The Remarkable Myth of a Nameless Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “Right proud of you for the way you stood up to him, my gal,” he rumbled, taking a long drink from his own mug before sitting down across from her. “Though had you listened in the first place, none of this would have happened.”

  There it was, the backhanded compliments that would be the closest thing to praise she would ever be given by her father. She wanted to tell him the fault was his own, that had he not insisted on dragging her to the inn in the first place, none of this would have happened.

  “I only ‘stood up to him’ as you so eloquently put it, because he is a Duke and a man such as that could have you horsewhipped if he so chose. Whatever made you challenge him like that?” Alicia asked, slapping her palms down on the table hard enough to make the mug jump. “A Duke!”

  “Ah, my gal, Duke or no, he is travelling along on unfamiliar roads. Do you really think that had he pushed the matter he would have made it safely to Ravencliff? ‘Tis such a remote place, few would look hard at a tragedy…”

  Alicia’s mouth dropped open as those around her chorused their agreement with no small amount of laughter. She shot to her feet, and grabbed her basket in one hand, gathering her shawl about her shoulders with the other. “Then you are all fools! You plot treason—”

  Robert shook his head, making a clucking sound with his tongue against his teeth. “We seek only that which is right for Ireland, and for her people, colleen. You know that better than many of us here. Your own brother…”

  “You would not be bringing Adam into this now…” Alicia’s voice wavered as she said her brother’s name, the pain still raw after four years.

  “…and him not just your brother but your very own twin. I should think that you would have no love lost for the English crown and whatever Duke sees fit to live at Ravencliff. I had thought, truly, you were a genuine patriot, a lover of the cause. Have I not heard myself, you say that the English should go home?” Her father took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco as he spoke.

  “I have but—”

  Her father got up and went to the fire to light his pipe, paying her no mind at all as he did so, as if everything he said was a foregone conclusion. “I should think that you would be willing to at least do us the courtesy of giving us a true answer before you attend to your shopping. For I would no keep you from your work, gal. Especially if you was intendin’ on going out to the castle tomorrow.”

  “I…” Alicia clutched the handle of the basket so tight that it was a wonder it didn’t snap.

  Kathleen barked a laugh. “She is right feared, I should think,” she called. “If you would have asked me, I could be there now to welcome His Grace home properly,” she called, rising and bobbing in a mocking curtsey.

  “As if you would fit in such fine surroundings as that,” a man shouted and Kathleen laughed with them, for she knew as well as anyone there that her coarse manners and impatient, even brash speech would never get past the steward of that esteemed household.

  Alicia lifted her chin. She was not afraid, nor was she any less of a patriot than anyone there. It was true that her brother had died at the hands of the British, or as good as. “Only to watch. To see what he does?” she asked, turning her attention to the man in the shadows who had so far not spoken.

  Until now Patrick Hurley had stayed silent. He stood, unfolding his long limbs and rising to his full height—near six feet tall, it was said. As he stepped from the corner, the room fell silent. There was none there who did not fear him at least a little.

  A shock of dark hair fell over his forehead, not quite obscuring the long scar that started near the hairline and traveled down his left cheek, tugging at his eyelid, giving him a strange, drooping expression. That face was somber now as he surveyed the group, each in turn, his gaze finally coming to rest on Alicia and her father.

  “You should already have been in place,” he said, his dark eyes coming to rest on her. “The Duke has returned, and we do not have an individual within his household we can trust.”

  “We did not expect him so early,” Robert said, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. “She was going to the manor early tomorrow to see about the job. You have my word on it that I will see that she gets there.”

  Alicia shot her father a glance. “I have not—”

  “Hush, gal, you are not understanding the situation,” Robert spoke out of the side of his mouth, the words little more than a whisper. He nudged her now toward the door. “In fact, she is leaving to take care of a few small matters. In preparation for her going.”

  A moment ago, Alicia had urgently wanted to leave. Now she had no desire to. She looked around the room, feeling heavy suspicion toward these men settle in the pit of her stomach. The somber and somewhat furtive expressions on their faces, alongside the contempt and hatred that her father had shown for the new Duke had left her uneasy, and more than a little unsettled.

  I thought I knew what this is about. But to risk so much. To speak so…

  Alicia shuddered. Her father had talked casually about causing the Duke an accident. Surely, he must have been speaking in jest.

  “You wish me to work in the manor and report back what I observe the English doing. The way Elspeth had,” Alicia said, her voice firm. Elspeth had been a friend of hers, and her job had been relatively simple. Her duties had been fairly small, minor things. She’d listened to the family, letting the members of the Ribbonmen know their comings and goings and little else.

  Her father started to answer, but Patrick raised a hand to silence him. “We do,” he said, studying her intently.

