Patrica Rice (26 page)

“Do you run mad?” she asked. “Whyever would you go to Paris?”

The disarming grin disappeared behind his usual cool demeanor. “A momentary flight of fantasy, I suppose. I must speak with you in the morning, but you look weary. I won’t delay you now.”

Relieved and concerned, Blanche watched him disappear into his study. Blanche retreated to her chamber and waved away her maid with a plea for some time alone. She would make certain everyone had retired behind closed doors before sneaking down the back steps to let Fiona in. She wished Michael had taught his protégé how to let herself in and out as he did.

* * *

Leaving the door of his study cracked open, Neville waited for the sound of footsteps in the hall. He’d seen the shadow hiding in the shrubbery. This time, he meant to catch the Irish bastard before he could sneak into Blanche’s chamber. And then he was going to nail the bastard’s hide to the wall and flail him within an inch of his life.

Fiona heard the click of the back door latch from where she hid behind the yew, but she’d seen two of the kitchen staff sitting on the steps of the servants’ entrance, and she didn’t dare risk creeping past them. One by one the lights in upper windows went out, then someone hissed at the courting pair from the kitchen, and the two returned inside.

With a sigh as much of weariness as relief, Fiona crept to the garden door. She wanted her own little bed again, her cracked water pitcher with the pretty shamrocks on it, the lace curtains blowing in the fresh breeze from the open window. She wanted no more of this hiding in the stench of filthy attics and alleys, eating what she could find. She’d give a year of her life right now for a good bowl of porridge. And she hated porridge.

But Seamus and William were all she had. Should they hang, she would not only be forced to this life forever, but she would have no family or home at all.

She found the inside back stairs, and stayed on the side of the treads to avoid squeaks. Not that a duke’s stairs would squeak, she supposed. He probably had a man who went about all day killing squeaks. But she feared running afoul of one he may have missed.

Lost in her sarcastic thoughts, Fiona almost missed the thin line of light from the study door. She’d learned the arrangement of all the rooms in her prior visits. She knew the duke used that room, and that he’d come home early this evening. But she must go past it to reach Blanche.

She debated going to the next floor, then coming down the stairs on the other side. But that route took her too near the servants’ sleeping quarters. Besides, by now the duke was probably snoring over a glass of brandy or deeply immersed in some weighty tome. He would never notice one small footstep in all this echoing vastness.

The instant she reached the line of light, the door flew open, and a hand grabbed her.

With a shriek, Fiona fought the hold, but a hard fist clutched her as the door slammed shut. Within seconds, she had her back against the door with the Duke of Anglesey scowling at her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing sneaking about like that?” he demanded. He seemed more puzzled than angry. Fiona studied the duke’s aristocratically long face, trying to read his mind, but she knew too little about this man to begin to guess. Impatiently, he swept a hank of hair from his eyes. She smiled at the gesture, and surprise momentarily replaced the scowl. For a duke, he had a lot to learn about intimidation.

“I didn’t want to wake your butler,” she answered pertly.

“That’s a pity, because now I’ll have to do it when I have him call for a constable,” the duke growled, leaving his guarded stance to prowl back and forth. “I’d suggest you come up with a better excuse than that. What relation are you to O’Toole?”

That seemed an odd tack under the circumstances, but Fiona shrugged it off. “None, that I’m aware of. I thought he was a friend of yours.”

“Ladies do not sneak about other people’s homes in the dead of night while wearing boy’s trousers,” he returned irritably, ignoring her comment.

“They do if they don’t want to be caught,” she answered honestly enough. “I think you’d best summon Lady Blanche, if you’re worried about what ladies do. I don’t think gentlemen usually stand behind closed doors with them unchaperoned unless they’re married. Or betrothed,” she added wickedly.

“You’re no more lady than O’Toole is gentleman.” But he looked anxiously toward the door. “Why are you looking for Blanche?”

Honesty had its limits. She didn’t know this man. He represented a powerful government she despised with all her heart and soul. Even O’Toole had gone to Lady Blanche instead of the duke, and that said much when a man preferred talking to a woman instead of another man. She didn’t think the duke would appreciate her family’s predicament.

