The Irish Duchess (7 page)

“Mrs. Blackthorne is a harpy,” Fiona replied with scorn, giving up on finding anything in the weeds and heading for the house. “Burke had more sense than to marry her. I wouldn’t put it past her to suggest they take a share of the village’s money. Burke would have told her where to go, and that would be that. Very likely, if you ask me.”

“Women,” Seamus muttered, following his sister inside.

“Don’t ignore them,” Neville recommended. “They see things we don’t often enough.”

Both Seamus and Fiona turned and stared at him in surprise. Neville shrugged and let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the kitchen. McGonigle and his friends had already torn the place apart looking for any sign of the money. If there were clues here, they’d be hard to find.

“Just precisely what are we looking for?” Fiona asked as she scanned the contents of the cupboard. “Burke had no family. People have been in here scavenging his larder already. If there was anything valuable lying around, it’s gone now.”

“It seemed reasonable to search for something that might have belonged to the murderer. We’d have to look for something that doesn’t belong here, a loose button, perhaps. Did the knife match the ones in his kitchen?” Neville glanced around the humble room with distaste. The task seemed impossible. Or improbable.

Both Seamus and Fiona rewarded his suggestion with looks of scorn.

“Matching knives?” Fiona of the hasty tongue replied first. “Whoever heard of such? Burke might have a knife handed down from his grandda, or from his late wife’s family, or if what he had was worn to a nubbin, and he felt particularly wealthy, he might have bought new from a tinker. But who’s to say what his knives looked like?”

“The Widow Blackthorne,” Seamus answered before the words were scarce out of her mouth.

Neville nodded thoughtfully. “Your Uncle William has the knife now, doesn’t he? Why don’t you have him take it to the widow and ask if it came from this kitchen? It’s a pity we can’t show it around town and ask to whom it might belong if it’s not Burke’s.”

“It’ll be Burke’s,” Fiona replied wearily, slamming the cupboard doors. “There’s none here, and a man wouldn’t leave his own knife behind.”

“That could mean whoever did it, didn’t mean to commit murder when he came in.” Despite his irritation at the delay, Neville found the puzzle intriguing. He supposed he could give the earl a full report when he returned, and the effort wouldn’t be entirely wasted. Michael had a strong sense of justice.

Keeping his mind on the puzzle didn’t keep Neville from noticing the smudge on Fiona’s cheek and wishing he could brush it away. He’d never seen a woman in such dishevelment before, and he found it oddly disconcerting that she had no care for her appearance in his company.

If he had a shilling for every female who’d thrown herself in his path these last ten years, all gowned and coifed and reeking of expensive scents, he’d be a rich man today. But those same women hadn’t given him a second look when he’d been a lonely student and the son of a younger son, far from the grandiose title of duke. He’d never learned how to talk with those women in his formative years. That’s why he’d decided on shy Gwyneth. But even Gwyneth didn’t go about in boy’s breeches with dust on her face—not in his presence, anyway.

Without a care to how it looked, Fiona got down on her hands and knees to explore the space behind the stove. Neville gulped and closed his eyes before he could look too closely at the rounded posterior presented to him.

“Fiona!” Seamus shouted angrily.

Fiona jumped and banged her head on a pipe. Cursing, she rubbed her head, not bothering to pull back to see what he wanted.

“Get your silly arse out of there!” Seamus demanded, shooting Neville a furious look that said he’d seen far more than was good for him.

“Curse your dratted hide, Seamus, what are you after scaring me half to death like that?” Backing out, still rubbing her sore head, Fiona turned and glared at her brother.

Cobwebs formed a silver halo in her hair, and soot blackened her forehead as much as her scowl. Neville stifled a grin. Looking like that, the stubborn chit could almost be classified as adorable.

Seamus grabbed the back of her shirt, hauled her up, and shoved her toward the door. “Go put on something decent for a change and ask the Widow Blackthorne about the knife.”

Catching the brat’s upraised hand before she could land a blow, Neville planted himself between the siblings. “Your mother should have taught you it’s easier to catch flies with honey,” he addressed Fiona first. “I ought to send both of you to Blanche for training. She would have Seamus crawling on his knees and begging with just a few words.”

