by Beverly Adam
Lord Patrick called out after her as she prepared to reluctantly leave the room. “And be a good lass and close the doors behind you. There’s a fierce draft coming from the main hall.”
She nodded, but sensing something was afoot left it open a crack. She fully intended to listen at the door.
The old lord set aside his drink. “Now, you were saying that you might stay on. May I ask what it would take to entice ye to stay, Your Grace?’’
James, the Earl of Drennan, ex-captain of his majesty’s service, swirled the ruby liquor in his crystal tumbler. He was enjoying the moment. It’d been a long time since he’d gambled, having decided upon buying out of his majesty’s service that debtor’s prison was not the sort of quarters he wished to find himself in. He’d given up the heady addiction. Leaning back comfortably into his chair, he decided it was the moment to pass the first ace of information to his partner, Lord Patrick O’Brien.
“’Tis simple, sir. I’ve need of a wife,” he stated plainly without any further to do.
“Oh, so that be the way of it. And might I be so bold as to ask what qualities ye’d be after in seeking one, sir?”
The young earl took a light sip from the tumbler and looked the lord directly in the eye and said without bluffing, “She must be rich.”
“To be sure,” nodded the old lord sagely, “you’ve only the castle estates and another smaller one, I hear, in the next parish to live on. And although they’ll bring you a tidy sum, I imagine your lordship will be needing plenty of gilt to make your life more comfortable.” And thinking of the decaying castle, which the younger lord was considering turning into his permanent residence, he added, “Not t’ mention more habitable.”
Lord Patrick scratched underneath his graying beard in thought.
“Hmm . . . there be rich brides aplenty to be had around London and Dublin. Aye, ye could do very well indeed by tying the knot with some rich cit’s offspring. What with your title, the ladies would line up for the privilege.”
The young earl shook his head and gave a feigned doleful sigh. “And she must be of Irish lineage. ’Tis not been bandied about, but my title requires that I marry an Irish lady of blue-blood. My uncle, you must understand, detested the thought of the title passing completely into English hands. In order for me to inherit, he put in his will that I must marry—”
“An Irish lass of good lineage.” The old lord nodded, finishing the thought. “Aye, I ken to your problem, lad. There are no Irish blue-blooded lasses left for the having around these parts, except my lass. . . .”
All of a sudden, he beamed. He looked the young earl over with a speculative gleam in his merry, green eyes, the very same color as that of his unwed spinster daughter’s, only more full of good humor.
“But, say no more. I believe I’ve the perfect bride for ye. Aye begorra, I’ll even see the lass leg-shackled to you m’self!” he said, clapping his thighs in evident delight as he thought of one particular dark-haired lass with a quick-spirited temper and gilt aplenty to spare on a crumbling ancestral castle. And this lass was of a very good Irish lineage, even if he did say so himself.
“I thought you might,” answered the earl, waiting for the old lord to mention the lady’s name. He kept a poker face of indifference. Lady Beatrice was the winning royal flush in Lord Patrick’s hand. If he’d managed to win the old lord over in accepting him as a suitor for his only child, then he’d overcome one of the biggest hurdles in his campaign.
Lord Patrick did not have a chance to utter his daughter’s name when the doors swung open and a vexed Lady Beatrice strode into the room.
She pushed her father forward and brought forth the errant wrap, which he’d let slip down his back. With a huff under her breath and a word about “addlepated old men,” she marched out of the room again.
Lord Patrick turned with a half-apologetic smile towards his guest. “Mind, you’ll have to be persistent to catch her. This lass, well, she’s got a wee bit o’ bad temper. And to my dying shame she’s known as—”
“The Spinster of Brightwood Manor,” supplied the earl with a hint of boredom in his voice. “And before you ask whether or not I’m interested in courting her, the answer is . . . aye, sir . . . aye. For I’m very much set in getting my own way.” He ran a finger slowly and meaningfully along the jagged white line on his face.
Bushy white eyebrows lifted with concern. “Sir, we’re speaking of wooing and winning me only daughter and heir. Not of fighting them rascally Latins.”
