Patricia Rice (37 page)

The sneer was evident in his voice, but Lady
Carlisle ignored it. She had always found Thomas Montague to be beneath
her dignity. She had never favored any of the Montagues, and her
daughter had been a fool to fall in love with one, but at least she had
fallen in love with an intelligent, respectable one. She turned her gaze
to the marquess.

“He is your brother’s son, and as such, deserves
some share of the family fortune, but that is your concern and not mine.
My concern is that after all this time you have not found my
granddaughter, and I have taken it upon myself to do what should have
been done long ago.”

Mountjoy moved uncomfortably in the large chair by
the window, trying not to disturb the leg propped against a stool. Gout
had taken its toll these last months, and he cursed the inactivity that
kept him tied to the house. “You’re getting senile, Lettice. The girl’s
got all the papers to prove who she is. She even looks a bit like myself
in my younger years. That rogue behind you is only after your pockets.
He certainly robbed enough out of mine.”

Watson drew himself up with an indignant sniff, but
the lady ignored him and continued, “Did you never question what became
of the original papers? You know as well as I the ones we’ve seen are
copies. Did you never try to trace that woman’s activity before she came
here? Watson has given me a report that should open your eyes. If you
wish to invite a lightskirt into the family bosom, far be it from me to
stop you, but I’ll not give up until I know my real granddaughter is
safe.”

The marquess’s heir lounging on the love seat lifted
his wineglass in toast to the old woman. “Very good, my lady. But did
Watson here tell you how he was bought off and so let the thief who may
have abducted our dear relative go free after all my efforts to catch
him? I would not rely too heavily on his honesty.”

Watson could not hold his tongue another minute. “I
tried to explain to you, milord... I was coshed over the head and tied
up and kept hidden until it was all over. I could have found the rogue
for you the minute I was free, but you told me to bugger off.”

The shocked silence that followed this
faux pas
made him stutter and pull at his crumpled stock. “He was right here
under your noses until just a few weeks ago, but there warn’t no sign of
the lady.”

“That is in the past. Look at this.” Lady Carlisle
picked up the book in her lap. Watson took it and passed it to the
marquess. All attention turned to the gout-ridden man as he opened the
flyleaf and turned gray.

“George? Are you trying to tell me George wrote
this?” He looked at the Roman numerals across the bottom of the page and
counted them mentally to be certain he read them correctly. “This has
just come out. Are you saying George is still alive?”

Lady Carlisle looked impatient. “Of course not. Read
the dedication. Watson has already talked to the publisher. It seems
the man who brought in this manuscript is related to the barrister who
saw Edward’s thief free. I do not like coincidences, Harry. I want those
men questioned. They know where my granddaughter is, I am sure of it.”

The marquess looked up in astonishment as his
massive son suddenly loomed over him to remove the book from his hands.
Edward never stirred himself for anybody.

“Plague take it,” he muttered as he read the dedication. “Devilish little witch, wait until I get my hands on her.”

Thomas stirred uneasily from his post. “What is it? A forgery?”

Edward shoved the book into his hands. “If you know
how to read, see for yourself. I must be growing as dull-witted as you.
You might as well marry your whore. She’s carrying the only heir you’ll
ever know. The woman who wrote this isn’t fool enough to fall for your
schemes.”

Edward moved his heavy frame toward the door and
waved impatiently at the Runner. “Come along, then, let’s find this
plaguey Jew you ranted on about.”

Lady Carlisle watched Watson and the earl leave;
with a look of smug satisfaction she turned to Harry as soon as Thomas
hurried after them. “Well, my lord, what do you think of your
granddaughter now?”

Mountjoy ran his hand up beneath his wig and
regarded the book that had been returned to his lap as if it were a
particularly obnoxious specimen of vermin. “A damned Methodist, is what I
think. Martyred for his cause, my foot and eye! George was shot because
he talked too much, I wager. Wanted to shoot him often enough myself.”

