"She didn't. I just know."
"Oh, Maura." He dropped the papers in his hand. "What are we doing?"
"I assume that's a rhetorical question."
"Absolutely not." Abruptly he stood, backing away from the box. "This is absurd. We've been sucked into a murder mystery that can have no possible impact on our lives. What will it prove? The main characters have already been dead for centuries. It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does!" Her voice was more emphatic than she had intended. "Don't you see? With all of this unsettled, we'll never be able to find happiness."
He simply stared at her, then crossed his arms. "Who will never be able to find happiness?"
"We." When he didn't respond, she began to twirl a piece of hair.
"I'm wondering, do you mean you and me?"
"Of course? Who else could I mean?"
"I'm not certain. But I don't believe I'm in this equation. I don't believe I am a factor at all."
"What. . ."
"I'll take you home now." His mood had grown somber, and she saw him shake his head just slightly as he piled the stray papers back into the box.
"Are you ready?"
"Donal, I have no idea what's come over you. We seemed to be working toward a common end, and then all of a sudden you freaked out."
"I did not freak out."
"Then explain this. Why am I suddenly getting the bum's rush?"
"Lovely phrase, that. I must remember it. 'Bum's rush' did you say?" "Please, Donal."
"Here's your purse."
She refused to accept it until finally he just slipped it over her shoulder.
"Tell me." She refused to budge.
Opening the front door to his apartment, he paused. "You see, Maura, I believe you are quite mistaken."
"About what?"
"About the happiness you crave. I don't believe it's between you and me, not at all."
She merely frowned, but he did not see her expression. His stared at his own hand hand clutching the doorknob. "You are seeking happiness in the past."
"No, you're wrong."
"Then tell me, Maura." Finally he looked directly into her eyes, searching. "How can I convince you to live in the present?"
There was nobody for her to turn to, not anymore.
She had ruined her relationship with Donal, with none but herself to blame. Until she stepped alone into her hallway, she hadn't realized how much she had grown to depend on him, on his wit and humor and common sense.
Once again Maura had managed to sabotage a potentially wonderful relationship. This time she had really done a number, really screwed up her life in a way she had only toyed with in the past. All by herself, with no outside help, she had alienated the most brilliant and caring man she had met in years. No, ever. He was the most wonderful man she had ever met.
If only he could come back. If only he would walk through the door . . .
There was a loud knock.
It was him! It had to be Donal.
She ran to the door, and it was . . .
"Patrick! Please, do come in!"
He was covered with mud and muck from a long ride.
"Kitty." He stepped inside quickly, glancing behind once before closing the door. "How fare you?"
"Well, thank you. Did Fitz tell you?"
"He did, indeed. Of course, I will stand up for him and deem it a high honor to be his witness."
"You were always to be with us, Patrick. We are just shifting the ceremony ahead a few weeks."
"And not a moment too soon. I just came from Kilkenny."
"Please, come in." She allowed him to pass ahead. "May I take your coat? Mrs. Finnegan can remove the speckles on your cloak."
"Oh, thank you. I rode the horse Fitzwilliam has given to you."
"Did you now?" She pulled the silk cord just inside of the parlor, summoning Mrs. Finnegan. "How did you like her?"
"A fine bit of flesh, Kitty. She'll speed you anyplace you desire."
Mrs. Finnegan entered the room and curtsied, gently removing his cloak.
"You are a wonder, Mrs. Finnegan." He smiled.
"And don't I know it, sir. Worth my weight in gold, I am." She shook her head and clucked over the spotted cloak as she left the room.
"I will be direct," he said the moment she had left. "I have here more newspapers, featuring Andrew's cryptic solicitation for aid in abducting you. And there is no sign of him. He seems to be hiding out amongst friends we know not of." He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew the papers. "There are also some mentions of the Annie Delany matter."
"Were you able to tell a constable?"
"Nay. They know already or at least suspect his role in the death of the Delany girl. I pray I did the right thing, but I notified no officials, simply because once the law becomes involved, the issue is no longer a private one. Who he is or family connections make no difference. English law is rule here, and as such, Andrew could easily pay with his life, should he carry through his scheme. It is a felony to abduct anyone against their will. He could hang for it unless we can stop it ourselves."
"Poor Andrew." She sighed.
"Poor Andrew my foot! It's poor Fitzwilliam, poor Kitty and—need I add—poor Patrick, Andrew has been quite successful in pulling together a fine band of ruffians. The sooner you are safely wed, the better. Where shall we put these for safekeeping?"
"I did have an idea. Fitz is having the upstairs parlor done in yellow paper, and we will just paste it behind the new paper, between the two windows, under that dreadful landscape he seems so strangely attached to."
"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. And so we will carry forth tonight?"
She nodded. "All will remain calm here, as if nothing at all is wrong. Fitz is over on Maiden Lane, I will stay here and do some sort of useless womanly task."
"You should not be left alone. What if Andrew should arrive and hasten his plans?"
"I doubt that. And don't forget, I am far from alone here, with Aunt Sarah and Mrs. Finnegan and Edward, the stable boy. I believe the four of us, not to mention Fitz, could thwart any silly plot of Andrew or his drunken companions."
