The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2)

by Monajem, Barbara

  Again, none of your blasted business. “Some goods her father left behind, which she wishes me to dispose of for her.”

  “Humph. She told me you would remove items from her cellar. Suppose she may have meant this one, rather than under the house.” He stomped down the incline and peered inside the dairy cellar, then took the lantern from the entrance and made his way to the dark hole in the rear. Colin followed.

  “More crates in here,” McCrumb said. “I thought this entrance to the passage was sealed.”

  “This connects with the cellar proper?”

  “Aye. I almost bought this house myself, years ago, before O’Shaughnessy came along, but my wife preferred the neighboring place, which also happened to be up for sale. The passage wasn’t sealed back then; there was a padlocked door a wee way down. O’Shaughnessy bricked up the door a few months before he died. Said the passage showed signs of crumbling on the other side.”

  Something about this . . . “Was Mrs. Black here at the time?”

  “Couldn’t have been, for she’d never have let her father brick it up whilst he was ill. She’d have insisted he hire a mason, but I knew better than to interfere. A man prefers to remain active until the very end.” He glanced at the pile of broken bricks. “Must have been quite a job removing those.”

  “Indeed,” Colin said.

  So Bridget had told the truth. The rifles must have been put here before either end of the passage was sealed. Her father, in desperate fear that the stolen rifles would be found, had enclosed this end of the tunnel first. Shortly afterwards, when Bridget had come to nurse him, he’d found the strength to enclose the other end as well.

  She’d also told the truth about the pistol. Colin, still furious, still determined to justify himself to some extent, had fired at a tree last night. There was nothing wrong with the powder, but the mechanism was jammed. Perhaps she really had fired at Martin Fallow.

  So she was entirely innocent of involvement in the original plot. She’d summoned the courage to shoot a man she cared about to prevent him from taking the rifles . . . but she’d still intended to let him go. That still qualified as treason.

  They returned to the outdoors. “Since it seems important to you, let me assure you that I mean Mrs. Black no harm. I shall do whatever I can for her, but I cannot force her to marry me.”

  “Hah. A charming young fellow like you? If you truly cared, you would woo and win her.”

  Colin shook his head. “I fear our differences are far too great to be overcome.”

  “A courageous man wouldn’t give up so easily,” McCrumb scoffed. “She’s too good for you, and that’s God’s truth.”

  Colin had no choice but to agree. “I’m the last man she would consent to marry now.”

  “What a feeble excuse that is.” McCrumb turned his back and left, taking his damned time about it.

  Ah, well. Colin didn’t care what the old man thought, and soon Bridget would be gone. He’d known that the instant he’d given her the ultimatum. She would never give in; she would flee to the ends of the earth before allowing him to crush her into submission or take her daughter.

  His daughter, too.

  He had no choice but to let them go. He’d failed as a brother. Whichever way he looked at it, he was about to fail as a father, too. Oh, Emma, what am I going to do?

  His sister seldom spoke to him except in dreams, so he didn’t expect an answer—and yet, in his anguish, the complete absence of response told him he’d lost her now, too.

  Chapter 13

  Bridget didn’t particularly want to see Colin’s sister, but Daisy Warren lived in a tavern frequented by smugglers. She’d even bedded one of that dubious fraternity.

  Smugglers were what Bridget needed now.

  It was a long, difficult ride atop Snappish, who even after last night’s exercise was full of energy, while Sylvie’s pony preferred to plod at a decorous pace. Anxiety gnawed at Bridget; she had to find Martin first. Not only that, she had to get rid of him without Colin’s knowledge. Hopefully, Colin was occupied with removing the rifles, but she couldn’t count on that.

  She tried to set that particular worry aside. At the very least, this visit to the smugglers might prove useful to her future plans. If she and Sylvie fled on a smuggling vessel, they would be more difficult to trace.

  She didn’t want to flee at all. She wanted to stay here in England.

