by Jo Beverley
It seemed a reasonable request, but it reignited her rebelliousness. "Certainly," she retorted. "But as the servants normally go to bed when Aunt Annie does, you'll have to fend for yourself."
"You aren't going to play hostess?"
"I most certainly am not. Now, may I go to bed, guardian dear?"
He wanted to shake her again, but fighting with Felicity was exhausting. He was beginning to have more sympathy for her relatives.
There was one more battle, though, that couldn't be avoided. He grasped her arm. "I'll have your word that you won't leave the house again tonight."
A resentful flicker told him she'd intended to go out.
Miles was tired, sore, hungry, and badly out of temper. "Your word, Felicity," he repeated, "or I'll chain you to me for the night. Oh, don't worry. I'm not threatening your chastity, if such a thing exists, but you're in my charge. One way or another, for the next six weeks you are going to live as quietly and virtuously as the best-raised girl in the kingdom."
Her magnificent dark eyes seemed to flash fire. "You have no right to govern me!"
He hauled her a bit closer. "I not only have the right, I have the responsibility and the will. Don't cross me. I am a dangerous man when roused. Give me your word."
"Why in God's name would you trust it?"
It was a good question. "You seem to have the cockeyed honor of a wild, patriot-boy. I'll trust your word."
He could almost feel the resentment coming off her like steam. "Very well," she snapped at last. "You have my word. I won't leave the house tonight."
As soon as he let her go, she turned and ran up the stairs, leaving him to fend for himself.
Miles supposed his valet must have arrived earlier as arranged, bringing his baggage, but it hardly seemed worth finding Hennigan, who could be no more familiar with this place than he was.
So he found the kitchen for himself. A young lad slept on a pallet by the fire, but Miles didn't rouse him. Three cats slid in to investigate, but as they didn't offer to serve him, he ignored them, too. The larder yielded a cold pie and a keg of beer. He drew some into a tankard, then sat at the table to enjoy his meager supper and contemplate the future.
This was going to play hell with the hunting season.
* * *
The next morning, Miles breakfasted with Annie Monahan, and therefore ate in the company of a half-dozen cats. Squat, grizzle-haired, and untidy, Annie was patently relieved to have him on the scene.
"Such a wild child," she said, ladling her plate with eggs and ham, and feeding morsels to the marmalade cat draped on her shoulder. "A dear, sweet girl in many ways, but wild at heart. I put it down to that Dunsmore."
Miles dislodged a young black cat that seemed intent on sitting on his lap. Black cats might bring good fortune, but he had no intention of stroking one at the table. "Dunsmore?" he queried, remembering the strange way Felicity had reacted to the subject last night.
"A neighbor of ours." Annie prevented a white cat from climbing on the table to eat off her plate. "Not when we have guests, Yffa."
Miles suppressed a shudder and dislodged the black cat again.
"A slick, slippery wretch of an Englishman," Annie continued with a touch of her niece's fire. "How Kathleen Craig could have been so foolish as to marry him, I'll never know. But she was always man-mad, you know, despite not having whatever it is that draws men to a woman..." She rambled off into stories of youthful rivalries. Since Annie and Miss Craig had clearly been contemporaries, the latter must have been considerably older than her husband.
A clear case of fortune hunting, but none of his affair.
The black cat was back, and when he tried to move it, it clung to his knitted breeches with needle claws.
Annie beamed. "Why, it's Gardeen and she likes you."
Miles simply pulled the animal free, walked around the table, and added it to the collection in Annie's lap. As he returned to his place, he heard her murmur, "There, there, little one. Men are temperamental creatures and he's out of sorts. He'll be kinder to you another time."
Don't bet money on it, Miles thought. He had nothing against cats—they were useful in a stable—but he had no interest in them at the dining table.
He could, however, bear to know why Felicity had grown flustered at the mention of Dunsmore's name. Was it possible she fancied herself in love with him? He could have sworn that "Joy" disliked the man intensely, but women seemed able to give their affections to men they knew to be scoundrels.
One thing was certain. Felicity Monahan would not give her beauty and fortune to Rupert Dunsmore as long as she was the ward of Miles Cavanagh.
