The Irish Duchess (11 page)

Glancing around at the expensive silk gowns, the hair coifed by personal maids, the jewels provided by wealthy husbands and fathers, Fiona could tell these women knew nothing at all about poverty. She could explain it to them, but they wouldn’t listen. They liked talking to show their humanity, but they didn’t much like listening or doing.

If they really wanted to help, they could sell their jewels and fancy carriages and give the funds to orphanages. They could persuade their stiff-rumped husbands to pass bills for decent wages and working conditions and to eliminate the unfair trade laws that kept the poor, poor, and the rich, richer still. But they listened to long-winded speakers instead.

Sighing, Fiona let her mind wander. Lady Gwyneth seemed absorbed in conversation with an older man seated next to her. It had surprised her that men attended these afternoons also. Fiona thought it rather rude of their hostess to engage in discourse while the speaker lectured, but she supposed the rules of polite society bent for the truly wealthy.

She studied the man to whom Gwyneth spoke, but she didn’t recognize him as one of the society beaus who congregated in the ballrooms she’d frequented these past weeks. Actually, he seemed vaguely shabby. He was too old to be a student as many of this crowd were.

The audience applauded and began breaking into small discussion groups. Fiona made her way across the room to the only person she knew. By the time she reached Gwyneth, the lady’s mysterious companion had dissolved into the crowd.

“Isn’t he a wonderful speaker?” Gwyneth asked as Fiona reached her side.

“He speaks well,” Fiona admitted grudgingly. “Now, if he only had something sensible to say...”

Gwyneth laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of Fiona’s elbow, leading her toward the refreshment table. “You don’t believe in female suffrage?”

“I’d see Catholic emancipation and voting reform first,” Fiona answered wryly. “And even then I’d not believe in any glorious revolution.”

“You’re a cynic,” Gwyneth declared. “Surely you believe in change?”

“Of course I believe in change. I also believe money speaks louder than words. Money will end poverty faster than all the speech-making in the world.”

Gwyneth looked at her consideringly. “And you would marry a rich man like Mr. Morton so you might give away his money?”

Fiona laughed. “I’m not that foolish. Mr. Morton would not give me sufficient funds to pay a boot black.” Deciding she’d said quite enough, she shifted the questioning to Gwyneth. “Would you marry a man who would give away all your wealth?”

“I don’t believe much in charity,” Gwyneth replied thoughtfully. “I’d prefer working for economic change, but I know of no man who would allow me to keep my dowry for such things.”

Fiona had a vague suspicion that the lady wronged the duke with that notion, but she had no right to say it quite so blatantly. “I don’t know,” she replied, searching for words she hadn’t quite thought about before. “If His Grace is anything like his cousin Blanche, then I would think his inclinations leaned toward helping others help themselves.”

There, perhaps she’d done the duke a favor and forwarded his suit, although for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why the haughty duke sought this bluestocking Amazon for wife. Surely he had his choice of all the beautiful women in London. Why choose one who despised his conservative policies?

Gwyneth raised her eyebrows in surprise, but before she could comment further, someone caught her attention from her other side, and she was drawn away.

Fiona wandered about the crowded drawing room, admiring the bas reliefs on the walls. She wondered how much brocade draperies of such extensiveness cost while amusing herself with snippets of overheard conversation. Few even noticed her presence other than to include her in their audience when they commenced upon their favorite diatribes. She wasn’t much inclined toward listening to nonsense. Bored, she took a position near a doorway leading to the escape of the front hall and wondered when she might send for her maid and the earl’s carriage.

“You’re certain it’s Townsend behind the problem?” a voice whispered from the other side of the wall.

Fiona thought little of it. Conversations drifted past her from several directions. She might as well listen to one as another.

“It seems most likely,” a feminine voice responded. “He and the duke are at loggerheads over the crime and Catholic bills. Townsend fancies himself as the next PM. He’ll not let anyone stand in his way.”

The mention of the “duke” could mean anyone of that title, but Fiona recognized the second voice as Gwyneth’s. She’d known the lady was interested in politics, but this conversation seemed a little more intense than usual.

“I could have Townsend eliminated, but there’s too many more Tories like him.”

