Colin narrowed his eyes but was obliged to pause to open a gate. Relieved, Bridget retreated into her thoughts.
Had she lied to Colin about the little room at the back of the cellar? Not really. She’d called it a nook, which wasn’t quite accurate. A white lie, perhaps, but a lie all the same.
She had no real reason to think that room was a secret—except for the strange way it had been sealed closed. It was just after she’d learned she was pregnant. She’d wakened in the wee hours, tiptoed downstairs to warm herself some milk for the nausea that got worse each day, and heard soft noises coming from the cellar. She’d tiptoed down the steep stone stairs to find her father with a pile of bricks and some mortar. He was in the process of bricking up a narrow opening in the back of the cellar wall. The opening led to a horrid, dark, windowless room that had always frightened Bridget as a child.
“What are you doing, Papa?” she’d cried. He should be warm in bed, not down here in the cold and damp.
Her father started, dropping his trowel. “Bricking up that hole.” He picked up the trowel and set to work again. “You always hated it.”
“Not anymore,” she scoffed. “I’m not a child.” Was he losing his mental faculties as well as his physical health?
“I know that, darlin’, but that little room harbors vermin.”
That she believed; it had always smelled unpleasant.
“Maybe you’ll remarry and have children,” he said. “I can’t leave this world thinking that they’ll be frightened like you were.”
She had to fight back tears at this acknowledgement of her father’s declining health. “Then have one of the servants brick it up.” She shivered; it was perishing cold down there. “You’re not a laborer, and you’ve been unwell…”
“I’m fine enough now,” he said stubbornly. “I couldn’t sleep, and I know how to lay bricks. I did the garden wall myself, remember? Now back to bed with you.”
She didn’t have the heart to argue. What he was doing made very little sense, but if it eased his mind, so be it. Needless to say, she hadn’t returned to bed; she’d heated milk in the kitchen and brought some for him as well, and waited until he finished bricking up the hole in the wall.
Why would the now-hidden room have anything to do with Martin Fallow? No reason that she could think of. He might know of its existence, as it had been open when he’d visited so many years ago. But so what?
Martin was a wealthy man. He had no reason to indulge in anything underhanded. If he had a passion in life, it was for Ireland. In that way he was very much like her father, who had told the young Bridget Irish folktales and taught her Irish songs.
But so what? Wanting to marry Bridget had nothing to do with that. Bridget might be half Irish, but she was also half English. She’d grown up in England. It was her home, and here she wanted to stay . . .
But Martin had spoken of marrying her and sending her and Sylvie to Ireland immediately, whilst he stayed behind, arranging to ship some of the furniture she cared for before letting the house once again.
In other words, if he’d had his way, he would have spent a good while in her house, alone but for the servants—which was very much like what he had accomplished now.
An all-absorbing passion for Ireland could be dangerous—witness the rebellions of several years ago and as recently as last year. But what might that have to do with her house?
She wished she could go there before Colin did, just so she could be sure. Of what, she didn’t know, but uneasiness seeped through her blood like poison.
They reached Warren Hollow, Colin’s estate, at dusk. The beautiful Elizabethan building in mellow stone was approached by a long, curving drive and nestled amongst gardens and magnificent trees.
“Your servants maintain it in excellent condition,” Bridget said.
“It’s their home too,” Colin said. “Some of them have been with the Warrens all their lives.” The sound of a pianoforte drifted to them through an open window. “Daisy’s here.”
They skirted the building on the way to the stables, and she couldn’t suppress a reminiscent glance at the very elm she’d climbed to his window several years before. A hound bounded forward, barking, and a grizzled man looked up from grooming a magnificent white stallion and grinned hugely. A boy ran out of the stables to deal with the postilions, and the older groom doffed his cap and opened the carriage door. “Master Colin! We weren’t expecting you.”
“I wasn’t expecting me, either. Enough, Alfie.” Colin got out, fended off the hound’s ecstatic welcome, and helped Bridget down.
She gave the dog plenty of time to snort and sniff and get to know her, then gave it a good scratch behind the ears. So far, she was only anxious about Martin’s motives, but a wary dog might ruin any plan she chose to make.
“Good God, is that little Harry? Damn, you’ve grown.” The boy lifted his cap and grinned. “Bridget, my love, this is Bussey, my head groom. Bussey, this is Mrs. Black, my betrothed.”
Bussey mastered his surprise, pulled his forelock and wished them happy.
The stallion snorted impatiently, wanting the grooming to continue. Bridget went over to him, and the groom put up a hand. “He ain’t a friendly sort, missus. He’s called Snappish with good reason.”
“He’ll likely be fine with Mrs. Black,” Colin said. Which wasn’t exactly admitting to her Irish Touch, but getting close.
“What a beautiful animal,” Bridget said, caressing him, “and he certainly knows it.” He was also precisely what she might need if her anxiety became too much to bear.
“He’s my sister’s favorite,” Colin said. “Miss Daisy still rides him often?”
“Couple times a week regular,” Bussey said.
“Excellent,” Colin said. “Have our bags brought in. The rest will arrive by carrier. Come on, love, let me introduce you to the housekeeper, and then we’ll go find my sister.”