Feeling the tension in the young man’s muscles beneath his other hand, Neville glared at him. “It’s a little late to complain about her appearance. And if it’s my intentions you’re questioning, I’m the one who will plant you a facer.”

With satisfaction, Neville noted this last declaration startled Fiona. She was an obnoxious, rebellious brat, but she was completely innocent of the way a man’s thoughts strayed in her presence. Blanche would have her hands full.

Growling, Seamus jerked away. “Eamon warned me to keep my eye on her, and I mean to do that.” The warning in his tone was unmistakable.

“The two of you are bloody damned fools if you think—”

At a loud thump on the ceiling, they craned their heads upward. Without a word, all three dashed for the front room and the staircase.

***

Neville signaled his two companions to halt their weary horses on a hill overlooking a bustling small town.

“I don’t know why you couldn’t have caught him before he got out the window,” Fiona said crossly, glaring at the mob hiding their prey.

Hay wagons, farm carts, and mules cluttered the roads entering the town, shoving foot travelers to the muddy edges. The tents and crowds of trade day covered the town square—where once they’d hoped to buy looms.

“Sure, and I should have sprouted wings. I’m telling you, it’s Colin. I’d know that black head of hair anywhere.” Seamus reined in his mount. “He’ll be at the Bull and Boar if he’s paying off his debts. Can’t think why else he’d head this way instead of making for a port.”

“And it’s not as if half the county and more doesn’t have black hair,” Fiona replied scornfully, easing her horse down the dirt path. “He was too small for Colin, but I’d know the coat if I saw it again. There’s not many who wear a tweed that ugly, and the left pocket was torn.”

The argument ceased as they guided their horses down the rocky hill. Not until they’d worked their way into the steady stream of carts and animals did anyone speak again.

“I cannot think why the murderer would have returned if he already has the money.” Riding a blooded thoroughbred twice the size of most of the animals around him, Neville sought their prey amidst the flux and flow of traffic. The man had escaped on a fine-boned mare of Arabian descent, but no such creature appeared in this motley lot.

His comment silenced the squabbling siblings, Neville noted with thanksgiving. He’d once regretted not having brothers or sisters. He was rethinking that regret now.

“Do you think it’s possible he
didn’t
find the money?” Fiona asked.

That she actually asked a reasonable question, treating his comment with respect, almost prompted a smile. He possessed one of the highest titles in the realm, was respected by his peers, sought after by his superiors, and none of that gave him half so much pleasure as knowing he was winning the respect of this annoying Irish female. Unconsciously, Neville rubbed the back of his head where his attackers had cudgeled him.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” he answered. “Or it could have been someone out for what they could find. We could be on a goose chase.”

“If it’s not Colin, we’ll never find him in this mob,” Seamus predicted. “We might as well check the Bull and Boar and go home if he’s not there.”

Neville caught the fleeting look of disappointment in Fiona’s eyes. Had she truly thought to catch the murderer so easily? Or was there something else behind the excitement she’d displayed earlier when it became evident the town was their destination?

“As long as we’re here, we may as well look around. We certainly don’t have any other direction to follow.” Neville let his horse fall back beside Fiona, giving Seamus room to lead.

Fiona seemed relieved by his decision, although she offered no thanks. Neville considered needling her just to watch the fire of anger rise in her cheeks but decided that was beneath him.

When they finally worked their way through to the tavern, Fiona started to climb from her horse as the men did. Neville caught her reins. “It’s not proper for a lady to frequent such a place. Stay here and make certain our scoundrel does not escape some other way.”

She appeared on the point of protest, then thought better of it and returned to her saddle. “You’d best hurry. I’m that hungry, I am, I could eat your horses while you’re gone.”

Neville didn’t trust that obliging tone. With sudden decision, he tied his horse’s reins to a post and nodded at Seamus. “It only takes one of us to look. I’ll fetch meat pies from that vendor over there.”

The scowl Fiona threw him justified Neville’s decision. Seamus tipped his hat and sauntered inside. Fiona sat her horse and glared.

“You might as well tell me what you plan,” Neville told her, taking her reins. “It will only make me angrier if I have to find out the hard way.”

