by Candace Camp
“I doubt he would even talk to me. He lives in a grand house, with a footman. I’m sure some unknown woman would not get past the door.”
“I’ve known you to lurk about until someone you want to interview comes outside and then accost him as he’s getting into his carriage,” Deirdre reminded her, her eyes twinkling.
Megan grinned, a dimple deepening in her cheek and her eyes glowing with mischief as she agreed, “’Tis true I’m not shy about throwing myself in his path. But for the moment, at least, I think it’s better not to do so. He’ll not admit that he killed a man. I need to use subterfuge here. I have to get inside his house and spy on him. If he took something from Dennis, as Da suspects, it’s most likely that he has it in that house. If I can track it down, it will give me proof—and will be something I can use as leverage. If I’m lucky, I’ll trick it out of him in some way.”
“How?”
Megan shrugged. “A number of men are talkative when they’re in their cups. I remember one fellow at Tammany Hall who let out quite a few secrets. He was a regular drinker at O’Reilly’s Tavern, and I was able to get hired on as a tavern maid.”
Deirdre shook her head in rueful admiration. “I remember the fit Da threw when he found out how you’d gotten that story.”
“You’d think I had taken up walking the streets, the way he carried on. I did nothing but serve drinks—and I showed no more bosom than many an evening gown I’ve seen on an elegant lady.”
“I don’t know how you have the nerve. I’d have died of embarrassment—not to mention being too scared to go in the door. Weren’t the men forward? Even, well, forceful?”
Megan shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. It helped having been around newspapermen for several years.”
Megan had had to fight for respect in her field—indeed, she had had to fight for everything she had gotten in her profession, from her first chance to write a story to her present job. She had known from the first that she could never reveal any weakness or others would seize upon it as proof that women were not competent to be reporters.
She had never told Deirdre about many of her experiences, knowing that they would have frightened her delicate sister—enough that Deirdre might even tell their father about them. And while Frank Mulcahey had been proud of her and ready to fight any man who dared suggest that his girl wasn’t as good a reporter as anyone, he had also bombarded her with constant worries and warnings about her safety. If he had heard about some of her more dangerous exploits, she wouldn’t have put it past him to come storming down to the newspaper to have it out with the editor for putting her in harm’s way.
“But that sort of thing won’t work this time,” Megan told her sister now. “I have no idea what tavern Theo Moreland frequents—if he even goes to any place so plebeian. He probably drinks at some gentleman’s club, with no women allowed inside. What I really need is to get inside the house. So I’m going to apply for a position as a servant there.”
Deirdre dropped the potato she had been peeling and stared at her sister, then burst into a merry peal of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Megan asked indignantly. “It’s a perfectly good idea.”
“You? As a maid? Or maybe a cook?” Deirdre said after a moment, when she finally paused in her laughter and wiped away the tears her laughter had brought. “I should like to see that.”
“You think I couldn’t clean or cook?” Megan asked, putting her fists on her hips. “It’s not as if I haven’t done such things. I cooked and cleaned enough when you were growing up.”
Deirdre tried, not entirely successfully, to compress her lips into a straight line. “Perhaps—when Mary Margaret was cracking the whip. But that has been years.”
“I haven’t forgotten how. I’m sitting here paring potatoes, aren’t I?”
“Yes. But look at the pile of peelings in front of you.” Deirdre gestured toward the newspaper spread on the table between them. In front of Megan, there was a handful of peelings. Across the table, before Deirdre, lay a mound three times that size.
“You started before I did,” Megan pointed out. At her sister’s look, she went on, “Oh, all right, I’m not as fast as you. But they won’t know that.”
“You’d be fired in two days. For answering back, if nothing else. I know you, Megan Mulcahey, and taking orders won’t sit well with you.”
“You’re right about that. But I will simply have to accept it. I don’t see any other way to get into the house. Cleaning rooms will give me a perfect opportunity to look for something that Moreland might have stolen from Dennis.” She paused and looked at her sister a little tentatively. “Umm, I wonder—about those things that Dennis, uh, was looking for…”
Deirdre sighed. “No, I don’t know anything more about them. I haven’t heard or seen anything from Dennis since that night. I have no idea what he wants back so badly.” She paused, then went on, “I know you don’t really believe that Dennis came to me.”
“I don’t think you’re fibbing,” Megan assured her hastily. “I know you believe Dennis appeared to you—in actuality or a dream or something. I just find it—well, it’s—”
“I know. It’s much too otherworldly for you. You believe in tangible things, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You deal in facts, in the practical world. I know that. But, Megan…” Deirdre leaned forward, her brow wrinkled earnestly. “I’m not crazy.”
“Deirdre, I never meant…!” Megan cried, reaching her hand to her sister.
“No, I know you don’t think I’m insane. But there would be those who did if they knew some of the things I’ve seen and heard. But I know what I saw. It was Dennis, and he spoke to me—whether he was right there in the room with me or in a dream, I’m not entirely sure. But I know it was he, and I know he was desperate. He wants whatever was taken from him. It means a great deal to him. And he came to us for help.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Megan told her honestly. “’Tis hard for me to believe in such things, but I know you are neither crazy nor a liar, and as long as there is any chance that Dennis did come back from the grave, asking for our help, I shall strive to do what he wants. And I’ll take any help you can give me, even if it does come to you in a dream.”
