The Irish Duchess Page 4

  The old leather and lathe door creaked in the wind. Burke must be out and about if he’d left the door unlatched. He should have heard her by now. Fiona lifted her hands to her mouth and shouted again. “Burke! Where are ye?”

  Cursing when she received no reply, she shoved open the door, hoping for a fire in the hearth. She would fix some tea before they set out and look for an old coat she might wear. They had a long journey ahead.

  She wondered where he’d hidden the money the villagers had made last week in the autumn festival. All things considered, she thought they’d been quite successful, yet even so, she feared it wouldn’t be enough for the looms. Perhaps they could buy a used one. Some of the men were talented with their hands. They might copy it and make it new.

  Thinking wishfully of the steam looms Michael had described in the manufactories Blanche owned, Fiona traversed the empty front room for the kitchen. A steam loom would be splendid. They could turn out linen faster than they could grow the flax, and the women could sew it into fine garments. They’d be as rich as the merchants in Belfast soon enough. But that day was a long time coming.

  The dog’s whimpers should have warned her, but her thoughts had traveled too far to react in a timely fashion.

  She walked into the kitchen and almost stumbled over Burke’s body. Fiona didn’t scream until her gaze encountered the bloody knife in his back.

  Four

  Some trick of the wind carried the cry over hill and down dale, straight to Neville’s ears. He dislodged the toddler climbing his leg and tried to listen more closely. The racket of six children and a wailing babe obliterated any immediate recognition of the sound. For all he knew, he’d heard the cry of a banshee or the screams of his own mind. The chaos of the morning had not relieved the pounding in the back of his head.

  He strode out of the cottage and into the relative peace of the rising mist. A crow screamed overhead. Perhaps that’s what he’d heard.

  Fiona’s mare whickered and pawed at the ground. Neville had just about decided to let the wretched brat do as she pleased and to leave for London without her. He’d tell Blanche she had measles or some such, anything to keep Blanche from running here with her children and embroiling herself in this mess.

  But the cry rang out again, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Responding to instinct, Neville mounted the gelding and kicked his heels, guiding the nervous animal in the direction of the wind.

  He saw Fiona’s slight figure flying over the rocky terrain even before he heard the scream again. If he could believe his own ears, she cried his name. He’d never heard her call him anything but “your bloody lordship” or something similar.

  Swinging down from his horse, Neville caught her as she stumbled down the hillside. Fiona fell into his arms, gasping for breath and clinging to his coat sleeves.

  “Burke! They’ve done for him! Holy Mother of Jesus, he’s dead!” The words spilled out in ragged breaths as she shook his arms. “Help him! What can we do?”

  Neville glimpsed the emerald of her eyes beneath windblown curls, before she apparently realized who she was talking to and jerked away, limping back toward town. “Uncle William! We must fetch Uncle William.”

  For one brief moment, Neville had felt the living flame imbuing her spirit. A chill wind spiked through him with her departure. Without thinking further, he caught her waist and threw her up on his horse, then joined her in the saddle.

  His mind should have loftier goals than noticing how Fiona’s rounded rump pressed warmly into his crotch, but his body knew what it wanted. Neville inched backward, relieved that she didn’t seem to notice. She clung to the horse’s mane, staring blindly at the farmhouse rising ahead.

  “He’s dead,” she whispered. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “We’ll make sure he’s dead, then, won’t we?” Neville intended reassurance, but the words came out wrong. They’d exchanged too many antagonistic barbs for anything he said to reassure.

  Fiona stiffened in his arms but didn’t reply.

  The reason for her unnatural silence walked out of the farmhouse ahead. A burly man in farmer’s tunic, followed by several shorter fellows cut from the same cloth stopped in the yard at the sight of the horse and its riders. Several removed their rough caps when they recognized Fiona. The burly one made no such gesture of respect.

  “McGonigle,” Fiona murmured, sagging briefly against Neville. She straightened before he had the chance to wrap his arm around her. Then like a will-o-wisp, she was off the horse and striding toward the stricken men as if she were as big and tall as they were.

