O'Rourke's Heiress

by Bancroft, Blair

  O’Rourke’s Heiress

  by Blair Bancroft

  Published by Kone Enterprises

  at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 by Grace Ann Kone

  For other books by Blair Bancroft,

  please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  ~ * ~

  PART I

  Chapter One

  March, 1799

  Sheltered in the lea of a towering column, the boy scowled at the grassy courtyard of Trinity College as rain poured down from leaden skies, flowed out onto the cobbled streets of Dublin and tumbled down the gentle incline toward the River Liffey. He was thin and ragged, eleven years old. Or so he maintained. An insignificant street urchin, except for the intelligence behind brilliant blue eyes shining from a pinched face beneath a crumpled cap. In spite of a daily scramble for food, he was outgrowing his patched breeches. His jacket, retrieved from a corpse in an alley behind O’Malley’s pub, was many sizes too large, his socks beyond darning. Without the holes in the toes of his shoes, his feet would no longer fit inside.

  He’d had a good afternoon, however. Curled up in a dim corner of the great library where kind-hearted students let him hide once they discovered the dirty scrawny child could actually read. They considered him a phenomenon. Odd, inexplicable. A defiant rebel living the free life they sometimes thought they wanted. So under the great rounded arches which soared far above the college’s two-level stacks of books, the students conspired to keep him hidden from the monitors, never suspecting their precocious pet was about to disappear as completely as if the River Liffey had swallowed him up and swept him out to sea.

  Terence O’Rourke tugged his cap farther onto his forehead as rain waterfalled off its brim. Sure, and he should be used to it, but leaving his beloved library to come out into this was not the best way to end a fine day. And fine it was, for his friend Gavin, one of Trinity’s younger students, had shown him the Greek alphabet and marveled at his excitement over what caused other boys his age to groan and make faces behind their tutors’ backs. Terence didn’t know why he wanted to learn, only that he did. That his mother could read and had taught him, even as she had tried to earn their bread as a seamstress. And, having failed, turned to other things Terence never named, not even in the deepest recesses of his mind.

  But now he was hungry. And being a son of the Ascendancy, as his mother had always asserted, wasn’t going to put food in his belly. A bastard was a bastard, no matter what his religion. So he had to do what he’d done every day since his ma died. Steal what he needed.

  Then again, there was O’Malley. In return for straightening out his accounts, the pub keeper was good for a full meal and occasional handouts during times between. And, besides, the streets were too deserted for a quick bump and grab. Terence’s fingers were so chill and wet a gent’s wallet might slip from his grasp liked greased lightning. So he’d try O’Malley first. Risking the publican’s wrath was surely better than picking through the garbage thrown into the alley. Grown men fought over scraps of food back there in the narrow darkness.

  Terence pushed off the column, jogging down the pebbled path, through the black wrought iron gate, and into the street. Four blocks it was to O’Malley’s, with water sloshing up to his ankles on its rush down to the Liffey. It was nearly dark, an early spring afternoon turning rapidly to a gloom scarcely penetrated by the few street lanterns in downtown Dublin. He rounded the corner into Grafton Street, moving as fast as he could on the uneven slippery cobbles. And, praise God or the Devil, what did he see? A well-dressed gent as mad as himself, striding through the rain as if it weren’t there. Powerful gent, but not a lord. Shoulders like a smithy, the neck of a bull, and carrying a stout cane. But well-dressed for all that, with a caped cloak like an English toff and a tall beaver Terence coveted on the instant. If only . . .

  No, he thought with a sigh that bent his thin shoulders. In daylight, with no rain, when he could run like the wind and lose himself in the crowd, he could manage it with no trouble at all. The wallet and perhaps the hat as well. But tonight . . . Terence slipped into a doorway, taking a moment to contemplate the problem. There must be a way. If the gent was going to O’Malley’s, he could simply wait, hoping his quarry was a man with a thirst. A great Irish thirst. And yet, somehow the gent didn’t look Irish. Too well fed, perhaps. Yet not refined enough for the Ascendancy.

  And he was getting away. Terence shot out of the doorway, running, stumbling to catch up. When the man turned to cross the street toward the faint light shining from the front windows of O’Malley’s pub, Terence was nearly on his heels, still wondering how he could relieve this fine quarry of his money. Afterwards, he’d always say he didn’t want anything to happen to that fine beaver hat, but when a coach and four came hurtling down the street, the coachman blinded by the darkness, rain, and his certain belief that no one mattered more than the convenience of the lord inside the coach, Terence heard himself scream a warning, even as he launched himself toward the bull-necked gent. He didn’t quite make it.

  The weight of the boy’s slight body as it hit his back was little more than a gnat to Tobias Brockman, but he’d heard the warning. As he leaped forward, he slipped on the cobbles and fell, just in time to cushion the fall of the boy who, he suspected, had taken a blow from the left front leader. Tobias grabbed the boy in a bear hug, rolled them both to the side of the road as the coach and four plunged by, splashing them with a shower of muddy water. One short whimper, quickly cut off, but enough to let Tobias know the boy was conscious.

  “Where were you hit, boy?”

  “Me shoulder.”

