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

by Monajem, Barbara

  Bob jerked a thumb in his confederate’s direction. “He’s Al.”

  “Albemarle,” said the younger, a scrawny urchin with big ears and an itchy backside. “I ain’t plain Al.”

  Bob cuffed his fellow. “Your mum never gave you no flash name like that.”

  “So I took it meself.” Al jutted his chin. “I likes being Albemarle.”

  “Be whatever you like,” Colin said, “as long as you tell me the truth.”

  The boys jumped to wary attention. “Yessir, guv,” said Bob. “Whatever you says.”

  “I understand Mrs. Black sent you to follow me from my lodging the night before last,” he said, adding immediately, “and that you did an excellent job of it.”

  The boys eyed him. Albemarle scratched his itch.

  “I shall certainly keep you in mind, should I wish to have someone followed,” Colin said.

  Al grinned.

  “’Tweren’t hard to do, once it were dark,” Bob said diffidently.

  “Yes, I imagine daylight sleuthing must present some difficulties,” Colin said. “But I’m sure you’ll learn to be expert at that as well.”

  Al scratched on, still grinning. “Aye, sir. That we will.”

  “If it pays,” Bob said, a world of hopeful suggestion in his voice. “’Taint summat we does usual-like.”

  “I may be able to provide you with a little more work, but it depends on your powers of observation.” He offered them a conspiratorial glance. “While you were following me, I think someone else was following me as well.”

  Al hopped from one foot to the other, bright-eyed like one of those annoying boys who were always eager to answer a schoolmaster’s tedious questions. For the first time, Colin realized why the masters liked those fellows so much. “Aye, we seen ’im!”

  Bob nodded. “And he were a flat not to see us.”

  Not a hint of slyness in either of their faces. They couldn’t both be that adept at deception, could they? “Describe him,” Colin said.

  “Not as tall as you, guv. Bit of a belly on him,” Bob said.

  “Old blue tricorne, straw-colored ’air sticking out from under it,” offered Al.

  “Fustian waistcoat,” said Bob. “Spotted cravat.”

  Al wrinkled his nose. “And some of them spots was gravy.”

  Colin sighed. It seemed he might have to accept at least part of Mrs. Black’s story. According to Fletcher, this was a respectable inn—in no way a den of thieves, so any boys the landlord had found to do the job were likely as honest as they could afford to be. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Eager nods greeted this question.

  “Very well. I wish you to follow him, making certain you are not seen.”

  “We’d ’ave to find him first,” Bob said. “Could try that same ’ell, I s’pose.”

  “That’s one possibility,” Colin said. “The other is that this man is an associate of a Mr. Toup.” He told them where Toup dwelt. “He’s a tall, thin, unpleasant gentleman whom it is dangerous to cross, so be very careful. I suspect he may have had me set upon for helping to recover some money he stole from a lady.”

  “Yer lady friend?” Al winked.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but no, she’s my cousin’s wife. What I want you to find out is whether the fellow with the spotted cravat is an associate of Toup, of the gaming hell, or both.”

  “Will do,” Bob said.

  “Right you are, guv,” said Al.

  “The quicker you bring me the answers, the greater your reward.” He gave them each a sixpence, suggested they make themselves less noticeable, particularly with regard to the orange hair, red muffler, and incessant scratching, and sent them on their way.

  Evidently, Mrs. Black hadn’t wanted to kill him. She hadn’t even wanted to harm him. He must have misinterpreted that message she’d pinned to his bed. But none of this proved that Sylvie was his child.

  He sent Fletcher for his curricle and lay back on his pillows. His head still ached, but that was no excuse to avoid Mrs. Black. Once Fletcher returned, he would dress and…

  The door to the adjoining bedroom opened slowly. A small face peered around the door, spied him, and hesitated.

  “Good day, Sylvie. Do come in,” he said.

  “Mama said I mustn’t.” Sylvie came slowly into the room. One hand concealed something behind her back.

