The Widow and the Rogue (13 page)

“Aye, I never thought a magistrate, and such a noted one from Tipperary at that, would do such a terrible thing and shoot his ward’s uncle in a pique of anger. Nay, I never believed it,” said the village constable upon hearing the servants’ testimonies.

Kathleen tightened her mouth disapprovingly. She could not fathom why the constable had not made any proper apologies. He had upon his arrival confined Beau to a smoking room—for hours he was kept under lock and key like a common criminal. An armed guard was insultingly posted at the door. The earl and his new bride had tried to intercede, but to no avail. The law was the law.

All smiles, the constable released him.

“Aye, he’s a gentleman of quality Master Powers is—killing another gentleman would never have done.”

“Why I never,” she said huffily. The audacity of the man!

She walked over and clasped Beau’s hand in solidarity. She had protested at the unnecessary confinement from the very beginning, never believing for a moment he was to blame. To her thinking, the constable was an incompetent nincompoop!

Beau patted her hand and said, “Do not be angry at the constable, my dear. He was merely doing what I myself would have done.”

“But only after the evidence was heard,” she said, stiffly indignant.

“Kathleen,” he said, dismissing the incident as a trifle. He was concerned about more pressing matters. “I do not know what is occurring here, but I fear for your safety. There are too many coincidences connected between the shooting in Dublin and your uncle’s untimely death. For me not to think they somehow do not concern you as well would be foolhardy.”

“But what about his gambling debts?” she suggested as a reason for the murder. “Maybe someone decided to kill him in order to collect on them? Perhaps they thought I would pay them off.”

“I do not believe that is possible. If your uncle’s life was in danger, he would have taken flight. Instead, he remained here in Urlingford in full view of everyone. And mind your uncle was not a strong-willed man. They could have easily shaken anything they wanted out of him. The gold buttons and the gemmed shoe buckles he wore last night were worth a small fortune.”

She did not refute his argument. Her uncle had always managed to pay off his debts, keeping one step ahead of prison and any punishment that money-lending sharks might have devised for him. Admittedly, she too sensed that the two incidents might be connected. But she wanted to dismiss the evidence. She did not want her movements to be again curtailed. She was weary of imposed restraints. Her late husband had kept a close eye on her, restricting her movements to such an extent that she’d felt herself to be a prisoner. And now, she was again placed in a similar position, out of fear for her safety.

“Ah . . . the glum face again,” he said, giving her a smile of understanding.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the way you look, my dear lady, when you are unhappy.” He touched the center of her forehead. “You crease a frown right here.”

She touched the spot on her face.

“Do I? I never noticed.”

“And I am afraid a party this time will not be the remedy,” he said grimly.

“But what will?”

“Finding your uncle’s killer and putting behind all the sad connections with your past. You have not exactly led what one would call a happy life.”

“No, I haven’t,” she said with a small sigh in her voice.

She thought of her parents’ deaths, her forced marriage to Langtry, the shooting in Dublin, and finally her uncle’s murder. She doubted any other young lady of her age had experienced so many disturbing events in one short lifetime.

But standing next to her was a man who could help her forget the past, and she appreciated it. She squeezed his hand tighter to reassure herself he was real. He was not going to abandon her. He was not going to become like the other men who had entered her life and used her. No, he was standing solidly by her side.

He was right, she silently decided. She had best resign herself to once again being constantly watched. It was for her protection.

With certainty, she knew Beau would help her solve what appeared to be an insurmountable problem. They would find out together who had killed her uncle. Then, she would be free to embrace her new life unencumbered by the past.

*    *    *

One day later she stood at her uncle’s graveside. Only a handful of villagers were in attendance. The squire had not been well-liked by anyone.

She did shed a few tears, remembering when he first took her in. After her parents’ deaths, her uncle had been kind to her. She wanted to remember those early years. Before his warmth towards her, like the few good memories she had left, faded away.

Most of the mourners, she soon learned, had come to collect on past debts. As the squire’s only living relative, she paid for the funeral. A dreadful mistake, she soon discovered. As soon as the purse strings were opened, every Jack-man tradesman who had a bill to settle came running.

