The Irish Duchess (33 page)

“That’s not enough.” With determination, Fiona kicked open the outside latch. Lifting her heavy traveling skirt and petticoat, she lowered her booted foot into the muck of the yard.

Colin looked up with alarm as she approached. “What the divil are ye doin’ out of the carriage, lass? You’ll catch your death out here.”

The rain was turning to an icy sleet that bounced off her cloak and froze to her gloves. They’d be fortunate to reach the coast by nightfall. Instinct was right. There had to be a better way. “I want to turn around.”

Colin frowned but nodded. “If ye’re sure, lass. This is bloody awful weather, I’ll agree. But we’ll not make another start if you change your mind again. It’s like to turn to snow before long.”

Fiona hesitated. They could be snowed in and never reach Sean. But maybe Michael and Neville could send someone by ship from the Thames. That would probably be much faster and safer.

“I’m certain. Harness the horses and let’s go home.”

They were already backing fresh animals into the traces. Fiona looked them over with approval, cursed her mud-coated boots, and climbed back into the carriage. Slamming the door against the blowing sheets of ice and water, she almost felt warm again.

Mrs. Blackthorn watched her anxiously. “Will they turn about then?”

“We’ll never make it in this weather anyway. Neville and the earl can send someone from London. I’ll have to learn that money paves an easier road, I suppose.”

Mrs. B. relaxed against the squabs. “We’ve not any of us had much experience with the power of dukes. You’ll learn. That husband of yours means well.”

Fiona nodded in silent agreement. The carriage rolled away from the inn yard a few minutes later. It was strange having someone she could rely on after all these years of doing everything herself. She still wanted to leap in and fix it, but she’d learn better ways.

It took a few minutes before she realized their direction did not seem to be what it ought. She hadn’t paid attention when they pulled out of the yard, but she distinctly remembered a charming old church set back from the road as they’d entered the village. Mrs. B. had pointed it out to her since it had been on the widow’s side then. It should be on Fiona’s side now. Only open countryside sprawled across the view from her window. Had she missed it?

Frowning, she concentrated on orienting herself. She had quite a good sense of direction, fortunately for some of her childish escapades.

The sun, or what there was of it, would be directly overhead at this time of day, so it wasn’t of any use even if she could see it through the clouds. The view from the window looked unfamiliar.

“Change seats with me,” she ordered.

Mrs. Blackthorn looked surprised but obligingly shifted to the forward seat while Fiona slid across the squabs. The view still looked unfamiliar. Not bothering to puzzle over it longer, she knocked on the trap door behind the driver’s seat.

No one responded.

Remaining where she was, Mrs. B. looked worried. “What is it, Your Grace?”

“Nothing, probably. I just wish to speak with Colin, but he’s ignoring me.” Leaning over her maid, she unfastened the latch of the door and looked out. She could see only McGonigle’s man whipping the horses faster. Where was Colin?

“Driver!” she shouted against the bitter wind rushing through the door.

He didn’t answer.

Damn the contrary, disobedient Irish. Why in the name of all that was holy had she allowed one of McGonigle’s rebels to accompany them? They should have left the spalpeen to find his own way home.

Finding the umbrella Mrs. B. had insisted she carry, Fiona poked it through the trap door at the driver’s back. “Halt the damned carriage!” she shouted in her most authoritative voice. She’d drive the thing herself if necessary. She still wasn’t certain of their direction, and the idea of Neville out in this weather scouring the countryside for her did not sit well on her conscience.

Someone leaned over, grabbed the umbrella, and flung it into the road.

Damn, but she was in trouble now.

***

“The bill will come to a vote at the first of next week,” Effingham reminded them, pacing the narrow confines of Neville’s office. “We cannot all chase after your errant wife, Your Grace.” He used the title with sarcasm.

“I’ll go after her,” Neville said. “Your job is to get the bill passed without my vote.”

“If you’re not here to lead the opposition, you’ll lose that position in the cabinet,” Effingham warned. “There’s no guarantee Townsend will get it, but you’re risking a great deal.”

