The Shamrock & the Rose (2 page)

“It
is
rather overpowering,” Rose
agreed with a smile.

“Each time there is a delivery, I hear poor
Cruthers sigh.”

So many flowers! No longer able to restrain
their laughter, both Rose and the countess gave in to a hearty and
somewhat undignified guffaw. Even better, Rose enjoyed seeing the
decorous older woman allow herself a moment of levity.

* * *

Morgan stepped out of Fribourg &
Treyer’s tobacco shop and tucked the small package into his pocket,
hoping he’d found the perfect snuffbox for Uncle Maurice’s
birthday. A sharp wind stirred the dust of the street, and he
pulled his greatcoat tighter about him and set his mind to meeting
Roger for a light repast.

Taking another step, he heard a muffled
crackle sound from below his boot on the pavement. Looking down he
saw an envelope. Curious, he picked it up, brushed off the dust and
smoothed the paper. Inscribed in two lines was the intended
recipient’s name and address:

Miss Lily Underwood
Theatre-Royal Haymarket

Into his mind came the picture of a woman in
a sixteenth-century gown moving gracefully across a stage. The
actress from
The Merchant of Venice.
The woman who was now
never far from his thoughts.

Discovering the note unsealed, Morgan paused
for a moment and then opened the missive, thinking to learn if the
matter was one that required posthaste resolution. He had not
planned a trip to Haymarket anytime soon, let alone to deliver an
actress’s misplaced mail.

He had only to read a few lines to realize
the contents were of no great import. It was one of those love
notes Roger had reminded him were becoming all the fashion in
London: a valentine. He had paid the custom little attention.

My dear Miss Underwood,
fairest rose,
I’ve watched you at each performance.
You are more beautiful than any other,
with skin that glows like a pearl,
and a smile that brings to mind a distant memory.
I want to gaze upon your face forever.
And I shall…
for soon you
will
be mine!

Ah, he reminded himself, tomorrow was St.
Valentine’s Day. Perhaps some lovesick fool set forth these flowery
words hoping to win the actress’s favor. Though, as Morgan read the
note a second time, it seemed to him the author’s words were a bit
possessive. In the final line, “will” was underscored five times.
Perhaps Miss Underwood was the type of lover to inspire such
ferocity, if indeed the pair was already acquainted.

Morgan considered what to do with the note.
Unsigned, he could hardly return it to its author. He might deliver
it, though, and meet this paragon of beauty. Given the words the
man had written, Morgan was more curious than ever to see the fair
Lily Underwood in person. He might even seduce the comely actress
if she was not already spoken for. Perhaps because of her
performance, he had last night declined the charms of Sophie.

Slipping the note into his pocket, he
smiled. That was just what he would do.

* * *

The next morning Morgan took his uncle’s
coach to the theatre. His timing was superb. After asking the
driver to wait, he approached the entrance just as a liveried
servant stepped from an elegant carriage and entered the theatre.
To an attendant the servant said, “I’m here for Miss Underwood’s
mail.”

Morgan was taken aback. At first he thought
to stop the man and give him the note he’d found, but he hesitated.
Given the attire of the servant, he was tempted to follow and see
exactly where Miss Underwood lived. Deciding that was more in
keeping with his desire, he returned the note to his pocket.

He waited while the attendant disappeared
and returned with a stack of correspondence. The servant accepted
the pile of letters and turned to leave, and Morgan quietly
followed. But the route taken was circuitous, and Morgan’s intrigue
only grew as the other carriage wended its way through London.

At last the carriage disappeared behind a
grand estate. Climbing down, Morgan paused in front of his own
conveyance and looked up. The four-story house was an impressive
edifice with tall columns and rows of windows on each floor
surrounded by gardens. Roger had pointed it out once when they were
riding by. Claremont House. The home of the dowager countess.

Surely no common actress dwelled within, so
why was Miss Underwood having her mail delivered here? His
curiosity rising to a new level, Morgan passed through the iron
gate and took the stairs to the front door, determined to meet the
woman who inspired the poetry he carried in his pocket.