  But not, she reminded herself, as the puppet of a tyrannical, bigoted man.

  She’d never have believed it of Colin. It was as if an entirely different man had revealed himself last night. Not the cheerful, easygoing lover, the efficient, clever man who’d helped her when she needed it, but a cold, even cruel person who was not the Colin she loved.

  Maybe the Colin she’d fallen in love with didn’t exist.

  At last, after several times asking directions to the Diving Duck, they arrived at an old, ramshackle inn on the banks of the River Ribble. A battered sign, the painting of the duck partly worn away, swayed in the breeze. It must have taken great courage—or perhaps the equivalent in rage or despair—for Daisy Warren to take up residence here.

  A rough sort of man sat on the bench outside the inn door, chewing on a straw. “Looking for someone, ma’am?” he asked, with just a touch of insolence.

  “I’ve come to call on Miss Warren.” When the man raised his brows, she continued, “She resides here, does she not?”

  “Oh aye, that she does. She don’t often have callers, though.” He grinned and stood up. “I’ll go see if she’s receiving, shall I? If she’s awake, that is.”

  Since it was past midday, Bridget seriously hoped so. The man ambled into the inn and bellowed, “Sally!”

  Seconds later, a young ginger-haired wench stuck her head out the door and looked Bridget up and down. “A lady caller for Miss Daisy! Wonders will never cease. Take care of their horses, Ned.” She chuckled. “If you dare.” She ducked back inside.

  “Wouldn’t touch that devil if my life depended on it.” The same man, evidently the Ned in question, emerged but didn’t approach to help Bridget dismount.

  She slid to the muddy mess of weeds and half-sunken paving stones that made up the inn yard and helped Sylvie clamber off her pony. “Go sit on the bench.” Wearily, she lowered herself beside her daughter. Snappish and the pony wandered away to nibble the cress at the water’s edge.

  “A lady?” The voice came from above. They turned to see a disheveled Daisy Warren, hair down and tangled about her face, leaning out of a casement window at the top of the inn. “And my favorite gentleman, too! Darling Snappish, how kind of you to call.”

  The stallion had raised his head at her voice. He whinnied a greeting before returning to his treat.

  “I can’t imagine why you’re here,” Daisy said.

  “To ask a favor.” Bridget stood to see her better.

  “Of me?” Daisy stared for a moment, then shifted a bored shoulder. “Can’t hurt to listen, I suppose. I’ll be right down, unless you object to my receiving you like this.”

  “Not at all,” Bridget said, wondering whether Miss Warren habitually presented herself in dishabille to the world. “Unless you would rather I came up?”

  “To my disgusting garret? I daren’t; you might report to Colin. What if he should turn autocratic and demand my return to the family fold?” She ducked inside and shut the window.

  Yesterday, Bridget would have thought an autocratic Colin highly unlikely; today, she knew better.

  A minute later Daisy appeared in the doorway enveloped in a greatcoat intended for a tall man, the coattails dragging on the floorboards. Her fingers were stained with ink, as if she’d been writing with a poorly-trimmed pen. “You may as well come inside. Sally’s brewing some coffee.” Her eyes lit upon Sylvie. “Good God. Thi
s is your daughter?”

  “Yes, this is Sylvie. Curtsey to Miss Warren, dearest.”

  “Lord, she does look like Emma. You must get Colin to show you the miniature.” She continued to stare, openmouthed, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “My God. The likeness is astonishing.”

  “Who is Emma?” Sylvie asked.

  “Emma was my little sister who died,” Daisy said. “Heavens, I suppose this means I’m your auntie. How odd; I’ve never been an auntie before. Well, come in, come in. You needn’t worry about the horses. Ned here will keep an eye on them, not that Snappish needs it. He’ll bite anyone who comes too close. I’m amazed you got here in one piece.”

  “Mama has the magic touch with horses,” Sylvie said. “It’s because she has Irish blood. I am learning to be magic, too.”