“Because I’m hungry and I want to go home,” she answered, hedging the truth.

They both heard the footsteps in the hall. Blanche had decided to investigate. Fiona had spent too much time on the streets to mistake the indecisive look on the duke’s face. She had no more desire to be caught alone with the gentleman than he did with her. With a mocking smile, she curtsied, and slipped out the door.

Blanche looked startled when Fiona emerged in the hall in front of her. She cast a suspicious look in the direction of the lighted study, but Fiona grabbed her arm and hurried back toward her chambers.

“What took you so long?” Blanche asked as they entered the bedchamber and closed the door behind them.

Fiona curled up in a satin brocade bed chair and wrapped a lacy coverlet around her to stop her shivering. “Your servants don’t go to bed early,” she said evasively. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I’m scared to death and don’t know what else to do.”

“Why did you come here? Why not Dillian?” Wearing a silk wrapper that flowed around her feet and hands, Blanche paced, creating a breeze of her own that billowed the frail silk.

“The marquess has no power,” Fiona answered defiantly. “He is all that is kind, but he can do nothing. I need someone with the power to open cell doors.”

Blanche halted and turned to stare. “Cell doors? Is Michael in prison?”

If she weren’t so frightened, Fiona would smile at this blatant proof of her suspicions.

Perhaps she ought to say yes. Would that gain the lady’s aid? But she couldn’t lie so cruelly. Trying to remain calm, Fiona said, “Not O’Toole. My brother and uncle. In Ireland. I just heard tonight. They’ll hang or waste away and die like all the others who disappear in Dublin prison and never come out.”

Blanche looked stricken. She clenched and unclenched her hands, staring at the wall as if she sought the answer there. Fiona had some inkling of how much she asked of the lady. Society had no sympathy for the Irish or their causes. They certainly had no sympathy for traitors. Blanche must somehow persuade His Grace to act on her behalf, because she had no power of her own.

With a sigh, Fiona pushed from the chair. “I’m sorry. I should never have come. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Blanche gave her a curt look that held her in place. “It’s said that money can buy anything. We’ll try the truth of that statement.”

Fiona blinked. “My lady?”

“You’ll sleep here tonight. I’ll call a coach in the morning. We’re going to Ireland.”

* * *

Michael gazed up at the cold stone walls of Dublin prison and shuddered at the grim exterior. He’d spent this last week or more finding out all that he could about the prison, its workings, and its inhabitants. He liked little of what he’d discovered. If Fiona’s relations were inside, they could be too ill by now to even attempt escaping. And he knew of no other way out short of escape. The system of justice here moved slowly when it moved at all.

Had he time to reach London, twist Gavin’s arm, blackmail Anglesey, and turn everyone’s lives upside-down until he had their promises of help, Michael would have gladly done so rather than contemplate what he did now. But bad food, unsanitary conditions, and the cruelty of prison guards shortened the prisoners’ lives, even without the threat of hanging. It didn’t matter whether the inmates were guilty or innocent. They died either way.

Standing in the brilliant June sun, a brisk breeze tugging at his frock coat and hat, contemplating the most dangerous endeavor of his life, Michael confronted what he was and what he must become.

He would make this his last adventure. Somehow, he must find practical employment, a permanent home, a steady life. He couldn’t replace a ducal estate. But he couldn’t help Blanche raise a child while continuing to risk his damned neck.

With a sigh, Michael gave the prison one last look, noted the position of the guards, then turned back to the inn where he’d left his clothes. It had taken time to accumulate what he needed. Officers in the British army did not relinquish their pretty uniforms readily.

* * *

A week from the time Fiona had told Blanche of her family’s plight, the pair stared up at the imposing gray walls of Dublin prison.

“This will take a while,” Blanche murmured.

“How do you mean to go about it?” Fiona whispered anxiously.

They had discussed this. Fiona didn’t know as much as Blanche would have liked, and the complications of Ireland’s politics didn’t help. Between Irish Protestants and English Protestants and the always rebellious Catholics, there seemed any number of webs she must traverse to find the source of power. It seemed somehow simpler to just walk up to a guard and offer him a purse of gold.