Annie was still talking, meandering around topics like smoke on a heavy day, and addressing herself randomly to Miles, the cats, and even to absent people such as her dead father. When she trailed to the indeterminate end of the saga of a ball held twenty years ago, Miles interjected, "Dunsmore?"
"Dunsmore!" Annie seemed grateful for redirection. "Dreadful man, and English to boot. Felicity fancied herself in love with him as a green girl, and he already married to Kathleen! Father chased the rascal off, of course, and sent the girl away for a while. That put an end to it, but Felicity was never the same. Wayward, wayward," she earnestly told a gray cat, nose to nose. "And so active."
The cat yawned, and Annie settled to a determined attack on the cool, congealed food on her plate.
Miles sipped his coffee, oddly disappointed. For all her faults, Felicity Monahan had seemed to have brains, courage, and idealism. He'd not thought her the type to be taken in by the facile attraction of a man like Dunsmore.
At that moment, his unwelcome ward tripped into the breakfast parlor with a sunny, "Good morning!" and took a seat at the table.
With difficulty, Miles suppressed a laugh.
In contrast to her appearance last night-—in fact, in outright denial of it—Felicity Monahan was acting the part of the well-behaved young lady he had demanded.
She wore a demure fawn merino gown with just a moderate trim of ruched green ribbon. The neckline was decently filled by a pleated chemisette edged with an almost nun-like ruff at the neck. It was a shame, perhaps, that not even that ensemble could disguise her magnificent bosom, but she could hardly be held to blame for God's generosity.
Her hair, though its destiny was clearly to mass about her head in rich, dark curls, had been drawn firmly back and piled into a tidy knot bound with green ribbons to match those on her dress.
"I'm so pleased you are making yourself at home, Mr. Cavanagh," she said with social good humor. "I do hope you have everything you require."
And he had doubted her acting abilities! A minx, and a clever one. She must have been able to run rings around Annie and her grandfather.
"The hospitality of Foy Hall is as excellent as usual, Miss Monahan."
She glanced at him with a trace of suspicion, but then her carefree smile twitched back into place and she rang the bell. When a maid came, Felicity requested more coffee and fresh eggs. "May I order you anything, Mr. Cavanagh?"
"No, thank you."
While waiting, Felicity picked up a roll, broke it, and spread it with butter.
Nervousness? Perhaps merely a healthy appetite. As Annie had remarked, Felicity was a very active young lady, and she'd had a busy night.
"How long will we have the pleasure of your company, Mr. Cavanagh?" she asked sweetly. "I do hope you'll stay long enough to meet our neighbors. We could perhaps have a small evening entertainment in your honor."
"That would be delightful, Miss Monahan. However, I doubt I can stay for many days. I'm past due in the Shires for the hunting season."
Her smile became more genuine. "Indeed! We'll miss you, then, but also envy you. I hear the runs provided by the Shires are unequalled anywhere."
"True enough." Miles sipped from his coffee cup, watching her. "There's no need to be envious. You could accompany me."
It brought her up cold, almost seemed to throw her int
o a panic in fact, but the arrival of the coffee and eggs allowed her to hide it in action.
Felicity Monahan was an intriguing puzzle, and one Miles must solve if he were to handle his responsibilities for the next few months. He could hardly let his ward run wild and be taken up by the magistrates for sedition.
Miles was by nature a straightforward person, and he would much prefer to have a frank discussion with Felicity and come to an arrangement suitable for all. He had no faith that such a course would achieve anything here, however.
She cut into an egg so the yolk ran free, but made no attempt to eat. "I rather thought ladies were not allowed to ride with the Shire hunts."
"It is frowned upon. But ladies do visit the private houses in the area. I'll be staying with my friend Lord Arden, and I understand his wife is there this season. It would not be improper for you to accompany me."
She was now dissecting the bacon. "I fail to see the attraction of being in the Shires confined to the house."
