Hands curled at her sides, Jeannette strode past a footman as she entered the house. Ignoring the curious look he gave her, she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom.
Well, O’Brien might think she had agreed to his terms, but she hadn’t. Not that she’d been foolish enough to pass up the extra half hour’s sleep he’d offered. But a mere half hour simply would not do. No, it would not do at all.
She had tried to be reasonable, tried to be amenable to compromise, and look where it had gotten her. Why, he’d barely even budged.
She dropped down into a jade green armchair and gazed unseeing out of the window. She couldn’t blithely admit defeat and accept this continued injustice, seemingly grateful for any crumbs he chose to cast her way.
Think, she commanded herself. Think!
Knuckles propped beneath her chin, she set herself to the task. Long minutes later, a smile spread like a budding rose across her lips.
Why, yes, she mused, that just might do. That just might do perfectly.
Chapter Six
“Rory, did you borrow my plans?”
The head foreman glanced up from his mug of morning tea, then briskly shook his ruddy head. “No, boss. You know I’d never take your drawings, not without telling you first.”
Darragh raked frustrated fingers through his hair. “That’s what I thought but…I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find them.”
“Well now, that doesn’t make a bit of sense, does it? Did you put them away as you always do?”
“Aye, rolled them up last night and set them the same place as usual. As you say, it makes no sense. Mayhap one of the carpenters decided to study them first thing and forgot to say.”
“Nay, I’ve seen all the carpenters this morning and not a one of ’em has your plans.” Rory took another drink of tea, then set his mug on top of a nearby stack of timber. “Let me ask the lads if they’ve seen the drawings. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”
But a full half an hour later, the plans had not been located. Now high and golden overhead, the sun spoke of the maturing hour, negating the necessity of consulting a timepiece. Even so, Darragh snapped open the silver face of his pocket watch, then scowled at the hands.
Blast. Where could they be? Architectural renderings didn’t just stand up on their ends, grow feet and walk off.
If the men didn’t begin their labor soon, the entire morning would be wasted. Unfortunately most of the men needed his direction in order to progress with their work, and he couldn’t give it to them without the bloody plans. Besides, they’d started late to begin with, due to honoring his agreement with Lady Jeannette.
He paused, thinking of her slumbering somewhere inside the house. She wouldn’t have taken his drawings, would she? No, ’twas a daft notion, he told himself, brushing the idea aside.
At ten minutes ’til nine, he no longer thought any explanation daft, since the plans were nowhere to be found.
With his usually even temper frayed, he watched in interest as a young maidservant appeared. Crossing the construction site, she paused to speak with one of his men, both of them turning to gaze across at him. Then she began to approach, a small piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand.
Nerves shone in her brown eyes when she drew to a halt before him. “Your pardon, sir. Are you Mr. O’Brien?”
“Aye, I’m O’Brien.”
“My lady asked that I give this to you.”
He stared down at the note for a long moment before taking the missive from her hand. Opening the page, he began to read.
Dear Mr. O’Brien,
If you are reading this, it must be nearly nine o’clock. I assume by now that you must have noticed that certain papers are missing from your possession. You have only to agree to have your workers commence their day at this same time every morning beginning tomorrow, and I shall immediately return your papers to you.
Yours,
Lady Jeannette Brantford
For a second, Darragh stood utterly mute. A vein throbbed in his forehead, his hand clenching to crumple the note hard inside his fist. He enjoyed the sound as the paper gave a satisfying crackle. Staring at the vellum, he squeezed harder and wadded the note into a snug little ball.
The maid’s eyes widened, yet somehow she found the courage to speak. “My lady said I am to…to wait for your reply.”
He shifted his gaze to her. “Wants a reply, does she? Aye, I’ll give her a reply.”
What he’d like to do was give her a reply in person. Storm into the house and up to Lady Jeannette’s bedroom wherever it might be. Once there, he’d shake her out of her sleep, and after bellowing at her for a minute or two, would soon enough have the stolen plans back in his possession. But he supposed the Merriweathers might not be too keen on the notion of his bursting into their young cousin’s bedroom, so a note, he supposed, would have to suffice.
Her crumpled letter lying warm inside his hand, he strode across the yard to his worktable. The worktable where his architectural plans would now be spread out if he had them! Jaw tight, he sought out a quill, paper and ink. He settled his knuckles onto one hip and contemplated his response. Moments later, he was scratching out a message.
After sanding the ink dry, he folded the paper and crossed back to the little, gentle-eyed maid.
He held out the note. “For the lady.”
She gave him a faint smile, bobbed a curtsey, then spun to trace her path back around the house.
“What was all that about?” his foreman asked, strolling forward to stop at Darragh’s side.
“Nothing but a small delay,” Darragh said. “I’ll be taking one of the horses and riding home. I’ve a spare set of plans there, not as complete as the others, but they’ll do. In the meanwhile, tell the men to take their dinner break early and be ready to work when I return.”
“Aye, boss.”
Jeannette stretched against the sheets, slowly opening her eyes as Betsy drew back the bedroom curtains to let in the morning sunshine.
“Hmm,” she murmured on a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Ten after nine, my lady.”
