The Irish Duchess (2 page)

Gloomily considering his future, Neville cleaned his plate while listening to the terrified Lady Gwyneth converse nonsensically on the weather. He should also take into consideration that he neared thirty years of age while this poor girl barely possessed nineteen. She probably still had foolish notions of love and white knights. Grumpy, taciturn old men probably didn’t qualify. Not that he considered himself old, but to a nineteen-year-old...

Deciding he’d paid her the requisite amount of attention, he handed his empty plate to a passing servant, bowed, and excused himself. She colored prettily and seemed relieved at the same time. So much for dazzling the damsels.

He still had time for a drink or two at his club. To keep expenses down, he didn’t keep a carriage in town. Actually, he didn’t have much of a stable either, but one must maintain appearances. So he frequently walked damp gray streets beneath flickering gaslights. He sometimes did his best thinking then.

Right now, Neville pondered the lack of mutual attraction between himself and Lady Gwyneth. He didn’t think himself particularly ugly. True, he had a long face and a rather stern jaw that might pass for formidable in some circles. His blasted thick eyebrows emphasized the noticeable ridges of his brow. But his hair was an unremarkable brown, and he was of only an average size. In all, he bore no attributes even remotely dangerous or displeasing to a lady.

He was a damned duke, for heaven’s sake. Women swarmed him like flies. Elizabeth had found him well enough for her bed. He’d had other women before her. None had complained of his appearance. So why couldn’t a simple girl look at him with something of appreciation?

Thinking he heard a step behind him, Neville halted beneath a gaslight and adjusted his gloves. The streets were fairly well traveled this time of night. A pair of revelers staggered and sang their way down the boulevard in front of him. The night watch lifted his cap in respect and strolled on his way. Neville heard nothing further from behind. A man in his position couldn’t be too careful, but he couldn’t give himself fancies either.

Deciding he’d only heard a servant scampering for the backstairs of a nearby kitchen, Neville proceeded down the wide street with the revelers. Light gleamed through the front windows of his club, and he hurried up the stone steps, handing his beaver hat to the doorman.

The rich leathers and glowing lamps of the interior welcomed him. He knew every man in here, had gone to school with most of them, fought verbal battles in the Lords with half. They nodded at him with respect and didn’t expect gay sallies in return. He didn’t have to laugh and flatter, be witty and flirt. He could have a good glass of brandy, turn a card or two, and engage in an animated discussion on the future of railroads. No wonder men didn’t marry unless forced.

One of the men he expected to see stood in a corner conversing with some younger fellows who appeared ready to leave. At a wave from a former school chum, David Morrow, Neville strode in their direction.

“Whoa, old boy, didn’t expect you here tonight. The Fair Elizabeth made it quite clear you were meeting her at Liverpool’s,” Morrow said.

Neville shrugged. “Duty called. I’m looking for a quiet evening.”

“We’re off to explore a new gaming house over on St. James. Supposed to be quite the thing. Come along with us,” one of the younger men suggested.

“I’ve just come for a brandy. Thank you.” Neville continued on his way.

“Thinks demmed well of himself, don’t he?” he heard the heir to an earldom mutter.

“Guess he’s too high in the instep to go gaming with the likes of us,” another agreed.

In the mirror on the far wall, Neville watched Morrow cuff the closest speaker. He did his best not to wince at his friend’s defense.

“He hasn’t got the wherewithal to gamble with, fool,” Morrow said. “Everyone knows Anglesey is just this side of bankruptcy, and the duke won’t let his lady cousin pay his gambling debts. Don’t let me hear you speak ill of your betters again.”

***

Finished with the news sheets, Neville drained his brandy glass, picked up his walking stick and high-crowned hat, and set out for home. He had a stack of estate papers on his desk that needed his attention. And Blanche had yet another mad scheme for improving the Manchester mills that he must discourage in some manner.

He couldn’t believe he was placed in the position of acting as a bloody tradesman just to keep his wretched cousin from sinking all her coins into improbable schemes for benefiting the welfare of mankind. Mankind was scarce worth the effort.

