“Now,” began the man. “Now that you’ve closed your Catholic gobs, I’ll speak t’ the young runt.” Infused with anger, a hint of brogue slid through the man’s efforts to maintain his English composure.
Juggy stepped forward, clasping Jemmy by the elbow. “What do ya want with the young lord? He’s just buried his father, so he has. Tis that not enough? Or didn’t ya know?”
“Aye, so he’s just buried his father.” The man smirked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But what do you know of it?” His lips curled to a grin. “I am the corpse’s brother.”
“Richard Annesley,” Fynn said, reciting the name flatly.
“M’da has no brother,” Jemmy said. “He—”
“Aye, but he did, Seámus. He did indeed.” Fynn was slowly advancing. “So Richard, where’s yer black beard? Or aren’t ye hiding behind no more?”
“Stand back!” Richard drew his pistol, cocking it. “Stand back, Irish cur!”
Fynn stopped, then raised his arms, smiling. “Wouldn’t want t’ be upsettin’ ye. Ney. That wouldn’t do—now would it? Considering how upset ye must be over the loss of yer dear brother.” Richard shifted in his saddle, but kept his aim steady. “Let me think on this,” Fynn continued, now feigning contemplation. “If I be right, ye’ve come t’ claim the title and property of the Earlship for yerself. Aye?” He turned, patting the rump of the horse beside Richard. “And this here must be the arse of Captain Bailyn.”
Bailyn jerked his horse around. “Get yer b’deviled hand off m’horse!” He spat at Fynn through two crooked yellow teeth. His thin face was pale, unshaven, smallpox scarred.
Fynn smirked. “Good God, Bailyn, ye’re more ugly than last we saw ye.”
Richard motioned Bailyn back. “Kennedy, the boy is a bastard. Ye know ‘tis so.”
“I am not!” Jemmy burst.
“Ye say he is, do ye?” said Fynn. “Of course ye do.”
Juggy stepped in front of Jemmy. “So whose child ya say he is?”
“Ah, m’lady,” Richard began. “I’d think you’d be the Betty t’ answer that.” Juggy’s face tightened, her cheeks growing red.
“Damn ye!” Fynn erupted. “I’ll not stand for yer insults against the lady or the lad.”
“Lady, say you?” Richard spurred his horse sideways, placing his pistol against Fynn’s temple, knocking off Fynn’s hat. “I told you, maggot, step away.” As Fynn took one deliberate step back, Richard grabbed Juggy by the collar, dragging her to his saddle, pressing her smooth face against the leather. He leaned down to her ear, his eyes and pistol still aimed at Fynn. “As you’re aware, I speak true when I say the knave is the son of a whore. Aye, Mistress Mackercher?” He released her with a slight shove.
As Juggy stumbled back, Jemmy charged. “Ye’re not my uncle! I have no uncle!” Just as he bolted by the third horseman, the man kicked out a spur, slicing Jemmy’s right cheek, knocking him to the mud. He clutched his jaw, blood streaming through his fingers. Juggy was to him but he was already on his feet, backing up, refusing her, glaring at everyone.
“Now hear me, all of ye!” shouted Richard, straightening in his saddle. “This bastard boy goes by the name James Annesley, claiming to be the son of the widow Mary Annesley, once Lady Anglesea. But as you all well know, my brother was a drunken whoremonger and this boy is but a whore’s son. He is a charlatan. An imposter and a liar. I am Lord Richard Annesley, the one and true Earl of Anglesea. And so help me, I’ll hang the one of ye who says otherwise.” He pointed his pistol at Jemmy. “Starting with you.”
Jemmy stared back, eyes narrowing.
American Red Page 59