“Oh, are we? Ever since I got nearly shot out from under my mount, I’ve had difficulty telling the difference.” The earl sighed as though the evening had been entirely too tiresome for words and he now meant to seek the assured comforts of bed. “My humblest apologies, Lord O’Brien. I see now you only meant to speak of your eligible daughter in passing.” He raised a hand to summon his man to aid him.
“Nay, sir. Sit down, if you please,” the defeated father protested, waving his hands for him to sit.
“You’ve the right of the matter. Me lass is a bit unruly and, as ye can tell, hard won the shameful name she’s now called. I donna suppose you’ve heard, but she was almost betrothed once to another worthy English gentleman of title. But he called it off at the last moment and ran off to join the army instead. Aye, and ever since she’s been wearing that horrid mantle of spinsterhood.”
“My word, sir, that is a bit harsh. The lady has undoubtedly been unjustly maligned,” said the young earl yawning effectively behind his hand. “What I’ve seen tonight was pure daughterly affection and modesty of spirit. Indeed, the more I see of the lady, the more resolved am I to woo her. Is it not you Irish who say, ‘Never take a wife who has no faults?’ Demme, if I’m not willing to take her as I find her, sir.”
He’d thrown down his last trump. He wanted the wealthy and charmingly sharp-minded Lady Beatrice O’Brien. And if the sparks of attraction between them yesterday in his bedchamber were any indication to go by, she’d make the perfect spouse for him. He waited, his fingers clasped comfortably around the tumbler, confident that soon the game would end and his suit would be accepted.
It did not take long for Lord Patrick to come to a decision. He had a cantankerous daughter, which no man, as yet, had managed to get close to. And yet within three days’ time, this English lord had managed to get the saucy, sharp-tongued lass of his to prepare his morning meal not once, but twice. Aye, he nodded thoughtfully with wonder. Who knows what might happen if the English earl decided to become better acquainted?
As for Beatrice, by the holy rood, the lass needed a husband! Brushing aside the fact that both his daughter and the earl were of hot, unruly dispositions, the old lord spat into his hand and held it out to seal the match.
“My lord, ’tis a match made in heaven,” James said. A faint sardonic smile lit his rugged face as he heartily spat into his own palm and slapped his future father-in-law’s hand. They shook forcefully. The couple was now as good as promised to each other.
* * *
The next morning the earl’s sweet success with Lord Patrick was singed with the aroma coming from his morning tray. The smells rising from the silver serving platters served were not what one would call appetizing.
Lifting the lids off, he quickly discovered why. The toast was burnt to a crispy black and the herring smelled, although poached, as if it had come from a slop pail. Next to that was watery gruel that someone had decided to pass for half-cooked porridge and a muddy-colored cup of East Indian tea, tepid, no doubt.
“Davis,” he said, holding his nose. “Return this pig’s slop from whence it came and bring me back a proper mess.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” agreed the valet, wrinkling his own nose in distaste. It was worse fare than what they had eaten in Spain.
“So, my lady, you’ve declared war upon me,” mused the earl as he read the epistle included. It informed him that the sooner he was able to remove himself from Brightwood Manor, the better. “Well, we shall see about
that.” Rolling the parchment into a tube, he set it on fire and calmly lit his pipe.
Down in the kitchens, the culprit watched with barely-restrained satisfaction as the somber faced Davis returned the tray. “Without His Grace’s compliments.”
Her companion, the love-struck Druscilla, tried to aid the valet. But the stalwart corporal brushed past her, turning his ramrod back on her in silent dismissal. Evidently, he believed she had played a party in the plot to sabotage his master’s morning mess.
When he disappeared through the pantry door carrying a freshly laid tray of his own making, the wretched companion burst into a torrent of tears.
“Oh, come now, come now,” reproved Beatrice, patting her on the back. “Making a watering pot of yourself will do no good. ’Tis ridiculous, all this remorse. Truly, Dru’, he doesn’t merit your eyes turning that most unpleasant shade of red. For sure now, in a sennight’s time you’ll realize that you’re far better off without him.”