Neville allowed instinct to guide him home while he lost himself in thought. The Anglesey townhouse occupied a rather large chunk of real estate in one of the older sections of town, one where gaslights had not yet been installed. Accustomed to the dark shadows of trees from the park, Neville gave his surroundings little notice. Even the clammy fog obscuring the pavement did not deter him. He could find his way home blindfolded if needed.

Only the sound of a footstep where there shouldn’t be one finally dragged him from his reverie. One too many violent incidents in these past years of political chaos had taught him caution. Had someone followed him from the club? Why?

One of the things he had learned from Michael, Blanche’s new husband, was how to act quickly and defend himself. Over the years, his lessons with Gentleman Jackson had given him a much needed outlet for frustration. Neville needed no more than the snap of a twig to jump from absentminded thought to full alert.

The scoundrel crashing through the shrubbery caught the full force of the gold-plated knob of Neville’s walking stick. The second scoundrel suffered the brunt of Neville’s fist plowing into his face at such an angle that his jaw fell slack. Neville cursed as still a third leapt from the bushes, and footsteps behind him indicated he’d attracted a crowd.

Giving up any pretense of politeness, he flicked open the sword in his stick, slashed at the man advancing from his side, kicked at the one rising from the street, and heard the sweet sound of a groan as he connected with his soft target. Any triumph he might have felt dissipated the moment a cudgel cracked across the back of his skull.

With a growl of fury, Neville swung and slashed at his opponent, but he’d already realized the futility. There were just too many of them.

As someone grabbed his sword and twisted it from his hand, Neville plowed his fist into still another jaw and had the satisfaction of hearing it crack before the club came down on his skull again.

This time, the Duke of Anglesey crumpled to the street, swearing as the blackness of unconsciousness threatened. He had no heir. He couldn’t die.

Two

McGonigle lifted his tankard at the bar in the dark Irish tavern and gestured at an audience as poorly dressed and world-weary as he. “The bleedin’ English are after drainin’ us dry as stones. We cain’t be lettin’ them take what little we possess. Those are our homes! I say we drive the bastards out, let them know we won’t take their thievery any longer!”

His diatribe was interrupted by a shout from the doorway. “William McGonigle, you’re a scabrous, lying layabout with naught for brains but the whisky in your hand!”

The men in the smoky tavern turned, although the feminine pitch of the words identified the speaker.

Beneath the low portal stood a slender figure in boy’s jerkin and breeches, hands on hips and arms akimbo. Her green eyes caught the lantern light in the malodorous dusk of the tavern. Thick auburn curls tumbled in dishevelment around a delicately-boned face that might have captured a man’s interest—had ruby lips not tightened into a thin, disapproving line and her milky brow not been marred with a too-familiar scowl.

Even before she strode into the room, the work-hardened men inched out of her path. That she carried a riding crop in one hand had little to do with their unease. That she had the sharp tongue of an adder had a good deal more, especially when she unleashed it.

“Lazy, conniving troublemakers, the lot of ye!” she shouted into the silence, falling into the vernacular with the ease of experience. “You blame your sorry troubles on everyone but the ones who caused them—your own bleedin’ foolish selves! You knew that thievin’ Owen had no right to lease those lands, but you went on believin’ his lies because it suited ye. And now the rightful owner returns and wants to improve them, and the lot of ye sit here whinin’ like a bunch of pulin’ babes about bein’ robbed. You ought to be ashamed of yerselves!”

“Fiona, ye’re after interferin’ where you don’t belong,” one of the older men intervened. “The earl won’t fancy it none, and yer uncle will take a switch to ye.”

A low murmur in the background sounded suspiciously like “we wish,” but at the glare of green eyes, none spoke the words out loud.

“I’d not be in here like this if the lot of ye were out moving your belongings like ye were supposed to be. It’s costing the earl enough to drain and fill those bogs ye call fields. Don’t expect him to up and move your lazy selves as well. I’ll tell him myself to plow your wretched hovels under! Did ye leave your poor wives to pack the babes and your belongings too?”

Several of the men winced at her scorn and looked longingly at the door. McGonigle stood up. Larger than most of the men there, he towered over Fiona’s slight figure by a foot or more, but she didn’t flinch at his approach.

