O'Rourke's Heiress

by Bancroft, Blair

  Beth curtsied low to the Earl of Ravenshaw and his wife and proceeded to find a compromise between demonstrating she could be as fine a lady as the ton could offer and showing proper deference to her so-called betters. All in all, a masterful performance. Terence, with a cynical sneer, would have applauded. Even as Jack laughed.

  She was approved.

  As if there had ever been a doubt!

  Almost sadly, Beth was discovering she had more of Tobias Brockman’s iron spine than she had supposed. With a full measure of Terence’s wry outlook on the world as well. A young woman of just turned eighteen should not be party to disillusion, she knew, but how many of her sister sufferers, high-born and low, had met her exact same fate? Married off for land, for gold, for a foothold on the next rung of the ladder. Or, if particularly fortunate, for a leap into a bright new world.

  In a shaded bower under the drooping branches of a willow, with the musical murmur of a brook in the background, Beth finally allowed Rodney to put his hand beneath her skirts on a day when, quite shamefully, she had left off her drawers. One hand . . . and nothing more, but it had been enough to have her looking forward to her wedding with considerable interest. So things were turning out quite well, she assured herself. She was about to marry Rodney, a man whose touch she found exciting. Therefore she must love him.

  Terence had had his chance. He should have taken it.

  It was goodbye then. She would not think of him. Would not be sorry for him.

  Or for herself.

  In the end, her vows didn’t matter. When she returned to London, Terence was gone.

  Terence stood stiffly before Tobias Brockman, glowering. His employer was about to scold, and he had no intention of listening to it with more than half an ear. Nor would he sit. He was just angry enough to want to be poised for a grand departure if he felt he must. “Sir?” he intoned, eyes on the windows behind Tobias’s head.

  Tobias thought of the wary, almost hostile, boy he had encountered on a rainy street in Dublin so many years before. The face was older, the expression nearly the same. Except in Dublin he’d seen a spark of hope in the depths of the child’s eyes. Something he did not see in the man.

  “Sit down!” Tobias commanded. “We’re not here to discuss your hanging, merely a matter of new business. Something which may actually interest you.” And how far had his agents gone, how much time spent to find exactly the right bone to throw the boy’s way? At least Tobias hoped it was right. If he’d known Beth’s marriage was going to cause the disruption of his entire empire, would he have managed things differently? No matter, it was too late to speculate. Drastic action was called for.

  Terence continued to stare out the window. “Sit, damn your eyes, boy! Or have you forgotten we’re running a business?” For the barest moment the brilliant blue eyes shot enough flame to roast an ox, then were quickly veiled, once again as expressionless as a statue. “I have a special assignment for you,” Tobias said.

  The avid gleam of the street urchin—shrewd, clever, interest caught by innate curiosity— flickered briefly across the features of the grown man. Tobias was up to something, Terence realized. His employer was bent on outsmarting him, of demonstrating just exactly who was boss. “Sir?” he murmured, lips set in a thin line.

  “Now that relations have been reestablished with the colonies—the former colonies, Tobias amended hastily—I thought it time to look into business opportunities there. Trading is not enough. I’d like to add some form of long-term investment.”

  Good God, was this actually a business meeting? Terence wondered.

  “The Americans soundly trounced us in New Orleans,” Tobias said. “Seems as if they’re made of stern stuff in Louisiana. Even got pirates to help them, I hear.” He studied Terence, could find no crack in the wall the boy had erected around himself. “There’s a plantation on the market, mostly sugar cane. A fine mansion, I’m told, a good complement of workers. But the men in the family have died off, the overseer fallen down on the job. There’s only a daughter left, and her agents are shrewd enough to look far afield to find the highest bidder.”

  Terence, who no longer had any doubt about what Tobias was up to, sank down into a chair and stared at his benefactor in disbelief. He was speechless. Even Tobias couldn’t be this diabolical.

