The Widow and the Rogue (11 page)

She could not fault the late king for liking it. She’d never tasted anything so delicious. Mrs. O’Grady had never allowed her to partake in sweets.

She was sternly told, “It will make you fat—and we mustn’t allow that. You must keep your slim figure, your ladyship, in order to fit the gowns that Lord Langtry expects you to wear.” And so it was that her husband and his dinner companions would indulge in the most decadent desserts, while Kathleen was only permitted a piece of fruit and a wedge of cheese. Now, for the first time in years, she let the citrus-flavored sauce and matching sweet bread roll over her tongue and lie on her taste buds. Unknowingly, she closed her eyes, savoring her first morsel. Daintily, she licked the spoon, enjoying each tangy bite.

She looked up and stared directly into Beau’s eyes. He’d been intently watching her. There was, she could not mistake, a hungry look in his. He stared at her mouth as if he wished to taste her. And she realized she wanted him to kiss her again, like he had that evening in front of the fire. And she also realized something else. She wanted to kiss him back. Not in reaction to his kiss, but in a bold, sensual statement of her own. The spark that passed between them was interrupted by the laughter at the other end of the table where Miss Litton had been regaling the group with another witty story.

Along with the wobbly sweet pudding and fruit, two different types of bramble wines were served. After dessert the newly named captain’s wife, Sarah Smythe, rose from the table, indicating it was time to leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars.

The ladies went back into the drawing-room for coffee, chocolate, and spice cake. They passed the time in genial conversation and a few hands of cards, until the men joined them.

Some music was called for, and obligingly, their host, Captain Smythe, again played the piano forte. They sang together
Come Loose Every Sail to the Breeze
a tune well-known among the men in their company for it was often sung at sea.

Captain Jackson led them through the first part, singing in a fine contralto voice,

“
Come loose every sail to the breeze.

The course of my vessel improve.

I’ve done with toils of the seas
. . .”

At which point he signaled to the rest of them to join in the chorus of

“
Ye sailors, I’m done bound to my love.

Ye sailors, I’m done bound to my love.

I’ve done with toils of the seas.

Ye sailors, I’m bound to my love . . .”

With delighted laughter they finished. They gave applause in appreciation for Captain Smythe’s fine piano playing, or as Beau commented, “For gamely keeping up with us squawking wobblers.”

They paused, waiting to see who would lead the next song.

Beau boldly stepped forward. “I recently learned an Irish ballad called,
Down by Black Waterside
. I don’t suppose you ladies know it?” he asked Lady Fitzpatrick and Mrs. Smythe, knowing they were both Irish.

“That is a delightful song,” noted Lady Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Smythe readily concurred that it was a ditty worth hearing.

“Do sing it for us, Beau,” urged Robert from the piano.

“Very well, but I must warn you, I refuse to be held accountable for any ladies swooning,” he said rather immodestly to the delight of the rest of the guests.

“Indeed, sir, I shall try my best not to,” Miss Litton replied gaily.

But the warning, thought Kathleen, should have been directed at her. It was she who almost swooned.

Her heart felt as if it would almost hammer out of her chest as he sang out in his fine baritone,

“Nine times I kissed her ruby lips

I viewed her sparkling eye

I took her by the lily-white hand,

my lovely bride to be . . .”

As he sang out the last chorus, she could not help but think of how he had held her hand and kissed it but a few minutes before.

When he finished, he looked directly at her and gave a small bow to the rest of his audience.

Lieutenant Litton came up and clapped him on the back, declaring, “
Demme
, but you are a fine singer, sir!”

“Would you like to take to the stage, Master Powers?” asked Miss Litton.

“Many thanks for your kind compliment, but alas, I am no Sheridan,” he said, mentioning the famous Irish actor and writer. The Irishman currently ran Drury Lane Theater in London and was noted to be a fine singer.

“I prefer to save my pacing of the boards for the courtroom. There I am assured no one will throw rotten turnips at me,” he said with a grin. He then directed his attention to Kathleen. “Lady Langtry, how did you find my singing?”

