The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  “Sure, and I should have sprouted wings. I’m telling you, it’s Colin. I’d know that black head of hair anywhere.” Seamus reined in his mount. “He’ll be at the Bull and Boar if he’s paying off his debts. Can’t think why else he’d head this way instead of making for a port.”

  “And it’s not as if half the county and more doesn’t have black hair,” Fiona replied scornfully, easing her horse down the dirt path. “He was too small for Colin, but I’d know the coat if I saw it again. There’s not many who wear a tweed that ugly, and the left pocket was torn.”

  The argument ceased as they guided their horses down the rocky hill. Not until they’d worked their way into the steady stream of carts and animals did anyone speak again.

  “I cannot think why the murderer would have returned if he already has the money.” Riding a blooded thoroughbred twice the size of most of the animals around him, Neville sought their prey amidst the flux and flow of traffic. The man had escaped on a fine-boned mare of Arabian descent, but no such creature appeared in this motley lot.

  His comment silenced the squabbling siblings, Neville noted with thanksgiving. He’d once regretted not having brothers or sisters. He was rethinking that regret now.

  “Do you think it’s possible he didn’t find the money?” Fiona asked.

  That she actually asked a reasonable question, treating his comment with respect, almost prompted a smile. He possessed one of the highest titles in the realm, was respected by his peers, sought after by his superiors, and none of that gave him half so much pleasure as knowing he was winning the respect of this annoying Irish female. Unconsciously, Neville rubbed the back of his head where his attackers had cudgeled him.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” he answered. “Or it could have been someone out for what they could find. We could be on a goose chase.”

  “If it’s not Colin, we’ll never find him in this mob,” Seamus predicted. “We might as well check the Bull and Boar and go home if he’s not there.”

  Neville caught the fleeting look of disappointment in Fiona’s eyes. Had she truly thought to catch the murderer so easily? Or was there something else behind the excitement she’d displayed earlier when it became evident the town was their destination?

  “As long as we’re here, we may as well look around. We certainly don’t have any other direction to follow.” Neville let his horse fall back beside Fiona, giving Seamus room to lead.

  Fiona seemed relieved by his decision, although she offered no thanks. Neville considered needling her just to watch the fire of anger rise in her cheeks but decided that was beneath him.

  When they finally worked their way through to the tavern, Fiona started to climb from her horse as the men did. Neville caught her reins. “It’s not proper for a lady to frequent such a place. Stay here and make certain our scoundrel does not escape some other way.”

  She appeared on the point of protest, then thought better of it and returned to her saddle. “You’d best hurry. I’m that hungry, I am, I could eat your horses while you’re gone.”

  Neville didn’t trust that obliging tone. With sudden decision, he tied his horse’s reins to a post and nodded at Seamus. “It only takes one of us to look. I’ll fetch meat pies from that vendor over there.”

  The scowl Fiona threw him justified Neville’s decision. Seamus tipped his hat and sauntered inside. Fiona sat her horse and glared.

  “You might as well tell me what you plan,” Neville told her, taking her reins. “It will only make me angrier if I have to find out the hard way.”

  “It’s none of your concern what I do, my lord duke,” she informed him arrogantly. “But if you intend to buy those pies, you should hurry before they’re all gone.”

  Neville smothered another smile. She sat her horse in boy’s breeches and shirt, her hair tousled in thick auburn curls down her back, her cheeks still smudged with soot, yet she possessed the temerity to order him around as if she were a duchess and he a mere commoner at her feet. It was ludicrous to the extreme, and so captivating he couldn’t help being charmed.

  “I fail to see humor in starvation,” she said icily. “Would you care to share the jest?”

  “Nothing of moment, my queen, absolutely nothing, just a momentary lapse. I’ll fetch your pies if you promise to stay put.”

  Fiona shot him a suspicious look at his easy capitulation. “I’m not likely to go anywhere in this mob,” she assured him. “Besides, I’m watching for a murderer.”

