by Candace Camp
Book 4 in the fan-favorite Mad Morelands series from New York Times bestselling author Candace Camp!
Had Theo Moreland, the Marquess of Raine, killed her brother? And had the treasure the two men sought in South America hastened his descent to an early grave? American journalist Megan Mulcahey has to discover the truth. But to find out, she needs to infiltrate the marquess’s household.
The new American governess intrigues Theo. Wanderlust has always plagued him—until Miss Mulcahey comes to Broughton House to teach his young siblings. Now, the strange pull of their immediate desire both troubles and excites him. He’s seen her beauty once before, in a fever dream his memory cannot escape. So why is this delicious vision now snooping around his mansion like a common thief?
Originally published in 2005.
AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE
CANDACE CAMP
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PROLOGUE
New York, 1879
The shriek cut through the night.
In her bed, Megan Mulcahey sat straight up, instantly awake, her heart pounding. It took her a moment to realize what had awakened her. Then she heard her sister’s voice again.
“No. No!”
Megan was out of her bed in a flash and running through the door. Theirs was not a large home—a narrow brownstone row house with three bedrooms upstairs—and it took only a moment to reach Deirdre’s door and fling it open.
Deirdre was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide and staring, horrified. Her arms stretched out in front of her toward something only she could see, and tears pooled in her eyes before rolling down her cheeks.
“Deirdre!” Megan crossed the room and sat down on her sister’s bed, taking Deirdre’s shoulders firmly in her hands. “What is it? Wake up! Deirdre!”
She gave the girl a shake, and something changed in her sister’s face, the frightening blankness slipping away, replaced by a dawning consciousness.
“Megan!” Deirdre let out a sob and threw her arms around her older sister. “Oh, Megan. It was terrible. Terrible!”
“Saints preserve us!” Their father’s voice sounded from the doorway. “What in the name of all that’s holy is going on?”
“Deirdre had a bad dream, that’s all,” Megan replied, keeping her voice calm and soothing, as she stroked her sister’s hair. “Isn’t that right, Dee? It was nothing but a nightmare.”
“No.” Deirdre gulped and pulled back from Megan a little, wiping the tears from her cheeks and looking first at Megan, then at their father. Her eyes were still wide and shadowed. “Megan. Da. I saw Dennis!”
“You dreamed about Dennis?” Megan asked.
“It wasn’t a dream,” Deirdre responded. “Dennis was here. He spoke to me.”
A shiver ran down Megan’s spine. “But, Dee, you couldn’t have seen him. Dennis has been dead for ten years.”
“It was him,” Deirdre insisted. “I saw him, plain as day. He spoke to me.”
Their father crossed the room eagerly and went down on one knee before his daughter, looking into her face. “Are you sure, then, Deirdre? It was really Denny?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. He looked like he did the day he sailed away.”
Megan stared at her sister, stunned. Deirdre had a reputation in the family for having the second sight. She was given to forebodings and premonitions—too many of which had turned out to be true for Megan to completely dismiss her sister’s “ability.” However, her predictions usually ran more to having a feeling that a certain friend or relative was having problems or was likely to drop in on them that day. The more pragmatic side of Megan believed that her sister simply possessed a certain sensitivity that enabled her to pick up on a number of small clues about people and situations that most others ignored. It was an admirable talent, Megan agreed, but she had her doubts whether it was the otherworldly gift that many deemed it.
Deirdre’s looks, she thought, contributed a great deal to the common perception of her. Small and fragile in build, with large, gentle blue eyes, pale skin and light strawberry-blond hair, there was a fey quality to her, a sense of otherworldliness, that aroused most people’s feelings of protectiveness, including Megan’s, and made it easy to believe that the girl was in tune with the other world.
But never before had Deirdre claimed to have seen someone who was dead. Megan was not sure what to think. On the one hand, her practical mind had trouble accepting that her brother’s spirit was walking about, talking to her sister. It seemed much more likely that Deirdre had had a nightmare that her sleep-befuddled mind had imagined was real. On the other hand, there was a small superstitious something deep inside her that wondered if this could possibly be true. The truth was, she knew, that like her father, she wanted it to be true—she hoped that her beloved brother was still around in some form, not lost to her forever.
“What did he say?” Frank Mulcahey asked. “Why did he come to you?”
Deirdre’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Da, it was awful! Dennis was scared and desperate. ‘Help me,’ he said, and held out his hands to me. ‘Please help me.’”
Frank Mulcahey sucked in his breath sharply and made a rapid sign of the cross. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What did he mean?”
“He didn’t mean anything,” Megan put in quickly. “She was dreaming. Deirdre, it was just a nightmare. It must have been.”
“But it wasn’t!” Deirdre insisted, gazing at her sister with wide, guileless eyes. “Dennis was here. He was as clear to me as you are. He stood right there and looked at me with such pain and despair. I couldn’t be mistaken.”