Nefarious looking individuals within days quickly followed. These gamblers, carrying questionable markers, were placed in Beau’s capable hands. And they were quickly dispatched with the same ease as one dealt with unwanted rubbish. A few sported boot prints on the backside of their breeches as they were flung out the side trade entrance door.

Her late husband’s family, the Countess Deuville and her son, Henry, unexpectedly arrived at Dovehill Hall to offer their condolences. They were dressed in mourning black, reminding her of carrion crows.

“I suppose we are your only living relatives now, Kathleen,” said the countess in a smug manner. The older woman eyed her up and down. “Widowhood suits you. You should never remarry, my dear, I am quite certain my brother would not have wished it.”

“But I have every intention of doing so, Countess,” she replied forthrightly, wanting to be contrary.

She didn’t like being told what to do with her life. It was hers to do with as she wanted, without this interfering thorn in her side.

The older lady’s eyes narrowed.

“If you do, I hope it is not to some man involved in trade,” she said pointedly looking a Beau who stood by her side. “Have you written your will yet? I suppose you intend on leaving everything to your nephew, Henry. He is, after all, the sole remaining heir.”

“I have not yet decided,” she murmured, thinking how this might be the cause of her uncle’s murder.

Aye, she decided, reminding herself of how her uncle had sold her to Langtry. When one becomes greedy enough, one is capable of doing almost anything, even hiring an assassin to commit murder.

Could one of her late husband’s relations have killed her uncle? Maybe hired the assassin who shot at her in Dublin?

“It is an issue Lady Langtry is considering,” explained Beau, solidly giving her his support. “This is not as straight forward as it may appear, Countess.”

“There are various charities I am considering giving to,” Kathleen said. “Master Powers is helping me write a will. We are considering having a trusteeship created.”

“Indeed . . . and your companion, Lady Fitzpatrick, I do not see her here. What has become of that imposing lady?” the countess asked, changing the subject.

She eyed the handsome solicitor up and down with an insolent expression. “Surely you do not dwell here by yourself, my dear. That would be most unseemly. Perhaps it would be best if Henry and I stayed on and watched over you? You are far too young to be left here alone with a bachelor.”

“Since the wedding of her niece, Lady Fitzpatrick has returned to her home in Urlingford. As for you and Henry remaining here to keep Lady Langtry company, I do not think that will be necessary. The new housekeeper and servants are more than adequate chaperones,” replied Beau on her behalf, dismissing the fears as irrelevant.

Kathleen inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She did not want her late husband’s sister and lecherous nephew near her, let alone living with her. She knew Beau was informing the countess he would not tolerate any meddlesome interference.

The countess’s mouth tightened. Her gray ghoul eyes sparkled dangerously in the dandy’s direction. It was evident she was not used to being contradicted. She prepared to open her mouth to do verbal battle, but Kathleen interfered before she could speak.

“I agree with Master Powers. It is kind of you to offer, Countess. But we rub along quite well together, as you may have noticed, without anyone else’s help. Indeed, I do believe it would be best if on the morrow you returned to London. No doubt there are more pressing matters at Saint James Court for you and Henry to attend to.”

Or somebody else you can bother
, she silently added.

Her blue eyes sparkled with determination. She was not going to submit to the countess or anyone else. She had decided never again to let that happen.

Her will from now on, she silently vowed, was going to be her own. With Beau’s guidance, she would make her own decisions and live the way she wished. She finally had her freedom. She was not about to hand it over to another domineering tyrant.

After waving goodbye to the countess and Henry on the portico steps, she turned to Beau and said, “If I should suddenly drop dead, do me a great service, see to it they don’t receive a farthing more than my uncle did.”

His face hardened at the thought. He would kill anyone who would dare hurt her, including those two interfering aristocrats.

“I will protect you against anyone who would try to lay a hand against you,” he vowed. “And see them sent to Hades itself.”