  “Sure, and weren’t you supposed to be with Burke in Dublin this day?” the tallest man asked coldly.

  “I was late. I looked in on Aileen’s orphans first. When I arrived, I found him like that. He’s dead then?”

  One of the men who’d doffed his hat nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but the man called McGonigle overrode him. “And the money then? Do ye have the money we earned with the hard sweat of our brows?”

  Neville had no idea what this was about, but he refused to stand aside and let the crude ruffian intimidate a female. Dismounting, he grabbed Fiona’s hand, and slapped the reins in it. “Go fetch William, Fiona. He’s the earl’s man. This is his place.”

  She would have resisted if he’d said, “This is a man’s place.” But he was right, Fiona realized as she grasped the reins. Argument would get them nowhere. She looked for a mounting block to help her onto his larger horse.

  She gasped as Neville caught her waist and lifted her. She almost slipped off the other side in surprise. Her cheeks burned, and she refused to acknowledge him as she urged the horse down the road. She’d done it again, let him manhandle her as if she were naught but a sack of grain. She wished she had some way of retaliating every time he made her burn like that, but he’d be gone on the morrow, and she had more pressing business.

  Fiona knew in her heart that the money was gone, that the savings of an entire summer and the profits from the festival were all lost, that Burke had given his life to stop a thief. Not just any ordinary thief—the kind that stole money and ran—but a thief who stole hope, who stole the future of children and the hearts and souls of every single person in the village. She couldn’t believe anyone in the village could have stabbed them all in the back, just as surely as they had stabbed poor Burke. But only the village’s inhabitants had known that Burke kept their savings.

  ***

  “There’s naught to be done, lass,” William said mournfully later that evening, sipping his port beside the fire. “We can question the entire town, but who’s to say when the man died? Last night? This morning? Do you think everyone had a witness with them every waking minute?”

  “You could watch for someone spending more than they should have,” Neville suggested, leaning an elbow on the mantel and regarding the flames.

  Fiona could see little more than the white of his linen and the sparkle of gold in his hair. The crystal goblet in his hand caught a flicker of light as he lifted it. Uneasiness shook her as she realized she sought his hand and mouth in the gloom instead of listening.

  “I can’t keep the men from going where they will,” her uncle was saying. “If one leaves and doesn’t return, we might have some right for suspicion, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “Whoever the thief is, he must not have been close enough to the deceased to know his hiding places,” Neville pointed out. “He waited until Burke uncovered the money before he killed him.”

  “Burke kept to himself. He’d not brag to his drinking buddies about the money’s whereabouts. That’s why I gave the funds to him.” She’d killed Burke, Fiona thought as she spoke. It was all her fault.

  She’d killed Aileen with her ignorance yesterday while delivering the babe, and now she held herself responsible for the death of a man who wanted only to better himself. She owed the children, and she owed the village for those losses.

  “And you’re
certain that the money is gone?” William asked with his usual optimism. “It might be the thief came too soon.”

  “The money’s gone,” Fiona replied wearily. “We’ve practically torn the place apart stone for stone. There’s a vault behind the fireplace. It’s empty but for a few trinkets.”

  She rose from her chair as the duke began to speak, slipping away before he could say more than her name. She couldn’t bear it if he said another kind word. She much preferred him insufferably arrogant and rude.

  She couldn’t go to bed. The shadows haunted her, and her thoughts churned, searching for some solution to the village’s poverty, the orphans’ plight, Burke’s death. McGonigle had all but accused her of stealing the money for herself. Feelings were running high. They’d never had a murder in their midst. Sure, and there’d been the fights and stabbings in the tavern, but nothing like this. Evil lurked in the village, and she didn’t know how to fight it.

