The Widow and the Rogue (9 page)

“I will protect you,” he said.

“How?”

“By remaining by your side, guarding you from any harm, along with Humphrey’s help. We must be vigilant until all of this is sorted out and the villains are brought to justice.”

“That may take a while,” she said. “And you may grow tired of protecting me. I’ve had visits from several ladies of Dublin society who’d like nothing better than the presence of your company . . .” She nodded towards a stack of calling cards, leaving unsaid that he was much in demand. “I think you might become quickly bored watching over me all the time.”

She thought about how almost every notorious Irish actress and high-stepping debutante with their mamas and companions in tow had come to pay a visit since they’d arrived in Dublin.

“Kathleen, nothing at the moment matters more to me than your protection.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” The minute he uttered the words, he knew he meant it. She’d become more than a duty he had to fulfill. He genuinely cared about her. She was different from any other lady of his acquaintance, fresh and vibrant, and wholly attractive.

He bent down and tilting his head, captured her lips with his own. It was a warm, ardent kiss that shot a surge of awareness through her, causing her to grip the arms of her chair. She’d never felt anything like it. Her late husband had always roughly forced her.

Her tongue began to entwine with Beau’s, the kiss deepening, as he gently held her head, blood rushing through her . . . until suddenly he drew back, unexpectedly breaking their connection.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice rough with regret. He shook his head. “You’re such an innocent. I . . . I have no right to take advantage of you this way.”

“But I liked the kiss.”

He laughed. “I liked it too . . . but, I’m having trouble, my dear, keeping my hands off of you.”

“But—”

“You are my ward. And despite being a widow, you are inexperienced. As a gentleman, I have no right to take advantage of you this way. I am, as you pointed out, a rogue . . . however, it would appear I am not completely without scruples where you are concerned.” He smiled and kissed her hand.

“I see,” she said, nodding, feeling a sudden, unexplainable loss. He was being a gentleman. Something she wasn’t used to.

However,
she wondered, touching her still tingling lips,
what would happen if our kissing had continued? Where would it have led?
She could not help but wonder if perhaps she could somehow entice him into kissing her again. But before she could speak, Lady Fitzpatrick entered the room with her needlepoint and sat down next to her with a harrumph and a pointed look that said she knew something had occurred in her absence. Kathleen sighed and sat back in her chair. What she’d wanted to suggest to him would have to wait for another day.

While she played on the harp in the drawing-room, Kathleen observed Beau at work. He was sitting at the writing desk inking his quill.

His guinea-colored hair shone in the sunlight streaming in from the front window. In his red brocade vest, white shirtsleeves, and collar decorated with an elegant black cravat, he looked every inch the gentleman magistrate.

He’d been most vigilant and protective since the shooting and carried a loaded revolver whenever they left the house. He was insistent either Lady Fitzpatrick or Humphrey walk by her side, taking extra precautions when he was not able to accompany her himself.

She was never left alone. Always, she was followed by someone. Constantly, she was watched.

Accidentally, she struck a discordant chord on the harp.

Her arched eyebrows wrinkled. She frowned at the unpleasant sound coming from her instrument, contemplating her present situation. It did not sit well.

All this mollycoddling was stifling. It reminded her of her previous oppressive life, when her every step had been dogged and recorded by the dour housekeeper, Mrs. O’Grady. She thought she was finished with that restrictive life, but she was wrong.

She was helpless. And there was nothing she could do to change the situation. Although it would have been easy to do, she could not place any blame on Beau. As her guardian he was trying to protect her.

She’d been shot at and her pet harmed. He was right to be concerned. Only time now would prove she was not some assassin’s intended target. She had to be patient.

Filling in the quiet, a soft sigh was heard from Tim.

The young dog was sleeping nearby. His long plumed tail stuck out from beneath his favorite chair to inform them of his presence. The brave creature had slowly over the past few days been recovering from the attack.

Although the entire household had wanted to give Tim the choicest of food scraps, the animal’s stomach would not permit it. He sometimes whined piteously in pain—unable to eat.

