“Are you sure that the cure isn’t worse than the disease?” Pen muttered.
“I heard that, missy,” Corkwobble said through a mouthful of toast. “But I’ll be gracious-like an’ pretend I didn’t. Now then.” He swallowed. “What’s so important in yer life that’s kept you from visiting poor Corkwobble, apart from when ye need him to set the Draiodoir’s sniveling scholars right? That was a neat bit o’ magic ye were after doing, I’ll say again, but ’tis pining away, I am.”
She rolled her eyes. Was Corkwobble going to start scolding her too? “Thank you for your help yesterday. I assume he made it safely out?”
He snorted. “I thought he’d climb through me, trying to get out after ye’d left. It seems the lad hadn’t made the acquaintance o’ one of the Sidhe before and wasn’t terrible eager to extend the visit. But ye haven’t answered my question, cailin. What’s kept ye from visiting poor Corkwobble?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been neglecting a lot of things lately, it seems.”
He stopped chewing and looked at her shrewdly. “There’s something on your mind, or my name’s not Corkwobble . . . which it isn’t, but you’ll be taking my meaning just the same.”
Pen felt a twinge of shame at her peevishness. But only a twinge. Now that she was away from his study, she’d begun to feel angry with Dr. Carrighar. How would he feel in her place, away from home and everything? Why couldn’t he be a little more understanding? “I’m sorry. Dr. Carrighar just gave me the lecture of the century and I . . .” She shrugged and busied herself with adjusting the lamp.
He licked his spoon then waved it airily. “We-e-ell, I suppose I’ll forgive ye this one time. After all, you’re only young and thoughtless once.”
“If all you can do is insult me, I can go back upstairs and—”
“Smooth yer feathers, cailin! I was just teasing ye. Now what’s troubling ye?”
Pen sighed. “I have a favor to ask you.”
“Another favor, is it? Well, that’ll cost you, it will. The fairy folk don’t go about giving something for nothing. ’Tisn’t good for business and gives us a bad name. How big a favor is it, then? I’m no great hand at sniffing out bags o’ gold, mind ye.”
Pen slipped the almost-empty bottle of Lady Keating’s elixir from her pocket and held it out to him. “Not too big a favor, I don’t think. I wondered if you could tell me what this is.”
He squinted at it for a long moment then looked at her, nodding wisely. “’Tis a bottle, as far as I can see.”
“Corkwobble!” Pen resisted the urge to snatch his plate of toast away. He caught her expression and crammed the last bit in his already-full mouth.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help funning you just a bit. Here, let me see it.” He dusted his hands off on his coat. “Now, what’ll it be worth to ye if I can tell what’s inside this bottle—as I’m guessin’ that’s what you’re wanting to know?”
“Um. . . .” Was she going to have to promise him her firstborn, or an eye, or something equally outrageous?
He snorted. “Oh, for Dagda’s sake. You’re asking for my professional opinion, not for a golden throne and lordship of the land. ’Tis a matter of scale, ye know. Bring me a plate o’ toast like you just did for the next three days, and the deal’s done.”
“Very well.” Relieved, she handed him the bottle.
He held it up to the light and shook it gently, then eased out the cork in one smooth motion and held it to his long nose. An expression of surprise crossed his face. “Where did ye say you were after getting this?”
“I didn’t. But it came from my friend Lady Keating. She brought it for my former governess, who’s been under the weather. It seems to make her sleep all the time, and we just wondered if it was safe.”
“Sleep all the time? I should say so—and with the sweetest dreams to match. ’Tis uisce beatha, bean draoi. Fairy whiskey, as ye once called it.” He upended the bottle and tasted a few drops, smacking his lips. “From up-country, I’ll be saying. Doesn’t taste like the brew of anyone I’m knowing in town here.”
Pen wished she could sit down. “Fairy whiskey? Are you sure?”
Corkwobble crammed the cork back in the bottle and sent it spinning through the air toward her. “Well, o’ course I’m sure. You asked me, and I’m telling ye,” he replied with an affronted sniff.
Pen caught the bottle. “I’m sorry, Corkwobble. You’re the expert. I would never doubt your word on this.”