Miles poured himself fresh coffee as he considered tactics. By accident, he'd hit upon the solution to his problems. If he could persuade Felicity to accompany him to Melton, he could hunt and show off his horses, while at the same time keeping her out of trouble. She would certainly not be running around with Dunsmore or the Farmyard Boys.
There were other advantages, too. From her years as a schoolteacher, Beth Arden had a deft hand with young women. She might be able to set Felicity on a more tranquil course. She could also introduce his ward to pleasant eligible men who would show up Dunsmore for the fribble he was.
The poor girl had probably never met any other candidates.
Yes, it was the perfect plan.
"It will not be dull," he assured her. "The marquess welcomes many houseguests, and there are other parties around the area. You can be sure of attending some events at Belvoir Castle, perhaps even with royalty in attendance."
Too late, he realized that this might not appeal to an Irish rebel—unless she had a weapon in hand.
"The mad one or the fat one?" she demanded scathingly. "If you could offer me a true monarch—a Stuart—I'd go with pleasure."
"The Stuart line is dead, Felicity. Do you not enjoy parties and dancing?"
She flashed him a withering glance. "Is that all you think fit for young ladies, Mr. Cavanagh? Parties and dancing? Is that what you do as you wait for your uncle the earl to cock up his toes? Dance and drink?"
"Now, Felicity," Annie interjected vaguely. "I've told you men aren't much for dancing. Except the fribblous type, of course. You'll only annoy them by making them be forever at balls and such."
Miles and Felicity ignored this, and as Annie appeared to be addressing the marmalade cat, it didn't seem to matter.
"I am not waiting for Kilgoran to die," Miles said, keeping his tone pleasant. "I sincerely hope he will live for decades. I keep myself well-occupied with horse-breeding."
"Well then, so do I!" Felicity retorted. "I've been managing the stables here for years and can hardly be expected to leave at a moment's notice."
"That's true." Annie now had three cats tangled contentedly in her lap. "Father hadn't been robust for years. Felicity has been a great help."
"And how do you sell them?" Miles asked her.
A sharp look from Felicity told him she was ahead of the game, already planning ways to thwart his next moves. By St. Bridget, but he hoped one day to match her at chess!
"Through a broker in London in the early autumn."
"Pre-season. You'd get better prices in Melton later."
She put down her knife and fork with the food reduced to tiny portions, but still on the plate. "There are plenty of gentlemen who know the quality of Foy horses and will buy on the name alone. They don't need to be tempted by the tricks of professional riders paid to make a poor horse look good over the sticks."
Miles put down his cup with care, lest he smash it. "I ride my own horses, Miss Monahan, or lend them to friends, and there is no trickery involved." Then he rose from the table before he lost his temper. "Speaking of horses, I must check on Argonaut. If he's damaged, there'll be hell to pay."
Annie looked up. "Have you injured a horse, Mr. Cavanagh? That is very sad. You must have Mick Flaherty see to it. He's a rare hand with anything equine."
"Thank you, Miss Monahan. He already has the handling of it."
"Oh, then it will be all right." She rose from her chair, sprinkled with cats, and wandered away. One small black cat stayed behind, however, staring at Miles as if fascinated.
Felicity rose, too, abandoning the pretense of decorous young lady. "I'm truly sorry about your horse, Mr. Cavanagh, but you shouldn't have tried to use him as defense."
"I had no way of knowing the attack wasn't murderous. I care for my horses, but not at the expense of my life."
She walked, brisk and fiery, toward the door, her demure gown transformed somehow into a provocative garment that swirled maddeningly around her shapely body. She turned at the door. "Let us speak plainly, sir. I am not leaving Ireland. In fact, I am not leaving this area. If you are intent upon it, you will have to truss me like a goose."
"If you act the goose, cailin, I will treat you like one."
She hissed, almost like a goose. "Don't try to govern me, Miles Cavanagh. I am not a 'little girl.' I am a dangerous woman."
And watching her swish out of the room, Miles believed her.
He'd go odds she'd been the goose among the Farmyard Boys.