She’d taken him that morning, with stalwart Humphrey accompanying them, for his first walk away from the house since the incident. When they crossed the bridge, Tim had growled at the vacant trees and given them the honor of his personal watering.

Beau looked up from his writing, noticing her bored expression.

He put his quill down. After carefully sanding his letter, he said, “Sink me, but your face, Lady Langtry, it’s wordlessly proclaiming an unmentionable woe. Don’t tell me the doldrums of these last few days has brought this about? Especially after all the excitement you and Tim experienced, one would think you’d be happy with all this quiet living.”

“I . . . that is . . .” She could not explain. She felt ashamed.

After she had escaped being shot and possibly killed . . . how could she complain of this new gilded prison? It was carefully crafted for her personal comfort and protection. She was very much indebted to him. She was fortunate to be safely living in his home unharmed.

“Good news,” he said cheerfully. “Your unsaid wish is about to come true. We are invited to a dinner party by a naval acquaintance of mine. It is to honor his recent promotion to the rank of captain. I thought you might enjoy a change of scenery, so I’ve decided to accept the invitation.”

He turned to the older woman sitting by the hearth fire. Lady Fitzpatrick had been quietly needle-pointing a canvas of roses onto a piece of fabric. She paused in her work to listen to his announcement.

“That is, Lady Fitzpatrick, if you and Lady Langtry would care to accompany me? I know Lady Kathleen is in mourning, but I think her age might excuse her from becoming a complete recluse, don’t you? As it is a rather small dinner party, surely no one will object.”

“I agree with you, Master Powers. And it will be my pleasure to accept,” replied Lady Agnes, pleased. “Perhaps I will run into an old acquaintance? My husband and I were frequently invited to admirals’ tables. They respected Captain Fitzpatrick. He was such an excellent merchant seaman. And for sure now, many an officer was invited to come aboard The Blue Star to dine with us.”

“Excellent,” he said approvingly. “And you, Lady Langtry? Will you also attend? I think this will be the cure for whatever was causing that dreadful frown you were wearing earlier.”

“Yes,” she said smiling, already planning what to wear.

Although she was forced to wear black, she felt a happy tingle of anticipation. It would be her first time dressing for a dinner party since her husband’s death. Now she would be able to do so without having either her husband or Mrs. O’Grady choosing her gown. The choice would be hers alone.

In her mind she visited her clothes’ press. She had three black evening gowns. One was made of crepe, another of bombazine, and a third of velvet. The latter she decided might suit such an intimate setting. She did not think her brown silk was yet suitable to wear as she was still in full mourning.

The next evening she pulled the velvet gown out of her armoire. She smiled. It had been made by a local dressmaker and had a few Irish flourishes—a style her late husband and the housekeeper would have frowned upon. They would have considered it to be too Irish, and therefore, too inferior to wear.

Happily, fashion had changed within the last few years. Sheer cottons had fallen out of favor after causing legions of thinly dressed women to suffer from unseemly runny noses and constant chills. The heavy black velvet was more than appropriate for the small celebration, and it would keep her warm.

Long sleeves were currently the rage. Hers were ribbon split at the shoulders with white underpinnings, reminding her of a painting she had seen of a young Juliet standing on her balcony. The bodice was elaborately decorated in silver threads, embroidered in a simple Celtic pattern.

“Very nice, m’ dear,” commented Lady Agnes, as she entered the room to see what her charge had chosen. “Most appropriate for tonight’s small
soiree.
What jewels do you plan to wear?”

She picked up her favorite brooch and showed it to her. It was the one she had found on the altar.

“I thought to wear it with a long scarf.”

“And what about this?” asked the widow, discreetly pointing to the open square bodice. “Your bosom will be on display. And you are not yet out of mourning.”

“I have this,” she said, picking up a white fichu insert. “Once tucked inside, it should screen that part of my body. Sadly, I left most of my jewelry back at Dovehill.”

She did not add since her husband’s death she had not worn the heavy pieces. They reminded her all too well of him. The larger the gem, the heavier the setting of gold or silver, the more it suited Lord Langtry’s exhibitionist tastes.