  She sought her mother’s parlor. The castle had fallen to wrack and ruin when the Crown had claimed it these many years past. Not that it had been in good repair anytime in living memory. The earls of Aberdare had never been rich. But her mother had once taken her through the castle while the old earl still lived, pointing out places she’d loved as a child. The sitting parlor with its lady-sized chairs and embroidered footrests had always called to Fiona as a place meant for real ladies. Her mother had been the gracious noblewoman that Fiona had never been.

  The new earl and his countess spent little time here, though their renovations of the old castle and its contents had given jobs to many and brought satisfaction to the countryside. Temporarily, at least, Fiona thought with contempt as she settled into a high-backed wing chair. There were always hotheads to complain of something.

  The servants kept the rooms spotless from respect, not because of Fiona. She knew little of the chores of maintaining this monstrous place. Her mother had died years ago, and they’d been living in William’s small farmhouse then. They’d only lived here in the last two years since the heir’s return.

  Fiona sighed and leaned her head against the chair back. All the best wishes in the world couldn’t restore this cavernous edifice to a bustling, well-tended home. The wind blew down the chimney and rattled the window frames. She could well understand why Michael wouldn’t allow his delicate wife to live in this mausoleum for any length of time.

  Her mind jumped and skittered from one topic to another with the flightiness of a grasshopper. The duke had called her a grasshopper once, and recommended Michael put a jar over her head. She’d thought it rather funny at the time. She had been younger then.

  As if her thoughts had conjured the devil himself, a shadow entered her hideaway. “A light would have made it easier to find you,” an unwelcome voice admonished.

  “Go away, your holiness,” she muttered. “A man of intelligence might recognize the lack of invitation in the darkness.”

  “A man of cowardice might turn down the challenge, but I’m not that man.”

  She heard him pull up one of the other fireplace chairs. They were made for a lady’s smaller size, and Fiona could imagine him squeezing his wide shoulders between the narrow wings and settling his masculine frame onto the flowered chintz. Perhaps he wore his quizzing glass to survey his surroundings in his usual stiff-rumped manner. Maybe she should have lit a candle, after all, to see the sight.

  “Oh, excellent, I do enjoy a man who’s so full of himself that he does not know when he’s not wanted.” She kept the edge out of her voice. Maybe if she just sounded weary, he would go away.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he said, apropos of nothing.

  A proposition. Oh, fine and dandy. He would make her his mistress and give her fine jewels, perhaps. For a moment, Fiona considered the possibility. Jewels would buy food for orphans and widows. He spoke again before she could decide whether to kill him or accept him.

  “I don’t want Blanche burdened with an obnoxious brat. Her generosity stretches her strength too far. I considered leaving you here, but it’s obvious that isn’t a safe solution either.”

  “There’s an understatement for you,” Fiona murmured, staring at the empty grate. “If I kill McGonigle, someone would feel called upon to see me hanged. And if I don’t kill him, I’ll provoke him until he kills me. One of us has to go. And since it’s not likely McGonigle is looking for a solution to our problems, then I suppose it’s up to me. You wouldn’t happen to know any rich men, would you?”

  She hadn’t meant to speak her thoughts out loud, leastwise, not to the wretched duke. But once said, they took on a life of their own. She’d threatened it before. She hadn’t really meant it. There wasn’t a man alive she could consider as husband. But a wealthy man, now... That had possibilities. An old man, one who would leniently smile on her wishes as her Uncle William did. One who would give her funds to buy looms and provide for Aileen’s orphans.

  “I know a great many rich men.”

  She’d like to slap the smug expression off his face, even if she couldn’t see it. But she was learning not to underestimate the duke. She might despise what he stood for, but she couldn’t despise his intelligence.

  A man of rank and power had loftier responsibilities than concerning himself with a lone female in a distant land. Yet now that he was here and doing just that, she would exploit his knowledge.

  Rather than leap at his declaration, she waited, almost feeling his sharp look when she didn’t reply. She suspected his gray eyes grew cold as stone when he was thwarted.

  “I could sponsor you in London, see that your come-out is a huge success, arrange for every wealthy bachelor in the country to beg at your door.”