  “How wonderful,” Daisy said as if she wasn’t really listening. She led them into the coffee room and waved them to a table. Bridget seated herself, wondering how to broach the subject of smugglers, whilst Sylvie wandered about, examining her surroundings.

  “Now, what sort of favor could you possibly ask of me?” A few moments ago, speaking to Sylvie, Daisy had seemed almost cordial; now she’d reverted to cool and bitter. “Marry Colin if you must—and it does rather make sense now—but if you’re about to ask me to stop disgracing the family and come home, you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m not going to marry Colin, and even if I were, how you live your life is your business, not mine.”

  A muscle twitched in Daisy’s left cheek. “That’s what Colin says, but he doesn’t really mean it.”

  “No,” Bridget said, “I don’t suppose he does.” But in spite of disagreeing with her choices, he hadn’t interfered with Daisy. On the contrary, he let her be but supported her in whatever way he could. That was the Colin Bridget loved.

  The Colin, she tried to remind herself, who didn’t exist—but she had to admit that in many ways, the good, kind Colin certainly did. But what difference did it make that he had some sterling qualities, if his worst ones were directed at her?

  “Why won’t you marry him? He’s really rather sweet, you know. Quite easy-going; he won’t order you about.”

  How little you know, thought Bridget. “We quarreled last night and realized that we shan’t suit.”

  “What a pity,” Daisy drawled, and then made a face. “So sorry, I’m habitually rude, you know. I think I could quite like you, given the chance.”

  “And I you.”

  Daisy huffed; the brief display of warmth was over. “So why are you here?”

  “Because I need to contact some smugglers,” Bridget said.

  Daisy swept to her feet. If she had cooled abruptly a few seconds earlier, now she had turned to ice. “If by that you suggest that I am still friendly with the smuggler who bedded me, you are sorely mistaken.” She might well have stormed out if at that moment a little girl about Sylvie’s age had not come into the taproom, carefully bearing a tray with brimming cups of coffee, a small loaf of rather dirty sugar, and some nippers.

  A little coffee slopped over the rim of one cup as she set the tray down. “Here you go, Miss Daisy.” She spied Sylvie attempting to befriend a huge grey tomcat who slept on the windowsill. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Sylvie,” Bridget said, “and who are you?”

  “I’m Jenny. He’s not a friendly cat.” She went over to the window, and soon the two girls were chattering together.

  Which gave Bridget a very brief window of opportunity to calm Daisy. “Not at all, Miss Warren. If that were the case, I’m sure Colin would have shot the man dead by now.” She put the cup with the clean saucer before Daisy, the other before herself, and nipped off several lumps of sugar.

  After a long moment Daisy sat down again, eyes narrowed, her mien slightly less hostile. “Then why?”

  “I was given to understand that this inn is frequented by smugglers, so I thought you might introduce me.”

  Daisy snorted. “They’re none of them worth bedding.”

  Bridget wasn’t amused, but obligingly she rolled her eyes.

  “So why?”

  “Surely that’s obvious,” Bridget said. “I need to smuggle something.”

  “What?”

  “That I cannot disclose,” Bridget said. “It is an extremely confidential matter.”

  “And illegal too, I assume.” Daisy’s eyes sparkled now. Her moods changed like clouds chasing across the sun, darkening, then bright, then dark again.

  “If it were open and aboveboard, I wouldn’t need a smuggler.”

  “Oh, do tell me what it’s about. Pretty please?”

  Bridget shook her head. “Sorry, but I truly cannot. It concerns others besides myself.”

  Daisy pouted. “Oh, pooh! Just when I smelled a good story, too!” She cocked her head. “Smuggled in or out of the country? And when?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Indeed it does! If you want to smuggle something out today, it’s much different from arranging to have something brought here from France, for example.”

  “Out of the country, perhaps today.” Bridget pondered how much to reveal. “But first of all I need information. Someone familiar with the country hereabouts who is likely to hear about any untoward happenings.”