At the second drop of the brass knocker the
door opened and an older, well-attired butler appeared. Half
expecting to be turned away, Morgan handed him his card saying,
“Mr. O’Connell to see the countess if she is receiving visitors. I
have a message for Miss Underwood.”

A flicker of surprise crossed the old
butler’s face, but it quickly vanished. “I will inquire if the
countess will see you.” Taking Morgan’s hat, the butler bade him
enter. “Please wait here.”

He had only begun to look around the grand
entry hall, noting the silver salver on a small table piled high
with calling cards, the crystal chandelier above him and the gilded
staircase winding to the second floor, when the butler returned.
“The countess will receive you in the parlour. Please follow
me.”

Morgan was delighted.

He arrived at the door of the sitting room
to see an older woman on one of two sofas flanking a white marble
fireplace. She was a vision of simple elegance in a lapis blue gown
with lace at the neckline, a long string of pearls and a quizzing
glass on a gold chain her only adornments.

“Mr. O’Connell,” she said, holding out her
hand.

He bowed over it. “Lady Claremont. Thank you
for seeing me without notice.”

“Please sit down, Mr. O’Connell. Cruthers
said you came with a message for Miss Underwood?”

Morgan lowered himself onto the sofa
opposite, noticing the anxiety on the older woman’s face and the
strong aroma of flowers in the room. His gaze lingered for a moment
on a large bouquet of roses, a profusion of scarlet set against a
window, before he said, “Yes, one I found quite by happenstance as
I was leaving Fribourg and Treyer’s tobacco shop.”

“How did you know Miss Underwood would be
here to receive it?”

“Oh, I did not initially. I went to the
theatre to return the note, and your servant was just leaving with
her mail. I thought to follow him.”

“I see. Very inventive, Mr. O’Connell. Are
you in the habit of pursuing young ladies in such a manner?”

Morgan paused. “I must apologize for what
was a forward action on my part, but candidly, I was curious to
know where the actress lives. You see, I saw Miss Underwood perform
the other night and was impressed. I thought to meet her.” He
didn’t mention that his intent had been to seduce her as well.

The countess appeared to consider, pausing
to study Morgan, at one point with the aid of her quizzing glass as
she might inspect an insect under glass. It occurred to him the
older woman likely thought him a rakehell. There was, he supposed,
considerable evidence for such a conclusion.

“The name O’Connell is a famous one,” she
said at last. “Some in London might even say infamous. Are you any
relation to that wild Irishman Daniel O’Connell, the barrister who
leads the Irish in their campaign for Catholic emancipation? I
believe he has a son named Morgan, but I dare say you are too old
to be him.”

“The name Morgan is as common as Maurice or
Daniel in my family. Suffice it to say there are many. The Daniel
O’Connell you speak of is my cousin, older than me by ten years at
just past forty. He is the one who encouraged me to come to London
to read the law and attend one of the Inns of Court. Daniel thought
a Protestant might be better received here.”

“A Protestant in the very Catholic O’Connell
family?”

“Yes,” Morgan admitted with a rueful smile.
“From my mother’s side. A bit of a misfit, perhaps, neither
accepted by all of the O’Connells nor trusted by the Protestant
Ascendancy.”

“A misfit…” The countess studied him
intently. “You must be a man who thinks for himself, Mr. O’Connell,
if you are willing to draw the ire of all.”

“I should like to think that is the case.
However, my cousin has been most supportive. While Daniel is
critical of the Protestant leaders in Ireland, he is a fair man. He
believes religious and civil liberty for Catholics in Ireland will
also protect Protestants in France and Italy. And he counts
Protestants among his friends.”

“Most interesting,” murmured the countess.
“I have read some of his speeches. Your cousin is certainly
eloquent, and his words reflect a sharp mind. But I appreciate most
his contempt for violence in the cause of equality.”

“That is due to his days in France where he
witnessed the excesses of the revolution. Most of Ireland supports
his efforts for peaceful reform, but the English are a different
matter. Many look upon him with only disdain. You are an
exception—a
woman
who thinks for herself, perhaps?”

“Touché, sir,” she said with a warm
smile.

