She jumped as a hand landed heavily on her shoulder. ‘‘Bidding it all a fond farewell?’’
She shrugged off the hand and turned to face her cousin. It was difficult at times to reconcile the character with the appearance. Short, round-faced, with the blond curls and pink cheeks of a cherub, Percy Fitzhollis—Baron Fitzhollis now—could have modeled for Raphael, and done service to Lucifer.
He was garbed as always in his idea of London fashion. Today it was an azure jacket over an orange-spotted waistcoat and white pantaloons. To Lizzie’s eye he looked like a tubby bullfinch. In her mind, she thought of him as more of a reptile.
‘‘Percy, you are a snake,’’ she said wearily. She never bothered mincing her words around him, but neither did she expend more energy than was absolutely necessary.
‘‘No such thing in Ireland,’’ he drawled back as he sidled in to stand much too close. ‘‘Can’t say the same for temptation, though.’’
Lizzie crossed her arms over her chest. If he were going to loom and slobber, she wanted at least eight inches between them. ‘‘You sold my house.’’
‘‘My house, actually. Soon to be the Duke of Llans’s house.’’
‘‘Until he knocks it to the ground,’’ Lizzie said bitterly.
Percy grinned, rosebud-mouthed and forked-tongued. ‘‘Plans to build a hunting lodge. Invited me for grouse season already. Splendid fellow, the duke.’’
‘‘And where on earth did you manage to meet a duke?’’
‘‘Didn’t, actually. Put an advert in the Journal. Apparently Clane saw it and passed it on.’’
Percy had never met the Earl of Clane, either. Lizzie had. They had danced together at several balls, even had a moonlit walk in Phoenix Park once. Lizzie had liked him, even indulged in a few romantic reveries. But she’d been so young, barely seventeen at the time. Then Clane had gone off to serve in the army, and by the time he had returned, Lizzie’s father had died and she had been long gone from Dublin Society events. Clane was married now, she’d heard. He’d probably thought the same of her when he’d seen that Hollymore was for sale.
Lizzie had told herself sternly not to cry. She told herself again. It wasn’t working. ‘‘Oh, Percy,’’ she snapped, cursing the catch in her voice, ‘‘how could you?’’
Her cousin shrugged. ‘‘Why wouldn’t I?’’
‘‘Perhaps because this land has been in the family for eight hundred years? Perhaps because you know how much it means to me?’’
She knew that was a mistake the minute she’d said it. But emotion had softened her brain and loosened her tongue.
Percy’s eyes sparked. ‘‘Isn’t too late, y’know, Lizzie.’’
‘‘And what is that supposed to mean?’’
‘‘Haven’t signed all the papers. Told you before: have me, have your beloved house.’’
Yes, he’d told her more than once, usually when he was foxed on second-rate Madeira. Even had Percy not been a fool, not been a reptile, and not always spoken in half-formed sentences—only to be expected, Lizzie thought, for someone with half a brain—she wouldn’t have had him. Only now, with Hollymore at stake . . . She shuddered at the thought of seeing Percy’s face first thing in the morning and last thing at night.
‘‘Makes perfect sense,’’ he was saying now. ‘‘Always did . . .’’
Had Lizzie seen it coming, she would have been ready with knees, nails, and teeth. But she only had time to gasp in surprise as Percy grabbed her by the upper arms and thumped her into his orange-spotted chest. Her sharp protest was lost to his soft lips and jabbing tongue.
Her first thought was that she was going to be ill. Her second was that if he didn’t release her immediately, she was going to box his ears until they rang like Christmas bells.
‘‘Pardon me.’’
At the sound of the deep voice, Percy released her so abruptly that she nearly went down onto her bottom. She stumbled back, furiously wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘‘I say,’’ Percy muttered at the man standing not ten feet away, ‘‘ain’t sporting, that. Interrupting a fellow when he’s at play.’’
A single black brow winged upward, but all the man said was, ‘‘I do not mean to intrude, but no one answered the front door. Perhaps you can tell me where I can find Lord Fitzhollis.’’
No deferential lackey this, Lizzie thought. From the top of his towering dark head to the soles of his booted feet, he exuded arrogance and command. He wasn’t a handsome man; the blue eyes were too cold, the jutting nose and jaw too hard, but he was certainly an impressive figure in his naval uniform coat.
At the moment he had his ice-blue gaze fixed on her.
