The Irish Earl

by Patricia Bray

  When the dance finished, he bowed stiffly to his partner and surrendered her to another with a sense of relief. Suddenly anxious to leave, he sought out his friend Mr. Bingham, who was in the card room, deep in a hand.

  As he entered the card room, Mr. Bingham caught sight of him and waved him over.

  “Lord Kilgarvan, please let me make you known to my friends. This is Mr. Blythe, and Mr. Abbott, and Sir Thomas Fortescue on my right.”

  The three gentlemen looked up as they were named, but it was clear they were far more interested in their cards than they were in making his acquaintance.

  “Gentlemen,” Kilgarvan said with a nod.

  Mr. Bingham folded his cards and laid them down on the table. “And what did the Ice Princess have to say to you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Kilgarvan asked.

  “Lady Felicity Winterbourne,” his friend repeated. “The Ice Princess.” He looked around the card table with a conspiratorial air. “I’ll have you know, gentlemen, that the Ice Princess favored my friend here with a dance.”

  “Indeed!” said Mr. Blythe, raising his eyebrows.

  Mr. Abbott pursed his lips and ostentatiously refolded his cards, clearly impatient at this interruption of the game.

  “I’ll say, I wish you the best of luck with her,” Sir Thomas Fortescue said. “Had a go at her myself earlier in the Season. Nothing came of it, though. A few weeks of friendly acquaintance, and then suddenly she no longer had time for my invitations. She had moved on to other prey. Not that I was all that fond of her, mind you. Her tongue is much too sharp, and she’s far too clever for her own good. But I wouldn’t have minded getting my hands on that money.”

  He gave a deep sigh, as if mourning a lost love.

  “It was a simple dance, nothing more,” Lord Kilgarvan said, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

  “You two seemed to be chatting very cozily, for all that,” Mr. Bingham pointed out.

  He thought quickly. He had no wish to recount the story of the beggar, or of Lady Felicity’s unusual interest in his act of charity. Especially since he still did not understand why she had sought him out.

  “Lady Felicity was under the impression that we had met before, but since she has never visited Ireland, she realized she must have been mistaken.”

  “Hmmph,” Mr. Abbott said. “Ireland must be the one place she hasn’t visited. Chit has been everywhere else. I don’t know what the duke was thinking, wandering off to foreign parts and taking his daughter with him. It just isn’t natural.”

  “She’s got all sorts of queer notions in her head,” Sir Thomas Fortescue confirmed. “Always talking down to a man, just because he doesn’t know the name of some Greek poet, or that New Orleans is in the Americas.”

  “No, it wasn’t the travel that ruined her. It was the money. Fancy the duke leaving her all that blunt, and not bothering to tie it up as a dowry or put it in trust for her children. I mean, if you think of it, she has no reason to get married. She’s probably holding out for a love match,” Mr. Blythe said.

  The gentlemen around the table nodded mournfully, sharing their distress at such feminine perversity.

  A part of Kilgarvan was still shocked by such frank discussion. Not that in Ireland it would have been any different. But in Irish society such topics were broached indirectly, discreetly, so that all could pretend that they weren’t really being so vulgar as to discuss money.

  Mr. Bingham smiled at his friend. “Well, there you are, Kilgarvan. Simply convince the lady that you are madly in love with her, until she agrees to marry you. You won’t find a better catch anywhere in England.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Kilgarvan said. “I fancy myself a wife who is a trifle more biddable. I have no wish to dance to Lady Felicity’s tune.”

  Two

  “How much longer do we have?”

  Dennis O’Connor wrinkled his brow as he thought. “Two months. Three, if you’re careful, though we’ll be living on cabbage soup and old bones by the end of the third month.”

  It was hardly an exaggeration. Gerald FitzDesmond, Earl of Kilgarvan, looked around the tiny garret room that served as his lodgings. He had the honor of sitting on the bed, while Dennis perched on the trunk. A narrow window provided the faintest of illuminations, but it was enough. There was little else to see, save the grate in one corner, with a kettle next to it for boiling water. A makeshift clothespress held a wardrobe fit for a gentleman.

