The Irish Duchess (38 page)

So it struck her that the army punished the innocent by posting its minions in Aberdare. They should be searching farther afield, to those jealous of what Aberdare had accomplished. Or worse, to those who did the devil’s work for another purpose entirely.

Fiona sent her stern husband a thoughtful look. What happened in Aberdare was none of his concern. He could have left Michael to deal with it himself, but instead lent his power and authority for the sake of friendship as well as kinship.

“What if all this has nothing to do with secret societies and rebels?” she asked, waiting until he looked at her before continuing. She would give Neville credit for at least listening. Satisfied she had his full attention, she formed her words carefully. “Durham has an Irish estate.” At his nod, she continued more confidently. “If Durham was behind the earlier attack on you, he might also have been behind the troubles at Aberdare. He may have hoped Effingham would run to help Michael, thus drawing him out of England also. Durham’s a rather inept sort, I believe. It sounds like the kind of thing a man like that would do to draw away his opponents.”

Neville returned his gaze to the land rising from the horizon. “We’ve considered that possibility, but we have no proof. And I don’t see how any of this is involved in Burke’s murder.”

“Durham wouldn’t dirty his hands doing anything himself. He would hire someone. That someone may have been told to steal the money to stop the looms. But if Burke intervened in the theft, the thief may have carried his orders a little farther. When one encourages anarchy, one cannot expect control.”

Neville nodded thoughtfully.

Encouraged, Fiona continued. “I think we must be even more devious than he. I think, if we’re to end these insurrections, we should set a trap.”

Neville cast her a startled glance. “A trap? What kind of trap?”

The cobwebs fled from her brain beneath the full impact of his attention. “You aren’t going to like this.”

Neville scowled. “If it involves you, you’re damned right I won’t like it.”

“Oh, no, your noble lordship. It involves you.”

***

“You’ve got maggots for brains, little cousin,” Michael stated firmly as they observed the progress of the cart down the rutted road toward Aberdare.

“And your head is stuffed with more cotton batting than Neville’s if you’re after believing that, your worthy lordship,” Fiona replied without rancor, her gaze fixed anxiously on the cart.

Behind them, Effingham rolled his eyes heavenward. “That’s enough, children. Let us proceed with the next step of this farce. At least I needn’t pay for my entertainment while in your company.”

Both red-headed cousins turned green-eyed glares on him. It was like watching twin fireworks, Effingham observed. Infinitely entertaining. He nodded toward the waiting horses. “Shall we let the games begin?”

As they watched the two-wheeled cart filled with straw wobble down the road carrying the precious contents of the mighty Duke of Anglesey, Effingham shook his head in appreciation of the irony. The impeccably tailored duke with his damned arrogant expression and annoying quizzing glass now lay ensconced in straw, garbed in tattered rags, reeking of cheap whiskey, with a shabby eye-patch concealing at least one of his recognizably bushy eyebrows. Remembering the night he’d watch the duke lift an eyebrow and rap a walking stick to dismiss the powerful Lord Townsend, Effingham almost smiled. This was a battle worth watching.

His gaze drifted to the duke’s capricious wife. With Anglesey jewels glittering at her ears and throat, wrapped warmly in a fur-lined cloak, she stood as regally as any princess, watching her husband disappear into the distance. Only the furrow between her eyes gave away her concern. Considering husband and wife had argued and spat during the entire journey, Effingham thought her apprehension enormously amusing. The termagant had definitely met her match. He just would never have expected it to be in the form of the studious, unruffled duke.

“You look like some pagan princess sending her consort off for execution,” Michael grumbled as he helped Fiona into a well-sprung traveling coach.

“It was your idea to dress me up like an Egyptian queen,” Fiona complained as the men climbed in after her. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Good. Maybe if you’re weighed down with a fortune in jewels you’ll think twice about picking up your skirts and running off to join Neville,” Michael replied smugly.

Fiona shot him a nasty glare, opened her mouth to speak, and apparently deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, snapped it closed again. She settled more comfortably into her seat.

