The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  “I cannot believe Michael’s done this to me,” Fiona muttered as the wind whipped the sails and the yacht set sail from Dublin some weeks after it first arrived. “Whatever did I do to deserve the witch?”

  Watching to be certain no one overheard, Neville leaned back against the rail and pulled his sulking wife into his arms. “Michael only wanted you to have someone from home with you. He means well. I couldn’t tell him I prefer your curls all tumbled about your face rather than pinned and proper. The widow was trained as a lady’s maid, and she was the only one willing to make the journey.”

  “But she’ll fuss and mother me and write everyone back home of everything we do.” Fiona snuggled against his chest, though her temper was still evident.

  “Another reason Michael chose her,” Neville replied dryly. “Should I neglect you in any way, our black widow will notify him immediately, and probably with great satisfaction.”

  “What if she’s the murderer?” His coat muffled her words.

  Neville wrapped her in the lengths of his greatcoat and steered her toward their berth. “If she had the money, she would have run far away by now.”

  “And Colin? What is his excuse for sending Colin to train your yearlings?” Fiona popped her head from the folds of his coat to glare at him.

  “To keep you from doing it?” he suggested wryly. “Because, if he were the murderer, he would be on his way to America now?”

  “Not Colin,” Fiona scoffed, throwing off the protection of both his coat and his embrace as they reached the companionway. “He could have paid his gambling debts or gambled and drunk it away before he ever bought passage. And surely Michael would not have left the orphans to McGonigle if he thought him the murderer.”

  Anticipating the night ahead with his wife and the yacht rocking on the waves, Neville didn’t ponder the mystery. “McGonigle appeared just a little overwhelmed this morn, didn’t he? It gave me great pleasure to see him with a toddler dangling from each arm. I think we have the wrong suspects, Fiona, my own. Now let us seek more pleasant subjects.”

  ***

  Restlessly, Fiona paced the elegant Anglesey drawing room, not seeing the beautifully carved blue and gold rug beneath her feet or admiring the gold brocade of the sofa, scarcely even noting the floor-to-ceiling windows undraped against the gloom of a January day. A fire burned in the grate, but she didn’t linger beside it, even when her fingers turned blue with cold.

  While they’d been in Ireland, Parliament had set aside the Catholic Emancipation Bill, but Neville and Michael were working on finding enough votes to pass the crime reform bill. Fiona supposed she should be glad that they worked for such a worthy cause, but she was losing her mind for lack of anything to do.

  She had chosen Anglesey over London. Neville only had rooms in London, and he’d obviously been relieved that he needn’t worry about her climbing the walls while waiting for his return each night. She could have stayed with Blanche and Michael in the townhouse, but she’d wanted a home of her own. She’d wanted to feel needed and useful.

  Foolish notion. Anglesey had run smoothly for years like a mechanical toy one wound up and let go. Kept oiled and wound, it needed no further attention.

  Unfortunately, she did. She’d had scarcely a month in Neville’s bed, yet the physical intimacy had become like a drug in her veins, and she craved it. She’d known she’d played with fire from the moment he’d first kissed her. She just hadn’t known she’d crave fire forever after.

  The head housekeeper scratched at the open door, then coughed to announce her presence. Grimacing, Fiona swung around to confront the iron-haired matron. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Would Your Grace care to go over the menu now?”

  The menu. She was the only one besides the servants in the whole blamed house, and they wanted a menu? She could live on tea and muffins for all she cared.

  But she had nothing better to do. At least the servants were trained to hide their feelings toward their penniless Catholic mistress. The least she could do was keep them from despising her more.

  “All right, Mrs. Hanna. Bring the menu into my writing parlor, and have someone douse the fire in here. There is no real reason to waste fuel heating this great cave just for me.”

  If the woman looked appalled at dousing even one of the dozen or more fires heating the living quarters of this palace, she had the grace to conceal it as she curtsied. Accustomed to the drafty halls of Aberdare, Fiona didn’t think she’d suffer greatly without this one fire. Surely it consumed more fuel than all the others put together.