  “The investment is considerable,” Tobias continued. “Therefore I have no intention of plunging into it without someone I trust looking it over. I’ve booked passage on the New Venture, leaving Plymouth in four days’ time. If the plantation is what it’s said to be, buy it, stay long enough to make sure you find a good man to run it. As for me, Harding will do well enough at my right hand while you’re gone. Hopefully, by spring you’ll be on your way back home.”

  “You expect me to condone slavery,” Terence choked out.

  “I expect you to work within the system in place in Louisiana. If you can’t, don’t buy the damned place.” Tobias, as pragmatic, as inexorable, as he had always been.

  “Do you really want me back?” Terence asked softly, looking very dangerous indeed. “Or do you expect me to marry the heiress and stay away forever?”

  “Hell and damnation!” Tobias roared, “don’t be more of a fool than you already are. You are my son, my hope for keeping what I have created. Fuck the blasted woman if it suits you, but back you’ll come as I’ve always planned.” Tobias pounded his desk. “Your place is here. In London. With me!”

  They were men of instant decisions, resolute, courageous. Men who knew what had to be done and did it. But this time Terence sat, head awhirl, unable to say a word. He was being gotten out of the way for Beth’s wedding and for the supposedly halcyon romantic period which would follow when Monterne took his bride to his secluded estate in Devon. But how could he leave when there were still doubts about what kind of a husband the viscount would make? Beth might need him.

  Bloody idiot! Beth’s wedding was set in stone. Nothing could be done now, even if Monterne turned out to be a monster.

  Oh, yes, it could. Beth would look quite fetching in black.

  If he came back to find Beth harmed in any way, any way at all, from harsh words to a box on the ear, Monterne was a dead man.

  That settled, Terence allowed himself to think about a trip to the Americas. Having had more than his share of adventure with Tobias Brockman and Company, he’d had little time to think about the Americas, but an opportunity to see the New World, explore a culture that drew more from the French and Spanish than from his own . . .? A new world, new places, new people . . .

  Terence stood up, snapped a nod of his head. “I’ll start packing,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  Terence was no stranger to ships. Over the years he had sailed on coastal packets to York, Edinburgh, and Glasgow on Brockman business, hunkered down with his men on canal barges in the midlands, and twice crossed the channel to the continent since the false end of the war with Napoleon two years earlier. But for some reason this time, when the schooner ran up full sail and Plymouth had become nothing more than a gray silhouette on the aft horizon, Terence recalled his journey to Ireland when he was all of twenty. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  When he’d left Dublin, willingly following in the wake of Tobias Brockman, he’d had little to pack. An extra shirt, the worn primer his mother Erin used to teach him to read, her rosary and prayer book. And the letter that had long been folded inside it. The letter that was not to be opened until his eighteenth birthday. It was typical of the stern discipline he lived by that Terence did exactly that, never doing more than occasionally fingering the folded paper prior to his eighteenth birthday.

  When he’d finished reading, his face was grim. Long ago, he had decided that the O’Rourkes, whose names were all written in his mother’s prayer book, were the enemy. They had thrown her out, left her to have a baby alone, to sell herself or starve. One day he would deal with the O’Rourkes. But now, at long last, he had the name of his father, his paternal grandfather as wel
l. It was his right to know, his mother said, but begged him not to look back. Not to blame either side of the family, but to make a life of his own, knowing the mix of his heritage—proud Irish farmers and a charming son of the Ascendancy (according to his mother)—could only make him a better man than all of them.

  Women were frail creatures, Terence decided. Not that he hadn’t loved his mother, but to counsel turning the other cheek, that he could never understand. For in his short life he’d quickly discovered the necessity of living by the laws of the Old Testament rather than the New.

  It took two years to convince Tobias that he could get along without his strong and clever right arm for a month and, more importantly, that the young Terence O’Rourke would not disappear into the green hills of Ireland and never return. Three weeks before his twentieth birthday, Terence took ship for Dublin.

