The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 2

  “Six years,” she said, adding stiffly, “I am prepared to furnish details of our encounter in addition to those I hinted at in the advertisements.”

  He couldn’t help smiling a little at the thought of where such a discussion might lead. Except that it wouldn’t. He would send her away and lose himself in wine and cards instead—not that they held much allure either. “That proves nothing. Women gossip about their love affairs.”

  Her eyes widened. “I would never do such a thing!”

  Very convincing, if he’d been a flat. “Darling, I know what women confide to their bosom friends, because all too often they pass it along to me in bed.” He yawned again. He was tired; lately he always seemed to be tired, even in the small hours of the night, usually his best time.

  “I don’t have any bosom friends,” she snapped, “and I haven’t the slightest desire to confide in you. I merely wish—”

  “Come to think of it, I know you’re not the same girl. I remember now. Medusa had an Irish brogue.”

  “If it’s a brogue you’re wantin’, sure and I’ll give it you,” she said in the same warm, Irish voice from years ago. “And I wasn’t Medusa—that was merely what you decided to call me.” That in upper-class English again. Back in the brogue: “I was a banshee.” She said the word in two distinct syllables with a lilt of menace.

  She must be an actress then, although come to think of it, her clothing was that of a poorly-paid maidservant or perhaps a tavern wench. “Very well, it might have been you, but there’s no proof I fathered the brat.” He’d been careful—extremely careful—to father no children for whom he might be responsible. Other men were suited to fatherhood—not he.

  “My daughter is not a brat, and she is your child. I had carnal relations with no one else but you.”

  He knew better than to believe that from an actress. Or a tavern wench, except no tavern wench he’d ever met spoke as if she belonged in Mayfair. Not that he cared who or what she was.

  He tossed back his wine. “Sorry, love, but I don’t have time for this.”

  Her lips thinned, and the corner of one narrowed eye twitched. “Please reconsider,” she said, as if it took a great effort to remain civil. “It will cost you nothing but a few minutes of your so very valuable time.”

  She was entirely right in implying that his time was worthless, but he was damned if he would let himself be gulled by a—

  A flood of knocking broke into his thoughts. “Porter! Open up! Lord Garrison here.”

  What the devil was his cousin Miles doing here at this hour? The last thing Colin needed was a lecture from Miles, who had turned tediously straight-laced after fathering an illegitimate child of his own.

  Colin stood. “A more welcome caller has arrived.” He flapped an irritable hand. “Out you go, the way you came.”

  She remained where she was. “Not until you agree to acknowledge my—our daughter.”

  “You will leave,” he said, “if I have to remove you forcibly.”

  “Very well, do so.” She crossed her arms. “Be assured I shall make plenty of noise in the process.”

  “Dash it all . . .” He threw up his hands. He’d never used force on a woman, and he wasn’t about to start now. Meanwhile, the porter’s rumble from below meant he was awake and about to open the front door of the building. “Go into my bedchamber. I’ll get rid of him, and then we’ll talk.”

  “You haven’t promised to do as I ask.”

  “And I probably won’t, but I’m willing to discuss the possibility.” For two minutes at most. “Take it or leave it.”

  She frowned. “You’ll listen to what I have to say and consider it with a fair mind?”

  “Isn’t that what I just agreed to?” Voices sounded, followed by Miles’s footsteps on the stairs. He shooed her into the bedchamber, shut the door behind her, and slumped onto the couch again just as Miles marched in.

  Bridget sat on the bed, astonished Colin had let her stay in the bedchamber by herself. He must know by now that she had Irish blood, or perhaps he assumed she was an actress skilled at various accents. Either way, most well-off Englishmen wouldn’t trust her unsupervised. He had some valuable belongings in here—that snuffbox, for example, of fine porcelain with gilding on the lid, and the diamond cravat pin on the dresser, and the watch and fob tossed carelessly onto the bed.