“Brava,” Effingham called. “You’ve just learned the first lesson in dealing with annoying gnats like Michael. Freeze them out.”

Behind the hood of her cloak, Fiona smiled and turned her attention to the carriage window.

“That’s like telling a fire to become frost,” Michael complained from the seat opposite hers. “She’ll burst a gasket trying.”

“Silence, Michael,” Effingham said serenely.

The carriage rolled down the road a safe distance behind the humble country cart.

All thoughts rested on the dangers awaiting them should their plan fail.

It couldn’t fail. Too many lives and the fate of countries depended on it.

Thirty-seven

“I don’t like this. We’re mad to try it,” Fiona muttered, wringing her hands and watching the farm cart roll away in a different direction. “It will never work.”

“If it doesn’t work, then we’ve risked nothing,” Michael replied. “As you pointed out, Durham’s a bumbling incompetent, not a murderer. I wouldn’t wager my savings on Townsend, but he’s not here.”

“Townsend is an unscrupulous mercenary, but I can’t say even he would stoop so low as murder. He might hope someone else will carry the matter too far, but I doubt he could carry it out on his own.” Effingham lifted the carriage curtain with his walking stick and peered out as they approached their destination.

Fiona wrinkled her nose at Durham’s deteriorating mansion in the distance. The carriage jolted to and fro in the pockmarked lane, and her stomach protested the jostling. She had to do something to keep her mind off the days ahead, so she studied her surroundings. It wasn’t much of an estate, she concluded.

The tenant cottages were in total disrepair, fit only for pigs, but she could see faded splotches of laundry draped over rocks and bushes between the houses. Smoke rose in wisps from holes in roofs that might once have contained chimneys. It was a wonder they didn’t burn the places to the ground.

Even as she thought it, she saw the charred remains of a cottage between two other teetering dwellings. She hoped the occupants had survived, though she didn’t like to think what kind of life they might have if they did. These hovels could scarcely hold one family, and certainly not two.

Her gaze drifted back to the sprawling edifice ahead. Vines covered brick walls, concealing any defects, but Fiona was familiar enough with the area to know what vines could hide. They crept in through loose window sashes and ate through mortar, letting in damp and drafts and rot. She’d seen vines curl around interior windows and push through warped floors if left unchecked. Few landlords actually lived in Ireland. They drained the country of its resources and spent their wealth in the comfort of their London town houses. Durham would be such a one.

Her observations didn’t settle her protesting stomach. For the first time in her pregnancy, nausea swelled in her throat. Choking it back, she rejected the role of helpless female, even as her nerves tightened. Maybe Durham wasn’t there.

That hope died once the carriage halted in front of the house. Their driver applied the knocker to the front door, and a footman opened the warped oak. The marquess clambered from the carriage, lowering the steps so Fiona could climb down. As she did, a stiffly erect rider approached on horseback. Nerves shot, Fiona clutched Effingham’s hand. She knew Durham by sight, and that wasn’t him.

It was Townsend.

Unreasoning terror gripped her. Effingham’s hand squeezed hers as she gagged and tried to hold down the bile.

“Well, well, my friends, I didn’t expect you to make this so easy for me.” Townsend halted his horse a safe distance from the carriage. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

“The duchess is ill. We didn’t dare ask her to travel farther today. We stopped to ask for your hospitality.”

Fiona heard the barely disguised sarcasm in Effingham’s voice.

Townsend smiled in evident enjoyment of their plight. “By all means, invite the duchess in. As a matter of fact, I insist.” He glanced over their heads. “Durham, have your soldiers arrest these traitors.”

Fiona swung toward their only means of transportation. Before she could take a step, a dozen men wearing ragged uniforms and carrying muskets surrounded them.

So much for the protection of the English army.

Without warning, Fiona gagged, bent double, and spewed the remainder of her breakfast on the marquess’s muddy boots.

Behind her, Michael murmured wryly. “Well, that visibly confirms our story.”

She wanted to smack him, but she couldn’t. The whole world spun around, and she could see three Townsends climbing from three horses, just before the world went black and she fell face forward toward the trampled grass.

