The Shamrock & the Rose (3 page)

Shoving the worrisome thought aside she
asked, “Who else will be attending this evening?” She wondered how
the Irishman would be received by the others.

The countess took another sip of sherry.
“Well, there will be my dear friend Lady Emily Picton, widow of Sir
Thomas Picton, the most senior officer killed at Waterloo. She has
just returned from a holiday in Bath. You will like her, I know.
Then there will be two other gentlemen who have asked to be
introduced to you: Colonel Sir Alex Abercromby, now MP for
Clackmannan in Scotland, and William Arden, Baron Alvanley.”

“I know the name Alvanley.”

“I thought you might. Alvanley is one of
Prinny’s set and well known for his wit. He also remains a loyal
friend to that dandy Beau Brummel, whose debts now require him to
live in France. So, with all that, there will be six of us.”

“With those minds in the room, it should
make for an absorbing conversation. I shall look forward to
it.”

“So will I,” said the countess.

Rose swore there was a twinkle in the older
woman’s eye. “Are you by any chance engaged in matchmaking,
Countess?”

The woman smiled. “Your mother did give me
authority to make a match for you, as you’ll recall.”

“I see you’re taking it seriously.”

“Why, of course! It is one of my favorite
pastimes.”

It was then that Rose remembered her other
concern. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I think I was being followed
today.”

“Followed, my dear? By whom?”

“I cannot say. But when my carriage stopped
at Lady Ormond’s for my last call, the carriage behind us stopped
as well.” Rose crossed her arms over her chest as if to ward off a
sudden chill. “A man cloaked in black got out and watched me enter
the townhouse. His stare made me quite uncomfortable. I saw through
the window that he lingered there for some time. Thankfully he was
gone when I came out, but the whole incident left me
unsettled.”

“He might have been a theatre-goer who
recognized you and was merely curious,” offered the countess. “Much
like Mr. O’Connell.”

“Perhaps,” Rose allowed. “But do you truly
think it likely someone would recognize Lily Underwood out of
costume and absent the brown wig? If so…”

“You have a point. Still, if the person was
close enough to really see your face, I suppose it is
possible
you might be recognized. But you say he disappeared
by the time you left? There may be no connection at all. Perhaps
all of this was a coincidence.”

Rose prayed that it was so.

* * *

The ladies were already in the parlour when
the gentlemen arrived that evening. Rose was engaged in
conversation with Lady Picton, who was only a few years older than
she. Rose thought Emily’s black hair and violet eyes striking, and
the quick mind that went with them was a welcome surprise. She
found a kindred spirit in the young widow, who confided she had no
plans to remarry but saw herself much like her friend Lady
Claremont, independent and able to move on her own through London
Society. Rose was of a similar mind, but a maiden did not have the
same freedom as a widow.

The three men entered the parlour nearly
together, providing Rose a chance to compare. They were all of an
age, around thirty, but one was taller and very handsome with curly
black hair and a lithesome form. Neither she nor Lady Picton
recognized him, but the young widow did know Lord Alvanley and Sir
Alex and identified them in a whisper.

So the third man must be Mr. O’Connell.

Rose was not surprised when Lady Picton
pointed out Sir Alex, who was speaking to the countess; she would
have known him by his military bearing. He had the rigid stance of
an officer, though tonight he was conservatively dressed in black
coat, gray waistcoat and trousers. Thick brows topped intense brown
eyes, but it was his hair that was most unusual, for while he
appeared a man in his prime, it was already gray. For all that, she
thought him attractive.

“Miss Collingwood,” said Sir Alex, taking
her hand, “the woman all the gentlemen of London desire to meet,
the celebrated beauty and ward of the countess. I am pleased she
has found me worthy.” In his other hand he held a bouquet of roses,
which Rose handed to a waiting footman.

A man used to having his orders followed,
thought Rose as he bowed over her hand. She wondered if he
considered himself the perfect choice for an admiral’s daughter,
but perhaps she was being ungenerous. He had served his country
well and deserved her admiration.

“Why, thank you, Sir Alex, for both the
flowers and the compliment, though you praise me too highly. I’m
certain few in London even know of my existence.”