Lady Carlisle replied gently, “But his daughter
loved him. Surely you must see that. She loved him and she still grieves
for him. And if she is clever enough to see that book published and
escape all the men you have placed on her trail, she just might be right
about George’s death. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was not accidental. And
if the woman who calls herself Faith is not really our granddaughter,
who do you think was the one foisting her off on us?”

In that moment Mountjoy felt old. He stared at the
spacious salon that had known the company of the wealthy and the noble
of several nations. He had led a proud life, increased his fortunes,
made his name a commonplace at the tables of the powerful. He couldn’t
do that without making a few mistakes along the way.

The thought of his two incredibly unalike sons made
him sober. He wasn’t even certain they were both his sons. He rather
figured Edward, as the elder, would be. His wife had been young and
innocent when Edward was born. But George... Well, George resembled
several ascetic politicians that his wife had favored in later years.
There was every chance that he hadn’t been of Montague blood. Perhaps
that was why he had driven the boy off.

But George had borne the Montague name, as did his
daughter. And perhaps—if Edward and Thomas were any examples—it was
better that the bloodline had been diverted. A son who could write a
book and a granddaughter who could outwit men were not to be overlooked
easily. He muttered and studied the book in his lap again.

“You win, Lettice, although how in hell I’ll protect the girl, I cannot fathom.”

Lady Carlisle smiled knowingly. “I rather think if
you find a man who currently goes by the name of Morgan de Lacy, you’ll
have the solution to that particular problem.”

The name meant nothing to him, but the marquess
filed it away for future reference. The challenge of finding a
granddaughter who had hidden from him for a year and a half while
producing a book gave life new meaning. Mayhap she was worth the fortune
he had threatened to bestow upon her.

***

“But with the Assembly still in session, the inn is
full to overflowing! I cannot let you do all the work. I am quite well,
really I am. You will make me feel as if I’m not needed if you don’t let
me do more,” Faith protested.

Bess Needham snorted. “We are full to overflowing
because you made this a respectable house with meals they come for miles
around to enjoy. You have made neat columns of these bundles of
receipts and invoices that look like so much gibberish to me. We have
made a profit because you pay attention to the prices the merchants
would make me pay. And you think you’re not needed? You just take care
of that precious little boy there, and I’ll tell you when you’re not
needed.”

Faith wiped the bottom of the “precious little boy”
and wrapped him in dry cloths. He wiggled his baby feet impatiently, and
she had to smile. With that head full of black hair, he could resemble
no one but Morgan, and his restless energy only proved the fact. She had
been told infants slept all the time, but George Morgan O’Neill had let
her know in no fine terms that he wasn’t about to be kept in a cradle
all day. Big bright eyes stared back at her expectantly as she lifted
him to her shoulder.

“Well, I can at least come down and see that the
maids are keeping the silverware clean and the tables polished. Do give
me a chance to show off my son a little, Bess,”

Bess nodded knowingly. “He’s a fine one. His papa
would be mighty proud of him. A handsome man he must have been, just to
look at all that wavy hair. You bring him down to say hello, then get
yourself back up here. You gave us a terrible scare and I’m not ready to
repeat it again anytime soon.”

The hours of birthing were hazy in Faith’s mind, but
she was aware that there had been some concern for her life. They
shouldn’t have worried, though. She would never have left Morgan’s child
alone to face the world. Still, it had given her reason to wonder if
she shouldn’t let Miles know about the child. Should anything, God
forbid, happen to her, she wouldn’t want little George to be left with
nothing or no one.

Morgan would know about him, then.

As she came downstairs, cuddling the babe in her
arms, a cheer went up in the taproom. She raised her eyebrows at Toby
and friends and smiled shyly.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she admonished. “It’s not as if I’ve returned from the dead.”

“Give ’im over, lass. Let’s see what Black Jack has
produced.” When Faith seemed reluctant to hand over her bundle, Toby
grinned. “I’m used to handling the little baggages now, since I’m an
uncle. I won’t break ’im, I promise.”

