Virginia Henley (11 page)

Patrick gently kissed her ear and murmured, “I think perhaps you were too young after all.”

His words tore down her last defenses and she curled into a ball and sobbed uncontrollably into the pillow. She made an effort to leave the bed, but he drew her back into his embrace. With one muscular thigh across her legs, his arms possessively held her captive. “Sleep now,” he said firmly.

Terrance ran up the steps in Half-Moon Street and pounded on the door. After the second pounding, Mrs. Harris opened the front door apprehensively. “I must speak with Mr. O’Reilly,” Terry said breathlessly.

“I don’t dare disturb him. I would lose my job.” She had heard the screaming and carryings-on upstairs and she wanted no part of it.

Impatiently, Terry pushed past her and ran upstairs to the sitting room, Mrs. Harris following him, wringing her hands. Finding the room empty, he took the next flight of stairs and pounded on the bedroom door. He called out, “Patrick, I must speak with you.”

Patrick quickly got out of bed and went to the door naked. Kitty sat up in bed and cried out, “Terry!”

“How the devil did you know where to find me?” Patrick demanded.

“You know I try to keep my eye on Kitty. I knew you were bringing her here.”

“Terry, you came for me,” she cried thankfully.

He lowered his eyes from his sister’s nakedness. “No, I didn’t come for you. I came for Patrick. Your father’s had a bad turn. The doctor thinks it’s a stroke.”

Kitty said accusingly, “You knew what would happen to me, but you let him bring me here.”

“It’s better than being a servant, isn’t it?” Terry flared.

“No, it’s just the same! I’m like a chambermaid who must be obedient to my master’s demands, except I’m to be paid with pretty dresses instead of wages.” She saw her clothes
where Mrs. Harris had hidden them under the bed. Patrick was almost dressed, so she begged, “Wait for me. I’m going back with you. Mr. O’Reilly will have need of me.”

“Kitty, I need you too. Stay here, please. I’ll go to Father.”

“I hate you! I’ll always hate you for what you did to me. I can’t bear to stay here another minute.”

Terry looked at Patrick angrily and said, “Did you have to be so brutal?”

“Yes, damn it, she’s like a wildcat. Would you like to see the bites she inflicted to my wound? If there had been a knife within her reach she would have plunged it in and spilled my guts rather than submit to me!”

Kitty said to Terry, “You ought to kill him for me!”

Terry regarded her with the smoldering arrogance of the Gypsy male and said, “You challenged his manhood—he had to master you.”

Patrick asked him, “Did you bring the carriage? Good! I’ll drive; you go inside with Kitty.”

In the dark interior of the carriage she realized for the first time in her life that men and women were natural enemies. She knew without a doubt that Patrick would always conquer her in any physical encounter; therefore her weapons would have to be more devious and subtle.

Upon arrival at Cadogen Square, Patrick turned the carriage over to Terry for stabling. Patrick tried to help Kitty alight from the carriage but she brushed past his proffered hand and swept up the steps and into the brilliantly lit salon.

“Where have you been?” demanded Julia, looking them over speculatively.

Kitty’s yellow organza was badly creased from the hurried carriage ride, but she held up her chin and said, “Is there anything I can do to help Mr. O’Reilly?”

“The doctor still is with him, so we won’t know what to
do until he gives us our instructions. Go and make us all some tea, Kitty; that should make us feel better,” said Julia. Barbara sat unhappily in a corner with red-rimmed eyes. Patrick spoke up quickly, “No, Kitty may go and tell one of the servants to make tea, but she no longer is here in the capacity of a maid. She may share in father’s nursing duties, but that’s all.”

Kitty went to find a footman to order the tea, feeling grateful toward Patrick and at the same time hating herself for feeling that gratitude.

As soon as she was out of earshot Julia said, “Well! Don’t you know it’s bad form to keep your mistress under the same roof as your family?”

Patrick glared at her with ice-cold eyes for a moment and Julia paled and realized she shouldn’t have spoken to him so boldly.

