Virginia Henley (42 page)

“Johnny, I want to thank you for all your help. I could have done it without you, but never this quickly, never this thoroughly. I no longer require your aid. It is over and done. I have accomplished all I set out to do.”

“They will be forced to sell the two new ships to pay the Admiralty fines.”

“Johnny, you don’t think Barclay and Bedford actually paid for those ships?”

“So he owes for the ships as well as the fines,” Johnny said slowly.

“And I am in possession of the deed on Portman Square,” Sean said with brisk finality.

It took a minute for John to digest it all. “How is Emerald?”

“She was well when I left her.” Sean didn’t elaborate.

Johnny wanted to tell him about Nan FitzGerald, but there seemed to be a gulf between them tonight. Because he no longer needed John’s help, O’Toole seemed to have withdrawn, and clearly he was disinclined to linger.

“Ell bid you farewell; I’m sailing back tonight.”

    
J
ohnny’s gaze swept slowly around the office. How he hated it all, the paperwork, the bills of lading, the manifests, the tide tables, the shipping routes, the cargoes and crews. He hated the very sound and smell of ships, but as he sat there, his spirits began to lift. If O’Toole no longer needed him, he was finished with the filthy business.

He was free! Free to go to Ireland; free to go to his wife; free to be with Nan when she had their child. Suddenly he
wanted to drink a toast. He opened a filing cabinet and found a bottle of Irish whisky. “How apt,” he said aloud. “Here’s to a brand-new year, a brand-new beginning.”

No sooner did Johnny lift the glass to his lips than his father heaved himself through the door. The wild look in William’s eye and the pistol in his hand filled John Montague with dread. “Father, what in the name of God are you doing here?”

“I came to kill him, but he’s gone!”

Johnny immediately knew he meant Sean O’Toole.

“He came to the auction … he’s ruined us!”

Johnny steered him toward a leather chair, but William refused to relinquish the gun until John bribed him with a glass of whisky.

“He’s planted his filthy Irish seed in Emerald!”

Christ, Sean must have flung his virility in their faces at the auction, for everyone to hear
, thought John.
No wonder O’Toole was in such a hurry to leave.
He carefully tapped the powder from the pistol’s flash pan before refilling the old man’s glass.

“I’ll get him, Johnny. He’s the one behind all our losses!”

Dispassionately, John wondered why it had taken him so long to figure it out, and how long it would be before he suspected O’Toole must have had inside help.

Suddenly, Montague burst into tears. He rocked back and forth, sobbing piteously. His son stared at him with hard eyes. Surely his father didn’t expect sympathy from him? Moribund with self-pity and maudlin from the Irish whisky, William moaned, “I miss your mother; I miss Amber.”

Johnny felt his fists clench into balls. Until now he had been coldly indifferent to his father’s words. But at the mention of his mother’s name, a wedge of deep-seated anger rose in his throat, almost choking him. His beautiful young mother had lived a life of hell under Montague’s
domineering thumb. Then he had tossed her out like a piece of Irish offal, but not before he’d vented his vicious temper on her. John Montague saw his opportunity to twist the knife in his father’s wound.

“Strange no one ever told you; it’s common enough knowledge. Shamus O’Toole is her protector.”

William jerked as the low blow found its mark.

“Never mind, Father, she only married you for your money. Now it’s Shamus who squanders his gold on her.”

As William’s drink-sodden brain absorbed the lie, utter defeat engulfed him. Johnny led him to the leather couch and covered him with his overcoat. When William stopped his drunken rambling and fell asleep, John realized the great debt of gratitude he owed Sean O’Toole. The man before him had been his enemy all his life. Now, thanks to O’Toole, William Montague was so reduced that Johnny no longer feared him or hated him. He was truly free.

    
D
uring the next week John Montague set about putting his affairs in order. At the shipping office he went through every document to make sure that he did not leave an incriminating paper trail. At his flat in Soho he terminated the lease and packed his bags. Then he bought a coach ticket to Liverpool. A four-hour run across the Irish Sea was infinitely preferable to a four-day voyage from London to Dublin.