“I risk even more if I don’t follow Fiona,” Neville answered, staring out the rain-streaked windows but seeing nothing. “I realize she’s capable of taking care of herself, but the roads aren’t safe, and she has a tendency to look after others before herself.”

“We’ll take care of things here,” Michael assured him.

Neville couldn’t see what bit of nonsense the earl juggled now, and he really didn’t care. He simply knew if he had the earl’s word that he’d take care of business, he could count on it. “Then I’d best be off. She’s been out on the road since morning and has a twelve hour lead over me. If I ride all night, I might find her by tomorrow. We may be worrying for naught.”

“Umm, gentlemen?” All three of them swung at the feminine voice interruption from the doorway.

Neville swore beneath his breath as he recognized Lady Gwyneth. Today, she wore a dowdy brown gown that draped her statuesque figure like a toga. He’d once considered marriage to this woman, but he thought it more likely he considered marriage to her wealth and golden hair. It paled in comparison to Fiona’s fiery tresses and nature, however. Fiona was flame compared to Gwyneth’s cold gold.

“My lady, may we help you?” he asked as gently as he could under the circumstances. Despite her size, Gwyneth always gave the impression that she would flit from sight like a butterfly if accosted too abruptly.

“I think there’s something you should know.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the corridor.

Perceiving her anxiety, Neville crossed the room, urged her inside, and checked the hallway. Gwyneth’s abigail glanced at him from a safe distance near a corner intersection of the corridors, but there was no other to see her entering these all male chambers.

He closed the door and urged her into a chair. “Something quite extraordinary must have brought you here, my lady. You’ve met Effingham and Aberdare?”

She nodded without looking at either of the two gentlemen. “It’s about Her Grace. And you. And the crime bill,” she said hurriedly, as if trying to speak all the words before they froze inside her.

“All right. Take it slowly and tell us what you know.” Despite an instinctive shiver of fear, Neville rested against the edge of his desk, trying not to look threatening.

“It’s Townsend,” she whispered, “and Durham. They’re conspiring against you.”

Effingham snorted rudely. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

She darted him a sharp look. “Durham is responsible for the near riot in Aberdare and is apparently in some way responsible for the murder of a man named Burke.”

That brought both Effingham and Aberdare to their feet, Neville noted. He’d known Gwyneth had intelligence. He just hadn’t realized what sort of intelligence. “Durham. That’s Townsend’s son-in-law. He’s an incompetent idiot. How could he accomplish anything?”

Gwyneth returned to staring at the floor. “I don’t know, precisely. He owns an estate in Ireland, though. And he’s been assigned the task of keeping the three of you out of London until the reform bill dies.”

The earl relaxed against the wall again. “And how are you aware of this, my lady?” he asked in the quiet voice he often used to reassure young children.

“I have...” She hesitated, glancing at Neville, then back to the floor again. “I would not confess all, gentlemen. Just let me say that my plans have not fully coincided with yours in the past, but in this case, I can see you may be right, and I could possibly be wrong. If the reform bill can be passed by normal means, then I would see it done so. But I fear Townsend will win unless I tell you all I know.”

Effingham took the chair behind Neville’s desk and began scribbling across a sheet of parchment. “Our Lady Gwyneth entertains radicals under cover of her afternoon gatherings. I thought to amuse you some day with that knowledge, Neville, but you made the tidbit moot when you married Fiona. Go on, Lady Gwyneth. My spy network seems to have failed me where yours has succeeded. How does Townsend mean to get us out of town, as if we haven’t already guessed?”

Neville watched surprise raise the lady’s eyebrows.
Radicals
. The shy, unforthcoming Lady Gwyneth entertained a nest of radicals. He would have thought it of Fiona before Gwyneth. Gad, he was an idiot.

“Your word goes no farther than this room, my lady,” Neville reassured her. “We’ve already heard there’s been an uprising at Aberdare. My wife is on her way there now. Anything you can add would be of great service to me and to the country.”

Gwyneth’s eyes widened with alarm. “You must keep Fiona out of this! Townsend and Durham are capable of anything, including murder and kidnapping. They’ve done so before. They were responsible for your beating, Your Grace. I do not know who they hired to murder the poor man in Ireland, but they are quite without conscience in their belief that they act in the good of the country,” she said bitterly. “Men rationalize so very well.”