“But maybe on something else?” Corkwobble cackled. “No, no, I’m only teasing ye again, cailin. Don’t look so moithered.”
Pen stayed another few minutes to chat with the clurichaun. But all the while, her mind was churning in confused surprise. Fairy whiskey! Where had Lady Keating gotten it, and did she know what it was?
Niall stared moodily out the window of the carriage as it jolted up St. Patrick’s Hill. Opposite him, Mother was fussing over Miss Leland, as usual.
“I do like your hair dressed in that fashion, my dear,” she was saying, turning sideways in her seat as the carriage passed a gaslight. “We should always have Griffin do it before we go out. What do you think, Niall?”
Niall glanced up. “It’s very lovely. But I rather doubt it’s all Griffin’s doing,” he said.
Mother beamed at him as Miss Leland smiled down at her gloved hands. He was sure she was blushing, though there was not enough light in the carriage at this moment to tell. Niall smiled too, but only outwardly. There. He’d made Mother happy for a half hour or so.
Life had been deucedly difficult over the last few weeks. Ever since their walk together, when he resolved he’d honestly fall in love with Pen, he’d been courting her twice over, for both his mother and for himself. When Mother was with them, he would play the ardent beau, all bold glances and caressing remarks. Only when she’d left them strategically alone for short periods or they went out for a walk could he put off his aggressive suitor act and just be himself. Then they could discuss the politics and current events that he had studied for so long, or she would listen, wide-eyed, as he told her about growing up in the green, enchanted countryside of his parents’ estates at Loughglass and Bandry Court. It wasn’t that he disliked the quick, stolen squeezes of her hand or the smoldering glances. But what he loved most was the thoughtful, interested look in her eyes during their more serious conversations, the sense that he could say anything to her and she would understand and sympathize.
Not that Mother wasn’t doing her own wooing. She hovered over Pen, flattering and occasionally admonishing her affectionately, for all the world like a doting mother with her favorite child. Not only did she take Pen everywhere with her—visiting as well as shopping—but she’d taken over the direction of Pen’s wardrobe, Pen’s social life. . . .
Nor did Pen seem to mind. “Your mother is so kind!” she’d said to him only a few days ago after Mother had made her a present of a bottle of her own perfume. “I’ve never had anyone . . . I mean, she really seems to care about me.”
“What about your own mother?”
She’d smiled, a little ruefully. “Mama loves me dearly, I know. But she is such a self-sufficient person that I don’t think it occurs to her that others might like . . . well, to be fussed over a little bit. And Papa’s a dear, but he gets lost in his books sometimes and . . . oh, I don’t know. Ally was the person who did the little things for me, but she’s got her own concerns now, and I am a grown woman, after all.” She’d sighed and fallen silent.
Niall knew he wasn’t the only one watching Mother’s behavior toward Pen. Doireann too watched them—sometimes with amusement lurking in the corners of her mouth, but sometimes with a brooding, resentful regard that sent a shiver of foreboding through him. Doir bore grudges, he knew. As to whether she was developing one against their mother or against Pen . . . neither prospect was pleasant to contemplate.
“I declare!” Mother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Still light in the sky at this hour of the evening. Spring is com
ing at last, isn’t it? After this dreadfully cold winter”—she shuddered delicately—“it makes me quite long to see the country again. Perhaps a visit to Bandry Court is in order sometime soon.” She leaned toward Pen. “Bandry Court is my home, dear. It’s where I grew up. It is the most beautiful place in Ireland in the spring, but I am biased, of course.”
“I’m sure it is very lovely, Lady Keating,” Pen politely agreed.
“Well, I wish you could see it and judge for yourself—oh!” Mother sat up straighter on the maroon leather of the seat. “But you could see it, couldn’t you? Why don’t you come with us for a visit, Penelope?” She took Pen’s hand. “We don’t need to go for very long, just a week or two. I’m sure that the Carrighars could spare you that long, couldn’t they? Surely you’ve earned a brief holiday from your studies.”