  “Heavens, more mysterious by the minute. I simply must know what it’s about.”

  How tiresome, and Bridget couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Perhaps the reluctant, straw-chewing Ned would prove more helpful. She drained the rest of her coffee. “As I said before, I cannot tell you. I understand your reluctance to aid me, so I’ll be on my way.”

  Daisy tsked. “Don’t get on your high horse, Bridget. I may call you Bridget, mayn’t I? And you should call me Daisy. Does it have anything to do with my brother?”

  Bridget hesitated the briefest instant. “No.”

  “Aha! It does have to do with him. Whatever did you quarrel about that you need a smuggler now?”

  Bridget blew out a breath. She should have known better than to ask anything of Daisy. She would get her information some other way. She stood and glanced about for Sylvie, who had gone outdoors with Jenny. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you for the coffee. Good day.”

  Daisy’s expression softened. “Very well, you needn’t tell me. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be crossed in love.” Hurriedly she recovered her aplomb. “Not that I believe such a thing as love exists, mind you, but I don’t in the least object to foiling my brother. Sally-love, bring more coffee, will you? And some of those drop cakes I brought from my brother’s house yesterday.”

  “I don’t have time for more coffee,” Bridget said. “The matter is most urgent. Just tell me where to go.”

  “I shall, but—”

  Sally appeared with a coffee pot. “We’ve ate ’em all up, Miss Daisy, as you should remember from last evening when you shared with all and sundry.” She refilled both their cups.

  “Ah, yes. I was in a convivial mood, wasn’t I? Is Mr. Bennett anywhere about, do you know?”

  “Saw him in his garden earlier, shoveling muck.”

  “That will never do. Mr. Bennett will want to change before entertaining a lady. Send Jenny to him. Sylvie can go with her, it’s just down the lane. Have them tell him to expect a lady visitor in . . . half an hour.”

  Half an hour? Bridget stifled a groan. Daisy left her to her coffee and flitted upstairs to dress.

  Colin delivered the remaining rifles to Tilworth and returned on horseback to Bridget’s house, hoping to find her there.

  He’d refused to explain to the former valet where the rifles had been found, saying only that he’d been approached in secret and had bought the goods back at a reduced price—for which he didn’t expect to be reimbursed,
only hoping the inevitable damp hadn’t harmed them. Tilworth, no fool, nodded his willingness to accept whatever explanation was given.

  On his way back to Bridget’s, Colin turned his mind to the question of Martin Fallow. Alive or dead, he must be gotten rid of. The more Colin thought about it, the more he accepted the tedious fact that he couldn’t turn the man in for treason. That would bring suspicion and perhaps ruin upon Bridget, which in turn would adversely affect Sylvie’s future happiness. It went against the grain to let a traitor escape, but if he was still alive, Colin would find ways to hobble him from now on. Hopefully though, he’d fainted from loss of blood, tumbled off the cob, and now lay dead in a ditch, at a roadside, in a field . . . But if so, surely someone would have stumbled across him by now.

  The problem with a corpse was that questions would be asked. There would be an inquest. If the corpse was identified—which it might be, depending on where it was found—the authorities would contact Bridget. What about the two young fellows who’d run from her house last night? They must have been helping move the rifles. How much did they know?

  Damn. The more Colin thought about it, the more concerned he became. He couldn’t afford to let even a hint of treason touch Bridget and Sylvie. Bridget might deserve it to some extent, but he had to ignore that possibility. He must concoct a story and make sure Bridget knew what to say.

  If she would deign to speak to him.

  But when he finally arrived at her home, she wasn’t there. No one was, except for a cook and an elderly groom, neither of whom had any idea where she might have gone. “She ain’t taken the cob, sir, but Miss Sylvie’s pony is gone,” the groom said. “The cob were loose in the meadow when I got here this afternoon, having spent last night with my sister, sir, as Mr. Fallow told me I could.”