“They will all want to know you soon, Miss
Collingwood. Word of your beauty is spreading,” he said. “Then,
too, your father was well spoken of by all in the Navy.”

“Sadly, I never knew him, Sir Alex. I was
the product of my mother’s brief visit to see my father in
Portsmouth where his ship was undergoing repairs. He never returned
home after my birth and died eight years ago while still serving
the Crown.”

Lady Picton sent Rose a sympathetic glance,
then she too was introduced to Sir Alex, who informed the young
widow that he served with her husband at Waterloo, the battle that
claimed his life.

The next to be presented to Rose was the
portly Lord Alvanley, whose long brown sideburns seemed to
highlight his rather short neck. Dressed as he was, she thought his
taste impeccable though somewhat audacious: a cerulean blue coat
with bright yellow waistcoat spanning his barrel chest, topped with
an elaborately tied cravat. He used the walking stick he carried
most dramatically when he spoke, gesturing to emphasize his point.
In his other hand was a small bouquet of roses, artfully arranged,
which Rose also gave to the footman.

Alvanley took her hand and announced rather
gaily, “Just the woman for me, fair Rose. You are a beauty, I must
say!”

Rose thought the baron a bit sure of
himself, as if she were a flower to be picked at his whim, but she
smiled nonetheless and thanked him for the bouquet and his praise.
As he accepted this with good grace, she thought better of him. She
also remembered the countess describing him as loyal to his
unfortunate friend Brummell. Judging by the looks he was giving
Lady Picton, Lord Alvanley was equally as taken with the beautiful
widow, and for that Rose could not fault him.

Finally, there was the Irish barrister in
the making. A good several inches taller than the other men, he
wore a forest green velvet coat, white linen shirt and cravat,
russet breeches and waistcoat and black boots. The clothes fit him
well and hinted at a muscled physique beneath. His piercing blue
eyes held her gaze for a long moment; then his very white teeth
were displayed in a rakish smile that at once disarmed her.

“Miss Collingwood,” he said, accepting her
hand, “I have wanted to meet you and was delighted Lady Claremont
included me in her soiree tonight.” Leaning forward, he whispered
just for her ears, “I am merely love’s messenger, delivering to you
not flowers but a lost valentine from one of Miss Underwood’s many
admirers.”

She could smell his clean, masculine scent
as he bent toward her. He bowed low and brushed his lips across her
knuckles, sending shivers up Rose’s spine, a reaction she’d not had
to the others, or indeed to any man; the energy pouring off him
quite took her aback.

“Perhaps fortune has brought you to us, Mr.
O’Connell,” she said, trying to gain control of senses thrown into
complete disarray by his presence. “I am anxious to hear more about
your famous family.”

“Doubtless you speak of my cousin. In recent
years he’s become a very well known barrister in Ireland, and a
sharp stick in the side of the English government.” He grinned,
apparently finding amusement in his comment, and her heart beat
faster at seeing again that winsome smile. “England, you know, is
still having its revenge on the Irish for their support of King
James over William of Orange.”

Was he pricking her in jest? After all, she
was English. And while she might be taking a risk in being an
actress, she was not involved in armed rebellion in the streets as
were the Irish. The Irish were such rabble-rousers! But Mr.
O’Connell did not seem the rabble-rouser. Had he been tempered by
education and age?

The introductions concluded, a footman
passed around glasses of sherry and the conversation grew lively as
Sir Alex said to Mr. O’Connell, “As a Whig, I am in favor of
emancipation for the Catholics. Nevertheless, your cousin, sir, did
not help matters when he refused to support England’s one condition
that three years ago would have given the Catholics what they
seek.”

“Daniel did oppose the veto England wanted
over papal appointments, and thus split the vote,” the tall
Irishman agreed, “but only to preserve the Church’s role in uniting
Irishmen seeking reform. He is confident the Irish Catholics will
have what they want on their
own
terms and finally benefit
from being part of the United Kingdom.”

“Seems to me,” interjected Lord Alvanley,
“your cousin is a lion with a thorn in his paw.”