Though John did not know what lay ahead, he reasoned it could never be as bad as what lay behind him. He was eager to open the door to the future and close the one on his past. He hadn’t seen Nan for months and the ache inside him grew with each passing hour. He looked about the room with a feeling akin to relief, knowing it would be the last night he would spend here.

John’s relief was short-lived. When he heard the knock on the door and opened it to find Mrs. Thomas, the cook from
Portman Square, he suspected she had come about his father. The old swine had lived at the top of his voice for years, courting apoplexy.

“Good evening, Mrs. Thomas. If my father has sent you for me, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”

“No, sir, it’s Mistress Emma.”

“Emerald?” John asked, at a complete loss.

“She sent me to fetch you,” Mrs. Thomas whispered, almost afraid to give him the message.

“Where is she?”

“At Portman Square, sir.”

“Portman Square? What in the name of God is she doing there?” he demanded.

“She’s … poorly. She’s bin there near a week. Please, sir, don’t let on it were me who fetched you.”

John grabbed his cloak. “Let’s go.”

“They put her in the servants’ quarters. Dr. Sloane set her leg.”

“She has a broken leg? How did that happen?” Every time the woman opened her mouth, she alarmed him more.

“I daren’t say, sir, but her husband has a very nasty way with him.”

They took a cab to Portman Square. When they arrived at the massive redbrick house, Mrs. Thomas slipped around the back to the servants’ entrance. John Montague, who had thought he would never have to step over this threshold again, straightened his shoulders and rapped sharply on the front door. Belton looked almost glad to see him.

“Is it true? Is my sister here?” John demanded.

When the servant led the way to Irma Bludget’s old room, John’s blood began to boil. When he saw Emerald lying white faced in the bed, her belly distended beyond belief, he almost wept. He took her hand. “Em, my God, Em, what have they done to you?”

She squeezed his hand gratefully. “Johnny, I’m having twins.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “O’Toole abandoned you! The vengeful son of a bitch wasn’t satisfied just using me to get at them, he had to use you too! I’ll kill him! So help me God, I’ll kill him!”

“No, Johnny, no more revenge, please, I beg you.”

“I had no idea you were here. I was on my way to Ireland.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “You can’t stay here. But you’re too far along to go back with me.”

She winced as she pulled the cover aside to show him her leg wrapped in splints. “Much as I hate it, I’ll have to stay here for a while. At least until after my babies are born. Dr. Sloane has been twice. He’s going to deliver my twins. The minute I go into labor, Mrs. Thomas has promised to bring him.”

“Mrs. Thomas hinted it was Jack Raymond who broke your leg.”

“He tried to push me down the stairs so I’d miscarry. It was Father who saved me from him and sent for the doctor.”

Suddenly, all the hatred and fear that had left John Montague came flooding back. Not for himself, but for his beloved sister who was so helpless and vulnerable.

“John, when I’ve had the babies and I’m well enough to travel, I want you to take me to Mother in Wicklow. She made me promise to let her know if I needed help.”

Inside him John Montague felt his fury build. He was on his way to Ireland, all right, but his destination wasn’t Wicklow, it was Castle Lies. Somehow he’d make the Irish son of a bitch do the honorable thing for Emerald. O’Toole had rendered the Montagues penniless, while he enjoyed the wealth and title of Earl of Kildare. John vowed to make him pay in more ways than one.

Torn almost in half, John didn’t want to leave her at the
mercy of a vicious, jealous husband like Jack Raymond, but he feared he could do little good here. He would be useless at the impending birth. John felt a compulsion to act quickly. He feared Emerald’s time was running out. For once he would act decisively.

He kissed his sister. “I love you. Try to rest and gather your strength.” He then went in search of Belton.

“Is Raymond here?” he demanded, hardly able to hold his fury in check. He needed a physical outlet for his anger and Raymond was the perfect target.

“No, sir. We’ve seen very little of him this week.”

John ground his teeth in frustration. “And my father?”

“I’m expecting him; he usually has a late dinner at home.”

John went to the kitchen and pressed twenty pounds into Mrs. Thomas’s hands. “This is all the money I have with me. If Emerald needs anything, get it for her. If for any reason Dr. Sloane can’t be reached, get another doctor, or a midwife. Don’t let my father know you have this money, or he’ll have it off you.”