  The wardrobe had been procured in Dublin, courtesy of his uncle, Mr. Throckmorton, who had agreed to finance this expedition.

  The clothes were as out of place in this room as he and Dennis were. Kilgarvan knew he did not belong here. Not in this garret, nor in the finest town house in London. He belonged home, in Ireland.

  Which was where Dennis should be as well. His friend was nearly of an age with Kilgarvan. Dennis’s father had been the estate agent, and the two boys had grown up fast friends. Even now Dennis should be back in Kilgarvan, taking the place of the earl, and doing his best to stave off the inevitable disaster. But Dennis had been deaf to his arguments. If Kilgarvan was set on this London expedition, then Dennis felt it his duty to go along. Surely Kilgarvan was bound to fall into trouble without his oldest friend to guide him. Dennis offered to play the role of servant, valet and intelligence agent if needed. Kilgarvan had initially refused, but in the end he had given in.

  “If you hadn’t given that spalpeen two weeks’ rent, there would be no need for worry,” Dennis pointed out.

  Gerald glared at his old friend. “You would have done no less,” he said.

  “What’s done is done,” Dennis said. “But how is the courting going? Did you see Miss Franklin at Almack’s last night?”

  “Yes, but she did not seem pleased to see me.” Miss Franklin had been decidedly cool in her reception, refusing him the privilege of a dance, claiming that her card was full. Troubled by his encounter with Lady Felicity, he had not been up to the effort of charming Miss Franklin.

  “Ah, well, there is always that Sawyer gel,” Dennis said philosophically. “She seems eager enough. All you need to do is get her to the altar, and all our worries will be over.”

  Kilgarvan felt overcome by a sudden wave of self-loathing. “Of course. All I have to do is convince her that I love her madly, and she, and her papa’s money, will fall right into my arms.”

  “Gerry,” Dennis said, reverting to his childhood nickname. “You don’t have to do this, you know. If we leave today we can be in Kilgarvan in a fortnight. Something else will turn up. It always does.”

  For a moment he was tempted. It had seemed such a simple plan, back in Ireland, when it was first proposed. Kilgarvan was young, handsome, unwed and with an ancient and respectable title. Why shouldn’t he find himself an English heiress to marry?

  But what he hadn’t counted on was how much he would hate what he was doing. He felt like a prize bull being auctioned to stud. Or a slave trading his own freedom for that of his people, and the preservation of the Kilgarvan estate.

  Ever since he left Ireland his thoughts had been confused. He no longer knew who or what he was. If only he could go back home, he knew he could recapture that sense of certainty. He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing atop King’s Rock, looking down at the valley and the peaceful lake. The sun sparkled off the water, promising ease and rest to a weary traveler.

  He opened his eyes. Kilgarvan was his, but not for long. Not unless he found a way to pay off the mortgages that his father had foolishly signed. An English bride was a small price to pay if she secured the land for himself and his people.

  The morning after Almack’s, Lady Felicity was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate in the blue sitting room while reading the London Times.

  “Good morning, dear niece,” the Duchess of Rutland said as she entered the room. Her brow furrowed slightly as she glimpsed the newspaper in Lady Felicity’s hands. Reading a newspaper was hardly the mark of a young lady o
f distinction, but the duchess had long ago resigned herself to her niece’s unconventional reading habits.

  “Good morning, Aunt,” Lady Felicity replied. The connection between them was actually more distant, the duke being her father’s second cousin. But for simplicity’s sake she had agreed to call them aunt and uncle. “I trust you enjoyed Lady Semple’s soirée?”

  “Immensely. It was a pleasure to renew our acquaintance. I find it hard to believe that her daughter, Miss Semple, is all of seventeen. She is an accomplished young woman, and was just presented at court.” The duchess beamed as an idea came to her. “I should introduce you to her. I know you would like her.”