The jewels her late husband had given her held no sentimental value. She had no regrets about not wearing them. She had been merely his dress-up doll. He’d used her to display his wealth, wanting other men to openly envy him.

“But that is not all you have,” said the older lady, a twinkle in her brown eyes. She presented her charge with a wooden box. It was made of cedar, inlaid with mother of pearl and delicately crafted by hand.

“It’s for you, from Master Powers. There is, I believe, a note enclosed.”

Kathleen opened the lid.

“Heavens,” she exclaimed, upon looking inside. The gift was exquisite. Nestled on a piece of dark blue silk was a long necklace with a precious gem.

She took it out carefully. Hanging on a string of pearls was a light blue sapphire encircled by small diamonds. The sapphire reflected the candlelight, throwing little starbursts off the walls of the bedchamber.

It quite took her breath away. She had never seen such a finely crafted necklace before. It was exquisite.

“How enchanting,” said Lady Agnes, “It matches exactly the color of your eyes. You must wear it tonight. That would so please Master Powers. And it suits you, my dear, to perfection. Ah, there is, as I thought, a note.”

She fished out a small envelope and passed it to her.

Breaking the wax seal, Kathleen opened it. She pulled out a small sheath of paper and read the message:

The jewel most fair is the jewel most rare . . . you.

Dear Kathleen, may this simple token show you how pleased I am that you are accompanying me tonight. It would bring me great pleasure if you would accept this small gift.

As always, your humble servant,

Master Powers.

She blushed, remembering their briefly shared kiss. “It would appear he is more than a wee bit taken with you,” said Lady Agnes knowingly. “And the kind gentleman has given me a gift as well . . . God bless him.”

She pointed to a gold brooch pinned to her bodice. It was a miniature sailing ship. Its billowing sails were made of mother of pearl. Gold threads were strung from its masts with a diamond point inlaid at the bow.

“What a charming piece,” Kathleen remarked approvingly.

She felt added warmth towards Beau for giving Lady Langtry a gift. It was thoughtful of him to bestow one upon the elderly companion.

“It quite suits you, Lady Fitzpatrick.”

“Aye, ’tis appropriate for a sea captain’s widow,” the lady agreed, taking a quick look in the mirror at the both of them. A wistful look passed over her face as she touched the miniature craft.

It was obvious the devoted widow was thinking of her late husband and of the happy times they had shared together onboard his ship. Unshed tears glimmered in her sad eyes.

Kathleen placed a consoling hand on her friend’s shoulder and said, “Aren’t we a pair?”

Wiping away the tears, the older widow nodded.

She said with a weak smile, “Aye, we are that, but tonight we shall valiantly be the merry widows of Dublin, won’t we, my dear?”

“That we shall,” agreed Kathleen, noticing her companion had chosen to wear a simple crepe gown with long mutton sleeves and a high-necked bodice.

“At my age,” Lady Agnes had told the dressmaker, “it would be unseemly to expose my bosom. And as I do not have a swan’s neck that a poet like Lord Byron could wax fanciful upon, I prefer my wrinkles to be covered.”

The only part of the widow’s gown that had any ornamentation was the hem. It was trimmed with large black roses and a ruffle of silk. The overall effect was discreet elegance and perfectly suitable for a lady of advanced years.

“Faith now, we have the clothes and the finery to wear to tonight’s little party. Indeed, you shall look most fetching wearing that gown and necklace,” Lady Fitzpatrick commented. “I think your guardian will be most pleased. We shall not bring him shame.”

“Most assuredly not,” she agreed and had the maid help her place the necklace around her neck.

She could not help but admire how well it suited her. The jewel lying at her throat complemented her coloring and as she looked in the mirror, her blue eyes seemed to sparkle with happy pleasure.

Her efforts with her attire were well rewarded by the admiring look Beau gave her when he saw her. He stood in the foyer beneath the chandelier dressed in black evening attire, waiting to escort them to the dinner party.

She didn’t have to ask if he approved of how she looked, she could tell from the admiring light in his blue eyes that he did. His eyes lingered on the jewel lying at her throat for a moment and then upon her smiling face.