He said quietly, “Kitty has refused to be my mistress. You’d better keep a civil tongue between your teeth when you are speaking to me, miss. Now be good enough to tell me what occurred with Father.”

“Well, it really all started this morning. Father got into the most violent argument with two draymen who came to make a wine delivery. Somehow ninety-six bottles were smashed and Father demanded they replace them at their own expense. The shouting match went on for hours. The whole household was in a state of upheaval. At lunchtime he still hadn’t calmed down. The men were long gone, but he kept at it with Barbara and me for his audience. I swear he covered every conceivable subject, from the inefficiency of the British working classes to the folly of putting a woman on the throne. He drank deeply at lunch and I suspect carried on throughout the afternoon. Just when everything seemed to have quieted down and settled back to normal he clutched his head and fell to the floor. It took us forever to get him upstairs
and into bed. We sent for the doctor immediately but he didn’t come for ages and ages, and you know the rest. I was going mad, not knowing where you were, but Terry said he would find you.”

Patrick ignored this latter part of her speech and said, “I think I’ll go up and speak with the doctor. Terry said something about a stroke. I imagine that’s what he has had. He does tend to live at the top of his voice, doesn’t he?”

Kitty came back into the room and Julia said to her, “Well, Irish, you’ve more sense than I gave you credit for, rejecting our Patrick. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, you know. Now then, what I have to figure out is how to keep this business from affecting my wedding plans. If he dies now, I’ll kill him!” She laughed at herself. “Well, that’s Irish if I’ve ever heard it.”

Barbara cried, “Julia, how can you think of yourself at a time like this?”

Julia looked at Kitty and said, “You know, don’t you? A woman has to take care of Number One first. Men will always sacrifice our wishes for their convenience. A woman is expected to give ail for love, but what man is willing to do that? If a woman doesn’t take care of herself, no one else will. I’m a survivor and so is Kitty. You, my little gutless wonder, will fall by the wayside because you’ve got a wishbone where your backbone should be! For God’s sake, stop sniveling. Ah, here’s the tea. I think I’m going to have some brandy in mine. How about you, Kitty?” Kitty nodded her appreciation and Barbara piped up, “I’ll join you, by God.”

Patrick went quietly into his father’s bedroom to find the doctor just closing his bag. “Ah, Mr. O’Reilly, glad to meet you, sir. I’m very pleased to be able to tell you that your father’s stroke was a slight one. He’s settled quite comfortably now. He’ll be in a very heavy sleep for the rest of the
night, but that’s quite natural. His eyes have a great deal of blood in them. It will take a few days before his system drains it away. I can’t be sure if there will be any paralysis until I check him tomorrow.” He glanced over to the bed and beckoned Patrick outside the room. “Now, I don’t want to worry you unduly, but these slight strokes sometimes are just warnings, and quite often days or weeks later they are followed by a massive stroke that either totally paralyzes or kills. All you can do is keep him warm and quiet.”

Patrick saw the doctor to the front door and came back to answer the questions his sisters would put to him.

“The doctor says he’s been very fortunate and it’s just a mild stroke. I’ll sleep in Father’s room tonight and I suggest you girls go to bed and get some rest. You can take over tomorrow. You know what he’s like when he’s ill—you’ll be run off your feet fetching and carrying.” He looked at Kitty. She was deathly pale and swaying on her feet. A great wave of protectiveness swept over him. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to bed. He wanted to cradle her against his heart and beg her forgiveness for being such a swine to her. He swore he’d make it up to her, but now wasn’t the time. He decided the kindest thing he could do was leave her alone, so he said good night and went to his father.

