Emily Baker (3 page)

“Quite right,” the admiral admitted, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “One of her suitors—a bounder if I ever saw one—has been absent from Dublin for almost the same time.”

Garrett’s gut knotted. “Who do you suspect?”

“Talbot. Sean Talbot.”

Sean Talbot. That explained the location for this meeting at least. But hell, he’d assigned Sean the job of appearing to court Jane Fuller in the first place. Now he’d made his own man a target.

“The Talbots are one of England’s staunchest allies in these parts.” Garrett could not tell the admiral just how far off the mark his suspicions were. Sean had been with him for the duration of Miss Fuller’s absence. “I would think you would be pleased at her making such a match.”

“The Talbots are a savvy lot. I am sure they have many allies—” Was there a veiled threat behind the admiral’s statement? “—still they claim to have no inkling of the blackguard’s whereabouts or activities, or any mention of my daughter.”

“Surely there may be others who expressed an interest in Miss Fuller’s hand? I had heard she was hardly an antidote.”

The admiral snorted and reached into his pocket. He proffered a folded piece of paper. “Although my money’s on Talbot, here is the list of her admirers. You will see it is rather extensive. My daughter is an heiress thanks to her mother’s family. That makes her a very popular young lady.”

Garrett unfolded the list. There were a number of names. Most he recognized either from his own social contacts or from Sean’s reports. This project was going to require a major commitment of time and men. “What do you expect from me?”

“I want you to bring her home, at any cost,” the admiral stated baldly. “I have no intention of allowing any fortune hunter to take advantage of her innocence in order to line his pockets. Especially not for a lifetime.”

Garrett thought for a moment. Having the admiral on his side, instead of against him, could became one of the Green Dragon’s most valuable assets. But if this should fail, the man would no doubt prove a bitter enemy. “I am not an assassin. No matter the price. If I locate her, I will not make her a widow or remove her from a situation of her own choosing.”

“Yes, yes. I know your reputation.” The admiral waved his hand in the air. “Very noble. You help the downtrodden, taking from the rich and giving to the poor and all that other Robin Hoodish rot.”

“Robin Hood?”

“A legend from near my boyhood home. We all wanted to play a champion of the people like Robin Hood at one time. Then we grew up and began to live in the real world.” World-weary experience tightened the admiral’s tone. “Are you prepared to assist me or not?”

Garrett twirled the knife in his hand a moment longer before sheathing it. “I am prepared to attempt discovering if your
daughter
is in need of assistance. The parties who delivered your request to me mentioned something about an exchange. Would you care to elaborate on your offer before we proceed any further?”

The ghost of a smile skimmed the hard planes of the admiral’s face. “Legend or not, everyone has his price.”

 

 

“Jane is missing?” The intensity in Sean’s voice surprised Garrett a half hour later as he recounted his meeting.

“Aye.” He offered his friend the flask he’d pulled from his pocket as they watched the admiral’s distant figure walk stiffly down the Port Marnock Road toward the carriage waiting for him over a mile away.

“He has put out that she is down with measles and recuperating at his County Meath estate, but the girl has been gone for nearly two full weeks.”

“Sounds like an elopement.” Sean tossed back a healthy dram of whiskey. “What does he think has become of her?”

“He is certain she eloped with you.”

“
Diabhal.
” Sean took another draft and scrubbed his chin with the back of his hand.

“Aye, the devil indeed. At least it explains the location for this meeting.”

“He went to Malahide Castle?”

“Aye. Your elder brother claimed no knowledge of your marriage or your whereabouts. I doubt the admiral believed him on either score.”

“The Talbots have not resided at Malahide for nearly seven centuries without gaining a reputation for knowing how to play most games to our advantage.” A mix of bitter irony and reluctant pride twisted through Sean’s tone. “Tell me what happened.”

The admiral had disappeared around the bend in the road. They’d be here at least another half hour waiting for the all clear sign. “We might as well sit while we sip,” Garrett said.

They settled themselves against timeworn stones of the church walls. It was eerily quiet. Mist from the Irish Sea spilled across the moon’s golden light. The breeze no longer shook the marram grass spires. “Seems the girl went berry picking with her maid and never returned—just over ten days ago. The irony is he sent her to the country because he thought she was spending entirely too much time mooning over you.”

Sean snorted. “Jane Fuller is hardly the mooning type. Only a doting father could think such a hummer. She is maddeningly headstrong and entirely too outspoken for her own good.” He took another swallow from the flask. “I pity the man who ends up saddled with her.”

The tone was right, but anxiety glinted in Sean’s eyes.

