Lions and Lace (38 page)

Oh, Bridget O'Malley, you left my heart shaken

With a hopeless desolation, I'll have you to know.

It's the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken,

And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.

The white moon above the pale sun,

The pale stars above the thorn tree,

Are cold beside my darling, but no purer than she.

I gaze upon the cold moon

'
Til
the stars drown in the warm sea,

And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me.

"Who died and left you all alone to sit at the wake? Don't you know it's a beautiful day?" That same afternoon, Eagan entered the library and shoved back the heavy green draperies. A stream of afternoon sunshine fell on the grim face of his brother, who sat by the hearth.

"What do you want, Eagan?" Trevor growled, squinting in the light.

Eagan cracked a smile. "I came to learn some Gaelic. I found out last night that it definitely can come in handy."

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll never guess what happened last evening in Lord and Taylor. . . ." Eagan recounted the story in a couple of minutes. When he finished, he grinned.

"So
where's
this girl and her babe now?" Trevor asked, as if, by Eagan's grin, he needed to.

"She's downstairs with the other servants. When she's up and around again, I promised her a job. I knew you wouldn't mind."

"No, I don't mind." Trevor scowled at his empty glass and poured himself a drink. "I do find it particularly ironic that you'd take a girl in trouble under your wing, especially since you're the type who gets them into trouble." He held out a fresh glass.
"Drink?"

Eagan declined. "But you should see this baby, Trevor. She's really special. She's beautiful."

"I'm sure she is."

"Come see her, and come meet
Caitlín
. You can talk to her in her own tongue. That'll comfort her. I know she's frightened, but by God, she's a brave girl."

"I'll go downstairs when I finish my drink."

Eagan paused to examine him. Trevor hadn't shaved in two days, and his wrinkled shirtfront had long since worn away its starch. He couldn't remember seeing his brother so unkempt since the days down at Mott Street. "You look like hell," he commented.

"Do I?" Trevor snapped, gulping his whiskey.

"This has to do with what I did the other night, doesn't it. I promise you, Trevor, Alana and I aren't—"

"It doesn't matter," he growled.
"Just get out, Eagan.
I'm in no mood for this."

"What's happened?"

Trevor grew silent.

"Tell me."

Trevor swallowed a large burning sip of whiskey and became even more morose.

"I know it has to do with Alana. . . ."

Slowly Trevor said, "You should have never been in her room the other night. You interfered with our marriage, and because of that, the consequences may be grave."

"The way I see it, I saved your marriage."

Trevor looked up. From the look in his eye, if there hadn't been a fraternal bond between the two men, the conversation might have turned violent.

"That's right." Eagan stood his ground. "You finally consummated it, didn't you? And high time you did, too."

Trevor's words were ominously low. "I consummated the marriage because I was pushed to do it by your stupid antics, and now we must lie to get an annulment."

Eagan was shocked into silence.

A muscle bunched in Trevor's jaw, hinting at his agitation. "I never meant for my marriage to last. I never meant to get this—involved. The last thing I ever wanted was a society woman for a wife."

"But you are involved, so why throw your marriage away?"

He released a long, bitter sigh. "What would you do, Eagan, if you'd set out to take revenge on a number of people and in doing so, you'd discovered you'd hurt someone completely innocent? What would you do?"

"I'd apologize . . . I'd make restitution. . . ." His gaze scanned Trevor's morose figure and especially the glassful of whiskey held tight in his hand. ". . . I'd feel guilty."

Trevor closed his eyes as if he felt a pain in his chest. "I've found out—Alana was truly going to come to Mara's ball."

"I knew it." Eagan shook his head. "So what stopped her?"

"It's just as she told me. Her uncle forbid her to go, locked her in her room." He took a deep gulp of whiskey. "All this time I've looked upon my wife as embodying every kind of evil—prejudice, oppression, injustice—and I punished her for that. But in the end it looks like she was the only one defiant enough, brave enough, to lash out at them and attend Mara's debut."

"So now that you know what a wonderful woman she
is,
why are you insistent about this annulment? Do you think patting her on her head and saying 'Sorry, my mistake' will make everything all right?"

Trevor's voice rose in anger. "What else can I do? Do I betray her again, bind her to my side,
force
her to stay with a man she loathes?"

"She doesn't loathe you," Eagan answered quietly.

"She's said as much" was his grim answer. "She's told me she wanted a husband better than me."

"But every option that would ease your guilty conscience would in turn break your heart, am I not right?"

Trevor shot him a look that could kill.

Eagan sighed and again shook his head. "For all your scheming, you've finally caught yourself in a scheme of your own making."

"And I'll disentangle myself yet, never
you fear
," Trevor retorted.

Eagan smiled blackly. "What strange justice—to fall in love with your wife, the one woman you can never
have.
"

Trevor rose and poured himself another whiskey.
A double.

Two hours later, Trevor was still drinking whiskey, still in a foul mood. He'd spoken to Whittaker about sending to Newport for the
Colleen,
thinking a long sail might do him good, but after he gave those orders, he turned moody and closeted himself, this time in the drawing room. There he drank some more and tapped out the tune to "Bridget O'Malley" on the Steinway, as if either might assuage his melancholy.

At precisely four o'clock Whittaker knocked on the drawing room doors and entered carrying a gold salver. Trevor growled, "Leave me alone," but Whittaker ignored him. He walked up to his brooding figure and held out the salver.