“Very fine, sir,” she smiled, “very fine indeed . . .”

She could not help but clasp her hands together. A little nervous, she tried to hide them in the folds of her gown. She did not want him to think she connected the song with what had occurred between them earlier.

But correctly he interpreted her gesture.

“
Merci,
” he said in French and deliberately took one of her hands to bow over.

This brought a blush to her cheeks. He was undoubtedly one of the most gallant gentlemen she had ever met. The attention he paid her was more than flattering. It was head spinning.

The evening ended pleasantly. When they returned to the townhouse, she realized she’d never enjoyed herself so much. Beau had invited her to meet his friends and she’d been at ease in their lively company. In fact, for the first time in a very long time she’d felt as though she belonged, a feeling that brought her both comfort and joy. She did not feel as if anyone was trying to find fault with her. Beau’s friends had openly made it known they liked her.

She had been invited by the newly married captain’s wife, Sarah, to join her on another day for tea. As a result, she now felt a warm feeling of happiness.

If her late husband had been alive, there would have been a post party review of her comportment. Mrs. O’Grady would have taken out her little black notebook and dissected every real or imagined fault she’d made. She would have then gone to bed demeaned and exhausted. But none of that had occurred. She’d been warmly welcomed and accepted by the entire party.

After they arrived back at the townhouse, Beau complimented them once again. “Thank you, for making this one of the most memorable evenings I’ve had the pleasure these past few weeks to enjoy.”

He’d said he wanted to be worthy of her trust and become her friend. Tonight, he’d shown himself to be a true gentleman, intelligent, humorous, and respectful. And he’d exhibited a characteristic no gentleman of her close acquaintance ever had before . . . kindness. She was most fortunate to have him as her guardian and friend.

Yes, she decided, looking dreamily at the hand he’d kissed. Her life was different now, in so many ways—but she wondered a little sadly, how long would this happiness last? Would she be forced eventually to submit to someone else’s whims? Or worse, possibly come to physical harm?

She thought of the gunman and how close she’d come to death. She shivered at the memory, knowing it hadn’t been a mere coincidence.

The man who’d tried to shoot her wasn’t a madman. It had been carefully planned. He’d been hiding among the trees waiting for her, and her alone. Of this she was almost certain. But why had he wanted to harm her? Was it because he personally knew her and held a grudge? If so, who was he? And what had she done to offend him?

She frowned in thought. She could think of no one who detested her. Most men had been too bedazzled by her husband’s wealth and position to take offense when she refused their unwelcome advances.

And as for women, one dour face did enter her thoughts, Mrs. O’Grady. But she dismissed that possibility. The disgruntled housekeeper had retired to her deeded farm weeks ago and not been heard or seen from since.

But if it was not her, could it be someone had been hired to kill her, as Lady Fitzpatrick suggested? Possibly paid by one of her family members, as Robert believed?

This last thought disturbed her. She knew her dead husband’s family and her uncle, Squire Lynch all too well. They were all coldhearted and money hungry enough to do it.

Secretly, despite her outer calm, she feared a repetition of what had occurred on the green. She silently prayed if she faced danger again, she would be strong enough to fight for her life and survive.

They left Dublin the following week. The wedding of Lady Fitzpatrick’s niece, Lady Beatrice O’Brien to Captain James Huntington, the new Earl of Drennan, was approaching. Lady Agnes was on tenterhooks in her eagerness to return to Urlingford. She wanted to ensure her niece was wed to the dashing earl in the grandest manner.

No repeat of the gunman incident had occurred since that foggy day on Saint Stephen’s Green. The precautions were lifted, and Kathleen once again experienced the freedom of being able to take her rambling, solitary walks.

Tim, no longer tied to a leash, thrived in the countryside. He exuberantly ran across the green hills. In no time he doubled in both weight and size, removing any remaining fears she held concerning his health.

The wedding day of Lady Beatrice O’Brien to the Earl of Drennan was everything one could hope for. The sun hung like a bright yellow rose in the clear blue sky, and although it was early spring, a thin layer of white frost covered the ground.