  After sitting in the cozier comfort of her small parlor, studying the elaborate menu in her hand for half an hour, Fiona raised her head and stared out the frost-glazed window.

  She thought of the starving orphans surviving on potatoes and rain water. She remembered going days without meat. Sometimes, in winter, she’d lived on half a loaf of bread so she could take her meals to the women and children in the village who needed it more. She hadn’t really thought twice about it at the time.

  She looked down at the menu in her hand again and shook her head in disbelief. Every dinner had seven courses. She’d look like McGonigle’s prize pig if she ate all that. Did the kitchen staff get the leftovers?

  She hadn’t eaten more than a tray of light supper these past two nights since her arrival. Why in the name of heaven would they think she needed more?

  Ringing the bell, Fiona sent for the cook. She might as well begin as she meant to go on. They all despised her anyway. Or her religion. Or her foreignness.

  The cook was a tall, gaunt man with a shadow of a beard even this early in the morning. He looked down his long nose at her from a distance of some feet since she sat and he didn’t. Fiona had never dealt with a male house servant before. She could talk to the stable lads easily enough, but how did one address a chef? “The menu is quite exceptional,” she said politely.

  He nodded regally.

  “However, I’m not planning on entertaining until the duke comes home. I eat very little on my own.”

  The man made no effort to ease her plight.

  Pursing her lips in irritation, Fiona tried again. “Who eats what is left over?”

  The chef stiffened even more if that was possible. “I make only enough for the one.”

  Fiona raised her eyebrows and glanced down at the menu again. “A brisket of beef? Quail pie? Leg of mutton? You make enough for one what? One army?”

  “If Your Grace is displeased...” He leaned over the desk to rip the menu from her hand.

  Fiona tugged back. The page tore in two and they both deliberately shredded the halves they held. Fiona thought she detected the man’s eyes widening in surprise.

  “The menu is excellent if we are entertaining,” she informed in her best imperious manner. “However, we are not. I will have a light repast in the evenings, whatever everyone else has. I need only tea and muffins in the morning, or a bit of porridge. And the noon meal is the same—whatever is prepared. I trust the staff isn’t starving, so I shan’t either.”

  The chef looked horrified. “But Your Grace, you do not need me if you would eat the same slops as the swine.”

  Fiona bit back a giggle. Her cook’s opinion of the English wasn’t much higher than her own. Pigs, the lot of them, especially if they ate this much on any given day. However, she greatly suspected the cook and the upper servants consumed the majority of these delicacies.

  “His Grace needs your talents, Mr. Girouard. He would be truly distraught without you.” Fiona suspected she lied through her teeth. Neville never noticed what he ate. But he would eventually want to entertain, and she couldn’t shame him by driving away his excellent cook. Inspiration struck. “However, I would economize on the household budget while His Grace is away so I might purchase newer kitchen equipment in the future. You certainly deserve one of those new stoves, don’t you agree?”

  Girouard nodded with eagerness. “I understand completely, Your Grace,” he re
plied. “A new bride cannot ask for a larger budget so soon. His Grace would be most displeased. I will do my very best, Your Grace, and if I might suggest, the carving knives are a disgrace. We have desperately been in want of new ones.”

  Pleased with herself, Fiona vowed to buy knives with her first savings. It didn’t matter that the cook at home used the same knife for everything and probably had for a thousand years. She would reward anyone who helped in her economizing.

  Heady with her small triumph, she sent the cook away with a request that he have the steward bring the household books to her.

  She spent the remainder of the day studying the vast pages of accounts, frowning and scribbling, scratching out figures and jotting in new ones. Her education might be limited, but her mind was not. The utter extravagance in maintaining the household appalled her. She wished she had Blanche here to question. But even the amounts entered in Blanche’s fine script from several years ago were extensive. Surely Anglesey hadn’t entertained that much back then.