It was time. Morgan reached for the envelope
in his pocket and extended it toward the countess. “This is the
note I found. I apologize for its condition, but it was lying on
the street.”

The countess glanced at the address but did
not take the envelope. “Mr. O’Connell, are you a man to be trusted
with secrets?”

Somewhat surprised Morgan said, “I believe I
am. Certainly those who seek my services as a barrister will expect
me to hold their matters in confidence, and I am prepared to do
so.”

“Well, then, in confidence, for your knowing
her residence poses a problem otherwise, allow me to explain. Miss
Underwood—the one to whom you would seek an introduction, the one
you know to be an actress—is not the real name of my houseguest.
Miss Lily Underwood is, in truth, Miss Rose Collingwood, a baron’s
daughter and a fine young lady who happens to have an affinity and
talent for the theatre. Staying with me protects her identity as
well as her virtue. Her mother is a good friend of mine, and both
the theatre manager Mr. Colman and I are committed to this
endeavor.”

Morgan had not expected to learn the truth
so easily, and he was flattered by the countess’s honesty. “Well,
that explains much.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, for his
earlier plans seemed ruined by the revelation. Perhaps they were
ruined the moment he arrived at Claremont House.

The countess rose, and Morgan followed. Then
she surprised him again: “Why don’t you come to dinner this
evening, Mr. O’Connell? I am having a few guests in, and Miss
Collingwood will be in attendance. She has the evening free from
the theatre, so you can deliver the note personally.”

Morgan blinked. “That is very gracious of
you, my lady.” There seemed no choice, not that he would ever
reject such good fortune. “I heartily accept.”

* * *

“A note, you say?” Rose had returned from
her morning calls to find the countess seated on the parlour sofa
with a glass of sherry in hand and a smile on her face.

“Yes, it seems Mr. O’Connell found it lying
on the street. He first thought to deliver it to the theatre but
then, when my carriage came for your other mail, he followed it
here.”

“That was bold of him.”

“I do agree, but once I had the chance to
speak with him my concern dissipated. I believe he can be
trusted.”

“Of course, if you say so.” Then, thinking
about the other notes she’d received, the unsigned ones that were
growing increasingly insistent, Rose asked, “What did the note
say?”

“Oh, I didn’t read it, my dear, though I
thought I recognized the handwriting. It seemed best to me that Mr.
O’Connell deliver the note himself. I made him aware of your real
identity, and he has promised to keep our secret. He’s accepted my
invitation to dine with us this evening.”

Rose raised a brow. It was not like the
countess to invite a perfect stranger to one of her dinner parties.
“Was there something about Mr. O’Connell that made you want to see
more of him?”

“I can scarce resist an interesting man.
This one is Irish, attending one of the Inns of Court on his way to
becoming a barrister. He’s cousin to the Irish Catholic leader
Daniel O’Connell, an extraordinary statesman and a moderate whom I
believe will one day be a Member of Parliament—that is, once the
Catholics have their emancipation.”

“Oh my.
That
family!” Rose had heard
of the O’Connells, and specifically of Daniel O’Connell who had
killed a member of the Protestant Ascendency in a duel a few years
before. Though O’Connell had not sought the duel and reportedly
tried only to wound the man, the bullet had taken a strange path to
end the other man’s life.

“Indeed. Perhaps not a proper suitor for
you, though the family definitely has money. Old Maurice, the
uncle, is a wealthy man. But no matter that. Mr. O’Connell will
make a worthy dinner guest. I quite liked the young barrister. He
reminds me a bit of my late husband, the earl. He, too, was a very
charming man, and though I would confess it to only a few, he was a
bit of a rogue.”

Rose knew the countess well enough to know
her penchant for the unusual, so she did not question the
invitation further. She returned instead to the niggling thought
that would not leave her.

“You said you recognized the handwriting.
Was it one of those…letters I’ve received of late?”

“I fear it is.”

Rose considered what that could mean. There
had been several letters from the same person. Though the she had
played down her concern to the countess, with each message the tone
grew more strident until the words became somewhat alarming. Sweet
verses, yes, but too confident for her liking. Especially when the
author did not sign his name.