Patrica Rice (35 page)

William chewed his bread slowly, considering the question. After some thought, he shook his head. “The old papers are in the attic. It’s been twenty years and more. My memory is not keen. But I do remember the old man receiving one letter that broke him. After that, he did what he could to ensure Seamus’s inheritance, then died. If the letter held any hope at all, he would not have given up so soon. The earl had a stubborn streak wider than any ocean.”

Michael contemplated this news with interest, although it delivered a final blow to his hopes. The family resemblance was strong, but his mother could have been a dock whore who serviced one of the earl’s sons or brothers or byblows for all he knew.

Right now, he wasn’t too eager to claim kinship with the contrary MacDermots. He might not have a name to give Blanche, but he wouldn’t hand her a family tainted with treason either.

“Some of those letters would indicate that the eldest son lived in America and that he had a wife, wouldn’t they?” he asked idly, toying with the idea he’d developed this past week.

O’Connor caught on quickly and developed a crafty look. “That they would, I’m certain.”

“And without that one letter speaking of the heir’s grave, no one would know of a certainty what became of him?”

Fiona and Seamus stared at him as if he were deranged, but they listened eagerly.

O’Connor nodded. “There’s just the fact that he never returned to hold against us.”

“But if the heir died leaving an infant son, we can explain that easily enough now, couldn’t we?” Michael drummed his fingers against the desk, waiting for concurrence.

O’Connor smiled and started to reply, but finally understanding the direction of the conversation, Seamus leapt to his feet. “Mary, Mother of God, you can’t do this! You can’t steal what is mine with some phony story to buy a magistrate! Faith, and I’ll not allow it! The bloody English have taken all that is mine already. I’ll not see it stolen twice.”

Fiona swatted him. “Sit down, you dolt. They’re after stealing it back, is all. Try and not be such a simpleton, will you?”

Michael grinned and relaxed for the first time in days. This is what it had once been like before the burdens of family and responsibility had fallen on his shoulders. He would come up with wild ideas and wave his magic fingers and turn the establishment topsy-turvy. He could still do it. He much preferred the anarchy of his methods than the legal ones of Gavin and Neville, but he could work them both in his favor.

“We just need a little proof, something material for the authorities besides my appearance,” he said as if everyone in the room already understood his plan. “I’ve no birth certificate or church book to call on. From all I can ascertain, I was born in the wilds of Kentucky. But I’m sure I could locate a few witnesses willing to put their marks on a statement. Gavin’s parents are dead now. They’re the ones who took me in. But with a little arm-twisting, even Gavin might agree that the Lawrence family knew a MacDermot. He was too young to know much of my birth, but just the statement of some relationship from a marquess would give us credibility.”

O’Connor sat up straighter, the expression on his weathered features changing from crafty to thoughtful.

Michael pulled the tarnished coin necklace over his head and dangled it above the desk. “If you could find your way to declaring this an ancient MacDermot relic and produce witnesses to attest to it, we’ll have a case that will stand in any court. Can it be treason for a man to defend what rightfully belongs to his family? If I’m truly the next earl, can they condemn my young cousin and his guardian for protecting my property? And if we can have a title to play with, we can take it before the Lords. They’re not so hasty in condemning one of their own.”

O’Connor snatched the necklace from Michael’s hands. Examining it closely, he whistled, then tried polishing the tarnish so he could see more clearly. “Where did you find this, my son?”

Michael grinned at these blatant dramatics. The old man would convince himself in a minute or two that they’d found the new earl. People believed his illusions because they wanted to believe.

“Gavin’s parents claimed I was born with it,” he answered truthfully enough. As a child, he’d hoped the coin a clue to his parentage. As a man, he wore it out of habit.

O’Connor gave him an admiring look, then returned the necklace. “How soon can we can leave for Ireland? We’ll need those papers.”

Michael frowned. “It’s not safe for either of you to show your faces there. You’ll need tell me where to search.”

The room erupted in an uproar. It seemed the MacDermots were not so ready to leave their homeland as they’d claimed. Allowing the winds of protest to blow out of their own accord, Michael tried to calculate some means of reaching Ireland by way of Dorset and Manchester.