  “Perhaps,” Lady Felicity said noncommittally. She had no intention of letting the duchess introduce her to yet another vapid young miss. The duchess was forever trying to fit Felicity into her idea of what a young woman enjoying her first London Season should be. Never mind that Felicity was nearly one and twenty, and had already been presented at the courts of Europe, not to mention enjoying the society in more exotic climes. The duchess still lived in hope that with sufficient encouragement Felicity could be made to fit the conventional mold.

  It was not that she was cruel or unkind. That Felicity could have endured. It was rather that the Duke and Duchess of Rutland had been too kind, too welcoming.

  It had been just over a year ago that her father had died of fever while they were visiting a friend’s plantation in Jamaica. Felicity had coolly taken charge of the situation, made arrangements to have her father’s body returned to England, and hired a companion to accompany her on the voyage.

  Once she had returned to England she had journeyed to Rutland Hall to see her father interred next to his ancestors. Her very first callers had been the new duke and duchess, come to pay their respects.

  They had been all kindness and politeness. Felicity was not to worry about anything. They were her family now and would take care of her. She would be as an older sister to their own young daughters. They would reside together at Rutland Hall during her mourning. And then, when the appropriate length of time had passed, they would introduce her to London society.

  It was a shock to Felicity to discover that these strangers, whom she had never met in her life, now felt that they had the right, and indeed the moral obligation, to watch over her, and to tell her what she could and could not do. They were relentlessly inquisitive, kind and solicitous, when all she really wanted was to be left alone. She had lost her father, the one anchor in her world, the one person to whom she had felt connected. Now he was gone, and she did not know what to do with herself.

  Nor did the new duke and duchess know what to make of her. She knew they would have been happier if she had been more like her young cousins, given to bursts of tears or extravagant declarations of gratitude for their kindness. She knew her cool reserve puzzled them, as did her insistence upon self-sufficiency.

  The one saving grace was the terms of her father’s will. The new duke had inherited the title and entailed properties, Rutland Hall among them. But to his only daughter her father had left the astonishing sum of two hundred thousand pounds. From this she drew a generous allowance, and when she turned one and twenty she would be given free rein to spend the money as she pleased.

  Already comfortably wealthy even before inheriting the title, she knew the new Duke of Rutland did not begrudge her her inheritance. But she knew that he would have found her far easier to control if her inheritance had been left at his discretion. As it was, they had reached an unspoken truce. Lady Felicity was careful to observe the proprieties in public, and never to give offense. And in return, the duke forbore to criticize her choice of entertainments and friends.

  “And did you have a pleasant time at Almack’s?”

  “The evening was tolerable.”

  “I regret that I could not escort you myself.”

  “Pray think nothing of it. Mrs. Gilbert was most pleased to have me join her party,” Felicity said quickly.

  “Well, tell me, who was there?”

  “The usual set Lady Alcock was there with her daughters, and the Misses Underhill. And Colonel Denham was most pleasant to Mrs. Gilbert and myself, and favored each of us with a dance.”

  “Was there no one else of consequence?” Felicity knew that her aunt was asking if there had been any gentlemen there who paid her particular attention. Colonel Denham was married, and thus could hardly be counted as a potential suitor.

  “I did make a new acquaintance. Mrs. Gilbert was kind enough to present me to Lord Kilgarvan.”

  The duchess’s face brightened. “Lord Kilgarvan,” she repeated, tapping her lips with one finger. “Now, where have I heard his name…?”

  “He is from Ireland, newly come over for the Season. I understand that he is quite respectable, but his pockets are to let.”

  “Ah, that one. I have heard that he is as handsome as the devil himself, and far too proud for his own good.” She gave her niece a sharp look. “I trust he did not put himself forward?”

  Felicity knew she was being warned away from the handsome stranger. “You may set your mind at ease. Lord Kilgarvan was perfectly proper, and as you know, I am not the least romantical. I am hardly likely to lose my heart to a penniless Irishman, regardless of his appearance.”

  Far from being reassured by her words, her aunt seemed dismayed by Felicity’s assurances. “You are such a practical girl,” she said, but the thought did not appear to please her. “You know, there is no hurry in making your choice. You are a fortunate girl, and may take your time. If not this Season, then there is always the next. And I know Mary would be pleased with your companionship.”