“Let me greet your horses first.”
“Be happy to, ma’am,” Bussey said. It wasn’t a full stable, perhaps because Colin seldom came home. Under the head groom’s watchful eye, Bridget made friends with some job horses and a couple of geldings—but Snappish was the obvious choice.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Kent, welcomed Colin with the same pleasure Bridget had witnessed in the groom, and a different wariness when she met Bridget. Probably she was anxious about having a new mistress. Perhaps she assumed Colin was already bedding his betrothed and didn’t approve, but she bustled about, ordering the cook to prepare supper for them, sending maids to ready a room for Bridget, enquiring as to the date of the wedding, and so on.
His sister was another matter entirely.
“Since Daisy is here, we have no choice but to speak to her,” Colin said.
Bridget felt herself frown. “Well, of course we do. Why ever would we not?”
“Because she can be bloody difficult.” Uneasiness emanated from him, surprising her. “I can’t predict how she’ll behave. Please try not to take offense.”
“I shan’t.”
Daisy was seated at the piano, practicing a Haydn sonata, so intent on the music that she didn’t notice them until Colin said her name.
Her fingers stilled; she looked up, a smile dawning, then caught sight of Bridget. Immediately, her face flattened into frigid courtesy.
She stood. “Colin, what a surprise. A pity, but I was about to leave.”
Colin let out a barely audible sigh, crossed the room, and pulled his rigid sister into a hug. “A pity indeed. We were enjoying the music.” He let her go. “Daisy, this is Bridget Black, my betrothed.”
Daisy Warren was a striking woman, with the same wavy chestnut hair as Colin, some of it held back by a ribbon, much of it loose about her face. Her gown was plain and unadorned but in a blue muslin that became her.
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The frigid pose lessened as her mouth dropped open. “You’re getting married?” She burst into laughter. Side-splitting laughter, so harsh and overwhelming that she bent over, hugging herself to catch her breath. Colin rolled his eyes at Bridget, but she caught the pleading in his gaze.
“Damn, the Warren men are going down like ninepins,” Daisy said, righting herself. “I hear Miles was caught, too.”
“He seems very happy,” Colin said stiffly. “I’ve known his wife forever; she’s the sister of a friend of mine. He couldn’t have chosen better.”
“Poor, stupid Miles,” Daisy said, obviously not believing a word of this. “I hear he succumbed to his penchant for ginger hair, and now you’ve been trapped as well.” She ran her eyes rudely over Bridget. “At least she’s pretty. Did he debauch you, Miss Black?”
“Mrs. Black,” Bridget said calmly, determined not to dislike Daisy. “I’m a widow.”
Daisy gaped at Colin. “Then in heaven’s name, why?”
“Mind your manners,” Colin rapped out. “Marriage was my idea, and Mrs. Black hasn’t yet given me an unqualified yes.”
Daisy raised a cynical brow. “Trying him out, are you?”
Somehow, Bridget managed a chuckle. “You’re delightfully outspoken, Miss Warren. As a matter of fact, I tried Colin out several years ago, which resulted in my daughter, Sylvie. Colin wishes to take responsibility for her and sees marriage as the most suitable way to do so.”
“And you’re not certain of that? He’s very well off, you know.”
“I have money of my own.” This time, Bridget’s laugh was genuine. “I never imagined having to defend myself as a fortune hunter.”
Daisy showed no sign of amusement. She put a finger to her brow and pondered—or more likely pretended to. “I know why you’re hesitating. You’re afraid he’ll prove unpleasant when he realizes you’ve foisted someone else’s bastard onto him.”
Colin’s face darkened. “She’s not foisting anything on me. Sylvie is my daughter.”
Daisy snorted. “And I’m a virgin.”
She’s the one who bedded a smuggler, Bridget reminded herself. She lives in a tavern. It was hardly surprising that Daisy had become brash and bitter, whatever she’d been like as a young, unspoiled girl.
“You’re right to be afraid,” Daisy said. “I know it seems a contradiction, but in spite of being a rake, Colin has some starchy notions of right and wrong. Quite the proper English gentleman, he is.”
“Damn you, Daisy. If you must know, she’s the spitting image of Emma.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “Ah, now it makes sense. You’re assuaging your guilt.”
“Just shut up,” Colin snapped.
“Better get it all out into the open, if you really mean to marry this woman,” Daisy said. “Do you still talk to Emma’s ghost?”
Colin faced the window, clearly struggling to control his rage, or perhaps it was hurt, or both. Bridget took a breath. “I was just admiring your stallion, Miss Warren. A beautiful creature.”
Daisy’s face clouded. “He is, isn’t he? Do you ride?”
“I do indeed.”
“What a pity he’s too dangerous for you, for I don’t suppose I’ll exercise him anymore.”
“Why ever not?”
“Propriety, of course. Once you’re married and respectable, you won’t want an abandoned woman visiting here.”
