She roused herself with the patient aggravation of long habit. Now, now—I’m coming, she thought grumpily. Where’s the bleedin’ bottle? There…candle, no candle…
Several colorful curses directed at the negligent housekeeper occupied Tilly’s mind as she stumbled out of bed to her mistress’ side. Roddy heard the maid speaking sharply to the dowager countess, and knew she had grasped the sleeping woman’s wrist with a hard pinch to wake her.
Lady Iveragh reacted with a short, sharp scream, and then the moans and mutterings of a half-conscious brain.
“Your medicine, m’lady,” Tilly said. “Here’s your medicine. Sit up now and take it, and then you can sleep.”
The words were spoken with the brisk, cruel comfort of a hardened nurse. Like a child, the countess held on to Tilly and obeyed, still half sunk in the dregs of nightmare.
Roddy waited. Tilly shuffled back to her cot, asleep almost before she pulled the bedclothes up. For a while Lady Iveragh ran from imaginary horrors, and then the laudanum did its work. Her mind eased into a soft, silent void.
The dreams were gone. Roddy walked back to her own room, certain that now she could sleep undisturbed.
But when she lay down, no sleep would come.
She could not sleep, knowing that the demons that haunted Lady Iveragh’s dreams all wore her own son’s face.
Chapter 10
“Not here?”
Geoffrey’s voice rose a little, a dim reflection of the anger and consternation in his mind. He threw his hat and coat at Minshall and strode into the drawing room toward the pianoforte. Son of a…I told him stay put—damn him, damn him—“Where is he?” Geoffrey snapped as Roddy’s music came to an abrupt stop.
She lifted her hands from the keys. In the face of his heated emotion, her answer seemed absurdly mundane. “He’s gone into the country,” she said. “To look at some cattle.”
“Cattle!” Geoffrey stared at her. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
Her spine stiffened. She had never encountered Geoffrey like this: his unfailing courtesy and charm lost in a whirl of thoughts that bordered on panic. “I’m sure I don’t care what you believe. It’s what he told me and Lady Iveragh.”
He turned sharply. “The coun—” It suddenly occurred to him that Roddy was now the countess, and he cleared his throat. “The dowager countess is at home?” Pray God she doesn’t see me, he was thinking. That woman has a mouth like—
“Would you care to speak to her?” Roddy asked in dulcet tones—a small thrust in retaliation for his shortness and reticence.
“No!” He stood up again. “No, I—Don’t disturb her. I’ll need to write Faelan a message. Could I ask you to deliver it—” He hesitated. He was thinking causes and meetings again, and how to reach Faelan with news of new dates. Iveragh leaped into his head: an image of wild mountains, of distance and a desperate need of Faelan. “Privately?”
Roddy fingered the ivory keys and lowered her lashes, reaching for the truth behind the turmoil. “If you tell me what this is about.”
“I can’t, poppet,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t have to ask again. The question itself provoked a train of thought in his mind that was as illuminating as any spoken answer he might have given her.
Guns. Geoffrey’s head was full of them. French guns for the United Irishmen, smuggled through the wild western lands of Faelan’s estate on the Iveragh peninsula.
Roddy’s fingers clattered discord on the smooth keys. Philosophy and debates were one thing—but guns…
Only a lifetime of caution kept her from crying out her horror. She sat very still, groping for a question, for a way to find out more without arousing suspicion. She made herself relax her hands, and said in her mildest voice, “Can you not? Do you think my husband has kept what you’re doing a secret from me?”
He froze in his restless pacing.
“I’m fully aware of the circumstances,” she added in blithe dishonesty. “You needn’t be afraid to speak of it to me. And a spoken message will be much safer than a written one, will it not?”
Disbelief, confusion, and anger chased one another across Geoffrey’s mind. “He’s told you? For God’s sake—there was no reason for that; no reason on earth!” He paced to the fireplace and glared into the mirror above. Damn the man; him and his deal—He slid a glance toward Roddy’s reflection. Ah, poppet, he thought, with pain and guilt in his eyes. I shouldn’t have gone along, but there wasn’t a choice. He’d have it his way or not at all.