Eyes widening, Fiona bit her lip and waited for Gwyneth’s reply. Perhaps she hadn’t understood the expression “eliminated” correctly. The English used odd phrases.

“I abhor violence,” Gwyneth remonstrated, confirming Fiona’s understanding while relieving some of her fear. “And as you said, there are too many more like him. We must simply protect the duke for now. There are far too few on his side willing to listen to reason as he does. We will need his support when the time comes.”

“Miss MacDermot!” a cheerful voice called, startling Fiona. The voices on the other side of the wall suddenly quieted, and Fiona forced back a scowl as she greeted a sturdy young man she’d met somewhere during the past hectic week.

Unable to remember his name, she made a slight curtsy and inwardly cursed his intrusion. The Lady Gwyneth was involved in something far beyond these sedate lectures, she surmised, and she might never have a chance to determine what.

Should she warn the duke? And what could she possibly warn him of? She’d not heard enough to have any understanding.

As Gwyneth sailed through the doorway, pinning Fiona with a fierce gaze, she had a sinking feeling that the lady didn’t know how little she’d heard. Somehow, she’d floundered into a mire from which she might not extract herself easily.

Eleven

“Fiona, stop fidgeting!” Michael said crossly from the opposite carriage seat.

Blanche blinked in disbelief, but Fiona scarcely noticed. Clasping her gloved hands, she tried not to tap her toes. She hadn’t seen the duke in days. She still didn’t know what to tell him. Heaven only knew, she’d heard enough conspiracy in her lifetime. The Irish had a talent for secret societies. Still, she couldn’t imagine a wealthy lady like Gwyneth becoming involved in one.

“She’s going to explode,” Michael pointed out to his wife. “Why haven’t you removed her cork by now?”

Beside Fiona, Blanche giggled. “It’s so much more fun to watch it pop,” she admitted. “Now that you’ve become a staid old man, I must find my amusement elsewhere.”

Fiona looked from one to the other, trying to follow their inane dialogue, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Michael and Blanche often spoke a language of their own. She couldn’t think of another couple so thoroughly delighted with each other. She envied them their relationship.

Of course, they were both insane, so perhaps that made it easier for them.

Deciding she wouldn’t surrender her sanity for whatever it was that kept two such disparate characters as Michael and Blanche from killing each other, Fiona glanced out the carriage window. She wasn’t in the mood for another glittering ball.

Despite all the smiles and secret leers, none of her suitors had consulted her cousin about their chances. Of course, it had only been a few weeks. None of them were precisely in a hurry to get leg-shackled to a penniless Irish Catholic female. But she didn’t have time to wait. Winter was approaching and the orphans would starve. The village needed work. She’d approached Michael about the looms, but he had a dozen projects on his plate.

“Do you think Neville has fully recovered from that blow to his head?” Blanche asked, apropos of nothing. “He’s been behaving rather oddly lately.”

Fiona’s head jerked up. Blow to his head?

“Neville always behaves oddly,” Michael replied dismissively. “I should imagine a man who has come that close to death might behave differently. I think he’s decided it’s time to settle down and produce an heir. You’ve said yourself he’s taken an interest in Lady Gwyneth.”

His Grace had nearly died? From a blow to his head. Acquired how?

“Yes, but Gwyneth is all wrong for him.” Blanche twisted at her gloves. “I wish...” She sighed and started over. “He’s too proud. We need a good fairy to bat him over the head with her magic wand.”

Fiona smirked at the idea of some blonde, blue-eyed fairy batting the duke over his hard head. Perhaps one had coshed him over the noggin. Not everything had to be a conspiracy.

“Perhaps our Fiona could act the part,” Michael asked with a grin in his voice. “Did you bring a leprechaun or two with you, lass? They’re what our duke needs right about now.”

“Little men in green?” she asked scornfully. “No, it’s big men with a shillelagh he needs. Did they catch whoever hit him?”

Silence fell. Then both Michael and Blanche tried speaking at once. When that failed, Michael held up his hand and Blanche quieted.

“We’re not letting that get about, Fiona. Neville has his pride and would rather it not be known.” He hesitated, then continued. “The men were never caught. We’re still looking for them, but there’s few enough clues.”