“And you do not when you follow your radical inclinations?” Michael asked without accusation. “That people should die for the greater good has been the cause of more grief than actual good throughout history.”

Gwyneth darted him a troubled look but did not respond directly. “People die every day, but poor people die faster and in greater quantities.” She glanced back to Neville. “I do not know what Durham has planned for you. I suspect he has caused unrest in Aberdare to draw you out. If Fiona has gone to Aberdare, I should think kidnapping would be the most obvious step to bring all three of you running. If a highwayman cracks your heads on the journey, none would be the wiser.”

Effingham threw down his pen, sprinkled powder over his hastily scrawled note, and folded it. “Excellent, my lady. You have given us fair warning. I’m sending a note to my wife to take the children to the earl’s townhouse and bar the doors. That should eliminate any other easy target. I should think it wise if you would sequester yourself somewhere safe for the nonce in case Townsend’s people noted your presence here today. I’ll have a footman accompany you home.”

Surprised, she actually looked at the scarred marquess. “You believe me then? You do not think me an hysterical woman?”

Effingham stood up impatiently. “Of course we believe you. We all have wives who would knock us senseless if we did not.”

Neville’s lips quirked at the dry humor behind Effingham’s reply. The marquess’s diminutive wife would have to take a brickbat to reach his rock-hard head. But he spoke naught less than the truth, Neville realized with a modicum of pride. Fiona stood as brave and strong as either of the courageous wives his friends had taken. She was just a bit younger and more impetuous. A lot more impetuous.

And in a great deal of danger. He tried to hide his panic behind his usual stoic demeanor.

“What about Fiona?” Gwyneth demanded. “She is out there all alone.”

“She is no doubt out there with her usual scoundrels and scalawags,” Michael corrected. “I’ll send word to my men to keep an eye out for her.”

Gwyneth looked distinctly reluctant to leave but when silence followed Michael’s commands, she rose. “Thank you for hearing me out and not reprimanding me too harshly. If there is anything I can do...”

“Keep yourself safe,” Neville ordered curtly. “We have more than enough on our hands for now.”

He clutched his hair in despair as the door closed behind her. “Now what do we do?”

“
You
don’t do anything,” his companions replied in tandem.

“Your leaving is exactly what Townsend wants,” the marquess explained.

“Like bloody hell will I stay here.” Neville stalked out, leaving the two damned conspirators to do their conspiring without him. He preferred a direct approach, like wringing Townsend’s scrawny neck and asking questions later.

Thirty-two

Fiona considered her problem as the carriage raced toward the coast. Sleet skittered across the muddy window pane as the overcast day descended into early evening gloom. She would prefer escaping while some daylight remained. The thought of walking these roads at night, in the freezing cold, caused grave trepidation. She had the child to think of as well as herself.

The longer she wavered in indecision, the further from the safety of Anglesey they traveled. She didn’t hesitate when the first opportunity of escaping arrived.

A cow wandered into the lane from a village green. A dray stopped to let it pass, blocking the road to all other vehicles. Fiona heard her driver cursing the dray, the cow, and anything else within earshot. Inattentiveness was one result of fury, she mused as she quietly opened the door latch she’d already broken. With an audience to watch, what could he do to stop her?

She turned and glanced at the Widow Blackthorn. “Will you come with me?” Not trusting anyone, Fiona didn’t care how her maid replied.

The woman looked anxious, but nodded. Taking a deep breath for courage, Fiona leapt from the high carriage step into the rutted, freezing mud of the lane.

The driver continued his cursing. Fiona didn’t look back to see if the curses were meant for her or the cow. A lighted inn beckoned ahead. In the evening gloom, she stuck to the hedge shadows, scurrying past dray and cow and toward safety.

She glanced over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Blackthorn followed. The dray had moved on, and the carriage abruptly jerked into motion. The door she’d left open slammed closed from the force of its own weight, suggesting that the driver had indeed been shouting at the cow and hadn’t seen her escape. In the twilight, Fiona could see nothing of her maid either. As the carriage rolled past, she realized she was alone.