  He hired a trap to take him across the river and up the rise into the city, knowing full well the impression he gave. A true son of the Ascendancy, the Irish Protestant aristocracy, come home from school or a trip to the continent. Lips curling, he reveled in it. Let the bastards think what they would. He’d returned with fine clothes on his back, an even finer education, a heavy purse of gold, and the backing of Brockman power and wealth. Not so bad for a ragged urchin who had spent his nights in a wooden crate in a tumbledown warehouse on the far side of the Liffey.

  After booking a room in the hotel where Tobias Brockman had taken him the night they met, Terence indulged in a grand reunion with Sean O’Malley. From there, ’twas only a short walk to Trinity College, which was his true goal in Dublin. The black wrought iron fence was not so tall, nor the columns fronting the College Green. But the library . . . ah, yes, the library still towered like a colossus, row upon row of books, each of the two levels taller than the impressive front hall of Brockman House in Cavendish Square. And the ceiling far above was just as he’d remembered it, the glorious roof of his own private heaven. The sole wonder and joy of a street urchin’s life.

  Eyes shining, he wandered in and out of the stacks, his index finger occasionally tracing the leather bindings, sniffing the odors of venerable age, the barest smile of nostalgia warming his features. Caught up by his memories, he ignored the man seated behind a desk near the center of the immense room.

  “Excuse me.” The man’s whisper barely penetrated Terence’s fog of memories.

  He paused, turning toward the desk. “Sir?”

  “Your pardon,” said the pleasant-faced young man, offering a tentative smile. “You look a bit like someone I used to know.”

  “Gavin?” Terence whispered. “Are you truly Gavin?”

  “Terence?”

  Heads turned toward their excited voices as the two young men pounded each other on the back, laughing. “I can never thank you enough for all you did for me,” Terence said.

  “Not peaching on a boy who only wished to learn is scarcely heroic,” Gavin told him.

  “It was everything to me. But, tell me, what about Tristan and old Farley?

  Tristan’s a country squire, happily married, his belly growing as fast as his family. Old Farley retired three years ago.” Gavin waved a deprecating hand around the vast room. “As you can see, I’ve taken his place. He’d be sorry he missed you. Had a soft spot for you, young devil that you were. Recall how surprised we were to discover a monitor would be willing to look the other way.”

  “And do you?” Terence grinned. “Any stray boys around these days?”

  “Nary a one.” Gavin sighed. “You were unique, O’Rourke. We all missed you. So I’ve not been challenged by more than a few lazy students mishandling the books or thinking the library a fine place to play cards or eat their dinner.”

  That night the two old friends met in O’Malley’s to talk further of old times, as Terence thoroughly enjoyed buying rounds of drinks for the house. A rousing good time was had by all, with Sean O’Malley declaring loudly to all who would listen that he’d always known the boy would land on his feet. The next morning Terence packed his bags, hired a closed carriage, and headed south into County Wicklow. He would have preferred to ride, but his luggage boasted the latest styles crafted by London’s finest tailors, far too much for simple saddlebags. Nor did he want to come jogging home like some soldier home from the wars. He’d fought his own battles and was returning triumphant, even though he was not quite twenty.

  He would not speak to the O’Rourkes, Terence decided, but he would find their farm so he might see the land his mother came from. It wasn’t difficult, for Erin O’Rourke had written the name of the village quite clearly in her prayer book. And though the villagers didn’t bother to hide their curiosity, they readily directed him to the O’Rourke farm, not far out of town.

  It was larger than he expected. Terence could see why his mother’s family had held themselves above others, had made sure their children were taught to read and write. It was a fine property, boasting a gabled house with thick thatched roof, two outbuildings, and a maze of stone fences separating the sheep from fields of recently baled wheat and barley, which extended as far as the eye could see.

  Terence stared out the carriage window, torn between fury and nausea. The O’Rourkes were not poor. Even if they insisted on throwing his mother out, they could have given her funds, a yearly stipend. Oh, yes, vengeance would be his. How or when he knew not but, so help him, it would happen!