Niall saw Pen’s smile fade just a little. She hadn’t mentioned her studies at all lately—not that she had frequently before. But any mention of her academic work seemed to make her uncomfortable these days.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I would love to go, thank you. But I’m not sure that Dr. Carrighar would approve of me missing—”
“Nonsense, Penelope. Surely seeing more of Ireland while you are here is part of your education? Leave it to me, darling. I shall take care of the doctor. Ah, here we are. What do you know? For once the Whelans remembered to hire a policeman to keep the carriages from getting completely jammed in this narrow street.”
Niall helped Mother and Pen—Doir had elected to stay home, claiming that she felt a head cold coming on—out of the carriage. “I get the first dance, mind you,” he murmured into Pen’s ear as he handed her out.
She was wearing Mother’s perfume, but on her it smelled different—less smoky and musky, sweeter, like spiced peaches. He resisted the urge to push her back into the carriage and spend the rest of the evening driving around Cork, seeing if she tasted as luscious as she smelled—even Mother would think that was going too far—and returned her smiling assent with a gentle squeeze of her hand. Mother preceded them up the stairs into the brightly lit hall where Sir John stood, beaming, to greet the guests and direct them upstairs to the small ballroom.
When Mother and Pen came back from leaving their mantles and changing into their dancing slippers in their hostess’s boudoir, the quintet of musicians were already warming up, ready to open the dance on Lady Whelan’s nod. Niall was waiting for them, to claim the dance Pen had promised him. But to his surprise Edward Enniskean leapt in front of him and practically snatched Pen’s dance card from her to pencil in his name for the opening set of a quadrille and waltz. Mother frowned ferociously at him, but he didn’t notice as he bore Pen off in triumph. Pen did glance back at him, looking nettled, just as a feminine voice spoke behind him.
“Why, good evening, Mr. Keating,” it purred. “I’m so happy to see y—er, that is . . . I’m . . .”
Niall stifled a sigh and turned to bow to Charlotte Enniskean, who held her fan over her mouth as she gazed at him with bright eyes.
“Good evening,” he said politely. “I trust you are well? And your family?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Keating. In fact we are here in force tonight. My cousins are in town on a visit from the country.” She curtsied and reached for his arm, more or less forcing him into offering it to her, and steered them into a slow promenade around the perimeter of the room. Niall just caught sight of Pen gravely going through the figures of the opening quadrille on Edward’s arm before Charlotte cleared her throat pointedly.
“I hope you will forgive my, ah, forwardness, Mr. Keating, but I wonder if I might ask a great favor of you.”
Favor? Oh, lord, now what? Still, a gentleman could not refuse to help a lady, no matter how irritating he found her. “I would be most happy to oblige an old family friend.”
She winced slightly at the last three words, but her bright smile never wavered. “Oh, thank you. You see, it’s my cousins.” She gestured delicately with her head toward a group of young women clustered against the wall, whispering to one another behind their fans. “They’ve not been to Cork in many years and know so few people here, and I know they’re dreading being wallflowers all evening, unless—”
Niall’s heart sank further. Dancing with strangers all night—probably gauche, giggling country girls—was not how he’d envisioned himself spending his evening. “I should be most happy to prevent their taking root in their seats,” he forced himself to say, with a small bow.
Charlotte’s narrow face blossomed in an even broader smile. “Oh, you are a lamb,” she crooned, and held his arm a little tighter.
“This was not how I’d planned on spending my evening,” Pen muttered under her breath as Edward Enniskean led her after their fourth dance back to where Lady Keating sat scowling at the dancers. Lady K. was in a frightful mood, though she’d been all kindness in the carriage earlier; Pen wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her in such bad temper, apart from the first moment or two when they’d met. Well, she wasn’t feeling any happier than Lady Keating looked. It was nearly time for the supper break, and she had not danced with Niall once. Not once. It was enough to make anyone cross.
As he relinquished her hand and bowed, Edward suddenly chortled and made a grab for her dance card, yanking it hard enough that it tore loose from the silk ribbon that tied at her waist. “It’s mine!” he crowed, waving it in the air over her head. “All mine!”