  With renewed purpose, Fiona called in Mrs. Hanna again. Ignoring the housekeeper’s haughty glare, she tapped the pages of the account book. “I know for a fact that His Grace has not entertained widely this past year, yet the butcher bills have increased. Why is this?”

  “Prices have increased, Your Grace. There is apparently a shortage of good beef and pork.”

  “Fustian.” Fiona slammed the book shut. “Why do we not raise our own animals?”

  The housekeeper rolled her eyes heavenward. “Anglesey has very limited pasturage, Your Grace. You would do better to discuss this with His Grace’s steward.”

  She didn’t need the steward to explain that most of the land surrounding Anglesey belonged to Blanche, and she rented it to the highest bidder. Fiona had figured that out for herself. She didn’t know how much Neville rented, but he would have to earn the highest profit possible from each acre to pay the rent. Raising cattle for use on Anglesey’s tables would not have a high profit margin. She doubted if Neville had ever looked at the household accounts to note the false economy of profiting on land and losing on butcher bills.

  “Very well. Is there a local butcher instead of this one from the city?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, but he seldom carries beef as he cannot sell enough before it goes bad. There is little coin for fresh meat here.”

  “With our current monthly expenditures for meat, we could buy two cows and two sheep from my Uncle William, have the local butcher process them, feed the entire staff, and still afford to give the remainder to charity, with money left over. These amounts are exorbitant, Mrs. Smith.”

  The housekeeper appeared puzzled but willing. “Yes, Your Grace. Shall I purchase cattle from your uncle, Your Grace?”

  Fiona bit back another grin. With a careless wave of her hand, she dismissed that suggestion. For now. “That’s a possibility after I speak with the duke. In the meantime, see if the local butcher cannot purchase livestock at some reasonable price, and we will calculate the costs involved. I’ve already instructed Mr. Girouard to cut back on the menu, so we’ll need less than before. I suppose Lady Blanche kept a list of households needing food baskets?”

  “In her head, Your Grace, but I’m certain one can be constructed. Might I make a suggestion, Your Grace?”

  “By all means, Mrs. Hanna.”

  “Many of the staff support families in the village. They haven’t received increases in some years. If, instead of charity, you included the excess meat as part of their wages, it would give them greater pride.”

  Fiona beamed her approval. “Excellent idea. And if we can create a savings at the end of the month, perhaps we could purchase sufficient yardage to begin making up new uniforms and livery.”

  It was the housekeepers turn to beam. “Might I say it’s a pleasure to have a duchess in charge of Anglesey once again, Your Grace?”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Hanna. It’s my pleasure. We’ll take a look at the candle inventory next. We don’t need beeswax for every day.” With that encouragement, Fiona dived back into the books again.

  Finally, she’d found a way of making herself useful.

  Twenty-eight

  “Your Grace, I know it is most presumptuous of me to take time from your busy schedule, but I really thought I must come to town to inform you. The souls of your tenants are of too much importance to relegate to a letter.”

  Neville rubbed his head even though it no longer ached. He’d listened to the vicar’s angry diatribe for half an hour now. Perhaps he should have followed Michael’s advice and pretended he was still dicked in the nob. Then he could just stare blankly at the smarmy little man until he took his ugly little cap and went home. Since when did English vicars begin wearing silly little hats anyway? Perhaps they wore them in the city.

  Realizing he was supposed to say something at this point, Neville bounced his pen against his blotter and nodded knowingly. “Of course, Ravensworth, I completely understand. I appreciate your bringing the matter to my attention. I’ll look into it immediately.” He’d said these phrases so many times before that he could repeat them in his worst nightmares. Unfortunately, this time, they related to the Duchess of Anglesey, his wife, and he was damned tired of making excuses. “The duchess is young and impetuous. I’ll see what it’s all about, Ravensworth. Don’t worry yourself.”

  “She could be making papists of them all, Your Grace,” the vicar warned. “I’d not have that on your soul.”

  “No, of course not.” Neville stood, effectively dismissing the man since he didn’t seem to know when to leave on his own.