‘‘Captain Jones, I presume,’’ she addressed him. He continued to stare at her. ‘‘Captain Lawrence Jones? Oh, dear.’’
Everyone present jumped as metal clanged loud and hard against the stone terrace. A piece of the gutter had come loose. It wasn’t the first. Lizzie gave the two-foot-long section a mournful look. It had shattered the slate tile beneath it.
Captain Jones, when she turned to address him again, was scowling fiercely enough to frighten what stone gargoyles remained on the ramparts. Lizzie sighed. ‘‘Forgive me for saying so, sir, but your arrival really is atrociously timed.’’
Chapter Two
Captain Lord Rhys Edward-Jones studied the almost startlingly beautiful woman who was wearing breeches and had, until a moment earlier, been in the arms of a fussy little cherub, and wondered why the favors he did for his brother never seemed to involve ordinary specimens of humanity. He sighed.
‘‘I am looking for Lord Fitzhollis.’’
The cherub gave a regal nod that was diminished somewhat by the ridiculous arrangement of his cravat. ‘‘I am Fitzhollis.’’
‘‘I am—’’
‘‘Yes, yes,’’ the lady interrupted, briskly brushing the man’s lingering pudgy fingers from her waist, ‘‘we know. You are Captain Lawrence Jones, representing the Duke of Llans in his purchase of Hollymore. Mr. Dunn told me. He also told me you were scheduled to arrive a fortnight from now.’’
As Rhys watched, a young man with brilliantly red hair and a bulging sack came trotting into view from the house. The sack seemed to be alternately swelling and deflating in his grasp and, if Rhys wasn’t mistaken, was emitting an odd, muffled sort of shriek. Neither Fitzhollis nor his companion seemed to notice. Only when the fellow opened the sack and released a large, screeching owl did the lady turn. She gave a cool, satisfied nod, then swung her emerald gaze back to Rhys.
‘‘I am afraid, Captain,’’ she announced, ‘‘that we are not quite ready for you.’’
Before Rhys could reply, or inquire just who she was to be ready or not, the man on the lawn gave a dismayed yelp. As the party on the terrace watched, the owl did a slightly clumsy turn midair and flew back toward the house, where it abruptly vanished from view. Shoulders slumped, the young man tucked the sack under his arm and shuffled back up the lawn.
‘‘Splendid effort, though, Kelly!’’ the woman called to him. He gave a dispirited wave and disappeared through a stone doorway.
Rhys waited for an explanation. Instead, the cherub shoved an overlarge pinch of snuff up his button nose, sneezed, and demanded, ‘‘Do tell me, Captain, how the duke is faring. Well, I trust, marvelous fellow. Anticipating a smashing grouse season.’’
Rhys was not aware of his brother Timothy ever anticipating anything about grouse. He was, however, well aware of the fact that Fitzhollis’s sole dealings with the marvelous Duke of Llans had been through Timothy’s able man-of-affairs. Fitzhollis wouldn’t have known the duke if the duke had walked over him. Rhys was spared the necessity of reply, however, by a crash that resounded through the open door behind him. It was followed by several smaller crunches and one pained squawk. Human, he thought.
The lady promptly stepped forward. ‘‘I daresay you would like a tour of the grounds, Captain Jones.’’
Wha
t he would like was for her to get his name right and offer her own, along with an explanation of sorts. He had no idea who she was; she clearly had some bungled idea of who he was. After that, he wanted a bath and meal. The journey from Wales across the Irish Sea had been uneventful but long. The experience of trying to hire a coach and get to County Wexford had been long and extremely trying. In the end, it had involved a crowded public conveyance containing a ripe and motley collection of travelers, an equally uncomfortable ride from Wexford town in a farmer’s wagon, and a long walk up Hollymore’s sweeping drive. His valise was still at the bottom, by the listing stone gateposts.
Nor had the sight at the end of the long and bumpy drive improved Rhys’s mood. Hollymore was, to put it mildly, a crumbling monstrosity of countless different architectural styles and tastes, a squat, sprawling beast of a house. If his brother were wise, he would raze the thing before setting foot on Irish soil and build himself a nice, solid hunting lodge without a headless medieval gargoyle or frill-less Elizabethan frill to be found on it.