  “Do you invariably disobey her?”

  “No, but she’s in my black books just now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “For lying,” Sylvie said. “She has been lying to me all my life. She said my papa was dead.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Do try to forgive her. Ladies who bear a child out of wedlock are often forced to resort to lying, and it’s not their fault as much as society’s for judging them too harshly.”

  She sniffed. “Millie says Mama is getting her just desserts.”

  “Who the devil is Millie?” At her affronted glare, he sighed. “I beg your pardon. I’m not accustomed to minding my tongue. Who is Millie?”

  “She is Jed’s wife. She says Mama is a trollop.”

  “She what?” He shouldn’t raise his voice; it made his head pound irritably. “How dare she!”

  “Not to her face,” the girl said, rolling her eyes. “Behind her back. I was eavesdropping.”

  It occurred to him then that only a few days ago he too had called Mrs. Black a trollop. Ugly of him and probably unwarranted, although he hadn’t known who she was at the time.

  “Mama doesn’t care what Millie thinks of her,” Sylvie said. “She says you routed Millie good and proper. Millie is afraid of you, but I’m not.” The hand came out from behind her back, brandishing a mirror with floral silver chasing.

  Ah. The eyes and dimples.

  She pulled the steps out from under the bed and climbed them. “You don’t smell bad anymore.”

  “We can both thank Mr. Fletcher for that.”

  “I like Mr. Fletcher.” Sylvie examined her scowling face in the mirror. Then she treated him to the same scrutiny. She sighed. “Our eyes are the same color.”

  “Indeed they are,” Colin said.

  “But that doesn’t prove you’re my father,” she said.

  “True.” For this he was extremely grateful.

  “I’m not in a mood for smiling, but if we both have dimples, that doesn’t prove anything, either.”

  “No,” Colin said cheerfully, “it doesn’t.”

  “Good,” she said, climbing down the steps and putting them away. She set the mirror on the dressing table and prowled about the room for a minute or two before returning to face him again. “Mr. Martin Fallow has blue eyes.”

  Ah, yes, the handsomer one. “I take it Mr. Fallow is another candidate for the position of your father?”

  “He says he is my father, but Mama says that is a lie.”

  Colin began to appreciate the difficulties facing Mrs. Black. “But since she lied to you before, you don’t know whether to believe her now.”

  She nodded. Her little lip wobbled, but she firmed it immediately. “Mr. Fallow is very handsome, and he gives me sweets, so I don’t need you for a papa. You may go home now.”

  “Thank you for your kind permission,” Colin said with exaggerated politeness. Interesting. Evidently, Mr. Fallow wanted to be Sylvie’s father.

  Not that she was such a bad little thing. She seemed intelligent and might be quite pretty if she stopped scowling. But no reasonable man would insist he was her father unless he really was or might possibly be—and if, for example, the child stood to inherit a large sum. Or perhaps if this ploy was a way to get back into Bridget Black’s bed.

  Apparently, Bridget was unwilling . . . but Colin
remembered her sigh when Sylvie had said how handsome Fallow was. What was her relationship with the man? Would she travel all the way to London and climb in Colin’s window just to prove to Sylvie that Martin was a liar? It did seem excessive.

  He smiled to himself. Bridget Black was given to excess in at least one other way he could think of.

  Except that he didn’t want to think about that.

  Regardless, he’d already decided he didn’t like Martin Fallow. “Sweets are all very well,” he said, “but in London we have an even better treat.”

  Sylvie wrinkled her nose, reminding him of her mother that night in his lodgings. “What treat?”

  “Ices,” he said. “From Gunter’s. Have you ever had an ice before?”

  She clasped her hands in ecstatic remembrance. “Yes, when we visited Manchester.” She closed her eyes. “I love ices.”

  “Gunter’s has the best ices in the world,” he said softly. “They have ever so many flavors to choose from—lemon, raspberry, barberry, chocolate . . .”