  She couldn’t help but eavesdrop. Lord Garrison’s irate voice penetrated the door easily, and so did Colin’s responses. His lordship, Bridget knew, was Colin’s cousin. Evidently, someone called Toup had robbed a woman named Melinda of a large sum of money.

  “Nothing is more likely,” Colin was saying. “Toup has a taste for low company. Brought me to a boozing ken once that turned out to be a den of thieves. I was lucky to get out of there in one piece.” He grunted. “Can’t let him get away with doing that to our Melinda.”

  “Our Melinda?” Lord Garrison growled.

  Colin answered laughingly, their voices fading as he told Lord Garrison where Mr. Toup dwelt. A few seconds later a door slammed. Bridget strained her ears. Footsteps sounded in the distance, and then the shutting of another door. Good, the visitor was gone. She opened the bedchamber door.

  The parlor was in darkness but for the glow from the dying fire.

  Where was Colin? Bridget rekindled the branch of candles and prowled his lodgings. Apart from rhythmic snoring from behind one wall—that must be Colin’s valet—the place was empty. She opened the door to the staircase enough to peek through. Silence.

  He was gone. He had walked out, just like that, to play knight errant for some other woman, who by the sound of it didn’t even belong to him.

  Whilst he wouldn’t even acknowledge his own child.

  Why was she surprised? For some stupid reason, she’d believed him a decent sort at heart. Wishful thinking, she acknowledged. She’d fallen for one handsome dastard; why not two?

  Except that . . . to be fair, their discussion had been superseded by something more urgent. A considerate man would have come into the bedchamber to apologize and make arrangements to see her later, but as she tried to see it from his point of view—she prided herself on being a just woman—she knew that wouldn’t have turned out well. Lord Garrison would have wanted to know what was keeping him, and for all Colin Warren knew, she would have made a monstrous fuss.

  She let out a long, annoyed breath. She would have to give him one more chance. No, who was she fooling? She needed to give him one more chance.

  She would make good and sure he didn’t forget his promise. She went through the drawers of a small writing-desk in the corner, found a sheet of foolscap, and sat down to write. She was obliged to waste several minutes mending the quill, but eventually she got the note written and attached it to his pillowcase with . . . the cravat pin.

  A nice gesture, making it clear she’d seen the diamond pin but wasn’t a thief.

  And if he didn’t see her note and stuck himself on the pin, he deserved it. He deserved it anyway, and she had no intention of clambering through the window and risking her neck on the drainpipe again. She listened at the door, opened it slightly, and listened some more. All was dark and silent; the porter must have gone back to bed. She crept down the stairs and left by the front door.

  Jed Rush, once her father’s head groom and now her refuge, met her at the corner. With his lantern, cudgel, and stentorian tones, he made a convincing Charley. He would have pretended to arrest her if Colin had resorted to calling the Watch.

  “Well?” Jed growled, a world of disapproval in that one word. He’d rescued her from too many scrapes as a child to stand on ceremony with her now. He’d argued fiercely against the risk she’d taken tonight, but when it came down to it, he could always be counted upon to do what was needed.

  Unlike most other males. And, to be
fair again, females too. That was why you nurtured and treasured the good people in your life. Her husband, Johnny Black, had been one of those, but he’d died after only six months of marriage.

  “Mr. Warren was urgently called away,” Bridget said, “but he agreed to talk.”

  Jed ruminated on that for a minute. “He’s the gent who came out with the lord that pounded on the door, fit to wake the whole street?”

  “Yes.” They walked briskly, as it was a long way back to Grub Street, where Jed owned an aging inn. “I believe it truly was an emergency, so I’ve decided to give him another chance.”

  “Another chance before you do what?”

  “I haven’t decided.” Ideas jostled one another in her mind. Deep in her gut lurked the fear that she might have to take Sylvie and leave the country…but for where? The Continent was closest, but war with France prevented that. Better to go to America or even the Antipodes—someplace Martin wouldn’t follow.