“I only wish I could help you.” Deirdre sighed. “I wish this sort of thing was not always so uncertain. Every night when I go to bed, I pray that I will hear from him again. That he will tell us how to help him.”
Megan hardly knew how to respond to her sister.
Deirdre’s unquestioning faith in her visions amazed her and left her feeling, frankly, a little envious. It must be comforting, she thought, to be without doubt or questions. It was not a state, she feared, that she would ever be in. Her entire life was built upon questions, it seemed.
They continued to talk as they finished peeling the potatoes, and afterward Deirdre put the potatoes on to boil and checked the roast in the oven as she continued to put the evening meal together. Megan went upstairs to wash up before supper, then sat down to record her notes about Broughton House in a small notebook.
It was her custom on any story to keep notes this way. It helped her to plan her actions, she found, as well as think about the story in depth, and it also kept her quotes as accurate as possible. Over the course of the years, it had become an ingrained habit.
She only wished she had more facts to go on.
Finally she went downstairs to supper, finding, to her surprise, that her father had not come home yet. After waiting for him for some time, she and Deirdre sat down to eat, glancing now and again at the clock in the dining room, then at each other, their worry palpable.
He still had not arrived by the time they were through with their meal, and Megan helped Deirdre wash and dry the dishes as they talked, their vague concern growing.
It was with a great deal of relief that they heard the front door open a few minutes later, and then their father strolled in, whistling a tune.
“Good evenin�
�� to you,” Frank Mulcahey said, grinning and taking off his cap.
“Where have you been?” Megan asked. “We’ve been worried about you.”
“Worried? No need for that. I’ve been out investigating.”
“Investigating?” Megan cocked an eyebrow at her father as he drew closer, though she could not suppress a smile. “Is that what you call it?” She made a show of sniffing the air. “Smells more like ale to me.”
“Aye, well, that was where I was investigating,” he replied. “Is there a bite of supper left for your poor old da? I’m famished.”
“So you’ve been investigating a tavern?” Megan asked teasingly as they sat down at the kitchen table and Deirdre took out the food from the oven, where she had been keeping it warm for their father.
“Nay, but that’s where I made me inquiries.” Frank winked at his daughter, looking pleased with himself.
Megan straightened, intrigued. “What do you mean? What inquiries?”
“I’ve been thinking about how you’re to get inside that great house to expose the villain.” He shook his head. “I went to see it, and it’s an imposing looking place.”
“You’re right about that,” Megan agreed. “I was telling Deirdre that I think my best chance is to get hired on there as a servant. It’s such a grand house, they must need a lot of servants. I would think there are openings pretty often.”
“And I told her she wouldn’t last a week,” Deirdre put in, sitting down across from Megan and their father.
Megan grimaced. “I could manage.”
“That’s if they’d even hire you in the first place. You don’t look like a servant. You’re much too attractive for one thing, and you haven’t a servant’s demeanor,” Deirdre went on.
“I can put on an act,” Megan said. “I’ll wear the drabbest dress I have.”
“Ah, but nothin’ can hide those sparkling eyes of yours,” her father said, reaching out to pat her cheek fondly. “Don’t worry, lass, I’ve a better idea for you.”
“What?” Megan and Deirdre chorused.
“Well, I went to all the taverns last night that were close to Broughton House, and again this afternoon, and it happens I hit gold this afternoon. There’s a footman from the place comes in for a wee nip every evening if he gets the chance to slip away. Name’s Paul, and our Paul’s an informative lad.”
“Really? What did you find out?” Megan leaned forward.
“First of all, I found out that Lord Raine is in residence at Broughton House.”
“Lord Raine? Who’s that?”
“Seems that’s Himself.”
“I thought his name was Moreland,” Megan said.
“Aye, well, ’tis, except it seems he gets a title, see, because he’s next in line to be the Duke of Broughton. While his da’s alive, he’s another sort of lord. The Marquess of Raine. Don’t ask me to explain it. It took me a bit even to figure out that our Paul was talkin’ about the very villain I was interested in. Anyway, he’s at home, which is our good luck—for I’ll tell you, girl, I was worried we might get here and find that he was off in Timbuktu or some such place.”
“Yes, it concerned me somewhat, too.”
“But according to the gossip, the man’s not looking to go off on one of his adventures for a few months yet.”
“That’s good.”
“Even better is what else he told me. Seems they’re in terrible need of a tutor for two of the boys of the family.”
“A teacher?” Megan looked at him, puzzled. “Da! Are you saying I should go there as a tutor? You can’t be serious!”
“Why not? You’ve a much better chance of convincing them you’re a teacher than a scrub maid.”
“You were always first in your class,” Deirdre pointed out, adding, “Well, I mean, your grades were. It was just because you kept getting in trouble with the nuns that kept you from taking honors.”