  “Can you move?”

  “I think so.” The words sounded more defiant than certain. Instead of being chastened, the young scamp seemed annoyed he’d allowed himself to be damaged.

  “Unaccustomed to playing the hero, are ye?”

  “Aye.” A very grudging aye.

  Tobias hauled himself to his feet. The last few years had been too good to him. He was slowing down, grown careless, not quite the sharp fighter he once had been. Pushing forty he was, and little to show for it but a fine bank balance. Not the time for philosophy, he supposed, but it never was with him. Introspection hadn’t made him what he was, a man well on his way to being the richest self-made man in Britain and Ireland.

  Tobias bent over, lifted the boy to his feet. Lord, the lad weighed next to nothing! “I pay my debts, boy,” he declared. “A meal at yon pub while I see what you’ve done to yourself. Does that meet with your approval?” Why he’d added that last he couldn’t have said, but the instincts which had made him rich told him this was no common street urchin.

  “It’ll do,” the boy conceded grandly.

  The smell hit them like a comforting blanket of the familiar. O’Malley’s was redolent with ale, whiskey, roast meat, lantern oil, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, the musky odor of damp wool, and other scents which were best ignored. If Terence’s shoulder hadn’t hurt so badly his stomach threatening t
o revolt, he would have thought it heavenly. But miss out on the offer of a good meal he never would, even if the gent had saved him instead of the other way round. So he’d ignore the pain, tell his stomach to quit trying to turn itself inside out. He’d manage. He always did.

  “Well, boy,” roared O’Malley when he caught sight of him, “an’ where’ve you been hiding y’rself? Me menu’s needed changing for three days now.”

  Well now, and wasn’t O’Malley eyeing the gent like he had indecent intentions? Terence shut out his pain, sharpened to attention.

  “Menu?” the gent roared right back. “Are you daft, man?” Without waiting for an answer, the older man headed for an empty snug, neatly solving the problem of Terence’s weakness by wrapping an arm around his waist and carting him along with his toes dangling just above the ale-soaked floorboards. The walls of the snug rose up around them, shutting them into a private world cut off from the hubbub they’d just passed through. Except for O’Malley.

  The publican, unaccustomed to being ignored in his own establishment, loomed in the doorway. “The good Lord knows what you want with the lad,” he growled, “but he’s not for you. He works for me, he does. Educated he is, reads and writes. I gets him to chalk me menus. And it’s been needing changing all week.” He turned to Terence who was now tucked up on a bench. “I suppose you’ve been holed up with your books again, forgetting those that keep you fed.” O’Malley shook his massive finger under the boy’s nose. “Not a morsel, not a mouthful until you’ve redone the board. And I care not what your fine friend may say.”

  “The boy’s hurt. I’ll do your demmed board.” Tobias Brockman rose, nose to nose with O’Malley.

  “Hurt?” Sean O’Malley repeated ominously. “And how, may I ask, did that happen?” he asked, leaving no doubt he held his customer personally responsible for the boy’s injury.

  “Offside leader while I was crossing the street,” Terence hastened to reply. “Nothing’s broken. I’ve had worse.”

  “So what do you want on your board?” Tobias Brockman barked.

  The publican glared at the two of them, then finally shrugged, turning to lead the stranger to the chalkboard behind the bar. But not before Terence’s gent had ordered two full suppers with accompanying pints of ale.

  “Now then,” the gent declared when he returned, “let’s see how bad you’re hurt.” Terence did his best to squirm up against the wall, but quickly found his jacket off, his shirt skinned up over his back. “Ah,” the older man breathed, “you’re lucky, boy. Nothing worse than a bad bruise. It’ll hurt like the devil for the next few days, but you’ll mend.” He dropped the shirt, helped the boy back into his jacket, then suddenly drew the battered cap off his head. “So you’re black Irish,” he murmured as Terence’s shock of unruly hair was revealed. “As black as the coal I mined when I was your age.”

  He caught the spark of interest in the bright blue eyes which had seemed determined to display nothing more than truculence. “Yes, boy, I was down in the pits but took off as soon as I could.” As the buxom barmaid approached, smiling broadly at Terence’s benefactor, Brockman leaned in close, winked at the boy. “And now I own ’em. The mines. Sometimes pastures really are greener, boy.” He grinned at the waitress, not hesitating to pat her ample backside as she bent over their table. “Got you a pint, too, boy. Figure it won’t be your first.”

  “No, sir.” So why would the gent reveal he was wealthy? Was he making an offer? Ah well, no need to worry about that ’til he’d eaten. Terence had received plenty of offers. He knew that under the rags and dirt he was far too pretty. Even his ma had had offers for him. Starting when he was not more than three. And often and often, on a hungry belly, they’d been hard to turn down. But there were some things he’d decided he’d not do even if he starved. At least that’s what he’d always vowed, and so far he’d been smart enough to keep body and soul together without putting that final question to the touch.

  With as much bravado as he could manage, Terence reached out with his good arm, hefted the mug and drank off two hearty swallows of ale.

  They didn’t talk while they ate, just shoveled the food down with a will, though Terence noticed the gent was sort of keeping an eye on him. Could he possibly care that he was hurting, or did he have something else in mind?