The Drennan Chapel’s pews were filled to capacity. The aristocrats were seated in a segregated part of the church nearest the altar. Many of the castle’s tenant farmers stood in back, observing the sacred rite between their master and his soon to be new wife.

The paths leading to the chapel were decorated by the villagers with arching branches of evergreen and wildflowers. Inside the sanctuary itself green ivy tendrils decorated the end of the pews and the altar. Bouquets of Burnet Rose, a wild white rose that grew in abundance nearby, festooned the green centers.

Bagpipes echoed across the nearby hills as Lord Patrick O’Brien, the father of the bride, greeted the invited at the door with, “Peace be with ye . . . come in friend . . . aye, ’tis a grand day for a wedding.

The very rich, as well as the poorest of the poor, attended. Peasants who lived in roadside mud and straw huts known as
scalpeens
, stood humbly outside.

These impoverished peasants hoped to catch coins the newlyweds would toss after the service for good-luck. Later they would be invited to eat at the long trestle tables set outside. It did not carry any weight with Lord Patrick how rich or poor they were. He intended to share the joyous event of the marriage of his only child with the entire village.

Upon seeing the beautiful bride walk up the stone steps of the chapel, men took off their hats in respect, and ladies curtsied. The bride was about to become the new mistress of Drennan Castle. She was a powerful landed lady, one of the few remaining Irish gentry. They owed their living and the well-being of their families to her and the Earl of Drennan. Their good fortune was the villagers’, as well.

Lady Beatrice O’Brien’s wedding gown rivaled Princess Caroline of Brunswick’s in embroidery, but instead of silver over silk, the Irish bride wore white lace over the rich fabric. The wedding gown had been crocheted by cloistered nuns from the local convent.

The bodice was embroidered with seed pearls. The flowing cathedral train depicted the heraldic emblems of the two families being joined. The rose and the shamrock were entwined together, delicately stitched in silk thread.

The bride’s long black hair was swept up into a braided crown, delicately curled tendrils hung down from each side of her lovely oval face. The veil, which covered her hair, was held in place by a family heirloom, a tiara made of silver flowers and leaves, embedded with large pearls.

“Her gown was not finished until a few minutes ago,” whispered a young farmer’s wife standing nearby. “I saw her aunt, Lady Fitzpatrick, sew the last stitches of the hem herself, wanted to make certain they were in place before her niece entered the chapel to ensure the marriage was a lucky one.”

Taking her father’s arm, the bride, the lady once known despairingly as the Spinster of Brightwood Manor, stepped inside the chapel.

The congregation stood.

It was with a mixture of happiness and a touch of sadness, Kathleen watched her walk down the aisle. Kathleen had recently helped Lady Beatrice escape a forced marriage to a dastardly villain, who’d kidnapped Lady Beatrice in order to get his hands on her money. But she had not been able to help herself, years ago, being too young and unknowing of the world, to do the same.

She could not help but think of how different her own wedding might have been. If her parents had not died by typhoid fever, she might have married a man of her own age and choosing—someone who would have loved, honored, and respected her. Instead, she had been manipulated by her uncaring uncle into being leg-shackled to a controlling, old man.

Aye, she sighed, as the bride walked by,
my life would have been a very different one. I would have had the freedom to choose my own path. Possibly, I would not have felt so alone and unloved.

She looked towards the altar where the groom, the dark and handsome Earl of Drennan, stood wearing his dress uniform as a captain in his Majesty’s Army. The scar on his left cheek wrinkled as he smiled.

He wore a long sword that hung down by his side, a weapon he was very familiar with. Handsome though the groom was, the man who held her attention was the light-haired Corinthian standing by his side. Acting as the earl’s best man, Beau Powers was, as always, impeccably dressed, in a double breasted morning coat.

She wondered as she looked over at the handsome magistrate . . .
perhaps I will now be able to find a husband with whom I can share companionship, as well as love?
She remembered all the small kindnesses and protection he had provided her. In her reticule she carried the fan he had given her as an unexpected present.