‘‘What I would like, madam,’’ he began, and was interrupted by a discreet cough from behind him. ‘‘Ah, yes, of course,’’ he muttered. ‘‘We mustn’t be unmannerly. Allow me to introduce my nephew, Vi—’’
‘‘Andrew Jones, at your service.’’ Seventeen-year-old Andrew, otherwise known as Viscount Tallasey, gave him a small jab in the ribs as he pushed past.
The cherub sneezed again and huffed into action. ‘‘Ah, yes. Of course. M’cousin and fiancée, Miss Fitzhollis.’’
‘‘Oh, Percy,’’ she snapped, ‘‘I am not—’’
‘‘Of course.’’ A light had gone off in Rhys’s head. ‘‘The late Lord Fitzhollis’s daughter.’’
‘‘Well, yes,’’ she said with an exasperated sigh, ‘‘I am that. Elizabeth. This is my house. But I am not—’’
‘‘My house,’’ her cousin corrected, winking at the other two gentlemen as he spoke. ‘‘Ladies and their notions, you know.’’
From the mutinous set of Elizabeth’s jaw, Rhys decided that statement from her fiancé had not gone over well. He also decided that Timothy’s efficient man-of-affairs was not quite as efficient as he seemed. Aging spinster, the man’s report had read. Merits little or no attention in the matter.
If this was anyone’s idea of an aging spinster, Rhys was the King of Connaught. He also had a strong suspicion that Elizabeth Fitzhollis would merit at least a little attention. She could not possibly be ignored.
‘‘An honor and a pleasure, Miss Fitzhollis.’’ Andrew, flashing the Edward-Jones smile that made him look exactly like his father and sent most ladies and scullery maids alike into moon-eyed sighing, bent over Elizabeth’s hand. She went neither moon-eyed nor breathy. She didn’t even smile. Then Andrew announced, ‘‘Allow me to say how extraordinary your home is,’’ and suddenly Rhys found his own eyes going a bit crossed.
An irritable-looking Elizabeth Fitzhollis was beautiful. A smiling one was absolutely dazzling. Her cousin, Rhys noted, was nearly slobbering at her side and even his own, ever-poised nephew was goggling slightly.
‘‘Isn’t it wonderful?’’ she breathed, turning that astonishing smile onto the crumbling pile behind them. ‘‘There is not a house standing in all the isles to equal it.’’
There might not be, Rhys agreed silently, making a determined effort to drag his eyes from the lady to the pile of stones behind him. But he’d seen any number of abandoned ruins that were quite on a par with Hollymore.
‘‘So, Miss Fitzhollis,’’ Andrew was asking now, ‘‘may I take you up on your offer of a tour?’’
‘‘Pushing young pup, ain’t he?’’ the increasingly less cherubic baron demanded.
Andrew’s brows went up, but he continued to smile pleasantly at Elizabeth. She, for her part, rolled her eyes. ‘‘Oh, Percy. Really. I would be delighted to show you Hollymore, Mr. Jones. And Captain Jones, of course,’’ she added eventually, almost as an afterthought.
This time, the shriek from the house was definitely human, certainly female, and it was followed by a new series of crashes and thumps.
Elizabeth sighed. ‘‘Perhaps we ought to start with the grounds.’’
‘‘Perhaps we ought to set a matter or two straight,’’ Rhys muttered.
He was drowned out by Andrew’s, ‘‘Splendid!’’
And Fitzhollis’s dismayed, ‘‘But my boots, Lizzie!’’
Elizabeth ignored Rhys entirely, but smiled at Andrew as she stalked across the terrace on—Rhys couldn’t help but notice, considering her garb—very long, very nicely shaped legs. She stepped over the fallen gutter and pulled the French door closed with a rattling thump. There was paper jammed into several cracked panes.
‘‘Yes, the mud would most certainly ruin the gloss on your boots, Percy,’’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘‘I suggest you go home.’’
‘‘But, I could—’’
‘‘You’ve done more than enough already, thank you. Go home. Come for dinner if you must.’’
Fitzhollis’s mouth pursed in a defiant pout. ‘‘Won’t have you ordering me about, Lizzie.’’
‘‘No, of course you won’t.’’ She smiled, but it was not even close to the blazing smile that had lit the very air. ‘‘I wonder, do you think Aunt Gregoria would care to discuss the state of her sherry reserve?’’
Whatever that meant, it had a quick and notable effect on the man. Fitzhollis flushed a bright pink and took himself off so quickly that he nearly left his highly polished, high-heeled boots behind. His fragmented farewells trailed in his wake.