“Aye, and you went to the best convent school in New York,” Frank added. “You learned Latin and history and all those high muckety-muck writers you’re always quoting, didn’t ye? All you need is enough to get by for a few weeks. ’Tisn’t as if ye’re actually going to be a teacher.”
“Yes, but—I don’t have any training, any experience. No qualifications, in short. They won’t accept me.”
Her father waved away her objections. “Easy enough to make up, now, aren’t they, when all your references are thousands of miles away in America? It’d take weeks to get a reply from any name you put down. And they can’t wait. They need someone now.”
“But even if I made up the grandest qualifications for myself, why would they hire an American? There must be plenty of Englishwomen who would take the job—and who would have references right here in London.”
Mulcahey grinned. “Seems they’ve already run through most of the lot. Got a certain reputation, these lads have.”
Megan looked at him doubtfully. “What are you saying? They’re such hellions they’ve frightened off all their other governesses?”
“Governesses, then tutors when they got too old for governesses.”
“Too old? How old are they?”
Frank shrugged. “Old enough that Paul was saying any other family’d send ’em off to Eton soon, but the Morelands are an odd lot. I think they must be twelve or thirteen.”
“Thirteen-year-old hellions? What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Ah, you’ll have no trouble. You’re no prissy English-woman. You grew up with boys. Just handle ’em like you did Sean and Robert—give ’em a good knock on the head when they get too rowdy.”
“Da…they’re English aristocrats. You can’t just go knocking their heads together when you feel like it.”
“Come, now, Megan. I’d back you against a couple of spoiled adolescents any day. You’ll do just fine.”
“They wouldn’t hire a woman to teach their precious sons,” Megan argued. “Not when the boys are that old.”
“I’m tellin’ you, they’re desperate. Besides, it appears that the Duchess is an odd one. A free thinker, according to Paul. Believes in women’s suffrage. Equality of the sexes and all that.”
Megan cast her father a disbelieving look. “A Duchess? Da, I think this fellow was pulling your leg.”
“Well, only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Mulcahey smiled at his daughter challengingly.
Never one to ignore a dare when she saw it, Megan squared her shoulders.
“True. Well, I had best get to bed, hadn’t I, if I’m going to be interviewing for a position as a tutor tomorrow?”
CHAPTER 2
Megan arrived at Broughton House early in the afternoon the following day. When she reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, she hesitated for a moment, gazing up at the grand edifice. Her stomach was a knot of nerves. Soon she would meet the man whom she had hated for ten years. All her grief, all her regret had been channeled into fury, and the fact that the villain had gotten away had only served to increase that anger. Megan wasn’t sure how she would be able to face Moreland without revealing how much she despised him. It was going to take every bit of skill she had.
She clasped her hands together, pushing up her gloves in a nervous gesture. She would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all her father, but she could not help but be a trifle intimidated by the task ahead of her. She had bluffed her way through many a situation in search of a story, but no story had ever been as important to her as this one, and never had she felt so afraid of failing. She could not help but think that the duchess was going to take one look at her and send her packing.
She tugged down her dark blue jacket, quite plain except for its rather large silver buttons. She hoped it would be sober enough to make up for the small straw bonnet perched atop her head, which, with the brim curling jauntily to one side and the cunning cluster of cherries pinned there, was really too stylish for a tutor. Megan had a weakness for hats, and, frankly, she did not possess one that was dowdy en
ough to suit a governess. Standing here now, she wished that she had gone to a millinery this morning and bought the plainest dark bonnet she could find.
It was too late to do anything else now, she told herself, and, quelling the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach, she reached up and brought down the heavy brass door knocker.
A moment later, a footman opened the door.
“May I help you?”
“I am here to see the Duchess of Broughton,” Megan said calmly, looking the man squarely in the eyes.
Once she began, as always, her nervousness receded, turning into a sort of low-level hum that kept her alert and ready for anything.
She saw the footman sweep her with a quick, assessing glance, taking in everything about her and no doubt classifying her immediately as to social status, dress and country of origin.
“May I ask if you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” Megan lied. She had always found it best to go on the offensive. Boldness generally won the day. “I am here concerning the tutoring position.”
The man’s expression changed from aloof and faintly forbidding to almost eager. “Yes, of course. Let me see if her grace is ready to receive you.”
He stepped back, and Megan entered the house. She found herself in a large formal entryway. It was floored in marble, and across from her, elegant stairs rose to the second floor. A hallway stretched in either direction, with another leading toward the rear of the house.
“If you will be so kind as to give me your name?” The footman said politely, directing Megan toward a low velvet-cushioned bench that stood beneath an enormous gold-framed mirror.
“Miss Megan Henderson,” Megan responded. She had decided that it would be too risky to use her real last name, as there was a chance that Moreland would connect it with the man he had known ten years earlier.
“Very good, Miss Henderson.” The man turned to go, and just then a shriek echoed from down one of the hallways.
Both Megan and the footman turned toward the sound. As they watched, a young woman ran out of one of the doorways, followed a fraction of a second later by another, older, woman. Both were richly dressed—rather overdressed, to Megan’s sense of taste—with intricately coiffed hair, and there was about them a tangible air of privilege and wealth.