  “Sure, and I’m an Irishman,” Neville mocked. “One foot off that horse, and I’ll have you on a ship to London faster than you’ll know what’s happened.”

  Seven

  Neville tightened his lips in exasperation as he caught Fiona easing her mount through the crowd and down the cobbled street. He’d known damned well she was up to something. He never should have turned his back on her for even ten seconds.

  Forgetting the meat pies, he strode toward his horse. He’d be damned if he let the brat roam loose in a rowdy crowd like this.

  Neville caught up with her in front of a pawn shop where Fiona leaned from her horse to converse with a merchant in a leather apron. The dratted brat had taken him literally. She hadn’t set her foot to earth, as promised. She must have sent someone in the shop to fetch the pawn broker.

  Her ferocious scowl at being caught struck Neville as immensely funny, but people seldom appreciated his sense of humor.

  “I’ll give you fair trade for whatever the lady is pawning,” Neville addressed the startled merchant. He prayed it wasn’t too costly. He had not brought funds for more than a brief stay in this godforsaken place.

  The man beamed. “A pound, my lord, and you may have this fine silver bracelet.” He held up a slim band that caught the sunlight.

  “He only gave me three crowns,” Fiona grumbled. “And this is none of your concern, as usual, my lord duke. Keep your coins. They’ll have better use elsewhere.”

  “The man deserves a commission for trading on the street.” Neville flipped the broker a sovereign and claimed the bauble. He didn’t know a great deal about jewelry, but the scrollwork on this piece looked old. He sent sulky Fiona a quick look. “Family heirloom?”

  “As I said, it’s none of your concern.”

  She abruptly steered her horse back to the street. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he bothered following. The first time he’d seen Fiona, she’d been a grimy urchin on the streets of London, searching for her brother, hiding from Michael, and creating chaos and anarchy all around her in the process. Two years had made a hell of a lot of difference in her appearance, if not her manners.

  He’d scarcely reached her side before she grabbed his sleeve, and pointed down a side street. “There he is! That’s the coat.”

  Neville glanced where she pointed, spotting the Arabian mare and the coat at the same time. “Get Seamus,” he ordered before spurring his gelding in the intruder’s direction.

  Fiona watched in amazement as the proper duke sent his mount sailing over a hedge and across the emerald lawn of some well-to-do cit, evidently aiming to cut off his prey at the alley as he would a fox on a hunt. Instead of obeying the duke’s orders, Fiona stayed behind her quarry, working her way through the crowd as quickly as possible to keep him in sight.

  A tent cut her off from the fancy mare for only a moment. By the time she passed a mob laughing uproariously at a Punch and Judy show, both mare and man had disappeared. And the duke had long since departed down the alley. Gritting her teeth, Fiona took the only path that seemed logical, following the main road as it curved around a block of shops, hoping to catch sight of either the duke or their prey.

  She found the duke first. Hat gone, golden-brown hair disheveled, he stood in his stirrups trying to see down a narrow, winding road past gaudy banners and shop signs, barrel wagons and cows.

  “He had to have gone this way,” she said as she rode up beside him. “I don’t see any other alleys.”

  Rath
er than point out her disobedience, the duke reined his horse into the melee. “We’ll follow the road out of town. Perhaps we can see easier there.”

  That suited her just fine. It’s what she would have done. The duke might irritate her beyond redemption, but he did have a habit of making the right decisions—most of the time.

  She wondered what he’d done with her bracelet. Aileen’s orphans could have used the coin he’d given that broker. They couldn’t eat jewelry. Buying the bracelet was not one of the duke’s better decisions, but then, she hadn’t explained the problem to him. She’d not let him know how much her grandmother’s bracelet meant to her.

  The crowd thinned as they wove their way out of town. Briefly, Fiona considered Seamus’ concern when he found them gone, but he’d find something to occupy his time. He could look for Colin. She knew the man ahead of them wasn’t Colin. That didn’t mean he was the thief or murderer, but he wasn’t Colin.