A memory stood out sharply in his thoughts—Geoffrey trying to explain to Faelan how perfect Iveragh was for the smuggling; how much it would mean to the cause. And Faelan, impatient, unimpressed by Geoffrey’s speeches. Self-centered bastard, Geoffrey fumed even now, try to talk to him of freedom and all he wants to do is plant potatoes.
Roddy stared down at the keys, washed in the flow of Geoffrey’s feelings for Faelan: half affection, half fury, and then an anomalous recollection of some birthday spent entertaining three courtesans—a clear image of Faelan’s ironic smile as he presented the ladies, like a gift, knowing Geoffrey’s more earthly passions. Damned cold devil, Geoffrey thought ruefully. Call me a softheaded fool one day and lie down and die for me the next. So where is he now, curse him?
Geoffrey glanced at Roddy, and the guilt came surging back. Oh, God, I’m sorry, poppet. He wanted you. He wanted you and I needed Iveragh…
Roddy sat frozen, her insides contracting like the swift, sickening drop of flying with a fast horse off a steep bank. She saw the implication of his thoughts clearly.
They had made a bargain, Geoffrey and his friend. In return for Iveragh as a smuggling base, Faelan had gained what should have been impossible for the ill-famed Devil Earl: the sanction of a trusted family friend to ease his way with Roddy’s parents.
Roddy curled her fingers together into a tight ball in her lap. A bargain. As if she were a sack of flour. Something with a market price.
She set her lip and looked up at Geoffrey. But he had forgotten her already, lost in his internal agitation. The smuggling had gone awry somehow, the guns were stalled at Iveragh, and Geoffrey was terrified that Faelan might move ahead too soon with plans to revive the estate. Too much activity—the house, the guns…bloody informers, too risky to start repairs—Geoffrey’s mind went black with rage at the threat. Some bastard—make himself rich off our blood. Sweet Mary, ’twould be so easy. So damned easy.
At that, Roddy’s rigid spine went weak with sudden fear for her husband. If these rebel guns were discovered on Faelan’s estate, it would make no difference whether he was personally involved or not. He would be implicated far more deeply than Geoffrey.
“Give me the message,” she said. “I’ll find him.”
He turned toward her. “Do you know where he is?”
“No. But I’ll find him.”
“Tell me where to start. I can move faster—”
“And draw ten times the attention. No. Give me your message and go away, Geoffrey. Get out of this house, and don’t you dare try to contact him again. What if someone’s watching you? I’ll wager fifty people know of this stupid little game, and I wouldn’t trust a one of them.”
Geoffrey saw the force of her argument all too clearly, but he still clung to the idea that Roddy, as a member of the fragile and benighted female sex, should be kept ignorant of weighty masculine concerns. With a care that might have made her laugh at some calmer moment, he struggled to frame a message in his mind that would inform Faelan and still hide as much as possible from Roddy.
His efforts were pointless. Roddy used her gift with ruthless effect to glean what she needed to know. By the time he said, “Just tell him to contact me, and not to start work,” Roddy was fully aware that the guns might be held up at Iveragh for the next month while the Irish militia bivouacked and held maneuvers on the only road in the district. She also knew that the rebel lieutenant who had commanded the smuggling operation had
taken to his deathbed with an inflammation of the lungs, that Geoffrey’s unfamiliarity with the countryside rendered him helpless, and that a parson in Ballybrack who was altogether too curious about ghosts stood in danger of his life if he persisted in nosing around the abandoned mansion at Iveragh.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell him. He was planning for us to go as soon as he returned.”
“Don’t,” Geoffrey ordered, appalled at this new possibility. “For the love of God, don’t let him take you to Ireland. Tell him you want to stay in London. That you want to shop, or that you’re sick or—” Pregnant flashed through his mind, but he said “tired of traveling” instead.
“I can manage,” Roddy said, a little testily. Lord, was everyone from the Duke of Stratton on down obsessed with babies?
“I’ll wait in Gravesend with Mary. The White Lion. You may tell him that, too—and have him post down there on the instant,” damn his hide, Geoffrey finished silently.