Pen closed her eyes and didn’t bother disguising her groan. She’d wondered if she’d caught the smell of spirits on his breath once or twice that evening, and now she was sure she had. He’d had three cups of punch to her one when they paused after a set, and whatever was in the Whelans’ punch bowl would have brought tears of joy to Corkwobble’s eyes. Only that could have turned the usually quiet, gangling boy into this—this boor. “Mr. Enniskean, if you please,” she began.
“Want it back?” he asked, flapping it at her. “Gotta gimme another dance, then. Two dances. Waltzes.”
“Mr. Enniskean—” Oh, what fun it would be to snatch her card away from him by magic and stuff it up his nose.
“Edward. You promised you’d call me Edward.” He shook the card at her like a reproving finger.
“I did not! You asked me to and I said that I never—”
“Mr. Enniskean.” Lady Keating sat up straighter in her chair and fixed him with a disapproving stare.
“Yes?” The young man swiveled his attention to her, swaying slightly. Oh, yes, Pen thought. Far too many trips to the punch bowl.
“Go away.” She did not raise her voice in the least, but the coldness of it seemed to cut through Edward’s alcoholic fog.
He caught himself and stared at her for a few seconds, looking confused. “Oh, I, er—”
“Do I need to ask a second time?” The temperature dropped another few degrees.
“Er . . . no . . . good evening, ma’am . . . Miss Leland.” He shoved Pen’s dance card at her, jerked his head by way of a bow, and fled.
Pen sat down with a sigh next to Lady Keating. She’d almost forgotten just how chilly Lady Keating could be when she wanted to. Edward had looked as though his heart had frozen in his throat.
“Thank you,” she murmured, settling her gown in graceful folds around her. She’d worn a jaunty striped silk evening frock that had seemed perfect back in Madame Gendreau’s very exclusive shop in London but was just enough ahead of the fashion here to make her feel conspicuous. That wasn’t helping her mood, either.
Lady Keating made a slight disgusted noise. “He was drunk. It was positively shameful. You should have refused to dance with him after the second time he asked you.”
“I tried. He somehow didn’t hear me. I didn’t want to create a scene, so . . .” She shrugged and hunched her shoulders. Putting up with it had been bad enough; now why did she have to explain herself to Lady Keating?
“There, child. I’m not scolding you.” The frown vanished as Lady Keating patted her han
d, but it quickly reappeared. “Where the devil is Niall?” she murmured to herself, scanning the room.
Pen sighed again and began to fold her dance card into pleats. She’d been asking herself the same question. Nothing had gone the way she’d hoped it would this evening.
First, there had been Doireann. She had helped Pen dress earlier that evening before Lady Keating’s maid had come to do her hair. At first it had almost seemed like the old days, when she and Persy would get ready for balls together during their season. Sometimes Doireann was like this, friendly and girlish and funny in an acerbic way. But as she did up the long row of tiny hooks that fastened the back of Pen’s dress, she’d sighed. “Maybe I’m glad I’m not feeling well and won’t go to the Whelans’ party tonight.”
Pen held her breath while Doireann finished the last hooks, then exhaled. “Why?”
“So that I won’t have to watch my dear brother make an utter fool of himself over the girls. I don’t know what it is—the music, maybe? The dancing? It just seems that whenever we go to a ball, Niall is just, well, incorrigible.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Sometimes it’s downright embarrassing, the way he goes on. I hope you won’t find it too off-putting. Maybe he’ll try to behave himself tonight, in front of you. I should hope so.”
Pen had shrugged and assumed that it was Doireann being Doireann. But could she be right? Pen knew from personal experience that Niall was more than capable of flirting, and accompanying the Keatings to so many social events lately, she’d seen how women looked at him, as if he were a dish of particularly luscious sweets they were aching to devour. Surely Niall must be aware of the effect he had on them as well?
The evening had gone downhill from there. They had arrived at the Whelans’, and Edward Enniskean had been practically lying in wait for her to claim the first dance. She’d danced with him politely enough. Delayed gratification was supposedly sweeter, after all, and she’d been looking forward to dancing with Niall for ages. Another fifteen minutes wouldn’t kill her.
Betraying Season Page 16