  “And she’s buying supplies from that Gypsy, Meiner!” the vicar turned from the door, remembering still another complaint.

  “Meiner is a Jew, not a Gypsy,” Neville answered wearily. “Thank you for coming, Ravensworth.”

  Neville watched with relief as the vicar finally bumbled out, only to discover the Marquess of Effingham waiting his turn in the doorway. This was the problem with living in town—too damned many people.

  Scowling, the duke dropped back in his chair. “What do you want?”

  The broody marquess seldom smiled, but cynical humor wrinkled the corners of his eyes now. “The grasshopper visiting plagues upon the fields of heathens?” he inquired, flinging his long frame into the chair the vicar had just vacated.

  “Close enough. She had an argument with the vicar about using church funds to aid women with children, even those with no visible husband. When he refused to aid sinners, she found a clergyman from heaven knows where and installed him in the Anglesey chapel. The village vicar is morally incensed.”

  The marquess steepled his long fingers together and nodded. “Surely our Fiona had more sense than to hire a Catholic clergyman?”

  Neville ran his hands through his hair. “I think the church has to do that. No, I’ve already heard the tale from the butler. Fiona is much more ecumenical than you give her credit for. When she discovered most of the staff has Methodist leanings, she hired a Methodist.”

  The marquess choked on what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Rubbing his hand across his mouth to hide any smile, he sat back in his chair. “Definitely a breath of fresh air. Have you reserved your room in Bedlam yet? You’ll never survive.”

  Neville fought an unusual urge to chuckle. “Bedlam won’t take me after Fiona’s done. She’s quit dealing with the mercantile Anglesey has used for generations in favor of dealing with an itinerant Jew. She has the estate gardeners learning to thatch roofs, and she’s asked my steward if she might have one of the fields for garden plots for the tenants in exchange for them making their own repairs on the cottages. The reports come in regularly from all sources.”

  This time, the marquess did laugh out loud.

  Neville restlessly rearranged his inkpots and pens. “I’m glad you find it so damned humorous. I’ll probably be stoned next time I set foot upon my own land.”

  Shaking his head, Effingham controlled his laughter. “I’m totally
delighted you’re the one who ended up responsible for her. After spending one summer chasing her through the slums of London when she wasn’t teaching the children how to play ‘banshees,’ I figured Michael would have to export her to Australia. I didn’t think even the Americans could handle her.” He shrugged. “And your tenants and staff won’t stone you. They’ll adore you. It’s your aristocratic neighbors who will want your hide nailed to the wall.”

  Neville muttered a pithy curse describing what the neighbors could do with themselves. “It will get worse if Townsend has his way. He already has half of Parliament demanding an investigation into Fiona’s ‘traitorous’ activities. If the other half gets wind of her reformist notions, they’ll start screaming bloody murder too. She’s my wife, dammit. What the devil do they think she can do? Tear down the Tower with her bare hands?”

  The marquess’s expression sobered. “That’s why I’m here. Townsend is determined to have that cabinet vacancy, and he’ll accomplish it at any cost. You’re his only obvious competition. If he can bring you down, he’ll not only have the position, but he’ll destroy any chance we might have of eventually passing the emancipation and crime reform bills. We can’t allow that, Neville. Michael and I can stomp out the rumor mill, but you have to keep Fiona in line. As an American born and raised, I truly despise saying this, but she’ll antagonize the entire Lords if she continues heedlessly thumbing her nose at time-hallowed tradition.”

  “I’ll talk with her,” he agreed with a sigh. “I’ll clear my schedule for the next few days and ride out to Anglesey. Fiona can be made to see reason. I’m just not entirely certain that I can. If she wants to hire Jews and Methodists, that’s her concern. She’s the one living out there.”

  Effingham stood up. “Were it any other woman, I’d say bring her to London and let her fritter her time shopping. I’d bite off my tongue before suggesting that of Fiona. Are you sure your brain wasn’t cracked when you agreed to this marriage?”

  Neville stood up and pointed at the door. “Friendship goes only so far, Gavin. Out.”