“Do you want me to keep him here or post him to Gravesend? Or perhaps I should just wrap him up and mail him directly to Newgate.”
Geoffrey gave her a look of banked fire. “It’s no joke, Roddy. No joking matter at all.”
“No!” she burst out. “And who dragged us into it?”
He flushed. “I never meant for you to be involved,” he said in a low voice.
“Nor poor Mary either,” she added bitterly. “I suppose you think you have her safe and innocent, and never think what would happen to her if you should be—” She bit her lip. “Well, never mind that.”
“Roddy—”
“Never mind!” She was tired of talking. Even before he spoke, she felt the headache coming on that always did when Geoffrey tried to explain his political ideals. He was already marshaling reasons and imperatives to convince her of his rightness. She stood up, closing the conversation by dragging at the bellpull. “You should go now, if you wish to avoid Lady Iveragh. She’ll be down for luncheon any moment.”
He stood frowning at her, robbed of his explanations as she walked vigorously forward, spreading her hands to shoo him as if he had been a stray chicken. He went, secretly a little intimidated by this new and commanding side of his young friend. Roddy stood in the hall and watched him leave, his figure just as tall and dashing and romantic as it had always been, and wondered how she had ever imagined she could live with Geoffrey for the rest of her life.
Guns.
They hanged people for less than guns.
She took a deep breath and turned to Minshall. “Come into the withdrawing room. I need to speak to you.”
The majordomo followed Roddy without hesitation. Minshall, along with Martha, had become one of Roddy’s conquests. They were people she liked, even beneath their surface: good, honest, uncomplicated folk. She’d had a whole stableful of such admirers at home in Yorkshire. She knew exactly how to charm them, and didn’t mind using her knowledge, since she wanted very much for them to like her, too.
She turned as he closed the door. “Lord Cashel has brought me news of some urgency. Do you know where I can find Fae—” She stopped, catching in time Minshall’s opinion of informal address before the staff, and finished, “my Lord Iveragh?”
She had expected to cause some discomfort with the question, since she was fairly certain that if Faelan hadn’t elected to tell his wife exactly where he was going—except into Hampshire and Dorset—then he probably hadn’t given the majordomo a detailed itinerary, either. But the amount of discomfort that welled up in Minshall’s kindly mind was far more than she’d anticipated.
The manservant didn’t think Faelan had gone into Hampshire at all. Minshall’s thoughts went instantly to Faelan’s departure. North, he thought. No valet and no baggage and heading north.
Roddy might have discounted that oddity as merely the direction of some errand Faelan intended to perform before he left London, but Minshall knew better.
The dowager countess had told him that Faelan kept a house in Islington.
The particular purpose of this house brought a faint blush to Roddy’s cheeks. Mrs. Northfield figured prominently in the majordomo’s thoughts, and he was most anxious to protect Roddy from any hint of his suspicions. He said in answer to her inquiry, “I believe I can locate him, my lady. What message shall I transmit to His Lordship?”
Roddy hesitated. Faelan might have met his mistress at this mysterious house in the past, but Roddy was certain he hadn’t gone there for that purpose now. Liza Northfield, Roddy was sure, had been honorably retired.
Perhaps he had gone to Islington to meet a business associate, or to collect important papers. Her father was always dealing with papers of one sort or another. Men, Roddy knew, took a great delight in creating documents and carrying them around and about to be signed and discussed and amended. Faelan’s lack of baggage was a bit more inexplicable, until Roddy had the happy thought that perhaps he intended to pack up whatever clothing he had kept at this house and remove it for good.
“I’m afraid I must speak to him myself,” she told Minshall.
“Then I shall send to him to return immediately.”
“No.” Roddy looked Minshall straight in the eyes. “Just tell me where you think he is.”
Pelham Cottage, came her answer, as clear as words. Aloud, he said, “I’m really not certain exactly where Lord Iveragh might be, my lady. I can only send a boy to inquire in the direction I believe His Lordship has gone.”
“Oh.” Roddy forced herself to sound disappointed. “That seems unlikely to answer. Perhaps it would be better simply to wait until he returns.”