Acton ambled over to join the idlers admiring the
babe, and when the young attorney arrived, he too added his compliments.
The son of one of the burgesses, he proposed a toast, and soon there
was a crowd of young men drinking to the newborn and to the young widow,
who blushed and smiled and didn’t know where to turn under their
attentions.

She was almost grateful when little George made his
complaints known. As the men laughingly cheered the lustiness of his
cries, she bundled him back into her arms and curtsied, leaving them
with smiles as she hastened from the room. She felt her ears burning as
she started for the kitchens outside.

The May sun felt delightful on her cheeks as she
stepped into the garden. Faith turned her face up to the sky and soaked
in the healing rays. There had never been days quite like this in
England, but she remembered spring warmth and scents and the blood
coursing through her veins as Morgan took her in his arms. Her heart
pounded a little faster with the memory. They were God-given days. They
had to be. She would treasure them always.

Refusing to cry when she had so many reasons to be
happy, Faith swung around in a circle amidst the evergreen hedges and
circular beds of herbs and flowers, her skirts billowing, her son
gurgling contentedly. Now that winter was gone, she would be happy.

***

“Hang on the reins, man! Hold her down!”

Morgan clung to his stallion’s bridle as he shouted
at the young boy trying to manage the frantic mare. Both horses had
weathered the ocean voyage in reasonably good health. Now that they felt
solid ground beneath their feet, they were ready to run. He patted and
soothed the restive stallion while the lad he had hired tried to calm
the smaller of the two mounts.

Finding the mare had been a piece of luck. Miles had
refused to give out any information about Faith’s destination, but
Morgan knew his little Methodist well. Discovering Toby had disappeared
at the same time as Faith, he knew at once where to begin searching.
There were only so many ports where they could have found shipping to
the colonies.

It had taken every cent Morgan had made these last
months to bribe open the records of the London shipping offices. When he
had found no entry resembling Faith and Toby, Morgan had started next
in Portsmouth. He would have searched every port in England until he
found them, but it was in Portsmouth that he had found his mare.

A bit of persuasion had located the owner, a ship’s
captain just in port. A night of drinking had pried loose the memory of
the young couple traveling to Virginia. He had even remembered
Williamsburg as their destination, because he had recommended several
inns there to the red-haired young man. Morgan had signed on the first
ship for Virginia the next morning.

Now here he was, but he had no patience for admiring
this new country. His only interest lay in locating Faith. His fixation
with the past had destroyed any chance of a future, but he wanted to be
certain Faith was well and happy before he made his own plans. He
didn’t dare think beyond that.

Keeping the animals in line served to keep Morgan’s
hands and mind busy as his trunk was loaded into a cart and they began
their journey inland to Williamsburg. The voyage had given him over two
months in which to quietly go mad envisioning Faith’s life now.

He had tried to keep himself occupied with the
horses, but there was only so much he could do for them. He had watched
the ship’s crew, haunted the captain, learned as much as he could of
navigation and sailing, but he couldn’t stay on deck twenty-four hours a
day. Somewhere in every night he had to stop to sleep, and that was
when Faith came to him.

After a while he had begun to accept her presence.
There had been several attractive women on board, bound to the colonies
to try their luck. They had practiced their wiles on him, but Morgan had
been singularly uninterested.

It was a fair way to madness, but then, Morgan was
quite certain he suffered from some lunacy to be here in the first
place. All the coins he had saved these last years had disappeared with
Newgate and the life he had been leading. The sale of the cottage had
brought him a respectable sum, but part of that had been used on buying
the mare and paying for his passage. He was the next best thing to a
pauper, and he had no reason to believe he was any closer to Faith than
before.

But after abandoning his goals of revenge, Morgan
had no other purpose in mind. The vague ideas of owning land, raising
horses, and having a family were too impossible to conceive without the
one woman he needed to make them come true. And she was so far beyond
his reach that he had occasion to wonder at his temerity in seeking her
out. Still, here he was, searching for an elusive will-o’-the-wisp who
had every right to despise him. It made about as much sense as anything
else he had ever done.