The companion shook off her mistress’s consoling hands. Bedad, her lady had no heart! It was made of pure Canamara stone!
The young companion drew herself up and looked her mistress directly in the eye. “I know you think me a right fool, my lady,” she sniffed, “but you needn’t have played such a mean, spiteful trick. Just because you’re planning on leaping apes in hell doesn’t mean the rest of us have to, as well!”
Shocked, Beatrice stood stone still. Her companion had said what no one had tactfully dared since her broken betrothal a year ago. If she had slapped her on the face, Druscilla Pruit could not have wrought her revenge any better.
Druscilla, frightened by the calm look on her mistress’s pale face, began to plead for forgiveness, saying she hadn’t meant to say such cruel words. Beatrice paid her no heed and walked away.
In the privacy of her chambers, she gave herself a long study. Gone along with pretty bouquets and romantic girlish dreams was the dimpling round face that had been hers when she’d made her first debut in Dublin. In its place a thinner, more pronounced oval. High cheekbones had replaced the dimples of long ago and her green eyes stared back at her knowingly.
She undid the knot that held her hair in place. Long, black, silky strands fell in lustrous waves down her back.
“Viscount Linley used to say that it reminded him of crow feathers, fine black, shiny and glossy.” She ran her fingers through the tresses, remembering her ex-fiancé, an arrogantly brutal English youth whose passion for spending money and gambling held his heart’s sway more than she ever could.
“Aye, me darling, and ’twas you who helped send him away,” she thought, staring at her reflection, the dimple from her youth faintly making its appearance at the corners of her generous mouth. “To think that no one knew that it was I who secretly arranged for his commission in the army. None found out, not even Da. For the money I bribed the army with had come hard won from the wool of my own sheep.”
She grabbed her pillow and threw it joyfully into the air.
“The Spinster of Brightwood Manor. Ha!” Adroitly, she landed a blow against the bedpost. Bursting, the pillow’s feathers flew every which way in a white flurry.
Laughing giddily, she twirled around dizzily under the rain of white plumage until landing with a muffled, “Oomph,” she fell backwards onto the soft, downy mattress of her chamber bed.
* * *
The earl watched from his usual post by his bedchamber window. His field glass against his eye. Lord Patrick sat astride a horse loaded with a sennight’s worth of provisions and a bedroll. His Grace’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. It appeared the devil’s own luck was with him. The old lord was about to make one of his famous disappearances. Already having devised the next step in his carefully laid plans, he gave the awaited command to charge.
“Davis, quick man, fetch my evening clothes. And then send for two servants to carry me down. Tonight I dine alone with Lady O’Brien!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” saluted his servant and left to look for help.
* * *
The lady of the house sat in her father’s chair at the head of the table. She leaned back, perfectly content to be alone. All those who could order her about had left, including her friend the wise woman.
While her father was preparing for one of his mysterious walkabouts, Sarah had informed her she’d received an urgent message from her mother, the renowned healer, Gladys Clogheen of Varrik-on-Suir. Fearing that the old wise woman was ill and dying, she’d left posthaste on the next carriage heading north.
Beatrice had watched with barely contained satisfaction as her father and friend disappeared down the road. Turning with one final wave, she’d fair danced up the manor steps to her long awaited liberation.
“Freedom,” she hummed contentedly to herself. “Aye, ’tis truly grand to be doing for once as one pleases.”
Soon the leading strings of proper conventional manners would be snipped off completely. She was on the verge of becoming that most dreaded of all females, an original. No man, be it squire, earl, or duke, would dare to court her then. It would be just too risky. Rich or not, a gentleman wouldn’t want to marry such an uncertain oddity. Aye, they’d wonder what dangerously outrageous ideas might enter into her head.
Once she turned five and twenty, she’d finally have a free hand with her dowry. She could cast off the shackles of propriety and start to build cottage schools, create a dispensary, and hire skilled Quakers to work their art of silk weaving using her newly planted mulberry trees to feed the worms.