  “In return for what?” Fiona asked with instant suspicion.

  “In return for your complete obedience,” he replied with the satisfaction of a cat purring over cream.

  She didn’t even know the meaning of the word “obedience.” He didn’t know what he asked.

  “I’ll not have you giving Blanche a moment’s concern,” he warned. “You’ll deck yourself out in the clothes of her choice, speak politely or not at all, and behave as every other young female in society. In return, you’ll have your choice of wealthy husbands. Defy me, and I’ll cut you cold, and all society will do the same. Believe me, a duke has that power.”

  He didn’t say, “I have that power.” He’d said, “A duke has that power.” Fiona didn’t know why that made a difference to her, but it did. It was honest. Had he not held the title of duke, he couldn’t have made any man in England look at her twice. But a duke...

  There was something perversely gratifying in knowing she could use the aristocracy she despised for her own purposes. How long would it take to wrap a man around her finger and get her hands in his pockets? Other women did it all the time. She could do it too—for Aileen’s children, and the looms, and for poor murdered Burke, may he rest in peace.

  “All right,” she agreed, “You see before you the very model of obedience.” She ignored the duke’s exceedingly impolite snort.

  Five

  Entering the shadowed foyer from the sunshine outside on the morning of their departure, Neville blinked and paused to orient himself.

  He’d given Fiona additional time for packing, not out of the kindness of his heart but because he had wanted to make a few discreet inquiries in the village. Aberdare needed to know all the pertinent facts about the murder. The village folk hadn’t liked talking to an Englishman, but they’d all wanted Burke’s murderer caught. Neville hadn’t found a soul who disliked the man. And the disappearance of the village’s hard earned savings had stirred a tempest that could grow to hurricane proportions if some action wasn’t taken soon.

  Neville wished he could pin the evidence on the obstreperous McGonigle, but it seemed the man’s tirades had an audience almost every waking minute, and he possessed a wife who witnessed his sleeping ones.

  Hearing sounds from the little-used parlor to his left, Neville
strolled in that direction. The chill of the downstairs chambers reflected the great hall they had once been. Without a tree burning in the huge fireplace, the rooms were never warm.

  “Eamon! What the devil brings you here?”

  Neville heard Fiona’s surprise as he lingered in the gloom of the massive doorway. The only light in the towering chamber came from arrow slits.

  A shaft of sunlight struck Fiona. Resting his shoulder against the stone, Neville admired her wide, intelligent brow and curved dark eyebrows that expressed her emotions more freely than she knew. If it were not for the hint of rose in her cheeks, her skin would be pure white, untouched by the freckles sported by most red-haired women. Stubborn determination jutted her little chin as she confronted her visitor.

  “I heard about Burke, and I heard a rumor you were leaving. I’m after thinking that’s not wise, Fiona,” the man said, seemingly unperturbed by her acerbic greeting.

  The man pronounced her name with the long “a” — “Fey-onah.” The accent jarred Neville’s memory. If he remembered correctly, two years ago the man standing here now had been a wanted criminal. Aberdare had allowed him to escape in return for his services to Blanche. Neville didn’t think the earl would appreciate knowing a known traitor haunted the halls of his home.

  “As if you could teach me wisdom,” Fiona replied with bristly sarcasm. “I thought you well on your way in America by now. You’re mad to return here.”

  Eamon O’Connor brushed a thick lock of dark hair from his face. Neville could see little of his features, but he remembered the Irishman as young and handsome, and a rebel to the bone, the perfect companion for someone like Fiona. Neville was amazed they hadn’t run off together. He was further amazed at the stab of irritation he felt at the thought.

  “A thing or two has turned up since we spoke last,” O’Connor said laconically. “Your cousin has a magic way with the courts, it seems, and I’m no longer a criminal. But I’m not here to talk of myself, lass. The word is you’ve taken the villagers’ money for your own, to spend it on fancy clothes in London and find yourself a fine husband. If you leave now, they’ll think it’s true for sartin.”