“Really?” She came fully awake and sat up with a slight bounce. “Did you give my missive to him?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And? Did he give a response?”
Betsy nodded her head and picked up a folded sheet of paper from the vanity top. “Wrote it out while I waited. Here it is, my lady.”
Jeannette reached out and accepted the note. “Thank you, Betsy.”
“You’re welcome. He’s a handsome one, if I might be bold enough to say.”
“Hmm, if you like that type. I really hadn’t noticed,” Jeannette lied. Fiddling with the note, she rubbed her thumb across the surface but made no effort to open it. “Betsy, I believe I’ll take tea and toast here in my room.”
“Oh, of course, my lady. I’ll return in a thrice.”
Jeannette waited until the maid closed the door behind her before she opened O’Brien’s reply.
Bold and rich as the lyrical timber of his voice, his words flowed across the page…
Lady Jeannette,
I hope you enjoyed your extra rest this morning. Now that you’ve had it, return what belongs to me. If you do so immediately, we’ll say no more on the matter. If the plans are not in my possession by the end of the day, I promise your days will henceforth begin very early indeed.
Your Servant,
O’Brien
Beast, she thought, crushing the vellum in her hand. Trying to bully her, was he? Well, it wasn’t going to work.
Or was it?
She chewed the corner of her lip and thought of the long, thick roll of architectural drawings hidden beneath the armoire. Should she give them back?
Closing her eyes, she listened to the lovely silence outside. How could she give that up? Although when she considered it, she supposed her solution was only a temporary one at best.
Obviously he was quite angry.
But wi
thout the plans, what could he do? Besides, his workers must be enjoying the day off. Who was she to deny them their pleasure?
Buoyed by the idea, she smiled. Let them have today and one more morning besides. Tomorrow—after nine—she would have Betsy return the plans.
Until then, she was going to savor the quiet.
Despite her resolve, she decided it might be wisest to avoid contact with Mr. O’Brien for the next day or so. A journey away from the house, she mused, would be just the thing. Not only would it put her out of trouble’s potential path but it would help alleviate the constant boredom from which she suffered here in the Irish wilderness.
With a little coaxing and several encouraging smiles, she jollied Wilda into ordering the carriage so the two of them could drive into Inistioge. Excited just to be out of the house, she entered the village in an optimistic mood. Quaint and charmingly pretty, the little town was settled around a square, many of the buildings quite old, their origin dating all the way back to Norman times, or so Wilda informed her. A shame Violet couldn’t see the place; her history-loving twin would have been in raptures.
Yet attractive as the village might be, it was still only a village. Having grown used to the immense array of goods available in London, she found the shops sadly devoid of stock, not even up to the standard of the English villages near Papa’s estate in Surrey.
The local millinery sported a miserable selection of ribbons and one of the ugliest groupings of bonnets she had ever seen. She had no better luck at the village dressmakers, where the fashion book the proprietress shuffled out contained patterns nearly two years out of date!
Still, in the end she managed to come away with some beautiful Irish lace, hand-crocheted by the nuns from a nearby convent. She purchased several lengths that she planned to give as little gifts to her sister and several female friends.
Just about the time they were ready to leave for home, Wilda spotted a pair of acquaintances, and Jeannette soon found herself invited to share tea and a strong-tasting local confection, known as porter cake, in the company of her cousin’s chatty friends.
Evening was settling over the horizon when the carriage pulled into the main drive at Brambleberry Hall. Due to the advanced hour, dinner needed to be delayed, Wilda sending word to the kitchen about the last-minute change. Cuthbert, as usual, was buried somewhere among his plants and research and would barely notice the change, Wilda assured her with an affectionate sigh. Wilda would send one of the footmen to collect dear Bertie at the appropriate moment.
Upstairs in her bedchamber, Jeannette drew off her bonnet and gloves, then moved to show Betsy her purchases. Her mood indulgent, she decided to give her maid a yard of the lace. “You can use it to trim a new hat or maybe one of your best dresses.”
“Oh, thank you ever so much, my lady,” Betsy declared, smiling as she admired the delicate workmanship of the lace.
“You are most welcome. Now, if you would please, help me change out of this gown so I am not late for dinner.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The remainder of the evening passed quietly, Cousin Cuthbert providing a touch of amusement, encouraged to share a few stories about his childhood in England and reminiscences of Jeannette’s mother as a girl.
Later that evening, she went to bed content in the knowledge that she would enjoy a second sound night’s rest. Though, come morning, she knew, she would have to concede defeat and return Mr. O’Brien’s architectural renderings to him, so work on the new wing could continue apace.
As she was settling down to sleep, she wondered where O’Brien was tonight, and what he was doing. Probably sitting in front of a rustic fireplace, stewing over her continued defiance. Well, tomorrow she would give him a delightful surprise. Mayhap she would even deliver the plans to him herself just to witness his expression. This time he’d be the one needing to thank her.
Smiling at the thought, she fell asleep and dreamed of Darragh O’Brien’s kisses.
