Dirty Beautiful Rich Part Four

Dirty Beautiful Rich

by

Eva Devon

Part 4

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Dirty Beautiful Rich Part Four

Copyright © 2014 by Maire Creegan

All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

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Title Page

Copyright Page

This story would have been impossible without Kati, Theresa, Missy, Misty, Barbara and Patricia but most especially I must thank Lindsey who always holds my hand and tells me to jump. And Jenn. . . Who gave me an unintended push. | For my son. | May you always know how loved you are.

Chapter 1

I
t was a miracle the Fitzgeralds were still around. Julie studied the family tree and she shook her head. Death after death after death marred the branches. Early deaths. Tragic deaths. The Earls of Clare were on close terms with the grim reaper. Damian’s grandfather had been killed in a hunting accident, his great-grandfather had died as a POW in WWII, his great-great- grandfather had been left in the bloody fields of WWI.

That was just the last one hundred years.

She leaned back in the leather bound chair and stared at the crackling fire. The hearth was massive. It was another fireplace she could stand up in with carved stone all about it. After six weeks, she still felt fairly out of place in a castle but Margaret, Damian’s grandmother, had insisted she make her self at home.

It had been so tempting to cut and run. The moment Damian’s icy and oh so superior mother had dropped the bomb of her son’s vanishing act, it had taken a will Julie didn’t know she had to stop herself from grabbing the first flight back to the States.

If she was honest there was one factor that she simply couldn’t escape.

She needed the money.

Turning down an additional fifty grand for wounded pride would have been an idiotic move. Maybe she was naive, maybe she was fool, but she was
not
an idiot. This was her one chance at economic freedom, and well, if she’d learned the hard way that there were no knights in shining armor, all the better.

She could finally abandon that hope that one day she’d find a love like her parents had.

Which immediately reminded her of Alanna. Supposedly, she’d once been very much in love with Damian’s father. As much as Julie hated to admit it, it was easy to see what had turned Alanna bitter.

Julie had gone through the articles online and in scrapbooks in the library. When Alanna and Damian’s father had first married, they were always front and center of every society page. Their London and Dublin houses were brimming with people, excitement, and happiness. Then something had happened.

Damian’s father started to take a drink too many.

It had all started out innocently enough. In the papers there were slight mentions of him tripping, or falling at an event. No blatant comments. But then, when Damian was about five, his father had slipped over some invisible edge and he was constantly being spotted drunk out of his mind in public places. Sometimes unsavory places. . . with unsavory people.

Or women.

There it was. Damian’s father had been in the company of many women when drunk. But as she’d looked at the pictures of the handsome man who looked so much like his son, she’d been unable to be disgusted by him. There was a sadness to Damian’s father’s face. A brokenness.

A broken man was hard to hate or sneer at.

Then when Damian was fourteen, his father had died suddenly. There was no mention of cause of death. There’d been no elaborate funeral. Just a few lines in the paper. She was going to have to ask Margaret. Alanna would probably kill her in her sleep if she asked why her husband’s death had been swept under the proverbial rug.

Then again, maybe she should just let it ago. After all, it was highly unlikely that when Damian had asked for a family history to be written he’d meant a detailed analysis of his father’s decline. No. He’d almost certainly meant the history of the ancient Fitzgeralds and all their knightly deeds. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that the reason Damian had cut and run after that one night they’d shared was because of his dad.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she’d meant absolutely nothing to him. No, she knew that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. . . She refused to believe he could be so thoughtful, so kind, and then hack out her heart without mercy.

She’d seen him with his grandmother and even with his mother. Damian was not a cruel man. He wasn’t. She had to believe that. Or else, she’d done the unthinkable. She’d fallen in love with a bastard.

The door at the end of the library opened and Margaret entered followed by her pack of Wolfhounds.

Julie stretched and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Hello.”

“My dear, you’re going to ruin your eyes.”

She didn’t bother arguing with the old wives tale. Margaret was set in her ways. “I’ve got to get through the papers unless you want me to live here forever.”

Margaret arched a brow as if giving genuine consideration to the thought.

“Don’t Margaret.”

“Don’t what?” Margaret said lightly.

“Think whatever it is your thinking.”

“I shall think what I like, dear girl.” Margaret crossed to the fire. “Now, I’ve invited your friends to stay. They don’t know it was me. I thought they’d be more receptive if they thought it your proposal. They’ll fly into Dublin tomorrow and you will meet them.”

Julie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been working too hard and you won’t leave the castle except for a brief visit to the chip shop.” She studied the flames as if they were terribly significant. “So, the only way I assume you’ll go out and
see
some of this beautiful country is if your friends are here.”

Julie sputtered. “How do you know I have friends?”

“Well, you seem a personable sort. I assumed—”

“No,” she broke in. “I mean how did you know who to invite.”

Margaret glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “O’Neil.”

O’Neil. Of course. Boy, she was really going to have to have words with that nosey chauffeur.

“Kat and Stella are arriving on the first flight to Shannon. O’Neil will pick them up. They’ll be here by ten am tomorrow. I’ve already ordered two rooms made up.”

Tears stung Julie’s eyes. “Margaret, why are you so nice to me?”

“To you? I am courteous to everyone.”