"It is not a silly plot. For your sake, you must realize how serious his intentions are. Should he kidnap you and succeed in finding a priest—and mark my words, I have no doubt he has procured a couple-begger for this purpose—you will be legally wed to Andrew. As your husband, he will be entitled to all you possess, including—forgive me—you."
She closed her eyes. "I know. God help me, I know. I only wish . . ."
"Only wish what?"
"I only wish Andrew would be gone, perhaps to America. How can we live together after the wedding under one roof, knowing what his intentions had been? There can be no happiness for Fitz and me, not with Andrew casting a shadow. How can Fitz trust his brother?"
Patrick placed his hand under her elbow. "He does not trust his brother. Indeed, he ... no. I am not at liberty to continue."
"Please, tell me."
"Fitzwilliam was going to tell you this evening, but he has changed his will, drafting a new one that leaves all of his worldly property to you, should anything happen to him."
"I can't even think of that," she breathed. "He has skipped over Andrew in my favor? What if Andrew marries me yet? Will he not yet accomplish his purpose?"
He shook his head no. "The stipulation is that you are to receive all and in trust of your children with Fitzwilliam, unless you are married to Andrew. In that case the property skips to the next person."
"And who is that?"
"God forbid it is necessary, the property— everything—will be entrusted to me."
"But does that not then place you in danger of Andrew's plots? I would be secure, for marriage would not be a possibility for what he desires. But you—after you, it would all be his."
Now Patrick smiled. "No. Tell no one, but in the rare event that you and I are gone, and should you have no heirs, the heiress will be ... well, I hear her now."
Mrs. Finnegan bustled into the room, the cloak now spot free. "Here we go, sir." She smiled. Then she looked at their faces, the grin on Patrick's, the gradual delight on Kitty's. "Now what is it with the two of ye?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Finnegan." Kitty handed the cloak to Patrick. "Just thank you, thank you for everything."
"Will you be requiring me for anything else, ma'am?"
"No. Thank you."
The older woman curtsied and hastened from the room.
"And, Patrick"—she extended her hand—"Thank you for being such a fine friend to both myself and Fitzwilliam."
He bowed over her hand. "It is always an honor, my dear Kitty." Straightening, he slipped the cloak over his shoulders. "I will see you ere the day is over. Oh, and Kitty?"
"Yes?"
"The dreadful landscape between the two windows upstairs? Fitz painted it." He put his tricorn on. "Good afternoon."
With that, he left.
There was a knock on the door.
Maura rose to open it, still drowsy with sleep. Hadn't she just answered the door?
"Charles," she said when she saw who it was.
"Maura, we need to talk." There was an unusual seriousness to him, an urgency she had never before seen.
"Are you feeling well?"
"No. I feel quite ill, in fact. Would you have a drop of the creature about to settle my nerves?"
"The creature?" Did he know about Fitz? Then she realized he meant liquor. "No, Charles. I'm afraid the best I can do is tea or milk."
"Never mind then. This has to do with your Roger."
"He's not my Roger."
"Forgive me, then. But he seems intent on stirring up trouble, more than trouble. Did you know he has secured ownership of this town house and your business over in America?"
"How? How can he? He has no right!"
"Did you sign over Finnegan's Freeze-Dried to him several months ago?"
"No. He just signed on as a consultant. He said he would help me turn the company around, but once he got a good look at the books and how much money we were losing, he vanished."
"I'm afraid he did not vanish, Maura. A gentleman by the name of Peter Jones just telephoned me. He's gone over the books at your company back in Wisconsin, and it seems to have been turned over to Roger Parker, who has secured a buyer .. ."
"Wait a moment—this is impossible. Why didn't Peter call me first instead of you?"
"He wanted to find out the status of your holdings here in Dublin before he spoke to you."
"I think I could also use a drop of the creature . . ." Her voice faltered.
"Maura, my dear. I do hate to bring this up, but did you not read any of the papers you've signed over the past six months? I myself watched you scribble your name on the sale papers for the factory without reading them. It's a very bad habit."
"Oh, Charles, what can we do?"
"I do know one person who can help."
"Who?"
"Donal Byrne. Now don't make that face, Maura. The man has an enormous firm behind him, plus he seems to have a record of pulling off all sorts of impossible business stunts. Look at what he has done
here, managing to convince a German drug company to invest in an Irish furniture factory. If that doesn't demonstrate some fancy financial footwork and some brilliant number crunching, I don't know what does."
"I can't ask him, Charles. I just can't."
"Is it your pride?" Is that what is standing in your way?"
At first she shook her head, then, grudgingly, she nodded.
"Pride. It's such a small thing to ruin so many people's lives. Did I ever tell you about my ex-wife? Well, the reason she's my ex-wife is because I was convinced she was seeing another man. By the time I found out I had been mistaken, I had already moved out of our flat and made a scene in the middle of a rather posh dinner party. Seems the gentleman I accused her of seeing was an overly attentive waiter more interested in tips than in anything else. But I was too embarrassed to admit I was wrong, and so I am alone today and likely to remain so for the rest of my life."