  “Drive on!” he barked at the coachman who had slowed, recognizing they had reached their destination. As they moved on, Terence kept close watch, intent on determining just how far the O’Rourke acres extended. Suddenly, the carriage slowed, then drew to a halt. He could hear his driver exchanging words with someone outside. Goaded by anger compounded by youthful restlessness, Terence threw open the door and jumped down onto the road. Hands on his hips, he glared up at the stranger on horseback who had dared stop his progress.

  “Good morning to you,” the man called cheerfully. “I saw you slow at the O’Rourke’s. Would you be havin’ business with them?”

  “Mere curiosity,” Terence shot back. “I’ve no desire to speak to an O’Rourke.”

  “Well, now,” the stranger drawled, peering down from the back of his bay stallion, “you’ll not be in luck then, seeing as I’m an O’Rourke m’self.”

  “Are ye, by God?” Terence growled, fisting his hands.

  The man, who seemed to be still short of his thirtieth birthday, looked him over from head to toe. “You’ve the look of himself,” he said. “Enough so I’m wonderin’ if I should know ye.”

  “And who is himself?” Terence challenged.

  “Deverell, Kilbride’s heir.”

  Terence’s eyes lit with a gleam that would have sent shivers down the spines of those who knew him well. “And who might you be?” he demanded.

  “Rory O’Rourke,” the man said, waving a proud hand toward the land around them. “I own this place.”

  Terence planted his feet farther apart, squared his powerful young shoulders. “And tell me, uncle, where were you when they threw my mother out?”

  Tersely, the elder O’Rourke nodded. “So you’re Erin’s babe. Can’t say I’m surprised. The look ye have of your da, and being interested in the O’Rourke farm and all, I’m thinking you couldna be anyone else.” Rory O’Rourke sat tall in his saddle. “And as for where I was back then, I was seven years old and not of much use to pur Erin, though I recall pounding my fists on me da and getting a cuff across the room in exchange. I’m purely sorry for what happened, boy. It wasn’t right.”

  Terence’s hostility never wavered.

  “When I was nineteen,” Rory continued, “I went to Dublin, tried to track our Erin down. I learned she’d died, her child, a boy, disappeared without a trace. I never told your granny what I’d learned, for it seemed worse than not knowing. And old Patrick, may he roast in hell, said only, ‘Good riddance.’ If it’s any consolation, I’ve let the weeds grow up around his grave.”

  Terence, dizzy for t
he first time in his life, put a hand to his eyes, felt moisture trickle onto his thumb. The fight went out of him, leaving almost nothing to anchor his lean body to the ground.

  “Patrick was a drinking man,” Rory said, “and a terror even when sober. Six children our ma gave him and breathed her last with me, glad to be gone, I’m thinkin’. Me two older brothers escaped to the war, the one gone in the breach at Badajoz, the other caught by a dark-eyed Portuguese beauty. And there are two other sisters, now married and gone. Again, glad to escape Paddy O’Rourke’s wrath.”

  Rory O’Rourke eyed the long-lost nephew who was only a few years younger than himself. “My wife’s a fine cook,” he said. “Best you come home with me and have a good meal, meet your young cousins. “And I’ll tell ye about your da, a hey-go-mad charmer, that one. You’ll need some cautioning before you meet.”

  Somehow Terence managed a nod before signaling the coachman to find a place in the narrow lane to turn the carriage around. Then, at a brisk trot, they followed Rory O’Rourke to the house where his mother had been born.

  His uncle was as good as his word. The next morning, when Terence set out for Castle Kilbride, he was prepared for what he would find. His father and grandfather were both in residence. His father’s wife and daughter were visiting her family near Waterford; a son, also absent, was a student at Eton.

  A sister and a brother with half the same blood as his own. Absorbed in thoughts of vengeance, Terence had not anticipated having close kin untainted by their father’s sin. He would have to think on it. His sister Penelope was turned seventeen. He would not intrude on her life or upset her view of her father. He’d ask his Uncle Rory to keep an eye on her, to send him word if she was ever treated unfairly. But beyond that, there was little he could do for her.