  Would it be so terrible to agree to this? Elspeth had not minded. She’d quit a fortnight back, very suddenly, when Carey had proposed rather unexpectedly. Elspeth was back home, planning for her wedding even now, else she would have stayed to continue the work.

  Maybe it would not be so bad. Sure, the work would likely be hard, but there was a certain pleasure to be had in looking after fine things, and was it so very difficult to report on the comings and goings of a handful of people?

  The Ribbonmen were all watching her carefully now. So named for the green ribbon that each wore, some more noticeably than others, the Ribbonmen were true sons of Ireland, fighting the English landowners, for their rights. She well remembered the day her brother had come home with a bright green ribbon in his buttonhole. The English had taken him from her. Was it not her turn to finish the work her brother had started?

  Oddly enough, it was the eyes of the Duke she remembered as she took a breath and answered, “I will do it.”

  A cheer met her words, but Patrick stared at her with a solemn expression. There was something darker there in his gaze that caused her to shudder. She had never liked him much, nor trusted him, though her father did. She glanced over at her father now, seeing the look of heavy satisfaction upon his face.

  So he is proud of me now, when I agree to risk life and limb for a cause that is as likely as not doomed to fail? For she knew well that the entirety of their cause was within these four walls. There was very little that two dozen Irishmen could do to a Duke or his estate.

  It was an unsettling thought, one that had preyed upon her ever since they’d asked for her to act as their spy, and to do their bidding. Sure, although she knew there were other such groups across Ireland, they’d grown more cautious of taking action. Perhaps that was why the likes of Patrick thought this village needed to be the one to take the first step, to strengthen a waned resolve. Maybe then, with that fire reignited, it was possible that someday they could be rid of the English invaders who had taken their land, along with their rights, so many years before.

  I was seven, she remembered. Seven since she was truly Gaeilge. Irish. Seven when Great Britain had made themselves their masters. Had life truly been so different then? There had been a different Lord at Ravencliff then but hadn’t life in the village been very much the same as it was now?

  Had Adam not been so fierce in his beliefs, she would have thought the whole thing
foolish. Her brother had dreamed of a free Ireland. Enough so that he had joined the Ribbonmen in a battle for it.

  As though reading her thoughts, someone began singing what had fast become their anthem, a ballad telling of the great Battle of Garvagh. Though it had hardly been great, or even a battle. Truth be told, the whole thing had been a rout, with a man dead, and the others of the uprising sent to the penal colony in Australia. Her brother had died on board ship. He had only been 15 at the time.

  In the meantime, it was well past time for her to go. The inn was too noisy, and there was a loud desperation to this particular celebration, as though what she was doing would matter in some way that she did not understand. Alicia looked for her father and saw him drinking with his friends, talking expansively, foolishly, about how life would be different someday.

  She shook her head and gathered her basket close that she might escape the confines of the taproom, back out into the sun. There would be much to do if she were leaving tomorrow.

  Alicia paused in the doorway, looking back at those who reveled so foolishly in the middle of the afternoon, when there was work to be done. She had the uneasy feeling that these men would feel the wrath of the new Duke for their insolence, that her father would be punished somehow. His actions in the street would not be forgotten.

  She raised one hand to her cheek, remembering that ringing slap.

  I will not forget either. The Duke called Da’s behavior despicable, and he was right. Anger spiked through her breast, as sharp and fierce as that strike had been.

  Although she had made a show of accepting her father’s hurtful actions and his humiliation of her, and had pleaded with the Duke not to bother himself over it, it had been exactly that… a show. It had been a necessary performance to prevent further chaos—a defensive tactic to calm rising tempers. But that did not mean she had taken it lightly. Never in her life had she taken one of his slaps lightly, nor did she truly blame herself for being on the receiving end of his ire. Instead, each strike burned in her chest, with the same fury as the very first. A tally of pain, to mark out her sentence as a bitterly obedient daughter.

  She turned to go, not quite able to hide the look of distaste upon her face before Patrick saw it.

  And smiled in reply, as though it pleased him to see her upset.

  So be it. Maybe a day clapped in irons would do her father good. Would do all of them good.

  Let the Duke come and punish as he will.

  What did she care? She would not be there to see it.

  Chapter 3

  He saw the castle first. The old one. This Jacob remembered from coming here as a boy. The towering ruins, built back in the days of druids and St. Patrick himself, had burned in some war or another and not been rebuilt, which was a shame. He rather liked the old ruins.

  After such an unsettling encounter in the village, Jacob needed a moment to breathe and gather himself again before riding the rest of the way up to the house. The estate was set back from the road, through a forested area. At some point the castle must have been glorious. Even now the old building seemed dark and mysterious as seen through the trees.