“Stupid pride,” Blanche scoffed. “From the sounds of it, there must have been half a dozen of them, and he still managed to injure all but the one with the cudgel. I can’t imagine Neville fighting like that. He was always the studious sort.”

Fiona had
seen
him fight like that, and he’d appeared remarkably unstudious at the time. Actually, she’d thought him highly triumphant at his prowess. Men were like that.

“They robbed him then?” she asked, still not quite understanding what she wasn’t being told.

Again, that hesitation. Fiona knew full well her noble cousin lied blithely and without compunction whenever he felt inclined. She was just as grateful that the carriage stopped in front of their destination so she needn’t hear what ingenious bit of untruth the Earl of Aberdare spun now. Neville hadn’t been robbed, she concluded. So someone had tried to kill him for a reason.

She still didn’t have enough pieces. She didn’t even know if the pieces she had came from the same puzzle. Perhaps she should have told Michael what she’d overheard, but then he would have taken the information and gone on one of his mysterious jaunts, and she’d never hear what happened. No, she’d wait until she knew more.

***

“Your cheeks are like roses this evening, Miss MacDermot.” Viscount Bennet simpered as he led her toward the refreshment table.

And her skin was like pearls and her lips were bright rubies, Fiona sniped to herself. All in all, she preferred the pearls and rubies. Perhaps she could cash them in. She smiled as if the viscount had just blinded her with his wit and charm. “You flatter me, I’m sure, sir.”

“Won’t you take a seat while I find some refreshment? Would you care for punch or lemonade?”

The viscount looked inordinately pleased with himself. He wasn’t a bad man. Fiona supposed she shouldn’t be so cruel in her judgments. It would be nice if she could find a wiser, more kindly man instead of one looking to relive his youth, but she of all people knew life wasn’t fair or kind. The viscount could give her what she wanted, and she supposed she possessed what he needed. It would work out.

Not up to smiling and chatting meaningless phrases, she took a seat behind a potted palm and watched his bald head disappear into the crowd around the table.

She’d scarcely seen the duke all evening. Apparently there had been some sort of violent discord in the Lords that evening, and he circulated now, consolidating his position and swinging votes to his side. She suspected he was quite good at what he did. Fiona sought other means of entertainment rather than the duke.

“The Irish are no more than savages,” a voice on the other side of the palms said. “We gave Irish the vote back in ’93, and what have they done with it? Nothing! They wallow in their fields with their pigs and potatoes. We listen to enough of the drunken Irish in the House without allowing Catholics too.”

“It costs us enough to buy their votes as it is. There’s no sense in depositing the gilt into the pockets of papists,” another voice agreed laughingly.

Fiona knew better than to intrude. She’d learned some control over her temper these last years. But she simply couldn’t let these ninnyhammers continue uneducated. Since no other appeared ready to play the part of teacher, she would have to do the honors.

Twisting her lips into a semblance of a smile, she stepped from behind the palm. The guilt on the faces of the two men before her immediately pinpointed the speakers. They knew who she was. Her smile grew a little broader.

“Most of the population of Ireland has no pigs,” she informed them politely. “They ate them long ago. And the blight has taken the potatoes, so if we must wallow anywhere, it’s in the stones of our fields. Admittedly, it’s rather easy to buy the vote of a man whose family is starving, and if we send drunks to stand in Parliament, it’s only because we can’t send Catholics. When was the last time you visited Ireland, sir?”

Fiona thought she’d been quite reasonable in her approach, but both gentlemen turned purple with rage. She couldn’t precisely place their names. She seldom bothered unless they were eligible bachelors.

“Now, see here, miss, I should think we have a good deal more experience in these matters than a young uneducated female. You’re intruding where you don’t belong.”

The man saying this had gray hairs sprouting from his ears, Fiona noted. She really should concentrate on what she said, but she’d rather pull the gray hairs from his ears. “You have experience in pig wallows?” she asked innocently. “I must admit, I’ve never educated myself in the matter of pigs other than to know one when I see one. They’re a greedy lot, you know, want to have everything to themselves.”

Fiona heard a chuckle behind her and knew an audience had gathered, but she was beyond caring. She’d had enough slights and snubs these last weeks, heard enough of the whispers behind her back. She’d fight back, and to hell with them all.