“No such thing. I—”
Daisy cut her off with a huff so rude even Bridget was nonplussed. Daisy’s gaze rested mournfully on the pianoforte. “Fortunately, there’s an instrument at the Diving Duck—battered and out of tune, but it’s better than nothing. A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Black. Don’t leave off giving him a yes for too long; he’s notoriously changeable where women are concerned, and being a Warren, he doesn’t give a hedgehog’s arse what the world thinks of him.”
She stalked to the door and turned. “By the way, Colin, tell Tilworth to call off the spies. No one who frequents the Diving Duck is about to steal his precious rifles. They didn’t do it last time, they’ve never done it since, and they won’t do it now.” She swept out.
Stolen rifles.
A ghastly premonition swept over Bridget. Oh, no. Surely not!
Damn, and damn, and damn. Colin had counted to ten and counted to ten again, but it had done no good. He was furious with Daisy—which he tried his best never to be—but that hardly mattered when Bridget was clearly upset. She’d managed to retain her poise whilst facing Daisy, but now she’d turned pale with distress.
“I’m sorry, love. I understand if you can’t tolerate her.”
Bridget flapped a hand. “I’m fine.” Her voice shook. Colin pulled her to him, but she stood stiffly in his arms and after a moment pulled away. And turned away.
Damn, she mustn’t change her mind about him because of this. “Bridget—”
She didn’t look at him. “Truly, I’m all right.” She went over to the window, and he followed. She took a deep, throbbing breath. “I shall become accustomed.”
Not if every encounter with Daisy overset her—for Daisy might take months to soften. “Judging by your pallor, meeting her has made you ill. And you’re still trembling, love.”
“No, I’m just—just tired.” Her shoulder lifted, more like a twitch than a shrug.
“I don’t believe that for an instant,” he said.
Rightly so, thought Bridget. Daisy was the least of her problems, but as long as Colin didn’t realize why she was so upset, all might still be well. She must recover her poise and make a proper plan.
She had to find out what was going on at her house. If her dreadful suspicion was true, Martin was involved in a treasonous plot. She had to stop him.
She couldn’t let Colin find out—for he would have no sympathy for the cause of Irish liberty. He would have Martin arrested, accused of treason, executed…
She couldn’t let that happen—but nor could she aid and abet a traitor. She must confront Martin and find out what was really going on. Perhaps it was nothing. She could only hope.
A minute later a dogcart passed the window, Daisy at the reins. “It is almost dark. She shouldn’t be driving alone,” Bridget said.
“She refuses an escort,” Colin said bitterly. “At first I insisted that a groom follow her at a distance, but she shot at him. She missed, probably on purpose; she’s a competent shot.”
So was Bridget, but would she have the courage to shoot Martin Fallow? She hoped fervently that such drastic measures wouldn’t be required. If she could just make him go away, no harm done . . .
Colin put his arms around her again, and this time she did her best to soften into his embrace. She mustn’t let him suspect that anything was truly wrong.
Because it might not be. Strange how a few hours ago, she’d worried that Colin might be marrying her for the wrong reasons. That he might not be happy . . .
God help her, if he knew what she suspected. Even worse, if he knew what she planned, he would never marry her, never forgive her, perhaps even have her arrested too, and . . .
His arms tightened about her. “You’re still upset.”
“Perhaps I am a little overset by Daisy’s behavior, but I truly am tired. It’s been a long journey.”
And it wasn’t over. She would have to go home alone. Tonight, while Colin slept.
The housekeeper appeared to show Bridget to the bedchamber which had been hastily prepared for her. Needless to say, it wasn’t in the suite belonging to the mistress of the house; they weren’t married yet. For the moment, she and Colin would have to pretend to observe the proprieties…but separate chambers were to her advantage tonight.
She willed herself to appear serene and at ease. She dressed for dinner and descended the stairs one s
tep, one shuddery breath at a time. She smiled at Colin and took her seat at the table. They dined informally, but with servants about, she need not fear any personal discussions. He spoke of refurbishing the nursery, and she mentioned the need to hire a new nursemaid for Sylvie. She asked about the estate. He spoke of the tenants and the nearby gentry. She steeled herself and asked if he had other business to attend to—had he not mentioned a factory?
Indeed he had, but said that the visit could be postponed a couple of days. He offered no more, so she was obliged to continue her questioning and hope he didn’t find her interest unusual.
“Your sister said something about theft, didn’t she? About spies at the inn?”
Colin compressed his lips. “If Tilworth has spies watching the haunts of known smugglers and other lawbreakers, he can hardly be blamed. A large shipment of unfinished rifles was stolen several years ago.”
Just as she’d feared. “When was this, and where?”
“Ages ago, in Preston. Six or seven years, I’d say.”
Mother Mary and the holy saints. All hope died.
“Tilworth would have gone out of business if I hadn’t given him a loan to cover the loss.”
“The rifles were never found?”
He shook his head. “The robbery took place late at night. They killed the guard at the factory, poor fellow, and got clean away.”
She felt herself pale. “Oh, how horrid.” And even more ghastly than she had imagined—although it would be far, far worse if what she suspected was true.
“We had the Runners comb the area, leaving no stone unturned for miles around. It’s hard to imagine how the thieves could have traveled more than thirty miles or so before dawn, but evidently they did.”
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 18