Oh, there were at least a half dozen other modern enterprises she wanted to put her hands and blunt into. So many things she’d been denied a chance to investigate and finance because she was of the gentler sex, and her father’s ward. She just needed to be patient. A mere six more months and she’d be completely free to do as she pleased with her wealth.
And as for that tiresome English earl—bah! That fop could do her no harm! Just because her father had given him leave to court her didn’t mean that he’d have the slightest chance of getting her.
She had tripped gaily up the steps to take her midday meal, blithely without another thought to anyone reporting her actions. She’d sat down in her father’s now unoccupied chair dreaming of her freedom.
Her happy reverie, however, dissolved as a commanding voice boomed out orders in a most regimental manner. “Straight ahead . . . maarch!”
The sound of uniformed feet, scuffling towards the dining room, could be heard. Suddenly, the French doors sprung open and in entered none other than the devil himself, the Earl of Drennan.
Turning, she stared in openmouthed astonishment as two servants carried her guest, like a princely maharaja upon a red-velvet throne chair, into the room.
Waving his walking cane about, he boomed out instructions. “To the left now. Steady on, men. Ahh . . . splendid.” He nodded pleasantly to her in acknowledgment. A bright, red, smoking jacket enfolded his broad shoulders as he waved his polished cane about in greeting.
“It would appear that I’m just in time to join you for supper, my lady.”
She bristled at the idea of being “his” anything. He paid no heed at her disapproving scowl. He pointed to the chair next to her own. The empty chair was decorously removed by a servant and his chaise carefully settled into place.
“Là, I do hope the chef hasn’t burnt anything tonight,” he said in an even, conversational tone. “You must know, ma’am, I was served the most appalling meal this morning. ’Twas most criminal what it did to my delicate digestion. And I fear, my dear,” he added in cool, even tones, “that if I’m served the same pig swill again, I shall be ever so vexed.”
He gently patted his walking-stick with measured significance, the scar below his eyes giving him the look of a man ready to fight his way to a decent meal.
Beatrice winced uncomfortably. As an honored guest, he had the right to demand punishment for the insult served. Indeed, if he so desired, the earl could complain to her father about
her lack of cordiality. And Lord Patrick, being a lovingly stern parent, would then be forced to see she was given the thrashing she deserved.
“But, ahh . . . such delectable smells.” The earl sniffed, the mouthwatering roast mutton garnished with carrots and turnips filled the room with its delicious aromas. He looked under the hot serving trays. “It appears that all is well once again in your ladyship’s kitchen.” He nodded to one of the servants to serve him. “Aye, ’tis wondrously edible, m’dear.”
“I’m delighted you find it thus,” she said gritting her teeth, trying not to be disconcerted by his arrogant appearance.
“But from what you’ve just disclosed, my lord, I wonder if you mightn’t reconsider taking your leave to return posthaste to the more certain comforts of your own home.”
James raised one dark sardonic eyebrow at her impertinence.
“I shall return to the castle soon, but as I’ve said before, there are so many attractions to my staying here. Including, if I might be so bold, the daughter of the household.”
“Là, sir,” she said, rolling her eyes at the pretty comment. “Next you’ll be telling me I remind you of the fabled Queen of Sheba.”
“Nay, Lady O’Brien, I do not seek any riddles where you’re concerned. Though to be truthful, I’d hoped you might divert me out of my present doldrums.”
Disconcerted, she looked down into her lap. She’d tried unsuccessfully to forget that but two days ago she’d been alone with him in his bedchamber. And if he meant diversion to mean . . . her cheeks heated warmly at the remembrance of the passionate embrace they’d shared.
His voice took on the pompous tones of an elder speaking to a child. At the same time, he summoned the valet to pour him some more wine. “I’d hoped you’d play a few hands of cards with me. However, knowing so few ladies of my acquaintance who are as logically minded as myself, I thought that perhaps you would not wish to—”
The phrase “as logically minded as myself” lodged itself in her thoughts in the same manner a cannonball might in the first volley of war. The badly worded insult caused Beatrice’s long, slender fingers to tighten around the arms of her father’s chair. She listened to him continue to rattle on in a bored lecturing tone about the mental superiority of the male species.