“But, darling…”
Her younger sister gave her a look of mingled reproach and pity. “Don’t you think I know the difference between a nightmare and a vision? I’ve had both of them often enough.”
“Of course you have,” their father responded, and turned to glower at Megan. “Just because there are things you cannot see or hear, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Why, I could tell you tales that would make your hair stand on end.”
“Yes, and you have on many occasions,” Megan responded, her tart tone of voice softened by the smile she directed at her father.
Frank Mulcahey was a short, wiry man, full of energy and a love of life. At the age of fifteen, he had come to New York from his native Ireland, and he was always ready to tell anyone who would listen how his dreams had all come true in America. He had built a thriving business as a greengrocer, married a beautiful blond American girl and raised a family of healthy, happy children. Only those who knew him well knew of the hardships he had endured—the years of working and scrimping to open his grocery, the death of his beloved wife shortly after Deirdre’s birth, the hard task of raising six children on his own and, finally, the death of his oldest son ten years ago. Many another man would have broken under the blows of fate, but Frank Mulcahey had absorbed them and moved on, his spirit wounded but never vanquished.
In coloring he resembled his daughter Megan; his close-cropped hair was the same warm reddish brown, though now liberally streaked through with gray, and if he had allowed it to grow longer, it would have curled just as riotously. The line of freckles across Megan’s nose came from her father, t
oo, and her eyes were the same mahogany color, their brown depths warmed by an elusive hint of red. They were alike, too, in their drive and determination—and, as Deirdre had pointed out more than once, in their sheer bullheadedness, a fact that had caused them to clash on many occasions.
“Clearly you did not listen to the tales well enough,” Frank told Megan now. “Or you did not keep an open mind.”
Megan knew she would never convince her father of the unlikelihood of her brother returning from the grave, so she tried a different tack. “Why would Dennis come back now? How could he need our help?”
“Why, that’s clear as a bell,” her father responded. “He’s asking us to avenge his death.”
“After ten years?”
“Sure, and he’s waited long enough, don’t you think?” Frank retorted, his Irish brogue thickening in his agitation. “It’s me own fault. I should have gone over there and taken care of that filthy murderin’ English lord as soon as we learned what happened to Dennis. It’s no wonder he’s come back to nudge us. The sin is that he had to. I’ve shirked me duty as a father.”
“Da, don’t.” Megan laid a comforting hand on her father’s arm. “You did nothing wrong. You couldn’t have gone to England when Dennis died. You had children to raise. Deirdre was but ten, and the boys only a little older. You had to stay here and work, and see after us.”
Frank sighed and nodded. “I know. But there’s nothing holding me back now. You’re all grown now. Even the store could get by without me, with your brother Sean helping me run it. There’s nothing to stop me from going to England and taking care of the matter. Hasn’t been for years. It’s remiss I’ve been, and that’s a fact. No wonder Denny had to come and give me a poke.”
“Da, I’m sure that’s not why Dennis came back,” Megan said quickly, casting a look of appeal at her sister. The last thing she wanted was for her father to go running off to England and do God-knew-what in his thirst to avenge his son’s death. He could wind up in jail—or worse—if his temper led him to attack the English lord who had killed Dennis. “Is it, Deirdre?”
To Megan’s dismay, her sister wrinkled her brow and said, “I’m not sure. Dennis didn’t say anything about his death. But he was so distraught, so desperate. It was clear he needs our help.”
“Of course he does.” Frank nodded. “He wants me to avenge his murder.”
“How?” Megan protested, alarmed. “You can’t go over there and take the law into your own hands.”
Her father looked at her. “I didna say I was going to kill the lyin’ bastard—not that I wouldn’t like to, you understand. But I’ll not have a man’s blood on my conscience. I intend to bring him to justice.”
“After all this time? But, Da—”
“Are you suggesting that we stand by and do nothing?” Frank thundered, his brows rising incredulously. “Let the man get away with murdering your brother? I would not have thought it of you.”
“Of course I don’t think he should get away with it,” Megan retorted heatedly, her eyes flashing. “I want him to pay for what he did to Dennis just as much as you do.”
Her brother had been only two years older than she, and they had been very close all their lives, united not only by blood, but also by their similar personalities and their quick, impish wit. Curious, energetic and determined, each of them had wanted to make a mark upon the world. Dennis had yearned to see that world, to explore uncharted territories. Megan had her sights set on becoming a newspaper reporter.
She had achieved her dream, after much persistence landing an assignment on a small New York City rag, writing for the Society section. Through skill, determination and hard work, she had eventually made her way onto the news pages and then to a larger paper. But it had been a bittersweet accomplishment, for Dennis had not been there to share in her joy. He had died on his first journey up the Amazon.
“Aye, I know,” Frank admitted, taking his daughter’s hand and squeezing it. “I spoke in heat. I know you want him punished. We all do.”