Jonathan O’Reilly was a tough old man and within a few days he was recovering satisfactorily. The only noticeable effect the stroke had had upon him was that his speech was slightly slurred and one corner of his mouth was lifted a little. This gave him an appearance of perpetual amusement, which was, if anything, an improvement of his rather harsh features. As the three young women moved about his room administering to his needs, they cracked jokes and gave him the acerbic side of their tongues if his demands grew too outrageous. Even Barbara learned to answer him back. This
treatment did a great deal to aid his recovery. If they had spoken in subdued whispers with an air of polite deference, he would have feared his death was imminent. They never saw Patrick during this time. He slept within calling distance of his father every night, but arrived home so late and quit the house so early each morning that no one saw him. As soon as he knew his father was going to recover fully, he plunged back into his business endeavors with unflagging vigor.

Jeffrey Linton sought him out anxiously to see if the wedding plans would have to be altered. Relieved when Patrick told him the wedding could go ahead as planned, he invited Patrick to his club in St. James’s Street for the evening.

“I thought you needed a title to walk into the hallowed halls of White’s.”

“To become a member, perhaps, but you would be coming as my guest,” said Jeffrey.

“Wasn’t it Beau Brummell, upon being invited to Manchester, who said, ‘Gentlemen don’t go to Manchester’? By the same token, factory owners don’t go to White’s.”

“Come now, Patrick; only last week you told me the ideas of the Regency were dead. You’re not afraid of being snubbed, are you?” asked Jeffrey politely.

“Afraid? Me? You must be joking! I’ll pick you up at nine.”

They entered the card room and to Jeffrey Linton’s great surprise, Patrick was hailed heartily by Sir Charles Drago. “Patrick! Christ, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize how much you could miss London until I started seeing some familiar faces.”

Patrick clapped Charles on the back. “Martinique, wasn’t it? Is your term of governorship finished, then?”

“Martinique went back to France after the Napoleonic Wars, my boy. It’s St. Kitts. I’ve another three years yet, but my health hasn’t been what it should be lately, so I returned for a few weeks. Damned tropics eat a man’s vitals.”

“Sorry, Jeffrey, this is Sir Charles Drago. I went to school with his younger brother Kevin. Charles, this is Viscount Linton, soon to be my brother-in-law.”

“So you’re popping Julia off this season, are you? I could use a wife to look after me in my declining years. You’ve got another sister, haven’t you?” He winked.

“She’s only thirteen, I’m afraid. Ask me again in three years’ time when you return from the islands,” Patrick said and laughed. He turned to Jeffrey. “Don’t look so astounded that the likes of me knows the likes of him. We’re both Irish and we’re both from the North. His father is the Duke of Manchester.”

Charles Drago was about thirty-nine. He was a square, thick-set man with wavy dark hair showing the first trace of silver. He was handsome in a full-blooded, florid way. The tropical sun never had bronzed him, but only burned him until his skin peeled, and then repeated the process over and over again until he had the color of a boiled lobster. He contrasted greatly with the rest of the English nobility currently in the room, who looked more the color of oysters, thought Patrick privately.

Charles told Jeffrey, “This young man has a knack for making money. I can spare about thirty thousand pounds right now; how would you like to invest it for me? I’ll wager you’ve something cooking at the moment.”

Patrick said, “Well, I’ve acquired part interest in Stowils Wines, and Jeffrey here is introducing a new line into society for me. Now, the vineyards that produce this wine are in St. Emilion at Chateau Monlabert, and they’re currently on the
market for about a hundred thousand pounds. If the three of us throw in an equal amount, we could get them as an investment. Charles and myself will be silent partners and Jeffrey here can describe himself as the
directeur.
Why, Jeffrey, you’ll be entitled to fly a flag with the company’s coat of arms,
a fleur-de-lis
and a lion or some such device, and you can honeymoon at the eighteenth-century chateau. All your snobby friends will try to wangle invitations, and Julia will adore you for investing her marriage portion so wisely.”

“Do you think it’s quite the thing for me to use Julia’s money?” Jeffrey said stiffly.

“Don’t be so squeamish, man,” urged Patrick. “You’ll have to put up with all the disadvantages of marriage, so you might as well enjoy its advantages.”

“How many acres?” asked Sir Charles.