Trevor needed only to glance at the card to know whose it was. "Is he here?" he asked Whittaker, anger supplanting his morose mood.

"Yes, sir.
I thought you might just want to speak with him this time. He sent Mrs. Sheridan a note." With a white-gloved hand, Whittaker turned over Anson's card. He'd written the words
Meet
me.

Trevor stood up, in control despite his hours of drinking. "Send him in here."

"Very
good, sir," Whittaker announced.

Whittaker promptly led Anson Stevens into the drawing room, closing the door behind him. Alone with his wife's former beau, Trevor stared him down like a Yank confronting a
Reb
at Little Round Top.

"Is Alana not at home? Forgive my bluntness, Sheridan, but I'd come to call on her, not you." Anson tightened his lips, clearly surprised and displeased to see him.

Trevor took a calming sip of his whiskey, but his anger churned like a steam engine. "Stevens, what gives you the right to come calling on my wife as if she were some unwed debutante fresh from her mother's arms?"

Anson smirked. "Welcome to society, Sheridan. I guess New York isn't like Ireland, where a biddy marries a
mick
, gets saddled with twelve children, and that's the last that's heard from her."

"You're not going to ever have my wife, Stevens."

"Oh?" Anson raised a fine dark-gold eyebrow. "Caroline Astor thinks differently. In fact, I've heard rumors that an annulment is forthcoming."

Sheridan's words were calm. "What makes you think an annulment is possible?"

The hatred in Anson's cold-blue eyes glittered like shattered glass. "Your marriage with Alana has been nothing but a facade. Everyone can see it. Alana has all but admitted it."

Trevor gave him a nasty smile. "In the eyes of God and the law, I am Alana's husband. What is or is not done in our marriage bed concerns us and only us. Take that message back to that witch on
Thirty-fourth
Street."

In his fury, Anson grasped at any straw. "If an annulment is not possible, there's divorce. . . . I'll see Alana out of this mess no matter what must be done or said."

"And why is she your cause?" Trevor snapped. "Are there no other young misses in the Four Hundred for you to concentrate your well-groomed rutting instincts on?"

Anson's tone was like poison. "Caroline Astor and I consider ourselves missionaries. Alana is a girl of breeding, a rarity that shouldn't be squandered on the likes of you. It's our duty to save her from your dirty Irish money and your dirty Irish hands."

Trevor slammed his drink on the Steinway. "You go back and tell your keeper that Alana Sheridan is a lost cause. I've put my 'dirty Irish hands' on her, and I'm keeping them on her."

"She doesn't love you. She only wants something from you, and when she gets it, I swear she'll leave you. After all, she's a decent girl."

Trevor took that last comment like a blow to the jaw. But he recovered quickly. "Meaning no decent girl would stay married to me?" He paused long enough to let Anson squirm. Then he went for the kill. "Let me tell you something, boy-o. Alana may have her complaints about me. But one place she does not complain is in the bedroom."

Anson's control snapped. He strode over to Trevor, put his full weight behind his fist, and swung. Trevor ducked, adept at brawling from his years on the streets,
then
sent Anson careening into the Louis XV commode with his fist.

Blood streamed from Anson's nose, and he looked around, dazed. Trevor took this as the cue to send for the footmen. The green-and-black-liveried fellows arrived and discreetly dumped Anson back into his carriage while Trevor gave explicit instructions in Gaelic where to send him.

When the ride in the park was over and the duke had bid his farewell, Alana went to her suite to change for dinner. She had still not seen her husband, and the longer the time they were apart, the more she dreaded that first glance into his eyes. She made it to her rooms without incident. Margaret hadn't arrived yet, and Alana reveled in being alone, the quiet allowing her a few moments to prepare herself for what she knew would be a trying evening.

She threw her kid gloves on the bed, hardly glancing at it, but then the card caught her eye, tossed across her satin coverlet as if in anger. Her hand trembling, she picked up the card and saw that it was Anson's. She turned it over and paled at what was written there. Crossed out were Anson's words
Meet
me
and in their stead, in a bold, commanding hand, was written,
Shall
I
give you the words to Bridget O'Malley?
The card fluttered to the bed.

Trevor had again proved he was jealous, and Alana could have cried with the irony of it. Once she'd believed that a man must love to be jealous, but she'd forgotten that one can also be jealous over a possession. Love need not be involved. The other night had proved it. Trevor might not want her, but until she was no longer his property, he would kill rather than let another have her.

She touched the gold border of the card. Her husband was a crafty sort, but she was beginning to understand his manipulations. He meant something by these words on Anson's card, and no doubt they were his way of hurting her.

"Mrs. Sheridan?"

Alana looked behind her and found Margaret standing there holding a flannel-wrapped bundle, an enormous smile on her face. "Oh, Mrs. Sheridan, I had to show you. Caitlin let me bring the babe up here. Has there ever been
sooch
a
darlin
' little girl?"

Alana walked over to the bundle. There, nestled in a pink blanket, was a newborn infant. The baby's features were
perfect,
her tiny head was dusted with a sprinkling of black hair. "Oh my," Alana whispered, and touched the tiny chin. The child made a face, and both women laughed.

Margaret held her out. "Would you like to hold her, Mrs. Sheridan? We never had a babe to care for, you and me, did
we.
I wonder if Kevin and
me
will ever . . . Well, enough of that! Here. Hold the child. I knew you'd love her."