  It stood at the top of the hill. The old road diverged from the new, still faintly visible through the trees. Not for the first time, Jacob wondered at the whispered stories about luck and leprechauns. What mysterious thing would await him if he took a detour here and rode up to the top?

  Such a thought was a tempting one. He was not in the hurry to get home that he’d been only an hour before. That little conflict had left him wondering just what life would be like as the Duke in such a remote place. Would he be as unwelcome by the inhabitants of Ravencliff?

  Beneath him the horse pranced a little, impatient to be on his way. The trees came in close here, leaving little room for even a carriage to pass easily. Jacob glanced back the way he had come, seeing how quickly the road had been swallowed by the greenery. The entire road held a neglected air, as though haunted by things he did not understand.

  Feeling chilled suddenly, Jacob gave the command for the horse to walk on. The horse obeyed, a little skittish. It was dark here under the trees, the woods shadowy and deep.

  Ballycrainn. Place of Trees. He had not remembered them being this dense.

  Then, just like that, they were free of the forest. The trees ended abruptly at a stone wall as though the fields themselves held back the forest from encroaching further. This was more familiar territory, the pastures that seemed to go on forever, and the massive house right at the cliff’s edge, with the sea beyond. The newer manor had been built in the last hundred years, was less castle and more country house.

  Ravencliff. His father’s home.

  For a moment, he had the urge to allow the horse its head. Let the animal run like the wind and bring them to the front door in a thunder of hooves, with a mighty declaration that the Duke had finally returned. It was a silly fantasy, and one that would probably not be appreciated by his mother or brother. Had they not been taking care of the estate since his father died?

  I would do well to remember Owen’s hard work. He has had to bear this burden for several months now.

  The forest behind him now, Jacob allowed his horse to move forward at a trot, a pace fast enough to see him to the manor quickly, but that would still allow him a glance at what was now to be his home. There was much that seemed new, or at least were things he had not remembered. Had there always been so many fields cleared?

  He noted each new barn, each building that had been added to the place. The estate was a small village unto itself. Like many a castle, it had its own trades—blacksmith, cooper, plowmen, shepherds, and every manner of industry that the estate could supply itself without needing to rely on Ballycrainn for anything at all.

  They must have heard him coming, for the door of the manor opened as he approached. A handful of people waited for him on the cobblestoned drive in front of the house, a group that included both brother and mother. He caught his breath when he saw them, for it had been years since he had seen his family and Jacob had not guessed how much he’d missed them until now.

  He flung himself down from his horse almost before it had stopped. In moments he had his mother—his dear mother in his arms. When had she grown so frail? She seemed so small. It took him a moment to realize that he hadn’t been fully grown when he’d seen her last. They had been much the same height when he’d left.

  “Jacob! I had scarcely hoped you would be here so soon!” she cried, taking him in her arms, that were still strong despite the years. This was a strength born of long hours of weaving. He caught her hands in his as she stepped back, feeling the callouses in her fingertips.

  “You still weave?” he asked, tilting his head to examine her, seeing the brightness of her eyes, and the silver strands worked into the gold of her hair.

  “Constantly!” It was his brother who answered. Owen had grown, too, though he’d seen him in London only two years past when he’d come down for a trip with Father and they’d chanced to see each other before Jacob’s ship set sail the following day.

  “Owen!” Jacob threw an arm around his brother and laughed when he realized that his little brother had actually grown beyond him, towering over him by a good inch or two. No mean feat, given that Jacob was already rather tall himself.

  “’Tis good to see you, Brother! But you came alone? The military has surely changed you then, for last I saw you, you were surrounded by several trunks and crates that you claimed were things you could not live without. Along with retinue enough to carry them all.”

  Jacob laughed. “That was before we sailed for Africa, and I daresay I could not. There is a certain requirement for a ship’s officer, to have a certain amount of dress uniforms for every occasion. We are all quite civilized, after all, regardless of what part of the English Empire we might find ourselves in.”

  “I am then doubly surprised, for is not Northern Ireland as wild a place as any stronghold in Africa? Truly, Brother, you do not
know how uncivilized this place can be,” Owen said, his dark eyes surveying him with much seriousness.

  Uncivilized.

  There was that uneasy feeling again. He’d been quite aware that there had been more than one unfriendly set of eyes upon him in that village. The tension he’d felt had not been entirely due to one blustering fool, or even his spitfire daughter. Something else lurked there. Something dark and sinister.

  “Pish tosh, what nonsense. Ireland is every bit as civilized as anyplace in England, though you would not know it the way we are keeping you standing here upon the cobbles. Owen, let Constance know to prepare the west chamber, I think. I imagine Jacob will want to rest. After some tea, of course,” Harriet Norton, the Duchess of Woodworth said, hooking her arm through his and leading him into the house.