She asked half-teasingly, “Am I that valuable to you, Beau? You would protect me against a greedy countess and her gnome-eyed son?”

“Yes—vixen, I would.” He breathed, releasing the tension he felt.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion he felt. It didn’t matter how important the person or how dangerous the situation, he would protect her. Even place his body in jeopardy.

She responded to his kiss, hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence. He moaned and drew her closer. He knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted her with every bone in his body. He was drawn to her, as he had never been with any other woman. She had a gentle nature, and yet she was unbreakably strong. She was sweet, and yet tart in her conversations with him. She was a tantalizing mix of ingénue and siren and he wanted to know her—deeply and completely.

Suddenly, she drew away from him. She gazed at him with a frown of worry. “Beau, I . . . I don’t know how to make love.”

Startled, he gave her a quizzical look, not fully understanding her discomfort.

Feeling heat rise to her face, she fingered the brooch, touching the love knot while confessing one of the secrets of her marriage to old Lord Langtry.

“What I mean is that I . . . I’ve never properly been made love to,” she continued, letting the words rush out of her mouth, “not in the real sense that a wife normally experiences with a husband or lover.”

“Are you saying you’re a virgin?”

“No, not that . . . Bangford tried to make me
enceinte
,” she said, embarrassed, using the French word for pregnant, uncomfortably remembering the village physician checking to be certain that she could bear children. Much to her relief, it had not been her inability, but Bangford’s.

“My late husband lacked the stamina to . . . um, make me with child,” she said hesitantly, “and when he made love to me, it was never with any tenderness or affection,” she said with her eyes lowered. “I did not enjoy it. It was, to be truthful, most unpleasant.”

“Kathleen,” he said, taking her two hands into his, gazing into her wary blue eyes. “Until now our exchanges of affection, hugs, kisses, and so forth, have they been agreeable to you?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly, remembering the pleasurable moments they’d shared together, how he’d made her toes curl with his intimate embraces.

“Kathleen, you are a gentle lady. A woman I respect and admire. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in any way. But from the first moment I met you, on that fateful day, I have wanted—”

“I want you, too,” she said interrupting him, gazing into his eyes. “I am a woman with a mind of my own. For several years I was in a loveless marriage. Never experiencing the true wonder of what it could be like between a man and a woman,” she said in her honest, straightforward way. “But I want to know that close intimacy now with you, Beau.”

“Tonight, we will make love,” he whispered into her ear, sending a delightful shiver throughout her body. “Have no fear. It’ll be nothing like what you experienced before, of that I most solemnly swear.”

Still uncertain, but with a glowing anticipation in her eyes, she silently nodded in agreement.

*    *    *

In the evening, as she brushed out her long golden hair, she felt her heart pounding in anticipation of Beau’s arrival. Putting down the brush, she sprayed herself with jasmine perfume, remembering when he’d helped her buy her first bottle after her husband’s death, how liberating an experience it had been. The simple act had brought her unexpected pleasure. Since then, she’d felt like a flower, unfolding, basking in the light of his kind attention. Nervously, she worried that their lovemaking might ruin their relationship and be a repeat of what she’d experienced with her late husband, that it would hurt, or worse, be demeaning . . . But then she thought about the warm kisses she’d shared with Beau, and was reassured. They had all been enjoyable.

She wondered, would their lovemaking be as wonderful as their kissing? Would his touch make her hot, tingly, leaving her breathlessly wanting to press herself up against him? She hoped so. She wanted to be close to him.

She stood and opened the large armoire in which she kept the expensive garments her late husband had bought for her. Inside a box, above the low-cut ball gowns and stunning frocks ordered from Paris, was a negligee of rose color with a matching silk robe, one she’d never before worn. She brought the box down, removing the negligee, sliding it down over her body.

Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she smiled at how sensual it made her feel. The silk clung smoothly to the curves of her body, emphasizing her full round breasts, the garment cupping them with wisps of silk and lace. She was happy her late husband had never seen her wear it; there were no unpleasant memories attached to the lovely gown to make her cringe.