  She watched the duke scan the road. His gelding was taller than her mare, and the duke towered another head taller than she, so his view was less obscured than hers. From his expression, she’d judge that he hadn’t found their quarry. Although why she thought she could judge the expression of a man who never showed emotion was beyond her.

  She thought she discerned annoyance in his posture now, but she could just be transferring her own feelings to him. “There’s an inn ahead. We can make inquiries, and perhaps find something to eat that’s bound to taste better than street fare.”

  His Grace dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post. His effortless strength as he lifted her from her saddle nearly took Fiona’s breath away. His hands lingered just a moment too long at her waist. His intent gaze made butterflies take wing in her stomach. She stepped away so quickly she almost tripped over her horse.

  What was going on in his inscrutable mind now? He didn’t want her going inside a roadside inn but couldn’t leave her alone outside? She could tell him she’d been inside far worse, but she would only irritate him more.

  Without comment, she climbed the inn steps, pushing open the door as if she’d done it all her life. Vaguely, she realized a lady didn’t open doors for herself, but if she sat around waiting for men to do things for her, she’d still be sleeping in a cradle.

  Behind her, Neville closed his eyes against the sight of swinging hips and long legs. For the first time in his life, he considered prayer as a resource against temptation. Perhaps she’d run about the village in those clothes all her life and the men there had come to accept it. But she was on strange territory now. Someone should have shaken some sense into her long ago.

  It wasn’t his place to do so. Duty dictated that he protect her until she was back in her brother’s care again. That was all.

  But stepping inside the lowly inn, Neville had a sinking feeling that he stepped outside all propriety now. A gentleman did not escort an unmarried lady into a disreputable roadside inn. He was only thankful that he was far from London and anyone who might recognize him.

  The sounds of riot emanating from the tavern erased even that small prayer. The realization that Fiona was nowhere in sight sent him flying across the wooden lobby.

  ***

  Leaning his shoulders against the doorjamb, crossing his booted feet, Michael MacDermot, the Earl of Aberdare, stared at the letter in his hand as if expecting images to appear beyond the hastily scratched words.

  “What does he mean, they’re searching for clues? That’s what William’s there for. Dukes don’t grub around village streets looking for criminals. He’s just supposed to bring Fiona back.”

  His adopted brother, the Marquess of Effingham, shrugged and contemplated a crystal paper weight that changed colors when he moved it. “I think that crack on the noggin warped Neville’s thinking, not that I ever understood the way his head works, mind you.”

  “Simple,” Michael replied. “Duty comes first. Neville would place his vote in the Lords before his own funeral.”

  Effingham grinned. “I can see it now, the ghost of Anglesey standing up to be counted and the whole bench fainting dead away. I should live so long.”

  Michael scowled. “I’d better go see what this is about. I can’t have murderers running free around my estate.” He levered his slender frame from the doorjamb and dropped the letter on Effingham’s desk.

  “Ahem,” the marquess cleared his throat politely. “If my wife is to be believed, Blanche is in the family way again. You might want to rethink that decision. Ladies in their first months are notoriously unreliable.”

  Michael groaned and jammed his hands through his hair. “Oh, damn, so that’s why she demanded peaches with her dinner last night. Devil take it, this town’s put me off stride for certain.”

  Without further explanation, he dashed from the room, leaving Neville’s letter behind.

  Since his younger brother never cursed except in moments of high excitement—usually involving his wife—Effingham forgave his lapse. Picking up the letter, he read it over again.

  It seemed curiously coincidental that a man just viciously attacked and left for dead would stumble across another crime in a sleepy Irish village where he’d gone for rest and relaxation. Michael’s bookish Uncle William was not the man to look into the matter.

  Tapping a pen against his lips, Effingham considered the alternatives. The bloody proper Duke of Anglesey had his annoying moments, but he was a man who could be swayed by reason. Too few of those existed in the archaic halls of British Parliament. Perhaps His Grace had annoyed one too many people this past year or so. Perhaps it was meaningless coincidence.