“If it’s a matter of urgency—”
“Oh, ’tisn’t that important,” she said, and then added in a confiding voice, “I’ve a notion Lord Cashel exaggerates a bit sometimes. I’ve known him all my life, and I have an idea this is just one of his little teases. We’ll wait until His Lordship returns.” She strolled to the window and made a great show of looking outside. “It’s another lovely day, is it not?” She gazed a moment, and then turned back to the majordomo with an air of sudden decision. “Have the phaeton brought round, Minshall. I’m going for a drive.”
Three hours later, with Martha for a guide, Roddy was on the turnpike to Islington. She had no expectation of finding Faelan at Pelham Cottage. After all, his purpose had been to look at cattle in Hampshire and Dorset, and he had promised her he would return within four days. He would hardly have loitered about Islington with such a demanding schedule as that before him.
What she did hope was that he might have left word of his next destination at the cottage. Trotting up the pretty tree-shaded street that bordered the banks of New River, she slowed the phaeton in front of an inn and came to a stop.
Martha—who considered being chosen above Jane to accompany the young mistress on this expedition an honor akin to a seat in Parliament—jumped down cheerfully to obey Roddy’s request for directions. A few minutes later, replete with lemonade and instructions, Roddy sent the horses again to a trot. The phaeton rolled on through Islington village. Just past Hybury Place, a lane branched right, as the potboy had predicted, and at the end of it a neat stone house sat amid trees laden with unplucked October apples.
As if their arrival had been awaited, a groom ran out to take the horses. She felt his shock of surprise as he glanced up at Roddy. ’Nother lady? His brow wrinkled in disgust. Be havin’ a dashed great harem in there.
The groom’s dark musings gave Roddy a moment’s pause. She suddenly wanted to hang back, to question and explore before mounting the steps of Pelham Cottage. But Martha was already bouncing up the gravel walk to ring the bell. Roddy glanced dubiously at the groom, who had turned his full attention to the horses, and then followed Martha.
The front door opened a crack before they had reached it, and then shut again in their faces.
Bewildered consternation radiated from behind the solid oak. A lady! Oh, me—oh, Lor’—oh, Father in Heaven, what’s to do?
; Martha beat enthusiastically on the door knocker, but whoever was standing in the entry had no intention of opening the barrier again. The only answer was a renewed surge of agitation from the other side. Martha raised her sturdy hand to knock again, but before the brass clashed against the door, the hidden personage behind it had an inspiration. One of Miss Ellen’s friends, the unknown servant decided, and swung open the door.
A young and pretty maid peeked from behind the heavy oak, and lost some of her newfound composure when she could not recognize Roddy’s face.
Martha stepped into the silence. “’Tis Her Ladyship, the Countess of Iveragh,” she declared loudly, thinking with scorn that this flighty little thing hardly knew her business. “You’ll be letting us in?” Martha added, with scathing sarcasm.
Instead of obeying, the young maid simply froze in horror. Martha used this opening to give the door a violent push, which took the maid hanging on to it stumbling back into the entry hall.
“Your Ladyship.” The little maid dropped into a curtsy and simply stayed there, too terrified even to rise. Her mind was an agitated litany: Miss Ellen, poor Miss Ellen, oh, what’s to be done now? The countess, the countess herself—Oh, she’ll be here to ruin us, this lady; she’ll be makin’ Miss Ellen a fine spectacle, draggin’ her home by her heels. And me job—Lor’, me job’s gone for good, helpin’ Miss Ellen run away—like I’ll go to prison, or be flogged to an inch…
Before Roddy could say a word, the girl began to cry. She was so far past rationality that in the face of all appearance and logic, she did not even question the notion that Roddy was Faelan’s mother. To the maid, there was one Countess of Iveragh, and one only.
Another presence, a burst of female eagerness, distracted Roddy from the maid’s frenzy. She looked up to see a young woman in an elegant morning dress descending the stairs. In her flurry of excitement, the girl still had the sense to concentrate on holding the rail on the narrow staircase, and as she bent to watch her feet, her dark, crimped hair shone with deep oily highlights in the latest fashion. She looked up as she neared the bottom step. Her eagerness dissolved into surprise.