Rhys, watching this display with some amazement, felt a distinct if fleeting surge of pity for Fitzhollis. By all appearances, the pair were a match made somewhat south of heaven. Despite the fact that Elizabeth Fitzhollis was easily the loveliest sight he’d seen in aeons, she seemed a bit scatty. And officious. There was little question of who would be running the household. And judging from what Rhys had seen so far of this household, the lady was not much of a manager.
He ignored the following thought: that there was something under Elizabeth Fitzhollis’s surface, something deeper than beauty, that should have been well above the touch of anyone like her cousin.
Rhys thrust away that foolish sentiment and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘‘Miss Fitzhollis, I really must inform you—’’
‘‘Come along, Uncle Lawrence,’’ Andrew interrupted. The little sod was grinning like a fox. ‘‘I am all eagerness to see what the duke has done this time. One can always be certain of a surprise or two when he decides to toss his money about.’’
It was on the tip of Rhys’s tongue to reply that it was ultimately part of Andrew’s inheritance that Timothy was tossing into this ramshackle heap of stone. Tim had always enjoyed a good jest, and he had passed that unfortunate quirk on to his son. For the first time, Rhys wished this was one of those jests. Pity he knew better. His brother had taken it into his head that he needed an Irish hunting box. Apparently it would be here.
Rhys had willingly enough undertaken the task of overseeing the preparations. Timothy and his wife were visiting friends on some godforsaken little Hebridean island, and Rhys had little to do now that he was in the process of selling out of the navy. His years on the seas had left him wealthy, a bit weary, and heartily sick of salt water. So when his brother had declared the need to visit the Wexford property, Rhys had offered to make the journey. He had sailed from Cork countless times, and had developed an appreciation for Ireland. The landscape, once one got away from the coast, was refreshingly green, the people were pleasant, and the whiskey was exceptional.
He could use a stiff shot now.
What he had on hand was a disapprovingly stiff golden goddess in attire that, against all his good sense and inclination, was making parts of his own anatomy go taut. He tugged his greatcoat closed.
It seemed Andrew’s glib comment about tossing money had struck an unpleasant chord. ‘‘I hadn’t me
ant to say this quite so soon,’’ Elizabeth was saying crisply, ‘‘but since you’ve caught us unaware, I don’t suppose I have a choice.’’ She turned to face Rhys fully, hands on nicely rounded hips. ‘‘I don’t mean to speak ill of the duke, especially since I do not know him and he is your employer, but he is making a terrible mistake with Hollymore.’’
‘‘Is he?’’ Rhys replied. Judging from what he’d seen so far, he was inclined to agree. He suspected, however, that he and the lady of the house would have very different opinions as to why.
‘‘I do not blame His Grace. Or I am trying not to. Men of his ilk are seldom bothered to attend the smaller details of business transactions. I suppose it simply did not occur to him to come see Hollymore himself. He really ought to have done so. Seeing the estate would almost certainly have changed his plans.’’
So far, they were still in agreement.
‘‘Had he seen the house,’’ she went on, ‘‘he would not possibly have considered tearing it down.’’
And there was the divergence. Had Timothy seen the house, he would most certainly have insisted it be razed before allowing his son anywhere near the place.
‘‘A moot point, I am afraid, Miss Fitzhollis,’’ Rhys said blandly.
She gave a vague hum, then asked, ‘‘How long do you plan to stay?’’
‘‘A fortnight at most.’’ In fact, he thought it would be somewhat less than that. He’d seen just about all he needed to see.
Elizabeth tilted her glossy head. ‘‘Forgive my impertinence, sir, but your idea of a fortnight and mine seem to be different.’’
Rhys bit back his own sarcastic retort. ‘‘I assure you, Miss Fitzhollis, that your Mr. Dunn was informed of my anticipated arrival date in the letter that was posted nearly a month ago.’’
‘‘A month ago?’’ She sighed. ‘‘Ah, well, that would explain that. Mr. Dunn is not as sharp of mind or eye as he once was. Still, Captain, I confess I find it odd that you would arrange to be here over Christmas.’’
Andrew, who had expressed much the same sentiment more than once, gave a not particularly discreet snort. Rhys shrugged. ‘‘It is just a day, Miss Fitzhollis. I assume we will find a Church of Ireland Christmas service just as long and hymn-filled as one at home. Perhaps you will be so kind as to allow us to accompany you.’’
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