  In either case, someone should look into the matter. Applying pen to paper, Effingham set in operation the rather formidable network of informants he’d established since coming to this country.

  It never hurt to be prepared.

  ***

  Dodging between two stocky farmers, Fiona grabbed a chair, swung on her heels, and slammed it against the skull of the first man crossing her path. The man groaned and collapsed to the floor with a satisfying thud. That would teach the lousy bastard to lay his molesting hands on her.

  Fiona thought she caught a grimace of disapproval from the duke, but his fists were otherwise engaged in breaking a man’s jaw, judging by the sound of the crack resonating through the room. They were overpowered five to two, but she thought they stood a fair chance of beating these drunken fools.

  Grabbing a pewter pitcher from the table, she flung its contents at the attacker lunging toward her. He scarcely halted his lumbering progress. Fiona darted to one side, thinking to bring the pitcher down over his head, but with more luck than strategy, her assailant grabbed her wrist before she could strike. The pitcher clattered to the floor as he twisted her arm.

  With lightning speed, a sword point notched the man’s Adam’s apple. The farmer gulped, dropped Fiona’s wrist, and backed away.

  In amazement, Fiona glanced around at the wreckage of the tavern. Four men lay groaning on the floor, clutching bruised and broken parts. She’d brought down only one. The fifth stood at sword point. Fiona’s gaze traced the long black handle of the duke’s walking stick to its source.

  With barely concealed jubilation, the haughty Duke of Anglesey twisted the sword cane a little tighter against her assailant’s neck. “How do you like your scoundrels served, my dear? Skewered and roasted over an open fire? Or slashed and stomped into the dust?”

  Speechless, Fiona just stared. The duke didn’t look as if he had a hair out of place. His immaculate linen remained properly unrumpled, and he was smiling. He had just laid flat three rogues and cornered a fourth, and he was smiling as if he’d made a particularly clever wager. And he’d called her “my dear.” He must have cracked his noble head in the brawl.

  His Grace lifted one arrogant brow and awaited her reply.

  “Just let him go,” Fiona whispered. “They’re drunk. They don’t deserve to die for stupidity.”

  Taking advantage of the duke’s
distraction, his captive backed away, spun around, and ran out the door faster than his squat legs should have carried him.

  The duke looked mildly disappointed but now that his regard returned to her, he apparently lost interest in his victory. Fiona squirmed beneath his gray-eyed stare and wished for the triumphant knight of a moment ago.

  “That’s fair of you,” he said, “since it’s your own stupidity that started this. I suggest we do without your nuncheon and leave this place while we still have our skin.”

  Something about the way he said “skin” distracted her from the iciness of his voice. Aware of the flesh exposed by her torn shirt sleeve, Fiona called upon the well of defiance that had sustained her all these years. Grabbing a roasted chicken from a platter on the table, she stalked past her adversary with shoulders thrown back. She’d be damned if she let any bloody Englishman intimidate her.

  Eight

  Bracing himself for the noise and the filth, Neville halted in the doorway of the orphans’ cottage. Now that he had some understanding of Fiona’s habits, he didn’t have to follow her when she fled the castle.

  The brawl at the inn—oddly enough—had given them each a new respect for each other. She still defiantly displayed her figure in the boys’ clothes, but he could almost understand the practicality of them. Actually, he had begun to wonder if the brawl hadn’t been a diversion created by their wily intruder.

  He watched as Fiona lifted a heavy kettle from the fire and set it on the hearth. She didn’t seem strong enough for such work, but the brat had qualities beyond the obvious.

  Six small heads bent over the trestle table, slurping at porridge. In the corner, the grandmother rocked a sleeping babe. Domestic contentment reigned, for the moment. Neville had already learned how easily the room could erupt in chaos. He’d prefer not disturbing the peace, but Fiona had to face facts sometime.