The Remarkable Myth of a Nameless Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  Her father looked up and met her gaze. “I think there might be an attack, aye. A means of showing the English that we ain’t too pleased they took our lands from us, as you say, and tricked us into selling.”

  “On the Woodworths, too?” Her heart was lodged in her throat, for if the Ribbonmen meant to strike at the manor, Jacob would surely find himself in the firing line.

  “I don’t know of that. See, I’ve not been asked to take part in no attack. If they meant to strike down the Woodworths, I ought to be leading the charge.”

  She frowned. “Because the Duke of Woodworth purchased Ballyroyal from you?”

  “Aye… and because his wife and sons still sit in the house what he bought.” Her father lowered his gaze again, as the penny dropped.

  “Ravencliff is Ballyroyal?” she gasped.

  “I don’t expect you remember much from them days, do you?” He laughed bitterly. “Once upon a time, you were the young lady waltzing down them halls. I was the lord of it, with your sweet ma at my side. Then the Duke comes along, with his lady wife, and visits us there. I expect your ma’s sister-in-law, the old Duke’s wife, liked what she saw and thought to have it for herself.”

  Alicia shook her head. “That can’t be right, Da. I would remember it. The place we lived… it was a long way from here.” She paused, doubting the clarity of her own memories. “Wasn’t it?”

  “The mind plays tricks on us all, pet. It protects us—lets us see only what we want to see, so we don’t sink into a darkness. I’m not fortunate enough to be able to forget, but you were so young. How could you have remembered? Naturally, the Duchess of Woodworth redecorated, which is likely why things didn’t seem so familiar to you. But aye, Ravencliff was once Ballyroyal. Finest house in all of Northern Ireland.”

  Alicia forced herself to concentrate. For once, her father was being forthcoming, and she did not know when he might close himself off again. There was much she needed to discover, for her sake, and for Jacob’s.

  And yet, she could not deny the flicker of resentment that had ignited in her chest. The English had not only taken Irish lands away from those it belonged to; they had bought it out from under them, and they had bought her own home out from under her. It burned like a furnace, to think she had wandered those corridors as a mere servant, when she should have been the one barking orders and chastising maids for their slatternly manner when serving at the dinner table.

  How could I have forgotten? Her memories of ballrooms and fine gardens had always been so clear in her mind, but now she knew she could not trust a single one of them. Her mind had fabricated a different world, to distract her from the blunt, hard truth—that Ravencliff, or Ballyroyal, as it ought to have been called still, should have been her domain, instead of this squat, filthy cottage in the village.

  “But, Da, you must have been paid well? How have we ended up here?” She gestured around herself in confusion.

  Her father grimaced. “The money were supposed to come monthly, as an allowance of sorts. He said he’d send all me belongings when I had an address to send it to, but I never saw hide nor hair of that. As for the allowance, it came as it was meant to, in the first year, and then it trickled dry. I went to the old Duke, demanding answers, and he told me the money had been delivered. He said it weren’t his fault if it didn’t reach us. I don’t know if that were true about it being sent, but he swore blind it were. So… I got nothing and gave everything. No more money ever came, I weren’t allowed to take my belongings, and every time I went up to the house, I were turned away.”

  “Is that why you had us stay so close?” she said quietly, her temples throbbing.

  Her father smiled sadly. “What can I say, I couldn’t bring myself to leave this place, even after all was lost. I needed to be close to it. It’s where your ma is buried, after all. And this cottage were all we could afford, when the money petered out.”

  “No… her headstone is in the churchyard at St. Mary’s.”

  “Aye, but there ain’t no body beneath. The Duke didn’t like me coming back to visit her, after he took the house and our funds vanished, so I paid for another stone so you and your brother might have a place to remember her. And me, in truth. Your ma’s true grave is in the mausoleum, in the private chapel up yonder.” He pointed toward the door, and she knew he meant the manor.

  Alicia felt sick again. “What right did he have, to turn you away from your own land?”

  “It weren’t my land no more. That’s the truth of it. I had no say in what went on, and I couldn’t refuse when he told me to get away from his estate.” Her father sighed, his voice catching in his throat. “I appealed to your ma’s brother time and again, catching him in the fields and the like, but he wouldn’t relent, neither. I suppose he never cared for me much. Didn’t think I were the right sort of fella for his sister.”

  “That’s… that’s disgusting!” Alicia cried. “They stole what you were owed! And they stopped you seeing your wife’s grave!”

  He shrugged. “That’s the wealthy English for you. I bet you’re reconsidering your feelings about them ‘innocents’ getting a taste of their own medicine, ain’t you?”

  His words served as a stark reminder of why she was here. No matter how furious she was, that did not mean she was willing to see English folks struck down. There would be ladies present at the ball, and maybe even children. Her personal grievance with the Duchess of Woodworth and her deceased husband did not give her the right to decide who would be corralled like cattle into the well-laid trap of the Ribbonmen.