  But Bridget didn’t want to leave England. If she could convince Colin Warren that Sylvie really was his child, she might be able to stay. Acknowledging her would cost him nothing at all. It would cement Bridget’s ruin, but that hardly mattered—Martin had already destroyed her reputation. People who had received her previously now shunned her. He’d got everyone, including the vicar, on his side. Only one neighbor still associated with her, and her servants remained faithful, but they found the situation uncomfortable. Just thinking about it infuriated her. If murder were an option, she would gladly embrace it.

  But it wasn’t, so she said, “Maybe I’ll climb in his window again. Whatever I do, you probably won’t like it.”

  “What I don’t like . . .” Jed paused to spit. “Is that you won’t do what’s obvious and makes sense.”

  They’d been through this over and over since she’d arrived in London, and it wouldn’t stop until she left. “I don’t want to marry Martin Fallow.”

  Jed snorted. “Why not? You were over the moon for him as a lass.” He spat again. “And made sure the whole world knew about it, too.”

  Yes, and how could she have known that wearing her heart on her sleeve at sixteen would come back to haunt her now?

  “A likely lad he was then, and by what I hear, he’s grown to be a fine-looking man,” Jed went on.

  “Yes, he’s very handsome,” she said for the sake of agreeing with something Jed said. “But threatening to take Sylvie from me is unforgiveable. Whatever I may have felt for him then, I don’t love him now.”

  Jed tried to guide her across the street to avoid the stench of a night-soil cart. She pulled away to greet the horse that was hitched to the reeking vehicle.

  “Now then, Miss Bridgy, you needn’t give a treat to every nag in London. And don’t tell me your Irish blood makes you do it.”

  “No, my Irish blood is what makes them like me.” She’d never met a horse that didn’t calm to her touch—the magical Irish Touch, as her father had put it. She offered the weary creature a bit of wizened apple. The driver of the cart gave her a friendly nod.

  “There’s many an Englishman has the same touch.” Jed practically forced her forward again. “Your poor, sainted mother did her best, but she couldn’t stop your father from filling your head with Irish nonsense.” He tsked. “But since he did, you may as well wed one of your godforsaken relations. He’ll know how to handle your wild starts.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but huffed instead. There were plenty of badly-behaved Englishwomen, but no point trying to correct Jed, who harbored the usual prejudices against the Irish. “Even an Englishman should understand that I don’t wish to be forced into marriage.”

  “Aye, no doubt it seems cruel, but he’s doing what he thinks best,” Jed said, not the least abashed. “Marriage with him is the best solution for you and Sylvie.”

  They would never agree on that. “We didn’t need a solution until he came along and caused a problem.”

  “Nay, lass, you did have a problem. You were living with lies.”

  But she’d done a good job of making her story seem true. She’d left England immediately after her father’s death—before anyone knew she was pregnant—and had gone to Ireland to have the baby. When Sylvie was two years old, she had returned to live in the English estate inherited from her father. Her story that she’d become pregnant just before Johnny Black’s death was entirely plausible; some women hardly show at six months. No one questioned that Sylvie was Johnny’s child.

  She hadn’t reckoned with Martin Fallow. Why would she? It had never in her wildest dreams occurred to her that he would arrive in her remote Lancashire village one day, a widower now, claiming that Sylvie was illegitimate and that he was the father.

  “One never knows when even the best kept secrets will out,” Jed said. “He’s offering protection and a good name to both you and Sylvie.” They turned onto Piccadilly and headed east. “Love isn’t necessary for a good marriage.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. Jed was top over tail for his wife, Millie. He had to be, to put up with her.

  “Aye, you’re right,” Jed grinned. “Love surely helps. Happen you’ll grow to love Mr. Fallow again.”

  Bridget shook her head. She would never, ever feel that way about Martin. She’d had her chance at love with Johnny Black. She didn’t expect such happiness again.

