Were you that ashamed of us?”

Well, at least she didn’t have to worry about the townspeople treating her differently should she ever marry the duke.

“We were arguing at the time,” she answered in clipped tones, hoping to hurry and end this debacle, or at least cover up the fact that Neville hadn’t replied to the introductions. Maybe they would think him too arrogant to speak. “We’d hoped to find family for the orphans here. What was the proposition you came to tell us about?”

Prevented from advancing into the room by the tide of children ebbing and flowing at his feet, Colin stayed glued to the door. Fiona suspected that he’d noted the duke’s lack of speech, but the English nobility weren’t known for their friendliness in these parts. Besides, Neville was busily engaged in wiping the bloody nose of the three-year-old. Mayhap it was just awe that kept Colin silent.

Instead of answering Fiona’s question, the widow continued watching the duke with fascination. “What happened to his clothes?” she whispered in bemusement, for Fiona’s ears only. “I thought dukes had servants to keep them dressed grandly.”

“We only meant to be here a short time, but we had an accident, and our bags were stolen. We’ve only just arrived, and it’s after our business we must be. If you’d just tell us about your proposition…”

To Fiona’s dismay, the duke set aside the quieted child. Removing her hand from his shoulder, he pushed up using the chair back, and limped crossed the room. He held out his hand to Colin. “Moriarity,” he repeated in that damned authoritative tone that made people jump whether they willed or not. Turning to the widow, he gave a nod. “Mrs. Blackthorne.”

Fiona thought for a moment they would go down on their hands and knees and bow and scrape, so awed were they by this man in rumpled linen and mud-coated trousers. She’d like to know how he did that. She frowned at him for good measure, but he only quirked his lips in return. She had the distinct impression that he laughed at her. Again. Whoever said this man had no sense of humor, lied.

“Proposition?” he inquired, drawing the word out carefully.

Colin stammered into the breach. “We wanted a proper memorial for Burke, for a man in the village what was killed.”

Realizing he made little sense, Colin stopped, prepared to start at the beginning, but the widow intervened.

“Burke didn’t get a proper wake. We thought a memorial service in the Great Hall at Aberdare might help the village to overcome its grief. Fiona, er, Lady...” She shuffled her thinking and sought the proper form of address while the duke waited.

“Just Fiona,” Fiona filled in impatiently. “I’m not about to be Your Graced all the day. And as much as I’d like to see Burke honored, I don’t see that it will do more than cost money for barrels of ale. I’d see the coins better spent.”

The duke’s warm hand caressed the nape of her neck, not lovingly, but with warning. And perhaps to steady himself. Fiona shot him a suspicious glare but shut up. She would like nothing more than for him to fish them from this mess, but how he was to do it without speech left even her agile brain stumped.

“Continue,” Neville commanded.

He’d moved on to verbs now, Fiona thought sarcastically. How grand. Now he could really give orders.

Despite the sarcasm, she couldn’t help admitting relief that he had the mental capability to take charge. The idea of that powerful mind lost forever in a fog of speechlessness had gnawed at her more than she cared to acknowledge.

Colin straightened his spine. “There’s those who say the earl’s forgotten them already. It’s a hungry winter we’ll have without the potatoes to keep us.”

The widow interrupted, nervously smoothing Colin’s harsh words. “We know the earl can’t feed us all. We’re just his tenants, after all. He’s eased the rents and built us new houses, and we’re eternally grateful, but we have to eat. We’d thought, if we had the service, all the village would come...”

Colin made a gesture of disgust. “It’s no use, Mrs. Blackthorne. The duke won’t be interested in the likes of us, and the earl’s too busy. We’re but making fools of ourselves. It was a daft plan, anyway.”

The door behind them shoved open, scattering the little grouping as Sean dashed in with his bag of apples. The screams and shouts that ensued prevented further conversation, until the duke took matters in hand.

Frowning at the commotion, he released Fiona. Holding himself stiffly, as if still unsure of his balance, he waded into the fray. Shooing the lot toward the second room, he motioned for Sean to take the knife and peel the fruit for the youngest. Leaning a hand against the bed for support, he removed a stolen apple from one of the older children and handed it to one of the younger.

The children obeyed his every silent command with alacrity, although not without protest. He picked up the loudest complainer by the shirt, glared, then set him on his feet again, effectively silenced. Within minutes, the room had cleared of the disruption.

“My word,” the widow whispered in astonishment. “He does have a way with children.”