  No one else is going to suffer. If I do nothing, people will be hurt, or worse. It may light a fuse that no one will be able to put out. Ireland had seen enough turmoil, and if the Ribbonmen did anything to incite English anger, it would begin a cycle of bloodshed and misery that might never end. Or, if it did end, it would come to a close once the emerald of this isle ran scarlet with the blood of its natives. The English had the firepower, while the Irish had only their pride. And she knew how the old saying went—pride came before a fall.

  Even so, her heart remained torn. This had become vastly personal to her, where before it had not hit her so keenly. Maybe the English did deserve to be punished… but not at the expense of Irish lives. To ensure the latter did not occur, she realized she was going to have to swallow her own pride and put aside the fresh resentment she felt for the Duchess of Woodworth.

  She might not have liked it, but she knew she had to stop the attack from occurring tomorrow night, at the manor ball. By doing that, she would save her own people from further suffering. And, right now, that was all that mattered.

  Although, there is one more thing…

  “Da, why did you attempt to shoot Lord Owen?” It stuck in her throat to call him ‘Lord,’ now that she knew he was undeserving of the title.

  Her father’s eyes clouded over. “I… I didn’t.”

  “Don’t you lie to me, Da. It was your musket that missed and shot Elias instead. I know it was—I’ve held it in my own hands often enough, as I did that day, too.”

  Her father shook his head. “It may have been my musket, but it weren’t my hands that did the shooting. I was instructed to leave it by the stables, where I supposed Elias would make use of it. No one’s as surprised as me that it wound up killing Elias.”

  Alicia toyed anxiously with a strand of her red hair. “You didn’t do the shooting?”

  “No, though I can see how it looks, believe you me. I were there that day, admittedly, but I didn’t go near that musket after leaving it by the stable. As I said, I expected Elias wanted to make use of it, and I were obeying the orders given to me in a letter. I was already leaving the estate when the shot rang out—you can ask Francis Potter. He was riding toward the manor when he saw me on the road.”

  Alicia fixed her gaze on her father. “This doesn’t make any sense. It was your musket.”

  “Aye, it was. And now, I’m understanding why I was told to burn them letters as they cam
e to me. Whoever’s been sending them doesn’t want any evidence left behind or having anything left to point the finger at them.” Her father scratched his stubbled chin. “See, pet, if someone else realizes it’s my musket, I’ll be the one made to hang for that shooting. It’s lucky I did see Francis Potter as he’s the only one who’ll be able to account for my whereabouts when the shot went off.”

  Alicia shivered despite the heat of the flickering fire. If Elias didn’t use the musket for himself, and my Da wasn’t nearby when the shot struck Elias… then who did squeeze the trigger?

  Chapter 35

  Jacob crept closer to the action, though he kept to the shadows offered by the cold stone walls. Meghan appeared to be in a state of distress while Mistress Snowdrop folded her arms across her buxom chest and stared disapprovingly at the younger woman. Owen, meanwhile, said nothing. He just stood there, shaking his head slowly.

  “I only did what I was asked!” Meghan howled. “It’s naught to do with me.”

  “It’s that lass, you mark my words. She spelled trouble from the moment she stepped into this house,” Mistress Marigold replied curtly. “She caused this, and that drunken fool she calls a father.”

  Caused what? Jacob edged a little closer.

  “It was his musket, after all,” Mistress Marigold added. “How was I to know that—” She stopped abruptly as a chunk of stone broke loose from the wall and clattered to the floor. Jacob cursed under his breath, realizing he must have dislodged it.

  “Who’s there? Show yourself!” Owen barked.

  Jacob contemplated hurrying back the way he had come, but Owen would likely catch him on the stairs before he had the chance to escape. Besides, he was curious to discover just what was going on here.

  “It is me.” Jacob stepped out of the darkness and into the soft glow of the lamps that illuminated this strange gathering.

  Owen narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to find… you,” he half-lied. His pursuit of Meghan had been the impetus that had driven him to the kitchens. Owen being here with her had simply been a coincidence.

  Or perhaps not so coincidental…

  “In truth, I am very eager to understand what is happening down here.” He glanced a Meghan. “For example, I would be keen to hear what is naught to do with you, Miss, just as I would be curious to hear what you have to say of ‘that lass,’ Mistress Marigold.”

  Owen stepped toward him. “I am in the middle of something extremely important.”

  “And what might that be?” Jacob replied, with an air of belligerence.

  “I am trying to get to the bottom of that unfortunate shooting—the one that might have taken your life or mine, if the shooter had not missed their true target. They were just about to give me their thoughts when you stumble in, like a newborn calf.” Owen pulled a sour face, while the two women paled in the low light.

  “Why did you not bring me in to assist you, instead of vanishing into thin air to conduct this in secret? It concerns me, too.” Jacob waited for a reply, tapping his foot impatiently. “Indeed, this entire situation concerns me.”