Chapter 4
Miles was still pondering these matters as he strolled down to the Shamrock to check on Argonaut. The people he passed greeted him cheerfully with no hint that they had been part of the attack the night before. He knew only too well, however, the screen the Irish peasantry could put up before authority. They didn't know him yet, and he'd get nothing out of them until they did.
It could be that none of the men touching their forelocks and wishing him good day were members of the Farmyard Boys. Often these groups came from out of an area to deliver "justice" and then dispersed, making it less easy for the authorities to find them. It generally went hard on the local people, though, since the frustrated army would turn its soldiers loose on the population in revenge.
Miles could understand the anger that drove these "patriot" groups and sympathize with the way the peasantry supported them. Ireland had been cruelly mistreated for centuries. But improvement, when it came, would be through peaceful means—legal means—not through local acts of violence. He would have thought a woman as intelligent as Felicity could see that.
In the Shamrock stables he found Mick Flaherty rubbing down a draft horse.
"Ah, good mornin' to you, your honor!" said the sturdy, middle-aged man. "And a fine mornin' it is, to be sure."
"It'll be fine if my horse is fine, Mr. Flaherty."
"I think you'll see that he is, sir," the man declared, leading the way to the stall. "Still some swelling, of course, but nothing to last. Hey, my fine fellow! You're in prime trim, aren't you?"
The last was addressed to Argonaut, who was greeting the groom with deep devotion.
Miles drew the horse's attention to himself and received a rather more offhand response. He inspected the damage and led Argonaut into the yard to study his movement. A slight hesitation, but nothing to suggest a deeper hidden injury. The groom was right. Chances were that Argonaut would heal completely.
He slipped some guineas into Mick Flaherty's hand. "Thank you. A job well done."
"Oh, 'twas nothing anyone couldn't do, your honor." But the guineas disappeared into his pocket.
"Some people just have the gift. I hope you'll continue Argonaut's care while I'm here. And if you're ever looking for work, come to Clonnagh."
"God bless you, sir, and it's an honor to be asked, Clonnagh being famous the width and breadth of blessed Ireland! But I'm set to live my life in Foy Village, as my father did, and his father before him, if the Good Lord and the English devils permit. There's no place equ
al to the one where a man has lived all his days."
"True enough." Miles returned Argonaut to Flaherty's care, thinking that was one of many reasons he wished his uncle, the Earl of Kilgoran, a long life. He had no wish to leave Clonnagh and take over the earl's great estate near Kilkenny. He even wished the old man would take a wife and sire an heir, though since the earl was past sixty and bedridden, it seemed unlikely.
Miles's affection for Clonnagh was another reason he encouraged his mother and stepfather to live there—to keep the house alive for the good half-a-year he tended to spend in England, first hunting, then enjoying London or house parties in the country.
It was the hunting which mainly drew him, however, and he was reminded that a willful Irish witch seemed likely to keep him away from it.
Miles left Mick putting a new dressing on Argonaut's leg and headed for the inn, hoping to enjoy some free talk which would help him handle his problem.
The rotund young innkeeper hurried forward. "Horse well, my lord?"
"I'm no lord," Miles said with a smile, taking in the man's genuine anxiety. He, along with many others, must be wondering whether Miles was going to bring trouble on them. He switched to the Gaelic. With his casual clothes, he hoped the people here would begin to think of him as one of their own.
"I'm Miles Cavanagh of Clonnagh, grandson-by-marriage to old Leonard Monahan of Foy Hall."
The innkeeper shook his hand warmly. "Brian Rourke, sir, and honored we are to have you here."
"Thank you, Mr. Rourke. Argonaut is healing. I've arranged for your stable boy to care for him during my stay. He seems skilled."
"Indeed, sir, Mick is a rare hand with horses. Old Mr. Leonard would have him up to the hall if ever a serious problem came up. It's a gift, you know. A fairy gift."
"I have no doubt of it."
"And can I get you something for your thirst, sir? I've good ale, or some smooth whiskey."
"Ale will be welcome."
When the foaming mug was set before him, Miles took a draught and complimented the innkeeper. Then he glanced around the low-ceilinged, smoke-darkened room. This early in the day, there was only one other person there, an ancient man hunched by the peat fire.