“It’s none of your concern what I do, my lord duke,” she informed him arrogantly. “But if you intend to buy those pies, you should hurry before they’re all gone.”

Neville smothered another smile. She sat her horse in boy’s breeches and shirt, her hair tousled in thick auburn curls down her back, her cheeks still smudged with soot, yet she possessed the temerity to order him around as if she were a duchess and he a mere commoner at her feet. It was ludicrous to the extreme, and so captivating he couldn’t help being charmed.

“I fail to see humor in starvation,” she said icily. “Would you care to share the jest?”

“Nothing of moment, my queen, absolutely nothing, just a momentary lapse. I’ll fetch your pies if you promise to stay put.”

Fiona shot him a suspicious look at his easy capitulation. “I’m not likely to go anywhere in this mob,” she assured him. “Besides, I’m watching for a murderer.”

“Sure, and I’m an Irishman,” Neville mocked. “One foot off that horse, and I’ll have you on a ship to London faster than you’ll know what’s happened.”

Seven

Neville tightened his lips in exasperation as he caught Fiona easing her mount through the crowd and down the cobbled street. He’d known damned well she was up to something. He never should have turned his back on her for even ten seconds.

Forgetting the meat pies, he strode toward his horse. He’d be damned if he let the brat roam loose in a rowdy crowd like this.

Neville caught up with her in front of a pawn shop where Fiona leaned from her horse to converse with a merchant in a leather apron. The dratted brat had taken him literally. She hadn’t set her foot to earth, as promised. She must have sent someone in the shop to fetch the pawn broker.

Her ferocious scowl at being caught struck Neville as immensely funny, but people seldom appreciated his sense of humor.

“I’ll give you fair trade for whatever the lady is pawning,” Neville addressed the startled merchant. He prayed it wasn’t too costly. He had not brought funds for more than a brief stay in this godforsaken place.

The man beamed. “A pound, my lord, and you may have this fine silver bracelet.” He held up a slim band that caught the sunlight.

“He only gave me three crowns,” Fiona grumbled. “And this is none of your concern, as usual, my lord duke. Keep your coins. They’ll have better use elsewhere.”

“The man deserves a commission for trading on the street.” Neville flipped the broker a sovereign and claimed the bauble. He didn’t know a great deal about jewelry, but the scrollwork on this piece looked old. He sent sulky Fiona a quick look. “Family heirloom?”

“As I said, it’s none of your concern.”

She abruptly steered her horse back to the street. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he bothered following. The first time he’d seen Fiona, she’d been a grimy urchin on the streets of London, searching for her brother, hiding from Michael, and creating chaos and anarchy all around her in the process. Two years had made a hell of a lot of difference in her appearance, if not her manners.

He’d scarcely reached her side before she grabbed his sleeve, and pointed down a side street. “There he is! That’s the coat.”

Neville glanced where she pointed, spotting the Arabian mare and the coat at the same time. “Get Seamus,” he ordered before spurring his gelding in the intruder’s direction.

Fiona watched in amazement as the proper duke sent his mount sailing over a hedge and across the emerald lawn of some well-to-do cit, evidently aiming to cut off his prey at the alley as he would a fox on a hunt. Instead of obeying the duke’s orders, Fiona stayed behind her quarry, working her way through the crowd as quickly as possible to keep him in sight.

A tent cut her off from the fancy mare for only a moment. By the time she passed a mob laughing uproariously at a Punch and Judy show, both mare and man had disappeared. And the duke had long since departed down the alley. Gritting her teeth, Fiona took the only path that seemed logical, following the main road as it curved around a block of shops, hoping to catch sight of either the duke or their prey.

She found the duke first. Hat gone, golden-brown hair disheveled, he stood in his stirrups trying to see down a narrow, winding road past gaudy banners and shop signs, barrel wagons and cows.

“He had to have gone this way,” she said as she rode up beside him. “I don’t see any other alleys.”

Rather than point out her disobedience, the duke reined his horse into the melee. “We’ll follow the road out of town. Perhaps we can see easier there.”

That suited her just fine. It’s what she would have done. The duke might irritate her beyond redemption, but he did have a habit of making the right decisions—most of the time.