  “It should not. It is merely a matter of logistics and common sense. The staff in this house know me better than you. They are more inclined to trust me, instead of an outsider,” Owen retorted. “Now, with you here, I doubt they will say a word, if they did see anything of what occurred.”

  “They saw something?” Jacob raised an eyebrow. “What did they see? Meghan—you must have been in the hallway where the shooter fired, not long before he struck. Who was there? Who did you see?”

  “I’m not saying aught. You cannae make me,” Meghan replied stubbornly. She definitely knew something, but her lips appeared to be sealed.

  Jacob held onto his composure. “Mistress Marigold? Might you be more forthcoming? Do not forget that I am the one in control of this house, and I may decide who is permitted to keep their employment and who is not.”

  The older woman shook her head. “I don’t have anything to say on the matter, as I told Lord Owen. As far as I’m concerned, all the blame points to the Price lass and her father.”

  “But Miss Price was with my brother. How could it have anything to do with her?” Jacob remarked, trying not to sound too defensive of her character.

  “Well, just her father, then, though bad apples don’t fall far from the tree. I heard from one of the others that it was his musket that was used—what more evidence could you need, that he’s the one responsible?” Mistress Marigold could not look Jacob in the eye as she spoke, smarting of suspicion.

  “Brother? Do you believe this to be true?” Jacob turned to Owen, who showed very little on his face. A blank canvas, that revealed nothing.

  “I do not know—that is why I brought them down here, so I might get a better grasp of the situation,” Owen muttered, clearly sore that Jacob had happened upon them. “You threatening their employment is not going to make them more inclined to speak.”

  Jacob realized he had to think quickly. Alicia was at her father’s house right this minute, trying to garner whatever she could from him. That meant Jacob needed to buy her some time, to give her the chance to find out if her father really was to blame for the shooting that might have robbed him of his life.

  “Brother, have these two taken away and put in the outbuilding beside the laundry—the one without windows. Make sure a guard is stationed outside. Perhaps, after a night in there, they might feel more agreeable to telling us what they know of this incident. If they still will not talk, we may have to call upon the constables.” Jacob did not intend to go to the lengths of bringing in the constables, but he hoped the idea might be enough to get the ladies to speak.

  “Lord Owen, you can’t!” Meghan wailed. “You can’t let him!”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes. “I am the Duke of this household. It is not a matter of my brother allowing me to lock up two individuals who may be withholding information.”

  To Jacob’s surprise, Owen sighed. “If you are intent on remaining silent, I have no choice but to agree with my brother. You have not given me a name, though I have tried to be reasonable, and you cannot confirm if the musket does, indeed, belong to Mr. Price. It is only hearsay. If you will stay quiet, then you must be duly isolated until you change your minds.”

  Jacob tried not to show his shock. “You agree with me?”

  “Stranger things have happened.” Owen shrugged. “Now, I will take them to the outbuilding, as you have asked, and I will have guards stationed.”

  “Lord Owen… please, have mercy!” Meghan gaped at him.

  “You will not say another word against this, if you know what is good for you,” Owen replied sharply. He glowered at her, to further make his point.

  Immediately, Meghan retreated into herself, her body shaking in fright. Jacob felt somewhat guilty about putting the two women in this position, but if they would not reveal what they knew, then they had to be shown that such silence would not be accepted. Even Mistress Marigold, despite her formidable stature, seemed cowed by Owen’s harsh tone.

  “As you please, My Lord,” Mistress Marigold muttered.

  “Then follow me, and do not utter a word of disobedience or the constables will be sent for tonight instead.” Owen pushed past Jacob and began to mount the stairs. Mistress Marigold and Meghan followed him solemnly, though he turned halfway up. “Are you not joining us, so you can see the job is done to your preference? I know you like to oversee the minutia of every action I take in this household.”

  Jacob swallowed his impulse to retaliate. “No, I am sure you can manage. After all, you are eager to prove that your way is superior, and I have come to learn that, perhaps, you know more of this house than I do. For now, at least.” He paused. “Besides, if anything goes awry, it will fall on you.”

  Owen snorted. “Nothing will go awry.”

  “Makes sure it does not,” Jacob replied. He had been confused to begin with, upon entering the curious situ
ation in the cellar. However, his brother’s agreement that his course of action was the right one had thrown him somewhat. Deep down, a part of him had hoped it might be the first signal of a truce between them, but it looked as if that was rapidly fading away.

  Indeed, he was growing evermore certain that repairing his relationship with his brother was a bridge he would never be able to traverse. There was too much water beneath it, through no fault of his own. Yes, he ought to have listened to Owen’s suggestions and instructions without feeling as though it were a slight. And, yes, he ought to have tried to be less brash in his new role as Duke and attempted not to throw his weight about so much. But Owen had been equally responsible for making the transition difficult.

  In truth, he had never felt more detached from his brother or his family. Even a mutual brush with death had not warmed Owen’s feelings toward him. Every day, and with every incident, small or large, he received another reminder of the stark fact.