“Aye.” Garrett capped the flask when Sean handed it back. He might need to keep his thoughts clear. No matter his friend’s protest, the news affected Sean deeply. “So I gathered from your reports this past season.”

“But you say both Jane and her maid have not been heard from? For nearly two weeks?”

“Aye.”

“
Diabhal.
”

Garrett let the import of the admiral’s dilemma sink in with Sean a few moments more.

“Do you think he made the connection between me and you?” Sean leaned his head back against the stones and exhaled.

Garrett shook his head. “As far as he is concerned, you are as you appear, a wastrel and a gambler. Something his daughter said led him to banish her.”

“Jane told him about the kiss?”

“If she did it is more than he shared with me.” Garrett shifted forward so he could look directly at Sean in the gloom. “And more than you have imparted as well. Especially during our recent travels.”

Sean looked away; his jaw worked for a moment. “The incident seemed irrelevant to your purpose in having me play at courting her.”

Garrett sighed. Sean knew better than that. Everything, significant or seemingly insignificant, could prove relevant to their cause. He struggled to keep his frustration from showing. From the looks of his friend there was nothing he could say that Sean was not already using to upbraid himself. “What happened?”

“Harold Jameson took her for a turn in the Hamilton’s gardens during their daughter’s come out last month. I happened to be out there enjoying a cheroot when he decided to press his attentions.”

“So you intervened?” Rumors of Jameson’s unsavory interests had followed him from Belfast when he’d slithered into town some two years ago. So far they’d failed to pin anything firmly in his corner, but the activities of the Orangemen and their compatriots had taken a decidedly twisted turn since the English dilettante arrived in Dublin.

“Only afterward . . .”

Garrett brought his attention back to the story at hand. “After what?”

“She slapped him hard enough to knock him off balance.” Sean’s admiration seemed clearer than his retelling of the event. “The admiral must have taught her Gentleman Jackson’s right hook.”

“And then you intervened and hit him, too?”

“Not exactly.” For the first time since he’d learned of Jane Fuller’s disappearance, some of the tension eased in Sean’s voice. “You know the Hamilton’s fountain at the heart of their maze?”

Garrett suppressed a shudder as he recalled the massive casting of Lady Hamilton depicted as Aphrodite arising from her scallop shell with her long locks mercifully covering her modesty. “Aye.”

“Jameson tumbled over the edge and pulled Jane . . . Miss Fuller . . . in with him.”

“And that’s when you hit him?”

“Aye. I helped her escape to the carriages unnoticed and sent for her aunt. I have not seen her since.”

“What are you still leaving out?”

Sean shrugged. “She was soaking wet. I gave her my jacket and may have brushed my lips against her temple as I bid her farewell. It was meant as a comfort only. She is not much older than my sister, after all.”

“Well, I suppose Jameson will have to go to the top of our list. And you will need to keep a low profile while you work to locate Miss Fuller. Especially while you make inquiries in Meath.”

“You trust me to investigate Jane’s disappearance?”

“Of course.” Garrett hoped his instincts were right on this count. “You obviously have a personal stake in finding the girl—”

“I—”

“—whether you acknowledge it or not.” Garrett waved off the protest forming on Sean’s lips. “Besides your appearance back in Dublin without her will only alarm the admiral. Perhaps enough to rescind his offer.”

Sean leaned forward. “What offer?”

Despite his failure to report the Jameson incident, Garrett trusted Sean to carry out his mission, especially once he knew how much hung upon the outcome. “The admiral has promised to use his influence to free five men currently held under suspicion of sedition.”

Interest tightened across Sean’s features. “Did you agree?”

“So far little can be proven against these men. Two of them are more important to our people’s future than our English brothers suspect. It is their freedom that brought us to Kerry. Rather than confirm this to the admiral, I said I would make inquiries, then get in touch with him to discuss suitable recompense for my trouble.”

The admiral had not been pleased to link his daughter’s fate to an undetermined cost, but Garrett had given him no other choice.

“So finding Jane is key to the
Ard Tiarna
’s directive.” As usual Sean cut straight to the heart of the matter. The Talbots were nothing if not astute.

“Precisely. Take Liam with you. Your inquiries will go much more quickly if there are two of you.” Garrett knew Sean understood that the reason behind this job was to be kept between the two of them. The fewer of his men who knew what was at stake, the safer the prisoners on Green Street would remain.

In the distance, the redstart’s call sounded. Garrett counted to ten, and it sounded again.

Sean scrambled to his feet and dusted his trousers. “So while I am off to County Meath with Liam, what will you be doing?”