“Those are our homes, Miss Fiona, and don’t ye be forgettin’ that! Our daddies built those houses. We grew up in them. You can’t be just throwin’ a man out of his home willy-nilly and expect him not to fight back.”

Exhaustion lined her pale features, but her reply remained forceful. “You know the law, McGonigle. Your father knew the law when he built that place on rented land. Improvements stay with the owner, and the owner has the right to do what he will with them. You’re blamed lucky the earl has provided other housing for you. There’s not a bloody English lord out there who would have done the same. Michael is as Irish as you or me. He’s looking after you, if you weren’t too damned backward to see it. Once he drains those bogs, we’ll have twice as much land to farm. The fair has raised the funds for looms. Once we build those, we’ll see a difference.”

“The bloody damned law needs changing!” someone in the background shouted.

Fiona sought the face of the troublemaker, but her gaze was distracted. A girl with a shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders searched the interior, and Fiona knew what that meant. Glowering at the angry crowd, she shoved her way toward the child.

“A whole lot of bloody damned things need changing around here,” Fiona shouted, at no one in particular. “And men who don’t keep their pants on and stay home where they belong are one of them.”

A guilty silence fell behind her as she strode out and the child hurried in her path. Every man jack of them recognized the girl and knew what her arrival meant. Fiona had no idea how many of those men in there had lain with the child’s mother. She certainly didn’t want to know. She just wanted those responsible for the children that resulted to step forward and take their share of the burden. Not bloody damn likely in this lifetime, she muttered to herself, as she hurried down the village street.

The western sun cast an unflattering light over the stone huts and muddy lane, shadowing the flowers at the doorsteps and illuminating the garbage and the pigs, but Fiona had lived with this setting so long she scarcely noticed it. As she reached the tumbledown hovel set far down a back lane from the main road, her attention turned to the terrified children huddled in what passed for the front yard. The screams from the interior curdled her blood.

Fiona stopped and hugged the eldest, a too-skinny boy of nine. She whispered in his ear, and sent him off with the others on an errand she made up on the spot. They knew her as the lady who brought them milk and bread, so they eagerly obeyed her. Sighing, Fiona watched them scamper off. Why the devil didn’t the neighbors look after them at a time like this?

She knew the answer to that, but she didn’t like thinking so cruelly of others. Despite the low portal, she didn’t need to duck upon entering the darkened cottage, one of the few advantages of her unlofty stature.

The old woman in the corner continued rocking with grief without acknowledging Fiona’s presence. The younger one straining in the last stages of childbirth wasn’t conscious enough to notice. She gripped the filthy sheets over the rough pallet and screamed in an anguish Fiona recognized as abnormal.

Feeling the fear come upon her, she looked for a basin of water in which to wash her hands. She wished she had more knowledge, but as a woman and a Catholic, she was denied an education. Her mother had taught her to read and write, but that couldn’t teach her what to do now. She could rely only on what little she had learned from experience.

***

“Bless the Lord, and may the sainted Mother of God deliver us,” the terrified old woman whispered as Fiona wrapped the squalling babe in clean linen. “Ye’ve done it, lass. Let me have him, then, though it would have been better had the wee bairn never been born.”

Fiona mentally concurred, but exhausted, she wiped sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, and returned to the unconscious woman on the pallet. Those six children outside needed a mother, even a poor one such as Aileen.

Cursing everyone from her parents to the bigotry of society, Fiona vented her anger and fear while she worked over her patient. The babe she’d saved wailed lustily.

“Blessed Lord Jesus, why!” Fiona screamed some time later, as Aileen’s life ebbed with the flow of blood, and the old woman hastily murmured the sacraments.

The new mother issued a sigh of peace and fell still despite Fiona’s frantic efforts. Beating the dirt floor with her fists, Fiona cried out her frustration and grief. She’d never had anyone die on her before.

“Ye done the best ye could,
cailin
,” the old woman whispered as it became evident her daughter would not breathe again. “Do not greet so. She’s at peace now. Just look at her. We’ll see to the babes. Ye get yerself home before it comes dark.”