“I just don’t know what proof can be found, after all this time,” Megan pointed out.
“There was something more,” Deirdre spoke up. “Dennis was—I think he was searching for something.”
Megan stared at her sister. “Searching for what?”
“I’m not sure. But it was very precious to him. He cannot rest until he has it back.”
“He said that?” Again Megan felt a chill creep up her back. She did not believe that the dead came back to speak with the living. Still…
“He said something about having to find them—or it. I’m not sure,” Deirdre explained. “But I could feel how desperate he was, how much it meant to him.”
“The man killed Dennis for some reason,” their father pointed out, his voice tinged with excitement. “We never knew the why of it, but there must have been one. It would make sense, don’t you think, that it was over some object, something Dennis had that he wanted?”
“And he killed Dennis to get it?” Megan asked. “But what would Dennis have had that the man couldn’t have bought? He is wealthy.”
“Something they found on their trip,” Frank answered. “Something Dennis found.”
“In the jungle?” Megan quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, but even as she said it, her mind went to the history of South America. “Wait. Of course. What did the Spanish find there? Gold. Emeralds. Dennis could have stumbled on an old mine—or wherever it is you get jewels.”
“Of course.” Frank’s eyes gleamed with fervor. “It’s something like that. And if I can find whatever it is that he found and that murderer stole, it could prove that he killed Dennis. I have to go to England.”
Megan stood up. Her father’s excitement had ignited her own. For ten years she had lived with the sorrow of her brother’s death, as well as the bitter knowledge that his murderer had gotten away. Part of her passion as a journalist had come from her thwarted desire for justice for her brother. She had known she could not help him, but she could help others whose lives had been shattered or whose rights as human beings had been trampled. Among her peers, she was known as a crusader, and she was at her best in ferreting out a story of corruption or injustice.
She could not entirely believe that her sister had seen their brother. But her father’s words made sense. The man who had killed Dennis must have had a motive…and greed had always been a prime motive for murder.
“You’re right,” she said. “But I should be the one to go.” She began to pace, her words tumbling out excitedly. “I don’t know why I never thought of this before. I could investigate Dennis’s death, just like I do a story. I mean, that’s what I do every day—look into things, talk to people, check facts, hunt down witnesses. I should have done this long ago. Maybe I can figure out what really happened. Even after all these years, there must be something I can find. Even if it’s something that wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, at least we’d have the satisfaction of knowing.”
“But, Megan, it’s dangerous,” her sister protested. “I mean, the man has murdered already. If you show up there asking questions…”
“I’m not going to just walk up to him and say, ‘Why did you kill my brother?’” Megan retorted. “He won’t know who I am. I’ll think of some other reason to talk to him. Don’t worry, I’m good at that.”
“She’s right,” their father said, and his daughters turned to him in astonishment. He shrugged. “I’m a man of reason. Megan has experience in this sort of matter. But,” he added with a stern look at Megan, “if you think I’m going to let you run off and track down a murderer alone, then you haven’t the brains I credit you with. I’m going, too.”
“But, Da—”
He shook his head. “I mean it, Megan. We’re all going. We’ll track down Theo Moreland and make him pay for killing your brother.”
CHAPTER 1
Theo Moreland, Lord Raine, rested his hands on the railing and gazed down at the grand ballroom below, a look of disco
ntent upon his handsome face. His green eyes, fringed by smoky lashes so long and thick they would have looked feminine on any face less ruggedly masculine, moved lazily across the floor below, crowded with dancers.
He wondered, not for the first time this evening, what he was doing here.
He was not the sort for elegant parties. He liked much more to be out-of-doors, preferably in some exotic locale, doing something more intriguing…and possibly dangerous.
Of course, Lady Rutherford’s ball was dangerous in its own way—ambitious mothers and their daughters circling like sharks—but it was the kind of danger that he assiduously avoided. He wasn’t sure why he had come here this evening. He had simply been bored and restless, as he had been many times lately, so much so that at last he had flipped through his stack of invitations, usually ignored, and settled on Lady Rutherford’s party.
Once he got here, he had regretted the impulse. Besieged by flirtatious women of all ages, he had finally retreated upstairs to the card room. That, too, had paled, and he’d wound up here, gazing down moodily at the wide expanse of floor below.
“Lord Raine, what a surprise,” a sultry voice behind him said.
Suppressing a groan, Theo turned. “Lady Scarle.”
The woman before him was one of the beauties of London and had been for years. Her coloring was vivid, with jet black hair and deep blue eyes, and a strawberries-and-cream complexion. If the color in her cheeks was not entirely natural or a stray white hair or two had to be plucked out whenever they appeared, well, only her personal maid knew about it, and she was paid well to keep secrets. Most men, truth be known, found it difficult to lift their eyes above Lady Scarle’s magnificent white bosom, which was, as was customary, spilling out lushly over the low neckline of her purple evening gown.