"I'm sorry, but this thing with Donal is so different, so complicated. I mean, you have no idea."
"No. No, I don't, and that's the truth. If you don't contact him for your own sake, think of the employees back in Wisconsin or what Mr. Parker intends to do with your house on Merrion Square."
"What is that?"
"He wants to turn it into a combination museum and amusement arcade, called The Oscar Wilde Kingdom. It will have video games, a laser show, all sorts of things."
Roger. Of course that is what he would do—a man of action whose idea of high culture was subscribing to a premium cable channel. Now she had no choice but to contact Donal. "I'll call him soon . . . just give me a few moments."
Charles nodded. "Grand. I'll be off now . . ."
Before Charles could leave, the telephone rang.
"Maura?"
It was Donal.
"I just remembered what the order left at Read's was."
"What was that?"
"It was a penknife—for cutting quills into pens. It was to be a gift for Patrick for standing up with me at the wedding. It had his initials and the date engraved."
"Oh." She really wasn't certain what that would prove. Before she could ask, he answered.
"I think that's what Andrew used on his brother, the knife he used to—"
"Stop." She couldn't let him continue, to say the words "to kill Fitzwilliam," although she knew exactly what he meant. "Please don't say it. I understand. But what can we do about it?"
"You said that Connolly's wedding outfit changed from blue to black. You changed that, Maura. Do you suppose we could change this, too?"
"Could you come right over?"
"No, not right now. I need to think, to figure this thing out. I'll ring you a little later if I come up with anything. Let me know if you have any ideas." His voice sounded tired.
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know. This whole thing is insane. I'm just wondering if I am, too. And, Maura?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry about this afternoon." Then he hung up before saying goodbye.
Charles smiled as she opened the door for him. "I don't have a single doubt that the two of you can settle this whole thing."
"Oh. Sure."
"Thank you."
She was so distracted when she let him through the door, she never saw Roger Parker across the street, leaning against a fence, staring at the house with unsettling intensity.
chapter 19
It was a relief to walk through his door, the threshold that represented safety both corporally and spiritually. And at last it was done in the antechamber of a small chapel on the other side of the park. She was his wife and nothing else could harm them.
"Fitz, I... what are you doing?"
Before she could protest, he had scooped her into his arms and carried her into the hallway.
"You are now my bride," he whispered into her ear. "And this is your home, always and forever."
She laughed, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and placing her other hand against his cheek. "And you are my husband and an utter buffoon. Should you stumble and we fall, 'twould serve us 1 right."
Patrick was not far behind. "Is no one to carry me?"
Fitz gently lowered Kitty to her feet. "So you wish
to be carried? Very well." He began to remove his jacket, the simple, elegant black suit that had been stitched up in haste for the wedding. Tossing it on the banister, he loosened his cravat and took an appraising look at Patrick.
"Nan," he said, dismissing his friend with a wave of his hand. "Kitty, he's your burden. You may carry him if you wish. I refuse."
The three friends laughed together, a moment of relief and joy. With a sobering nod, Fitzwilliam placed his arm around his wife and looked at Patrick. "Truly, my friend, I know not how to thank you for all you have done. I have something for you, for being in every way my best man
."
Reaching over to a small round table, he picked up a package wrapped in light green cloth. Patrick took a deep breath.
"I do not need a reward. Everything I did was from friendship."
"And that is how this token is offered, in friendship."
Patrick smiled and opened the package. "A penknife! And a very handsome one indeed. See my initials, Kitty."
"That will help you sign all the important documents you will no doubt be called upon to attend. You do have a marvelous hand."
"Thank you. Both of you. It was my privilege. I only hope that this incident has not irreparably strained the fabric of your relationship with Andrew."
"Ah, my dear brother Andrew." He sighed. "There is naught amiss with the lad that a good year or two aboard one of my vessels will not cure."
"Is that what you're going to do? Does he know of your plan?" Kitty asked.
"Not yet, but he will soon enough. I have been too soft on the lad, all in the name of protecting him It has been an error, as I see now. I believe his problem has been seeing too many performances of The Beggar's Opera. That must be where he garnered the notion of abducting Kitty. Idleness has been his demon. He is a good boy, he just needs to be guided, a task at which I failed."
Patrick and Kitty exchanged glances before Patrick spoke. "Fitzwilliam, you know there is more amiss than a simple lack of guidance."
"And what would that be?"
"My love," she began gently, "I thought you realized this already. He is not just an aimless youth. In truth, he has far too much ambition and direction. He knows exactly what he wants, and he will get it, no matter what the means or who suffers in the end "
"Fitzwilliam, I have heard unsavory tales of your brother's escapades. He is known both here in Dublin and in the counties west as a ruffian and a bully, using your name and position to gain whatever he desires at the moment."
"As much as I value your opinions, I know him best of all. He is my younger brother, and as such, he is a ripe target for such gossip. Surely, he cannot be blamed for bearing the Connolly name, any more than I am to blame for being the eldest son. Now, shall I call Mrs. Finnegan for a round of wine? We need to toast our happiness."
"Does the name Annie Delany sound familiar?" Patrick asked.
"Annie Delany? Nay, it does not. Should it?"