  It was dawn by the time Colin returned from helping Miles recover the stolen money—and what fun that was—and Bridget O’Something-or-other Black was gone. He let out a long sigh of relief. Maybe she’d given up on trying to convince him the brat was his. Maybe he wouldn’t have to talk to her after all.

  He shucked his clothes and brushed his teeth, and was about to get into bed when he spied the note pinned to the pillowcase. Damned lucky, he thought indignantly, that he hadn’t stuck himself on the cravat pin.

  In a flowing, elegant script, it read: “Remember the legend of the Ban Shee.”

  What the devil was that supposed to mean? He crumpled the note, tossed it across the room, snuffed the candles, and crawled under the coverlet.

  He couldn’t sleep.

  This was nothing unusual. Lately, no matter how many hours he spent fencing and riding during the day, no matter how much he gambled and drank in the evening, no matter how exhausted when finally he got into bed, he tossed and turned for hours and woke not only unrefreshed, but achingly sad. About what, he had no idea, unless it was his cock’s reluctance to rise to the occasion. But that didn’t make sense, since it had happened after the sleeplessness and melancholia had crept up and taken over his life.

  After what seemed like hours, familiar sounds came from the next room—his man tidying up.

  Colin rolled onto his back. Another bleak day stretched ahead, one in an endless expanse of bleak days.

  As he stared gloomily at the window through which Bridget had climbed—she was one determined woman—he found himself thinking about her and remembering their night of pleasure. It had taken place during the one and only orgy he’d held at his Lancashire estate. What with the misery of the servants—he’d had to rescue the housemaids from his idiot friends—the reproaches of the neighbors, and the blistering scold he’d received from his cousin Miles, he’d decided to stick to London when it came to misbehavior. Nobody gave a damn what he did here.

  Not that he’d done any of it lately. He might as well rusticate in Lancashire, where he would get in some fishing. Maybe he would be able to sleep there. His cock might even show signs of life again.

  That led to more thoughts of Bridget. The fact that he remembered her—most of his encounters had faded into a soup of memory—was surprising in itself. But then, she’d been unusual. She wasn’t one of the whores they’d brought with them, none of whom appealed to Colin, so he’d gone to bed alone. She’d appeared at his bedchamber window and told him the other
women would just have to do without, because he belonged to her for the night.

  Jesus, he’d forgotten that. He grinned, wondering if she made a habit of climbing in windows. She’d been a grand and gorgeous apparition, entirely sure of herself and what she wanted, but not the least bit brash about it. She hadn’t been shy or apologetic, either—but she’d refused to take off her mask. After several attempts, he’d managed to divest her of it, only to find that she’d painted a similar mask directly on her face.

  His cock twitched at the memory. Granted, it was a pathetic little twitch, but at least he wasn’t entirely dead below the waist. He shuddered and threw off the coverlet. He mustn’t let himself even think that way.

  Truth to tell, Bridget was far more concerned about Millie putting a spoke in her wheel than any of Jed’s misgivings. Millie was obsessed with propriety, as she indicated once again when Bridget dragged herself down to the huge, ancient kitchen hours later. It was long past breakfast time, and Millie and the kitchen maid were making pastry for the evening’s meat pies. Sylvie had flour in her hair, up to her elbows, and all over her pinafore, while the nursemaid, Mary Joan, sat primly in the corner darning socks.

  “Good morning, Mama,” Sylvie said with a big gap-toothed grin. “They’re making pork pies. I’m making gooseberry tart.”

  She leaned over to kiss her daughter. “Excellent. We’ll have some for supper, shall we?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Black.” Millie’s voice was disapproving as always, but she ordered the maid to bustle about and get coffee and bread and cheese. She didn’t approve of Bridget eating in the kitchen, but the Bellowing Bull wasn’t the sort of inn a gentlewoman would patronize, so it was the kitchen or her bedchamber. “I like kitchens,” Bridget had insisted the first day she’d arrived in London, “and I don’t like eating alone.”