A knock on the door intruded on that pleasant reverie. The Duke of Anglesey strode in, his expression grim. It didn’t grow any more pleasant upon observing Fiona and Michael’s duplicate.

“I’d hoped to find Effingham here,” the duke said without ceremony. “I’ve never seen such disorder. Do they keep no servants?”

Not sitting uselessly at the door, but the duke wouldn’t appreciate that sentiment. “The situation must be desperate for you to lower yourself to our presence,” Michael observed. “What may we do for you?”

“You’re the one I want anyway. The mill situation has become urgent.” The duke glanced around at the others in the room. “Who are these people?”

Fiona stood and made a mocking curtsy. “Sure and you remember me, your holiness.”

The duke’s expression tightened. Sighing, Michael headed off the confrontation. “Fiona, you cannot mock those you may need for help. Go blow bubbles at Madeline and have someone pack my bags. O’Connor, write some introductions so I can act swiftly. Seamus, have a horse saddled for me.”

His Irish refugees did not move. Michael could have a marquess and a duke jumping at the snap of his fingers, but this obstreperous lot of miscreants merely glared at him. Now he remembered why he used to disappear without a word to anyone.

“I have my phaeton,” Neville informed him. “If the weather holds, we can take that as far as Manchester. Just pray they haven’t burned the place down before we arrive.”

Seeing his schemes for visiting Blanche go up in flames, Michael prayed for strength. “I must write Blanche. Give me a few minutes.”

Fiona piped up. “I’ll take care of that. You’ll be going on from Manchester, then?” she asked carefully, not mentioning his intended destination.

Michael nodded, regarding her with suspicion but without the time to question her sudden willingness. “I will, if William will do as told.”

O’Connor nodded. “See to your bags, son. I’ll have letters of introduction ready before you leave.”

Narrowing his eyes, Seamus glared at them all and stalked out without a word. When the room cleared of all but the duke, Michael turned his weary gaze on his nemesis. “There’s more?”

Neville nodded grimly. “One of the mill managers has seen Barnaby inciting the radicals. I received this yesterday.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and slapped it on the desk.

Michael picked it up using both hands and holding it by the edges. The crudely lettered demand was quite succinct. Put ten thousand pounds at the disposal of the next messenger, or the mills would burn. He let the paper fall.

“I generally don’t kill men,” Michael said calmly. “I think I could make an exception this time. I want guards sent to Dorset, just as a precaution. I’d rather not travel in your company, if you do not mind. I’ll find you when you get there.”

Ignoring the duke’s astonishment, Michael walked out.

When the household searched for him minutes later, he had disappeared without a trace.

* * *

“Lady Blanche will help us,” Fiona argued vehemently. “We cannot wait for them to stop rioters and patch up mills. We must act now. I have no warrant on my head. I can go.”

“You do not know what to look for,” her uncle argued.

“And you do?” she asked impatiently.

“I do,” he said, “and it’s not all that you’re expecting. You don’t know everything yet, young Fiona, so hold your sharp tongue. We’ll ask the Lady Blanche’s help, if we may, otherwise we’ll be all the year finding transport. Seamus may stay here, but I have naught left to lose.”

“I’m not staying here like a tame puppy dog,” Seamus bit out angrily. “I’ll take ship to the Americas and to hell with the lot of ye. I’ll not play cats paw to the rogue while he steals our name and our possessions.”

Fiona rolled her eyes.

“From this day forward,” William said sharply, “he’s the earl, and I’ll not hear more of it. If not for him, you’d be dangling from the gallows tree now. He’s offering you a chance to live on your own lands again. Cannot ye see that he means us no harm? He has a lady wife rich as Croesus. He doesn’t need our poor homes. The bloody title means naught to us but power, and if he wields it in our favor, why should we complain?”

Seamus growled deep in his throat. “I’ll endure the ploy for the sake of the land and people, but I’ll not be stayin’ here any longer,” he warned. “It’s a wonder the damned duke hasn’t sent soldiers after us as it is.”

Fiona grinned. “It’s not as if he knows who we are or cares. Our toplofty duke has bigger things on his mind.”

“And how do you know of him?” Seamus asked suspiciously. “You did not mention hobnobbing with dukes.”