  Lady Felicity doubted that very much. Mary was the oldest of the Rutland girls, and would likely resent sharing her first Season with her older cousin. Nor did Felicity relish the prospect. “You are all kindness,” she said, but inwardly she vowed that she would marry Sir Percy Lambeth before she let herself return to Rutland Hail and another year in exile with these strangers who called themselves her family.

  The duchess took a deep breath and changed the subject. “This evening Rutland and I will be dining at home, and then Mrs. Pelham has invited us to her rout. Will you join us?”

  “That would be pleasant,” Felicity said, although in truth she had already accepted an invitation to a card party. It did not matter. She would simply send a note, letting her hostess know that she had changed her mind.

  She told herself that her decision to accompany her uncle and aunt this evening had nothing to do with the knowledge that Mr. Pelham had extensive family connections in Ireland, and that it was more than likely that Lord Kilgarvan would have been sent an invitation. Whether he would accept it she did not know, but she found herself looking forward to the evening with a sense of excitement that had long been absent in her life.

  Gerald FitzDesmond had been in London for a scant two months, though in truth it felt as if it had been a lifetime. In these months he had learned many things. He had learned that a man was measured not by his character, but by his lineage and purse. That it was possible to be envied for his title and despised for his Irishness, and that there were people who held both opinions.

  And he had learned that for unmarried women, the size of a girl’s purse was in direct opposition to her comeliness. In fairness he allowed that this might not be a general rule, but rather his judgment might be colored by his limited experience in these matters. The crop this year might be scanty, the handsome girls having been snapped up the year before. Whatever the reason, he had found that those parents who were willing to receive his calls were possessed of the most unprepossessing daughters.

  As if to mark his gloomy thoughts, he looked up and saw Miss Sawyer and her mother approach.

  “Mrs. Sawyer. Miss Sawyer,” he said with a bow. “How pleasant to see you.”

  “It is always a pleasure to see you, Lord Kilgarvan,” Mrs. Sawyer replied. “Don’t you agree, Prospera?” She poked her daughter in
the side with her fan.

  “Oh, yes. A pleasure,” Miss Sawyer whispered, her eyes fixed on the floor, or perhaps on his shoes.

  Mr. Sawyer had inherited a mill in Lancashire, which through dint of hard effort and canny business sense he had turned into a string of factories dotted across England, not to mention a substantial holding of gilt-edged government securities. Having grown wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, he had turned toward securing the future of his only child, Prospera. It was well known that Mr. Sawyer had boasted that though he was born in a cottage, his grandson would be of the gentry.

  And then Lord Kilgarvan had appeared on the London scene, and within a fortnight Mrs. Sawyer had contrived an introduction. True, he was Irish, but he was an earl, and if Prospera married him, Mr. Sawyer could boast that his grandson would someday be an earl.

  “The play last night was exceptionally fine. Prospera enjoyed herself most thoroughly. Our only regret was that you could not join us.”

  Somehow Mrs. Sawyer had contrived the loan of a box at the theater for yesterday’s performance. She had sent him a note inviting him—no, verily bidding him—to join her party. The summons had had the feel of a trap closing around his neck, and so he had declined.

  “I had a previous engagement.”

  Mrs. Sawyer’s lips tightened. He knew she felt insulted, yet she would have to learn that he was not some lackey who would obey her every command.

  “It is no matter. The Honorable David Pickering joined us, and he paid most particular attention to Prospera, so she did not suffer your absence.”

  He heard the veiled threat in her words. London gossip, as related by Dennis O’Connor, had it that the Sawyers had been close to accepting the Honorable David Pickering’s suit. Then Kilgarvan had arrived in London, and the Sawyers appeared to be playing one off against the other in an attempt to bring Kilgarvan up to scratch.

  “It gives me pleasure to know that you did not lack for company,” Kilgarvan replied, disdaining such a transparent ploy. Did they think to make him jealous? “I’ll wager that your party was far livelier than that at Almack’s.”