***

Neville fared little better. The straw itched, unknown creatures bit and scratched, and the cart hit every rut and hole with a force nearly propelling him from his bed. He cursed Fiona, he cursed Michael, and he cursed the marquess. Most of all, he cursed himself for falling in with Fiona’s insane plan. True, they had no other means of identifying the source of the violence. That didn’t mean he had to play the part of village idiot until they did.

He could be in London now, in front of a roaring fire, drawing up plans to resubmit the Catholic Emancipation bill. That seemed much more likely of success than drawing out kidnappers and murderers while wearing a feeble disguise.

Yet he couldn’t sit in the safety of his study while the men who had attempted to abduct Fiona were on the loose. It had been a hare-brained attempt at best, but that didn’t alleviate the terror they had caused. Fiona could have lost the child attempting to escape. She could have been so terrified that she might have done something dangerous to herself. No, the kidnappers must be found, and the sooner, the better.

So he scratched the flea bites, dug his feet into the straw, and endured the stench of whatever the cart had hauled last. No one would think to find the Duke of Anglesey traveling like this, and that’s the way he wanted it. He didn’t want anyone knowing of his presence in Ireland.

He just wished his wife and her wretched cousin had dreamed up a more elegant disguise.

Exhausting all other alternatives, Neville closed his eyes and slept part of the way into the sleepy little village of Aberdare.

The driver’s cries of alarm as the cart lurched to a halt woke him just before they traversed the last section of road into town.

Neville opened his eyes and gazed into the cold barrel of a musket.

“On the ground!” the soldier with the weapon shouted, while another—not waiting for the command to be carried out—shoved his bayonet into the straw behind Neville’s head.

“What the devil!” Startled, Neville sat up, opened his mouth to give the commanding officer a royal set down, and got shoved from the cart with a gun butt for his efforts.

Cursing, he landed on his feet and glared at the rag-tag bunch of soldiers surrounding him. They didn’t look like any army he knew, but then, he had never inspected the mercenary armies the government had installed in Ireland to keep peace and order. Neville grabbed the musket barrel at his back, jerked, and swinging, slammed it against its owner’s shoulder.

“Now keep your bloody hands off me!” he shouted. “And show me to your commanding officer.”

Within seconds, the motley soldiers turned their attention from tearing apart the cart to slamming Neville to the ground and beating him with any weapon at hand.

Outraged, furious beyond all measure, Neville swung his purloined musket, smacking it against kneecaps. He tumbled away from the worst blows while jabbing the bayonet at boot-clad ankles. The howls of pain from his victims couldn’t hide the fact that he was outnumbered. A crack against his head sprawled him backward into the mud and someone grabbed his weapon before he could tighten his grip.

Neville doubled up with agony as a booted foot kicked him in the ribs. These were soldiers, damn it! They were supposed to uphold the law, not twist it to their own devices.

The memory of Fiona’s hatred for the British rose foggily in his mind. This, then, was what inspired her loathing. He had only to show himself as a British lord and not the vagabond he appeared, and they would run like hell. But even if he could prove who he was, he didn’t dare for fear of endangering Fiona and the others. Their plan rested on the hope that Durham would believe him safely in London.

The driver he had hired cried out in pain and once more, Neville swung his aching body into action. He couldn’t let the man suffer on his account. Uncurling, he hooked his hand around another musket butt, swung to one side, and hauled the weapon with him, catching its owner off balance. The man screamed and stumbled, and Neville leapt to his feet, musket in hand.

To his astonishment, the soldiers suddenly lost interest in his activities. Glancing up, Neville stared in mixed relief and fear as a pitchfork-waving mob of villagers poured over the hillock and through the field in the direction of Neville and the soldiers.

They would get themselves killed. The soldiers were armed, even if they didn’t have much training with their weapons. They could shoot the villagers from a distance, take to their horses, and run them down before the local people could do any damage whatsoever.

The realization that they came to rescue him galvanized him into action. Neville grabbed the reins of the nearest horse from its astonished owner, leapt on, and fighting the animal’s rearing protest, aimed for the one man he could distinguish as an officer.