“Attending a card party.” He’d intended to send Sean to the event hosted by the
Ard Tiarna
’s grandson, along with one of their host’s former schoolmates. Both men possessed enough social cachet to have all but the worst foibles overlooked and were welcome everywhere in the city. Stanhope was falling in with a bad lot, and his grandfather wanted his interests diverted.

“A card party? I’ll be making discreet inquiries in the countryside and you will be forced to endure a night of fine cigars and finer brandy.” Sean reached down and held out a hand to pull Garrett to his feet. “Talk about the luck of the devil.”

“Hardly.” There was nothing lucky about either assignment. “You know part of the High Lord’s charge consists of babysitting his grandson. This party is being held at the home of the lad’s mistress—a mistress he told his grandfather he intends to marry. I’m to size her up and calculate how much it will cost the earl to buy her off.”

Sean shook his head. “Stanhope escorted Mrs. Fitzgerald to the theatre last month. She is both beautiful and charming. But for her circumstances she would make a very presentable countess. It will take quite a bit to buy her off, I’d wager, given the new baron’s devotion to her, and his prospects. Still, if he keeps her in the style she dresses, you will have a delicious meal and good spirits along with a fair night’s entertainment. Not too tough a night while I am encamped in County Meath.”

Garrett shrugged. The
Ard Tiarna
had been very clear on this point. His grandson must not marry his mistress, charming or not, a fine hostess or not. Garrett was to spare no effort to separate the lovers.

They started down the road toward the men and horses awaiting their return.

“One benefit for tomorrow, I should also have a chance to learn more about your friend Jameson. He is on Mrs. Fitzgerald’s guest list.”

He could feel Sean’s gaze shoot toward him in the darkness. “The extent of your contacts never ceases to amaze me.”

He could almost see Sean’s eyebrow cocked with amusement. Good. He wanted his friend’s mood lightened enough to face what lay ahead.

“You can’t be serious, man. They were caught in the garden?” Percy Masters’s outburst squeaked far outside the bounds of well-bred enthusiasm. The sound echoed back from the high bas-relief ceiling, down along the dark green and cream etched walls. Maura tried to suppress her wince.

“I am serious as a magistrate.”

“Well, I am just stunned. You simply must be jesting.”

“Not a whit.”

This entire scandalous on-dit seemed especially witless.
Maura let out a slow breath and forced her attention to the task at hand. Percival Masters, one of Freddie’s old school friends and more constant companions, had been going on like this for what felt like an eternity. No matter how much high-pitched, disbelief-ridden urging he managed to infuse into each squeal, he received the assurance of the opposite in the amused, slightly bored tone that seemed to be Harold Jameson’s preferred method of utterance.

She bit back a sigh before directing Gerald to hand Freddie’s guests the libations they had requested. Straight brandy for Mr. Jameson and a somewhat watered-down version concocted for Percy. Freddie had warned her to temper the alcohol afforded Percy unless they wanted trouble. Gerald shuffled across the room bearing his tray to attend the knot of gentlemen discussing the horse meet they’d attended last week in Kildare and the latest exploits and outrages attributed to the Green Dragon.

Not for the first time, Maura wished Freddie had chosen that side of the drawing room to occupy rather than this cozy corner. Her maid kept her fully informed, with breathless hero worship, of whatever the latest tattle regarding this legendary defender of the poor and oppressed. In Teresa’s eyes the Green Dragon was clearly destined for sainthood at the head of his band of brave comrades. Hearing another side to the exploits attributed to him would surely prove more entertaining than listening to Percy and Jameson’s lame repartee.

Percy saluted her with a blend of lust and respectful admiration as he sipped his refreshment. She turned to Mr. Jameson. His glance met hers briefly as he also raised his tumbler filled with an excellent vintage of the burnished liquor Freddie had procured for the evening.

Jameson was new to the circle of friends and acquaintances she had previously been called upon to hostess at Freddie’s game nights. This man was older. More sophisticated. She couldn’t help wondering what had possessed him to accept an invitation to spend his time with these younger men. Freddie was so intelligent and his breeding offered him any number of opportunities, but he had come into so much so quickly these past two years that there was a real danger of his head being turned.

Percy laughed again, his voice rising in volume and fullness to prompt the beginnings of a headache in her left temple.

Jameson’s gaze held hers as he sipped the brandy. “Thank you for your hospitality, my dear. His Lordship is fortunate in his choice of friends.”

His eyes were dark and unreadable for all their light shade of hazel. He missed little even while he dismissed her as beneath his station if not quite beneath his notice. What was he thinking behind those strangely light and dark eyes? Worse, what was he plotting? She was glad he had already stated his intentions to leave early, much to Percy’s chagrin. She might not be overly fond of Percy or his interest in entertainments of a questionable nature, but she could tolerate him because of his youth and his general lack of true malice.