  “Truly?” The girl’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, truly.” He grinned, and Sylvie broke into a smile of pure delight.

  Oh, Emma. Memory assailed him with a twist of agony. He squeezed his eyes shut against the truth. That smile…

  “I’m not Emma.” She gazed up at him. “Who is Emma?”

  Damn, he must have said his sister’s name out loud. “No one.” No, that was an obvious lie. “No one that matters to you, I mean.” He wiped a hand across his forehead. Damn, he was shaking.

  The happy smile had flattened into a suspicious frown. “Are you ill again, or are you getting your just desserts?”

  “My just desserts? For what?”

  “For lying to me about Gunter’s and who Emma is.”

  “I wasn’t lying,” he said. “Emma is none of your business, but ask anyone about Gunter’s—you’ll see.”

  “Very well, I will!” Sylvie ran out, leaving the silver mirror behind.

  Colin got ahold of himself. Whatever he might say to Mrs. Black, he couldn’t deny to himself that Sylvie might truly be his daughter. Fortunately, Sylvie had a perfectly competent mother taking care of her. Bridget didn’t want him interfering in her life; she merely, for some unspecified reason, wanted him to acknowledge the child.

  He wouldn’t have to take care of Sylvie. He wouldn’t be responsible for her. What harm could acknowledging her do?

  He wasn’t quite ready to agree, but he should, no, he must give it some thought.

  Bridget flew up the stairs in a fury. Sylvie had come pelting into the kitchen asking if there really was a place called Gunter’s that had the best ices in the world. Everyone in the kitchen knew about Gunter’s, although only Millie had actually eaten an ice there once, long ago. It was only after several minutes of animated discussion and pleas on Sylvie’s part that Bridget got a word in edgewise.

  “Who told you about Gunter’s?” she asked.

  “Mr. Warren,” Sylvie said. “Please may we go for ices now?”

  “No. You went to his bedchamber? You were told not to disturb him!”

  “I had to go,” Sylvie said. “To see his eyes and my eyes together.”

  Hope springs eternal. “And what did you discover?”

  “That they are the same color.” She put her hands on her hips, copying Millie’s favorite stance. “He says our eyes and dimples don’t prove anything.”

  Sometimes hope merely set one up for a loss of it, but Bridget refused to let that defeat her. “I don’t need proof. I know he is your father. Why were you discussing ices?”

  “Because Mr. Martin Fallow gives me sweets,” Sylvie said. “May we go to Gunter’s this afternoon?”

  “No,” Bridget said. “Why were you discussing Martin Fallow?”

  “So Mr. Warren would know I don’t need him for a papa. He’s not as handsome as Mr. Fallow, and he wouldn’t make a good father, for he is addled in the head. He knows my name is Sylvie, but then he called me Emma. And then he lied to me about her.”

  Who was Emma? she wondered. Perhaps some society maiden he hoped to marry, who would have spasms at the thought of a bastard child.

  “He is going home now. May we go to Gunter’s tomorrow?”

  As the last shreds of hope disintegrated, it was all Bridget could do to summon an answer. “No.” She threw her daughter a sop. “Perhaps we’ll have ices before we leave London.”

  But to go where?

  “Do you promise to take me?” Sylvie said. “Do you swear?”

  “No, I can’t promise anything right now,” Bridget said, sending Sylvie off in high dudgeon. In a little over a month, she’d changed from a cheerful, confident child to a suspicious, demanding one. Without even looking, Bridget felt the lash of Millie’s smirk and the caress of Jed’s kindly but resigned shrug. Regaining Sylvie’s trust would be a long, uphill battle, and Colin Warren had just made it worse.

  Worries and tentative plans tumbled through her mind as she headed upstairs. If only she could go home, but even if she did, she would have to let the house to strangers and move someplace where no one knew her, thanks to Martin.