  “Now, boy,” said the solidly built stranger as he wiped up the final bits of gravy with a chunk of bread, “it’s time for names. “I’m a Welshman, name of Brockman. Tobias Brockman. I’m in Dublin on business. So who are you?”

  The blue eyes looked straight at him, as if they were of equal age and fortune. Tobias already knew the boy intrigued him. Now he began to suspect there might be something even more important happening here.

  “Terence O’Rourke of County Wicklow.”

  “And what are you doing in Dublin, Terence O’Rourke?”

  “My mother thought to better herself.”

  “And did she?”

  The boy’s eyes shifted far beyond the smoke-filled room outside the snug. Silently, he shook his head. “She’s been gone near three years now.”

  “Gone as in passed on?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you live on your own?”

  Terence’s eyes flashed back to his benefactor. “I’ll not go to the workhouse. Never! It’s the Liffey for me before that!”

  “Hush, hush, boy, no one said anything about the workhouse. I’ll not peach on ye. So answer me true, do have kith or kin, friends, anyone to look after you?”

  “No.” Terence’s eyes fell. Idly, he traced a name carved into the ancient oak table.

  “You saved my life tonight.”

  At Tobias Brockman’s steady tone the boy’s finger slowed, stopped. He shot a look from under his long black lashes. “You’re wrong. ’Twas you who saved me.”

  “I was charging along, thinking of my growling belly, paying no attention at all. Without your shout, I’d likely be dead. I owe you, boy.”

  Terence waved a hand over their empty plates. “You’ve paid. I’m much obliged.” He slid an inch along the bench, then stopped. It was time to leave, but somehow . . . it was like card games he’d watched—the ones where serious money changed hands—something was happening here, something he couldn’t name. He had to stay, play out the hand that had been dealt.

  With a slight nod Brockman acknowledged he’d seen and understood the boy’s furtive move. He leaned back against the wall and studied the wee scrap of manhood who had erupted into his life. O’Rourke. A good Irish name. And probably his mother’s. Well, he hadn’t become wealthy by being mealy mouthed. Tobias Brockman was known for being blunt to a fault, so he might as well plunge right in. “Do you know your father, boy?”

  The boy didn’t flinch, had undoubtedly anticipated the question. “Me ma said he was of the Ascendancy, with a title and all. That’s all she would ever say.”

  “So you’re da’s a Protestant, your ma’s a Catholic, and you a poor misbegotten babe. Is that the right of it?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “With no one to care if you live or die?”

  Incredibly, the boy lifted his chin into a cheeky grin. “O’Malley?” he suggested.

  Tobias buried his face in his mug, drained its contents, signaled for more. The boy had nothing, absolutely nothing, yet he could find irony in his poverty. “So what are we to do with you?” he murmured. The boy’s bright blue eyes challenged, a strange mix of bold and defiantly wary. Willing to hear him out, but expecting the worst.

  “How shall I put this?” Tobias asked, nodding absently to the hopeful barmaid as she plunked another mug before him. “My business here will require several days, perhaps a week. I could use another pair of eyes and ears, a strong pair of legs. Will you work for me, Terence O’Rourke?”

  Blue met brown, the eyes of eleven as old and wise as those of nine and thirty. “If work’s all you require,” the boy returned boldly.

  “I have no taste for boys. Not in that way
,” Tobias said, his words calm and steady. “I’ve already had enough bedwarmers for a lifetime. And more than enough trouble from weaknesses of the flesh. It’s a helper I need. Someone bright—” He broke off, eyed the boy sharply. “D’ye have any knowledge of numbers, boy? Mathematics, accounting?”

  “I’ve helped the O’Malley straighten his accounts on occasion. More than once,” Terence added, attempted nonchalance not quite making it past the chip on his shoulder.

  “Ah.” Tobias smiled over his steepled fingers. “Then be my shadow for the next few days. Do what I tell you, when I tell you. Run, fetch, carry, and listen. And then we’ll see. If it’s mutually agreeable, I may have further use for you. My business is growing and has need of bright lads. What say you?”

  Terence finished his ale in three long swallows. The bright blue eyes darkened to indigo. “The length of time you’re in Dublin, agreed. After that, we’ll both see.”

  It was all Tobias could do not to laugh out loud. Lord, the boy was chipped from ice. Whoever his parents had been, they’d given him remarkable presence as well as a sterling mind. He’d have to ask what O’Malley meant by “your books.” That the child was literate at all was a miracle.

  Tobias Brockman, merchant, held out his hand. “We’ve a bargain then?”

  “Aye.” Terence O’Rourke placed his small hand inside the other’s. “We’ve a bargain.”

  Terence braced his feet and gripped the rail as the packet boat knifed through the roll and swell of the Irish Sea. Behind him, green farmland, ancient graves and ancient legends, the dark stench of poverty receded into the mist. Sure now, and he’d done it. Escaped. Fallen on his feet, he had. He’d given his gent a try-on, and in six days the glimmer of hope that first night at O’Malley’s had grown into a bright new world. London. He was going to London. And all he’d had to pay for it . . .