Just the thought of approaching that stern-faced man made her stomach queasy. Blanche watched the approach of a British soldier down the narrow, winding street. The cheerful red coat seemed incongruous amidst the gray walls.

Something about the soldier’s athletic stride arrested her attention. Since the war with France had ended, most of the officers she knew had resigned their positions. She couldn’t think of anyone who wore this particular uniform. Actually, she’d never seen such a combination of red coat, black trousers, and regimental facings. Of course, she couldn’t know all the regiments. But the grace and assurance with which he carried himself was familiar.

“Let’s go.” Fiona tugged at Blanche’s shawl. “I have no wish to run into a redcoat.”

“No, wait. Perhaps we can learn something. It might help knowing an officer who can come and go freely.” Blanche boldly approached the officer as if she were some other woman besides herself.

And discovered the reason soon enough. Wearing a Guardsman’s black shako and a foot soldier’s red coat, Michael stared back at her as if she had just walked through stone walls like a ghostly apparition.

Blanche’s heart pounded. Even in that disreputable uniform, he was more handsome than sin. He looked more tanned and handsome than she could remember. Drat the wretched man.

She peered at his hat. “I know the uniform matches better that way, but it does seem a trifle peculiar. Are you a foot soldier or a guard?”

His infamous grin tumbled her stomach to her feet.

“I’m a regiment of my own, one of the Regent’s exclusive Guards, of course. Do you really think an Irish sentry will care?”

She sent the stern-faced man in question a dubious look. “He looks pretty imposing to me. I’ve been wondering if he would respond to a few gold coins.”

The grin disappeared. “In your case, he would respond for a smile, and you’re not going anywhere near him.” He looked over her shoulder and muttered an imprecation at sight of Fiona. “The both of you best go back where you belong. I may need your coins to bail me out if this doesn’t work, but I’ll not have you near the place meanwhile.”

That added starch to Blanche’s backbone. “No, it’s just fine if you are thrown in prison and left for dead, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what happens to me or your child or Gavin or anyone else should you die, does it? The fact that we’ll worry ourselves ill or ruin ourselves trying to free you means nothing at all. You care for no one. I should hand you directly over to them and let you hang!”

The utter shock on Michael’s face snapped Blanche’s mouth shut, but it was too late.

She’d spilled those things uppermost on her mind on the street, like a common shrew. With a bitter cry, she swung around to walk away.

Michael caught her arm and held her. “Don’t, or you’ll give me away. I’m supposed to be on official business. I cannot take a lady inside the prison while escorting prisoners. Take Fiona and find some clean clothes for her brother and uncle. I’ve a ship waiting in the harbor, the Sea Lion. Meet us there. Now kiss me as if we’re betrothed, and be on your way.”

Wide-eyed, Blanche allowed him to plant a quick peck on her cheek before marching off. As she watched, he presented papers to the guard at the door of the prison and disappeared inside without a backward look.

When the heavy doors clanged shut behind him, she fought a wave of nausea and ran for Fiona.

Blood racing, Michael presented his papers at the prison door. Blanche’s little cannonball had thrown him off course.

A child!
Talking his way into Dublin prison was as easy as lying in comparison to verification that in a few short months Blanche would present him with a kicking, screaming infant of his own.

The guard glanced at the official-looking papers and waved him in. Michael entered the great stone dungeon, and the door clanged shut, leaving him in near darkness. He halted, allowing his eyes to adjust. His breath caught at the stench. His duty was to get in and out of here as quickly as humanly possible. He must return to Blanche and straighten out their insane arrangement.

The next guard looked at his papers with a little more care. “What does his Royal Highness want with a pair of ne’er-do-wells like that? It’s best we just hang them and rid the world of their pestilence.”

With an authoritative scowl, Michael whipped the papers from the man’s hands. “His Highness needn’t reveal state secrets to the likes of you.”

“State secrets, huh?” The guard grunted and started down a long corridor. “The only state secrets those two know involve cheating the government of their rightful due and associating with known traitors, not to mention flapping their gobs once too many times.”