The word slithered through her. Was that what Harold Jameson made her think of? Malice? And plots? She hoped the two did not go together in connection with Freddie or Percy, for both their sakes.

“Come on, man, you cannot start such a tale then leave us hanging as to the outcome.” Percy prodded again as Jameson sipped his brandy with an almost dreamy, contemplative air. “Tell him he simply must finish his story at once, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“Of course.” Jameson swirled his drink, inhaled its aroma, and took a slow appreciative sip before continuing. “However, I wouldn’t presume to share such a tale in the presence of your . . . lady.” His gaze slid to Freddie. Though said with a suggestion that he respected Maura’s position in Freddie’s life, unrespectable as it may be, his tone clearly labeled the last word a question.

The tiniest flicker of shame etched her nerve endings and traced the length of her spine. She straightened her shoulders and resisted the sudden urge to either run from the room or tell Harold Jameson exactly how soon he could leave instead. Ire burned low in her stomach. She seldom allowed disgrace for the direction her life had taken to affect her. She made the choices she made to provide for the ones she loved. What man in this room, given the same choices and circumstances, could swear he’d have done otherwise?

Not one of the men in her life had ever treated her as less of a lady because of her choices. She knew without glancing back into Jameson’s all-seeing eyes that such was not the case with him. He meant to sting her with his tone and words. She forced the tension out of her shoulders, determined not to give him whatever satisfaction he sought with his goading.

“Let me freshen this for you, my lord.” She stood and scooped Freddie’s nearly full tumbler from the table between their chairs without looking at any of the three men involved in this conversation.

She prayed Jameson had no idea how directly his barb had hit its target as she stepped over to the sideboard liquor cabinet. Toward what end would a near stranger make her a target, save to test the depth of Freddie’s attachment and protective instincts regarding his mistress. She suppressed a shiver of apprehension at the thought.

She poured a small draft of whiskey from a cut-crystal decanter, then added water from the matching pitcher to Freddie’s tumbler. He seemed uncharacteristically enthusiastic about this card party, as though he expected something much more than cards to come of the evening he’d arranged to honor Percy’s birthday, specifically at Percy’s behest. Whenever Percy was involved in some scheme or other, she worried about Freddie. Adding Jameson to the mix only increased her worries.

She drew a slow breath and turned to hand Freddie his drink, deliberately curving her lips into an intimate smile to hide her thoughts. Now was not the time or place to appear to remonstrate her lover over his associations. If she had any hope of exerting influence on the direction the new Baron Stanhope’s life was taking, she needed to play the role he required of her tonight—gracious hostess willing to fade into the wallpaper to give him the chance to shine with his friends.

Freddie’s gaze locked with hers as their fingers brushed. She could see him struggling between his interest for whatever Jameson intended to share and his desire to keep her as close to him as possible. After all, he believed he loved her, and this was the first time they’d seen each other in over two weeks. Sympathy collided with her worry and anger. She was probably overreacting to the entire situation. There were too many other things crowding her thoughts for her to worry about one sanguine gentleman bent on insulting his host’s mistress.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to check on supper preparations now that most of the guests have arrived.” They awaited but two of the night’s gamesters, and her reason for withdrawing was legitimate enough at this point. “That should leave you free to converse as you see fit.”

“Of course.” Freddie’s grateful smile rewarded her for her tact. She waved him to keep his seat as he appeared ready to rise.

“About time.” Percy swallowed the last dregs from his glass. His cheeks flushed red to match the tip of his nose as the realization of what he’d just said struck him. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Fitzgerald. I did not mean you. I am just too eager to hear the end of Jameson’s frolics in the countryside. He is a master of the tease, and I simply must gain release from his thrall.”

“No offense taken, Mr. Masters. I entirely understand.”

“Dare I hope that I have
you
in my thrall as well?” Jameson raised his glass ever so slightly. His gaze did a quick but thorough slide down the length of her body and back as her position shielded his lascivious interest from Freddie and Percy in their chairs.

He lingered over her breasts, and she regretted her decision to wear this gown. One of Freddie’s favorites, it was a soft, rose watered silk, low cut in the bodice with a tiny froth of lace that fluttered with each breath. It managed to appear demure and risqué at the same time. Now it made her feel as though she were all but naked in front of this man she was beginning to heartily dislike.

“I’m afraid not.” She attempted to keep her tone light despite the anger—laced with a touch of fear—arcing through her again. None of the men Freddie had brought to her home before had ever treated her with such avid interest or thinly veiled lack of respect. She prayed Freddie was not paying too close attention lest his evening be ruined.