Darragh sipped a small whiskey from a heavy, cut-crystal Waterford tumbler and relaxed into a wide, leather armchair in Lawrence McGarrett’s comfortable study. A friend since their days at Trinity College, Lawrence had invited Darragh to stay at his country estate while Darragh “played with his building blocks,” as Lawrence liked to call Darragh’s architectural pursuits. Presently, Lawrence was away at his townhouse in Dublin, leaving Darragh alone, save for the servants.
Drinking another fiery swallow, he thought about his day, and the fact that sundown had come and gone, and Lady Jeannette hadn’t returned the plans.
Stubborn minx.
By rights, she deserved a sound smack on that attractive backside of hers for her childish behavior. Her antics had cost him a half day’s work. But the loss hadn’t been too damaging. He’d found the spare plans here at the house, and set the men to work through the long afternoon.
He’d half expected her to fly out of the house in surprise at resumption of the construction noise, until he’d learned from one of the Merriweathers’ servants that the ladies had taken the carriage and driven into Inistioge. When they still hadn’t returned by early evening, he decided to let the lads leave a little beforetimes, an idea percolating in his mind.
Tossing back the last of his whiskey, he grinned and set down his glass. He’d best get to bed, he told himself, for tomorrow promised to be a very interesting day.
Chapter Seven
Jeannette’s eyes shot open to squint into the first frail rays of dawn’s light. Groggy and disoriented, she didn’t initially understand what had disturbed her. A crash reverberated outside, followed by a pair of bangs. Abruptly, her momentary confusion cleared.
Workers.
Sitting upright in bed, she peered through the gray shadows toward the mantel clock, barely able to make out the hands. One seemed to be pointed straight up, the other straight down. She stared harder.
Six o’clock!
On a weary grumble, she flung back the covers and leapt out of bed, her bare feet moving quickly across the cool, soft wool carpeting. She stared again at the clock, close enough this time to see there was no mistake.
It was six o’clock—or six-o-one, to be precise—and O’Brien and his crew were out there making enough racket to rouse the dead. But how could they be, when she hadn’t returned the building plans? Yesterday, the workers had been unable to proceed without them, so how were they managing without the plans this morning? Had O’Brien somehow managed to gain access to her bedchamber and locate his architectural drawings? Surely not. The servants would have noticed if her cousins’ architect had barged into the house and conducted a search of her room.
Rushing to the wardrobe just in case the impossible had occurred, she dropped down onto her hands and knees to check beneath the massive piece of furniture. But there they were, the thick roll of papers, exactly where she had left them.
Flummoxed, she sat back on her haunches, flinching as some heavy object crashed to the ground outside. Seconds later, a yawn caught her, moisture welling in her eyes.
Knowing she had to put an end to her misery, she reached an arm under the armoire and dragged out the plans. Climbing to her feet, she took a moment to slip into her dressing gown and silk bedroom slippers before running a brush quickly through her hair and tying her tresses back with a ribbon at her nape.
Acting purely on impulse, she retrieved the plans, opened the door and moved out into the hallway.
“…once we’re finished here we’ll be able to move the scaffolding and start on the last section at the north end,” Darragh said, gesturing a hand toward the skeleton of the growing building and the workmen who climbed and clamored over it with the speed and agility of a troop of acrobats.
“The window glass is due to arrive by late week,” Rory volunteered. “Had word that the cargo’s loaded and on its way.”
Darragh nodded. “Good. If the schedule holds, it won’t be long before we have need of that glass.”
They talked for anoth
er couple of minutes before his foreman gave a friendly nod and strode away. Once the other man had gone, Darragh located his mug of strong black Irish tea and raised it to his lips.
“Psst, Mr. O’Brien.”
Lady Jeannette.
Pausing, he glanced around to locate her, hastily swallowing the hot tea in his mouth to keep it from scalding his tongue.
“Up here,” she said in a loud whisper.
Following her voice, he peered through the early-dawn light just breaking over the horizon. His eyes widened when he located her, balanced on her elbows as she leaned out of an open upstairs window. Dressed in some muted colour, she appeared as pale and ethereal as a ghost. Only, Jeannette Brantford was much too lovely to be a ghost, and much too alive.
A quick glance over his shoulder verified that none of the other men had noticed her—at least not yet. Setting down his mug, he strode forward.
“What are you about, lass?” he called softly once he stood beneath her window.
She met his gaze. “You know exactly what I’m about. Just as you know what time it is.”
He couldn’t help but grin. When he’d told the men to start work early this morning, he’d anticipated rousing a reaction from Lady Jeannette. He just hadn’t thought he’d spark one quite this quickly. “Wake you up, did we?”
She flicked a look into the distance, toward his crew, failing to answer his rhetorical question. “We can’t talk here. Do you know the east garden door?”
“I believe I know the one you’re meaning.”
“Meet me there in five minutes.” Her head disappeared from view, runners above squeaking faintly as she yanked the window closed.
He stood for a moment staring up at the spot where she’d been, a fresh smile playing around his lips. After a quick check to make certain the men were fully occupied, he turned to stroll around the house.
Jeannette was waiting for him when he arrived, the door unlocked and eased open a few inches to give him access to a narrow hallway that ran between one of the servants’ staircases and the side garden.
The Wife Trap Page 8