“That’s of no moment. The sooner I reach Lady Blanche, the sooner we can have this done. Do we have enough funds for a coach, or must I walk?”

“We’ll have none of that, lass. The marchioness has a soft heart. I’ll ask for the loan of a carriage.” William eyed Seamus critically. “It comes to mind that you may be of use to your new cousin, lad. It would not do should harm come to Michael before our names are cleared. Can we trust you to find your way to Manchester with a few of your friends? Just having the two of ye there looking alike might throw a bit of confusion into the works.”

Seamus considered it for a moment, then nodded as the idea took root. “I might at that. One of us should keep our eye on him, at least. And Eamon’s at loose ends.”

Both Fiona and William looked alarmed.

Blanche looked up with a mixture of hope and alarm as a carriage bowled recklessly up the lane. Now at the beginning of September, the grass had turned gold with lack of rain, and the dirt road billowed with dust. The garish yellow post chaise coated the entire landscape with grit.

Checking to see that Mary still played with the new nursemaid, Blanche straightened her hat, shoved loose tendrils of hair behind her ear, and awkwardly rose from the bench where she sat reading. Her pregnancy gave her no trouble, but she was over-conscious of her size. She wished she had worn a fuller muslin, but she had not expected company. Or Michael. Hope surged at the possibility of her husband’s return.

An unfamiliar man climbed out, offered his assistance to someone inside, and that small hope died. She’d known Michael had his hands full with his Irish rebels and the mills and the miners. One of his painfully scrawled scribbles resided in her pocket at all times, a reminder that he truly had not abandoned her.

“Fiona!” The young woman stepping out of the carriage seemed more mature than Blanche remembered. The stylish gown could explain the change, except Fiona carried herself with a lady’s grace. This young woman even wore a respectable hat with flowers on it. And gloves.

“Lady Blanche!” Fiona hurried across the dry grass, holding out her hands. She caught Blanche’s and almost danced with glee as she eyed the change in Blanche’s shape. “Sure and you’re looking most maternal these days, my lady. It’s no wonder Michael’s after pacing the floor as if he could walk the miles to Dorset away.”

Blanche smiled at the image conjured. “Michael always paces when he cannot act. How lovely you look! I see Dillian’s cooks have fed you well.” She glanced questioningly to the man striding up the lane.

Fiona clasped the older man’s arm. “This is my Uncle William. William O’Connor, Lady Blanche, Michael’s wife.”

Mr. O’Connor made a proper leg and bowed over Blanche’s hand. He had a well-fed, country squire look about him despite the fact that his tweed coat did not match the ill-fitting trousers he wore. But she liked his gentle smile and twinkling eyes, for all they had no resemblance whatsoever to Fiona. She thought she remembered Michael telling her that Fiona’s aunt was the MacDermot, not the uncle. She supposed she ought to wonder that an escaped prisoner wandered England without fear, but proximity to Michael had accustomed her to these things.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. If you have brought Fiona for a visit, I am eternally grateful. I have a dozen questions for you, but let me take you inside for some refreshments. The day is amazingly warm for this time of year.”

“I will admit, refreshments would not go unappreciated. But we cannot tarry long, so do not let us intrude on your activities. We’ve come to beg a favor.”

Blanche nodded. Briskly, she led them toward the cottage, indicating to the nursemaid that she see to the carriage driver. Blanche saw her guests seated in the parlor. “How are Dillian and Gavin?” she asked as if this were just a neighborly visit.

“Working hard, as always,” Fiona replied, her expression tense now that they were out of view of the servants. “Michael asked that we send word. As I said, he’s after climbing the walls to return, but the duke will not give him leave. There’s apparently another to-do at the mills. His Grace arrived in person and dragged him off to Manchester. Michael sends his apologies and his love. Faith, and I believe he looked quite desperate when last we saw him.”

For a moment, the tension eased, and Fiona spoke woman to woman, with curiosity in her voice. “He is not the same man I first met, is he?”

“Michael is a chameleon,” she said in explanation. “He is what he must be when the occasion arises. How is he healing? Has he regained the use of his hands yet? His writing is almost indecipherable, and he never talks of himself.”

“The bandages are off; he healed cleanly. With the scars, he’s after having some difficulty closing his fingers, but mayhap that will change with time.”