“Oh, you are such a jester.” Percy gushed. “Mrs. Fitzgerald is entirely devoted to our dear Fred . . . Stanhope, here.”

“Of course she is.” Jameson shifted his position as he turned his attention to the two men. “I’ve said it before, Stanhope. You are a lucky man.”

“I could not agree more.” Freddie beamed with pride as his gaze locked with Maura’s before going back to his guests. He apparently had not been paying attention to the undercurrents in Jameson’s conversation and attention to his hostess. She wished she could feel relieved, but it only added to her unease. He really was very naïve.

She kept a polite smile fixed to her face with effort as she turned and headed toward the pocket doors promising her escape.

She slid the doors open on their smooth, well-oiled runners, her mind already fixed on the details of the supper they were about to serve. The hour was late enough that most of Freddie’s guests had completed their dinner or other obligations and made their way here for a night’s entertainment. They’d begin with a light supper followed by hours of whist, faro, ribald stories, and drinking once the last invitees arrived—Lord Longford, another schoolmate of Freddie and Percy’s, and one of his friends, whose name escaped her.

She turned as she exited, closing the doors on her company. As she spun to head to the kitchen she collided with a broad chest and strong shoulders cloaked in dark, superfine wool and striped Marcella.

Her breath caught, dragging in the sensual warmth of sun-kissed hawthorns in early May. For a moment fraught with the man’s effort to keep her from falling flat on her face, she was held firmly by a pair of iron-strong hands against a granite chest.

Despite being off balance she felt oddly safe. The loud hammering of her heart in her ears and the sudden tight, tense awareness deep in her chest startled her almost more than being thrown off center so unexpectedly. Deep inside her a primal awareness usually reserved for the bedchamber roared to life.

“ . . . Lynch, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

Teresa’s words from a few feet away in the foyer barely registered as the man slid his hands down her arms to grip her elbows just below the hem of her long gloves. He shifted his weight ever so slightly and put an inch of air between them.

She was still too close to him. All she could tell was how very tall he was. Tall with dark, wavy hair. Green eyes to steal a woman’s soul without a second thought. Her thoughts and supper plans scattered into meaningless bits.
Eyes of green to steal a woman’s soul and hair of midnight ebony
—weren’t they the lyrics to a song her mother used to sing?

“I beg your pardon.” His voice was deep and mellow, tasting impossibly of distant green hills and ancient pride. The sound rushed along her nerve endings like the fine brandy she’d just served the men in the room behind her—soothing and intoxicating at the same time. She hadn’t moved, but still she needed to catch her breath as if she’d just run the length of the street outside.

“Are you all right, lass?” His softly voiced question held intimacy, as though he too felt something of the overwhelming sensations coursing through her, as if this unexpected swell of profound connection was something neither of them would want anyone else to recognize.

“I’m . . . I’m fine, thank you.” She blinked and struggled to remember who and where she was.

“I didn’t realize there was anyone out here and I . . . I’m terribly sorry.” Heat scorched her cheeks as she fumbled her way through this inarticulate apology.

“Mr. Lynch?” Was that the name Teresa had been attempting to announce just now?

“Indeed. Garrett Lynch, grateful for your hospitality, Mrs. Fitzgerald.” He took her cue without batting an eyelash. “I am here at Lord Longford’s invitation. I’m quite certain it is I who owe you an apology, since you can hardly have been aware of my presence in your foyer.”

“Oh yes, Freddie mentioned you as someone Daniel . . . Lord Longford hoped would join us.” She smiled, finding her emotional footing a little bit more as she mentally went over her guest list.

“Lord Longford is but a few minutes behind me. He is escorting his mother home from dinner at her sister’s.” He returned her smile, causing a devastating effect on the backs of her knees. Surely he was aware of the charm. If only she were a little less so.

She’d referred to Freddie by his given name just now, a faux pas even the rawest of debutantes would never make, although her visitor had the grace to let it go unremarked. Some hostess she was proving to be, nearly mowing him down and then behaving worse than a green girl.

What on earth was wrong with her? She’d been a mistress for almost as long as she’d been a woman. None of her three lovers had ever caused her to waver, aside from the obvious, from the standards her mother had instilled in her. Surely she could manage one guest, no matter how attractive, without totally losing her composure.

As if he knew her thoughts and wished to prove her wrong, Mr. Lynch released her elbows at last, sliding his hands lightly down her arms. His fingers lingered against her wrists. A simple touch, yet somehow as intimate as if he made love to her right there in the doorway.