“He’s used to giving orders and having them obeyed,” Fiona replied in near giddy relief. “They’re good children, they just need a strong hand. I wish we could have found a home for them. Neville has promised to pay for their support, but it’s family they need.”

At the mention of “support,” Colin looked up with interest. “His Grace means to provide for all those hungry mouths?”

“You’re offering to take the task?” Fiona asked wryly.

Colin looked properly horrified. “Not me! It’s America bound I am as soon as Patsy has the babe. I was thinking of McGonigle. He and his wife never had children.”

Neville limped up behind Fiona, circled her shoulders with his arm, and guided her toward the bed. He gestured for the widow to take the room’s only chair, for all the world as if they conversed politely in his ducal drawing room.

Relieved to have him off his feet, still worried that Neville didn’t understand a word being said, Fiona sent him an anxious glance. Sitting beside her, he smiled and placed his other hand proprietarily behind her. “Wife,” he whispered in her ear as he leaned close.

Not at all certain that he didn’t retain all his senses and merely teased her, Fiona glowered and returned to their interrupted discussion.

“I’d like to see McGonigle saddled with seven brats,” she declared. “That would curtail his rebellious activities considerably.”

“That, or drive him to drink,” Colin agreed.

“But don’t you see?” the widow interrupted. “It’s perfect. The duke can make McGonigle his magnanimous offer, McGonigle will puff up with pride, his wife will be thrilled to tears, the extra coins will make the butcher and baker happy... And once all the grousing and suspicion stops, we can reach some sensible solution to our problems.”

“Looms?” Neville asked with deceptive simplicity.

He must have some understanding of the conversation. Fiona glared. If he had that much understanding, then he knew she wasn’t his wife, and he didn’t owe her looms or support for the orphans. Without her dowry, he could afford neither. But he might not be remembering the treason charges his enemies were holding over her head. She needed to learn to juggle problems like Michael juggled balls.

Both the widow and Colin turned their attention to the duke, hope so blatantly lighting their faces that Fiona absolved them of all suspicion in Burke’s demise. Did that make McGonigle the murderer? Shuddering at the thought of putting the orphans into the hands of so evil a villain, she wasn’t certain where to begin.

“We’d discussed buying the looms,” she finally said into the growing silence. She cursed Neville for mentioning the topic. “It’s nothing certain, you understand. Lord Aberdare must still be consulted. I’ve not even approached him yet about using the Great Hall until we can afford elsewhere.”

“That’s it, then,” Colin said with finality. “We’ll settle the children on McGonigle, hold the memorial, let everyone know about the looms, and we’ll live on hope a while longer. It can work. Will you be starting back to Aberdare in the morning?”

Astounded at how quickly this ball started rolling, Fiona sat with her mouth open, unable to form a suitable reply. Beside her, the damned duke grinned and murmured, “Speechless?”

She wished. Aware that all attention now focused on her, Fiona raised a trembling hand to her temple and sought some argument to postpone any decision until she had time to think. She couldn’t make quick decisions on such important matters.

“Well, Fiona, is it helping us you are?” Colin demanded. “Or are you too far above us now to care?”

That did it. Leaping to her feet, Fiona slammed open the door and gestured toward the hall. “Out, Colin. I’ve enough of your blather. I’ll not be browbeaten into doing anything until I’m ready. Go back and see to your wife. I’ll see you again when I’m ready, and not before.”

The duke and the widow both stood up when Fiona did. Neville placed calming hands on her shoulders. He nodded as Mrs. Blackthorne curtsied and lifted a ducal eyebrow in Colin’s direction.

“Later,” the duke said ambiguously.

Colin immediately perked up, gave the duke a respectful salute, and offered his arm to the widow. “We’ll come help with the children in the morning, shall we?” he said cheerfully. He closed the door before Fiona could tell him what she thought of his reply.

Before Fiona could vent her fury with a stream of invectives at the door, the duke pulled her around and lowered his head, capturing her mouth with his.

“Damn you,” she whispered before succumbing to the temptation of losing herself in the spiraling heat of the moment. Sliding her arms around broad shoulders, she let her problems disappear behind the cloud of longing Neville’s caresses inspired.

Later, she would worry about looms and orphans, dangers and dukedoms. Later, she would worry about the meaning of this overwhelming flood of relief she felt at his rapidly recovering memory. That he might never return to normal frightened her more than she could bear. For right now, she would bask in the worship of Neville’s kiss and the promise of his embrace and give nothing else any consideration.