“Uh-huh.” Julie shoved herself up from the chair. Margaret might try to deny it, but the old woman had taken Julie under her wing. She knew it. And she was grateful. Margaret was tough and smart. And now, she was certain where Damian had gotten a good deal of his willful and powerful persona. Margaret had decided that Julie needed to get out, and so, she’d sent to the USA and flown her closest friends here to ensure she did indeed get out. It was something Damian would have done.

Julie strolled over to her and before Margaret could take a step back, she kissed the older woman’s papery cheek.

Margaret coughed. “Now. Now. Let’s have a drink.”

Julie smiled. “Ok.”

“Have you found any more nefarious relatives?”

“Well the fifth Earl of Clare did like to change sides during battles quite a lot.”

“Oh dear, yes.” Margaret poured out two stiff whiskeys into Waterford tumblers. “Was he the one hanged by the peasants?”

“No, that was the third Earl of Clare.”

“You can never trust a man.” Margaret gave a fond smile to her Wolfhounds who had curled up in a pack before the fire, all content, all basking in the warmth, snoozing away. “Dogs are so much better. Though men do have their uses.”

Margaret sat for a moment, shifted about on the deep velvet upholstery then was back up on her stout feet. “Shall we have a wander about the house?”

Nodding, Julie offered her hand to help Margaret stand but the older woman ignored it and wrestled herself up and was off at a brisk pace.

It was a miracle Margaret slept, she had so much trouble staying still. Julie assumed the older woman did sleep sometimes, but she couldn’t recall ever see her sit longer than it took to consume a medium rare steak, potatoes, and a glass of wine.

The dowager stopped at the door, gave the dogs a single look and ordered, “Stay.”

They whined a bit then settled back before the fire, clearly unwilling to challenge their mistress’ authority.

They headed off for the east wing of the castle, the wide hallways always a bit dark. Julie hated to admit that the unrelentingly gray late winter days were getting to her. She knew it rained in Ireland. . . but she hadn’t really
known
. When it rained, it rained from all directions making umbrellas pointless and turned them into weapons more likely to turn inside out and poke one in the eye than shield a person from the rain. The rain also meant dark gray skies. . . All day. Of course, that’s why it was so green. Still, she was eager for spring to arrive. It had to, didn’t?

Margaret paused in front of a towering portrait taking up the better half of the wall. She gestured with her glass.  “Poor fellow, he died at the Battle of the Boyne. Sad day for Ireland.”

Julie nodded. She already knew this, but clearly, Margaret wanted company. Something which she felt quite honored by. Margaret avoided her daughter-in-law like the plague but seemed to enjoy Julie’s company.

“Was it sad because he died or because they lost?” Julie asked.

Margaret paused. “That’s a highly political and complicated question.”

Julie grinned. “Is that going to stop you from answering?”

“My dear, the aristocracy in this country are a complex lot. Some of us see ourselves as Irish through and through and some of us hanker for Rule Britannia. But I’m not certain it was a job well done when those first English kings decided to claim Ireland. The Irish had a type of democracy, women had many rights, and there wasn’t the rule of the firstborn son. Still, it happened and so here we are.”

Margaret was a pragmatist. Over the last few weeks it had become utterly clear that on the surface the older woman insisted on acceptance. However, from the way she was unable to sit for longer than twenty minutes, Julie wasn’t sure just how acceptant of things Margaret truly was.

Then again, she could understand.

It wasn’t easy to accept that the death of her parents had just happened. It was damned hard to simply accept that her life had been so rough for no really good reason. Or that Damian had just stormed off to Asia.  A big part of her wanted to rail at the injustice of it all. But really where would that get her? Frankly, Margaret with her dogs made a lot of sense. It almost certainly saved the dowager countess thousands of euros on therapy and kept her off prescription drugs, not that prescription drugs were bad if they were warranted.

Margaret gave a shrug then headed back down the hall. The light was failing outside, the moon already rising at five o’clock in the afternoon. That was something that had taken Julie some getting used to. Night came early in Ireland. As they walked and walked down what had to be what seemed like miles of hall, stopping every now and then to look at a fixture, tapestry, or portrait, Julie couldn’t help but admire the silver glow to Margaret’s hair. It reminded her of her own grandmother so many years ago.

Would Margaret recoil, if Julie reached out and took her hand? It was so tempting but she couldn’t quite bring herself to try. The old woman, though kind, did send off a don’t touch me vibe.

Margaret stopped in front a long painting, bearing an armored rider atop a white charger. She pushed on the frame and a snick of metal whispered through the hall. The portrait swung forward and Margaret stepped into the dark hall behind it.

Julie’s mouth dropped open. She’d had no idea the house had hidden passages. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but a thrill and a shiver went through her all at once. This was the stuff of novels, of history, of her dreams. Just when she thought Castle Clare couldn’t be get any better, despite it’s male owner, it did.

Margaret picked up a flashlight hanging from a hook on the wall. “Well, come along then.”

Julie stepped into the dark hall. A cold breeze penetrated her sweater. Margaret didn’t seem to feel it, but she’d come to a realization quickly that Irish people didn’t feel cold the way the rest of the world did. Had to be the years and years of damp. They were simply impervious.