  Surely he’d returned to Ireland by now, but what if he hadn’t? In the past few weeks, she’d had a chance to ponder his extraordinary behavior. Perhaps he genuinely felt a responsibility to her, but it made no sense at all to pursue a woman who didn’t want him, and even less to threaten to take away her child.

  It smacked of madness, but he didn’t seem like a madman, merely determined to marry her at all costs. In God’s name, why? And what if he didn’t give up? She might have to go abroad.

  Meanwhile, Sylvie’s real father, who could so easily have solved the problem, was no help at all. The door to Colin’s bedchamber was ajar. She stormed through. “I should have left you lying in the street, you useless, good-for-nothing—”

  She stopped short.

  Colin was bare-chested, dressed only in breeches and stockings, holding a shirt in his good hand.

  Oh, God, he looked wonderful—broad shoulders, a sprinkling of dark hair on his powerful chest, and a smile slowly spreading across his face. The dimples appeared. The familiar ache assailed her. Her eyes travelled helplessly to his taut abdomen, undressing him in her mind.

  He was definitely good for something.

  Something she couldn’t have, which made her even more irate. She gathered her wits and shook a fist at him. “All I asked was a small favor.” Her voice trembled with the effort not to shriek. “It would have meant nothing, absolutely nothing to you, and everything to me.” He just stood there, staring like a big, stupid oaf. “Instead you did your cowardly best to avoid me.”

  Finally he cleared his throat. “I apologize for that, Mrs. Black,” he began, but she cut him short.

  “And to top it all off, you just added one more item to the list of reasons my daughter hates me.” She ended with what sounded suspiciously like a sob, and turned it hastily into a curse. “Ices, damn you! What possessed you to mention Gunter’s to her? I don’t have time or money for such frivolities right now. I have enough on my hands what with being obliged to set up household I have no idea where and maybe leave England forever.”

  Using his good hand, he shook out his shirt. “Mrs. Black, I—”

  “It doesn’t matter that the eyes and dimples aren’t proof. There will never be any proof, only my word on it, which is just as good as yours any day, if not much, much better. But I suppose because I’m a woman and half Irish to boot, that makes it worthless.”

  “Not at all,” Colin said, shrugging the shirt over his head. “I have nothing against women or the Irish.”

  She didn’t believe him—her expression made that clear—but she set aside her tantrum to help him into his shirt. That surprised him.r />
  She was a virago, but Colin found himself sympathizing with her, and it wasn’t merely because he enjoyed the way her gaze had dwelt on his bare chest, or because she smelled warm and feminine as she guided his wounded arm through his sleeve. It wasn’t merely because his cock liked it too, although he was still too weary to rise to the occasion—if there had been one, which there definitely wasn’t.

  No, it was the hopelessness in her eyes and her voice that he found so difficult to bear. He’d known misery and despair, and he wouldn’t wish them on anyone.

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning,” he said. “Explain why you want me to acknowledge Sylvie as my daughter.”

  “Because Martin Fallow—a distant cousin of mine from Ireland—has threatened to take her away from me.”

  “Why?”

  “So I will marry him. He has convinced everyone that she’s his daughter and that he feels honor bound to marry me.”

  “So he should, if he’s the father,” Colin said, “although threatening you isn’t the ideal way to get back in your bed.”

  “He was never in my bed. Only my husband, and after he died, only you.” Her voice rose in a wail. “Why will no one believe me?”

  Considering how much Colin had enjoyed her, and how much he wished he could enjoy her again, the answer was obvious. No man in his right mind would believe this woman’s protestations of innocence.

  “It’s so unfair. He has but to say he is the father and take her away from me, and no one will raise a finger to help me recover her.” Her bosom heaved. “They’ll say I’m a whore and that he’s rescuing her from a life of degradation.”

  All true, particularly about no one caring to help her. He put on his right boot, pondering what to do. Probably nothing, as none of this made any sense. “He’s not likely to carry out his threat. He’d be stuck with that irritating child.”