“Or perhaps,” Mr. O’Connell rejoined with a
grin, “Daniel is the thorn in England’s paw.”

Despite her earlier concerns, Rose admired
the way the Irishman handled himself. He was smart and unafraid,
but with a sense of humor. Few men could laugh at themselves; it
was a rare quality and one she greatly admired. And to banter with
Alvanley was certainly an achievement.

Silencing the men who were half her age, the
countess interjected, “As I recall, Alvanley, that thorn you speak
of was the subject of Devonshire’s maiden speech before the House
of Lords. Barely into his title, the young duke argued in support
of the Whig motion to examine the Irish Catholics’ discontent. When
I saw him a few months ago, he was still complaining of the ill
treatment by English landlords of their Irish tenantry.”

Mr. O’Connell looked at the countess with
what appeared to be admiration as Sir Alex vocalized agreement.
“Devonshire is very concerned that, while we can fairly criticize
the Irish for not adhering to England’s laws, our laws hardly
protect them. A bad state of affairs all around.”

From all she’d read Rose thought the
statement a fair one, but apparently Mr. O’Connell felt some
explanation necessary.

“The Irish do not respect laws that only
serve to harm them. And just now they are suffering from the drop
in crop prices that followed the war’s end. Most are scraping out a
living on only a few acres. Once emancipation is achieved and the
Irish Catholics can take their place in the House of Commons, it is
hoped the laws and their situation will change.” He spoke with a
voice of authority that Rose found convincing, and his words made
her realize she knew little of his countrymen’s plight. She also
detected a bit of an Irish lilt in his voice, which gave it a
wonderful quality. She could well believe juries would hang on his
every word.

Cruthers appeared at the parlour door.
“Dinner is served, your ladyship.”

“Come,” said the countess to her guests.
“Let us leave off politics while we enjoy a good meal.”

The Irishman held out his arm, and Rose
accepted, settling her fingers on a muscled forearm. She wondered
what he did to gain those muscles. Boxing perhaps? She knew some
men practiced the sport of pugilism, and she was given to
understand that the Irish loved to fight.

They all strolled toward the dining room
where Rose knew an elaborate dinner awaited.

* * *

Morgan escorted Rose to her seat, pleased he
was on her right. Alvanley took his seat on her left. Across the
table, Sir Alex was ensconced between the countess and Lady Picton.
Gilded china and crystal arrayed on the table reflected the light
of two tall candelabras giving the room a soft glow. Above the
table, a crystal chandelier was decorated with red velvet bows.

The countess explained that since they were
so few, she’d decided to use the smaller dining room. Morgan could
only imagine the size of the larger one.

He smiled across the table at Lady Picton, a
lovely woman with blue-violet eyes wearing a becoming gown to
match, but it remained the fetching Miss Collingwood sitting next
to him who drew his imagination. The long brown hair she donned
while acting the part of Portia was gone, shimmering blonde locks
drawn up into curls at the crown of her head, the light of the many
candles reflected in their sheen. He wished she had worn it down
like Portia. He longed to reach out and touch those golden
strands.

Her crimson gown set off her ivory skin, and
the white lace edging on the low bodice enticed him to admire the
rounded mounds of her breasts. For a moment he wished she was still
merely the actress he’d first thought her to be, there for his
taking. She wore a strand of pearls tight against her slim neck.
Was it a gift from a favored admirer? At the possibility, he felt
an unwanted pang of jealousy. With men of the
ton
like
Alvanley and Sir Alex falling over themselves to win her, and the
rest of London panting after the actress Lily Underwood, she had
plenty of Englishmen to choose from. Why would she consider an
Irishman?

“Why the bows in the chandelier, Countess?”
asked Sir Alex.

“Don’t you know it’s St. Valentine’s
Day?”

“’Tis the day for lovers to send notes
bearing sweet verse,” added Alvanley.

“I understand that Hatchards,” said the
smiling Lady Picton, “has nearly sold out of writing paper, with
half the
ton
flocking to buy what is needed for those love
notes you speak of.”

“I’d quite forgotten,” said Sir Alex. “I’ve
lately had matters of the House of Commons on my mind.”