When John opened the front door, he couldn’t believe his luck. Jack Raymond was coming up the front steps. For the first time in his life Johnny experienced bloodlust. It was a heady feeling. As Raymond reached the top step, John’s fist shot out, hitting him full in the face with a sickening thud. Raymond catapulted backward down the five steps, landing in a crumpled heap with one leg sprawled across the bottom step.

Without compunction John Montague raised a booted foot and stomped down on the limb until he heard it crack. Then he bent down and grabbed Jack by his bloodied neckcloth. “I won’t break your leg next time, I’ll break your balls. Now, don’t you ever touch Emerald again!”

*   *   *

    
T
he man who had taught Johnny Montague to issue such brutal threats spent the day alone. At Greystones none had dared approach him, since his return from England. The entire staff, from the lowest stableboy to Paddy Burke, wanted to know why Emerald hadn’t come home, but the dark, forbidding face of the earl caused them to leave their questions unasked.

Sean O’Toole drew apart, distancing himself behind a grim wall of silence. He was either mute or taciturn to any who dared approach him. They, too, finally distanced themselves, having no choice but to respect his need for privacy and seclusion.

Astride Lucifer, he swept through the hills with unseeing eyes. Icy rain, turning to sleet, cut into his face, yet still he rode on relentlessly. He was oblivious to everything save his own dark thoughts. He had left her behind, yet Emerald was still with him. His every waking thought was obsessed by her, and the few times he’d found sleep, his dreams were saturated with his need for her. He was fast in a snare of his own making. He had stolen her and molded her into his ideal mate.

Trust me!
He’d said it over and over to her. And not only had she given him her trust, she had given him her love. Contempt for himself rose up within him until he could taste it on his tongue. His self-respect was mutilated; mauled by his own ugly, maimed hand. Yet even his hand wasn’t as unpalatable as his soul. It felt corrupt.

Suddenly he cursed himself aloud, then laughed at the fool he was fast becoming. What little self-respect he had left would be destroyed if he did not stop wallowing in self-pity and introspection that was utterly useless. O’Toole knew he was what he was; he must come to terms with himself.
Easier said than done. I rewarded her love with lies and betrayal.
Then his dark thoughts once again came full
circle. He was incapable of love; Emerald was better off without him.

Finally, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, he headed back to Castle Lies. The harsh weather matched his mood and he cared nothing for its ravages. In the end it was pity for his horse that drove him homeward.

    
A
s he gave Lucifer a thorough rubdown, the stablemen kept their distance. He entered Greystones by the back door, then headed through the vast kitchen. The servants scattered before him so that the rooms and hallways echoed with emptiness. So it was with surprise that he entered the dining room and found Shamus sitting before the blazing fire, waiting to confront him.

“The mountain has come to Mohammed.”

Sean’s face remained closed, his eyes hooded.

“Why have you shunned me?” Shamus asked.

“I am not fit company,” he replied bluntly.

“Where is she?” Shamus demanded.

Sean raised hooded eyelids and looked directly at his father. “She is back in the bosom of her family with an Irish bastard in her belly.”

“Why? Why?” Shamus thundered, wondering if he had ever really known the man who stood before him.

Sean stared at his father. Surely his reason was obvious. The concept was simple enough for a child to grasp. “They used your woman to make you suffer. I paid them back in kind.”

“Never say ye committed this dreadful deed fer me?”

“Not for you, for her! Kathleen FitzGerald O’Toole was the heart and the soul of us; she was the center of our lives. I swore a sacred oath at her grave I would avenge her through the woman at the center of
their
lives!”

Shamus snatched up the iron poker as if he would smite his son. “Such an evil act defiles her memory! Your mother
was everything that was fine, everything that was gentle. Kathleen is weeping in heaven that you have done this in her name. I want my grandchild—her grandchild—even if you don’t.” Shamus flung down the poker. “Paddy! Get me out of here.”

    
S
ean stood naked before the fire in his chamber, leaning his forehead against the massive oak mantelpiece. The flames danced merrily, mocking his black mood. He had consumed half a decanter of whisky but, to his great disgust, remained coldly sober.