The Irish Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Now he needed money. He wasn’t handy enough at forgery to earn a living. He was no hand at stealing and there were few legal jobs available, even for those with skills. Besides, Red Niall had made it very clear he wanted William as an enforcer. He’d allow no other role on his turf.

  William had seen too many loved ones die, come too close himself to dying, for any illusions about the price of survival. Still, he’d linger as long as possible in the sunshine before he became a hired killer.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye. Black Kevin driving a hansom cab and his brothers close at hand? Probably looking for a pigeon to pluck. Black Kevin, or Kevin Dubh in his native Gaelic, had earned that name for his heart, not his coloring, and had no known interest in honest work.

  A fashionably dressed young brunette, with perhaps a score of years, came out of the station and hesitated, looking around. Mrs. Mulligan stepped forward hopefully, ready to spin her usual web of false concern.

  Another woman, wearing the sober black of a prosperous shopkeeper’s wife and followed by a tall manservant, raked Mrs. Mulligan with a glacial stare and brushed by her. No fool, Mrs. Mulligan retreated into a doorway’s shadow.

  The soberly dressed woman immediately approached the brunette and was recognized.

  She seemed familiar to William and he studied her closely. Tall, golden-haired, strong nose and jaw. She had to be someone he’d known from his childhood. With that height, could she be Lady Irene, the mistress of Lyonsgate? But why would an aristocrat dress as a bourgeois or accost a woman at a train station?

  The two women spoke, the younger one pretending reluctance for a few minutes before agreeing. Then the three left together, boarding a respectable carriage with two strong men on the box.

  Black Kevin promptly whipped up his horse and followed them, his brothers leaping into the cab at the last moment.

  William hesitated for an instant. It was none of his affair what Black Kevin did, and wise men avoided tangling with that spawn of Satan. But Lady Irene, who’d kept her tenants safe from the Famine, deserved help if anyone did.

  He ran across the street, dodging traffic. “James, boyo, give me a ride in your cab!”

  “And why would I be giving you anything?” James retorted, as the last travelers passed by his exceptionally shabby hansom.

  “To spike Black Kevin’s guns,” William said softly.

  James stared at him for an instant, then nodded. “Done.”

  William jumped aboard and they were off, barely managing to stay within sight of Black Kevin. The chase ended in a less than polite neighborhood near the docks, where the respectable carriage waited in front of a small, closed ship’s chandlery.

  James drove directly past the chandlery and William saw Black Kevin’s hansom standing empty in the lane next door. No one in Cobh would be fool enough to harm it.

  The narrow street turned sharply a few buildings later and James stopped as soon as they were out of sight.

  “This is as much as I can do for you, boyo.”

  William jumped down and looked back up, with a quick touch to his cap. “My thanks to you.”

  “May the good saints protect you, boyo.” And James was off. Moments later, William was atop a roof, quietly working his way toward whatever mischief Black Kevin was brewing.

  A woman screamed, “Help! Murder!” She was wasting her breath; no one in this district cared about another death.

  He spotted the two grooms, lying unmoving inside the carriage, and guarded now by Mickey, Black Kevin’s youngest brother. The men were probably still alive, since they were bound. No hope they’d be of help to him, though.

  William slipped onto the shop’s roof silently, ducked to avoid a broken window large enough for a bull, and found a very small, grimy window to look through. The scene inside on the second floor was as bad as he’d feared.

  Black Kevin paced the room, gesticulating with his knife, as he issued orders in barely intelligible English. His brother Red Padraig leaned against the doorway, grinning as he listened and idly kicking the manservant trussed up at his feet.

  The two women were bound to the bed’s iron headboard, the young one dressed only in underclothes from the waist up. “I didn’t ask for them,” she bleated, indicating the two thugs. “This was supposed to be my fantasy!”

  “Hush, child,” Lady Irene soothed. “As for you, sir, you forget yourself. Release us immediately and you won’t be arrested.”

  Black Kevin snorted derisively. “Who’s going to arrest Padraig and me? Nobody’ll give a damn about three more dead on this street.”

  The young woman wailed like a banshee at this.

  “Silence, bitch. Or you’ll be the one doing the bowing and scraping,” he snarled, and sliced one of her chemise’s shoulder straps. It flopped forward, barely preserving her modesty, and she cried louder.

  The manservant tried to roll toward Black Kevin. Red Padraig kicked him back against the wall, where the man gasped for breath.

  Black Kevin started to laugh as he tossed his knife from one hand to the other. “What shall I take next?”

  A growl vibrated in William’s throat. He slid back from his hiding place and silently headed toward the broken window. He’d have to rely on stealth and speed in the coming fight, given the difference in strength between himself and Black Kevin’s kin.

  Silently, he checked the dirk up his right sleeve, carried by his grandfather in the ’97 Rising, and the cut-down saber under his coat, little bigger than one of the new American Bowie knives. Then he quietly slipped into the building.

  He crossed the grimy sitting room and came up behind Red Padraig, whose attention was riveted on the hysterical women in the other room. William jumped the stout bully, throttling him with his forearm. A quick slash of his dirk opened the man’s jugular.

  Over Red Padraig’s shoulder, William saw the young woman scream and kick as Black Kevin tossed up her skirts and began to unbutton his pants.

  Lady Irene shouted, “They’ll hang you for this,” and desperately tried to cover the other woman.

  The blackguard roared with laughter, his attention totally focused on his female prey.

  Somehow keeping himself from rushing, William slid the lifeless body to the floor outside the bedroom.

  Some animal instinct must have finally warned Black Kevin of danger. He turned toward the door, snarling at the interruption. But the trussed manservant on the floor lashed out his feet and managed to trip the enemy.

  William seized the heaven-sent opening and swept the saber through the villain’s throat.

  Black Kevin stayed upright for an endless moment as horrified realization dawned in his eyes, then crumpled into a disjointed heap on the floor. The servant jerked out of the way as Black Kevin’s head came to rest against the wall.

  The half-dressed woman fainted, her body sliding down the headboard. Lady Irene gasped and hid her face.

  Silence finally filled the room.

  William crossed himself automatically and yanked a curtain down to veil the corpse. Ladies weren’t accustomed to a slum’s everyday sights. He cut the manservant’s bonds then went to rescue the young lady.

  “Irene, my love,” the man choked as he freed Lady Irene with Black Kevin’s knife.

  “Jocelyn, my darling,” she sobbed. They clung together, shaking and kissing passionately.

  William cleaned his weapons, then turned to leave. It was none of his affair if Lady Irene’s lover was a servant. Rescuing those two grooms from Black Kevin’s remaining brother was more important.

  “Wait, lad. I’m coming with you.”

  William measured Jocelyn with his eyes, then nodded at Black Kevin’s big knife clutched in the man’s hand. “You know how to use that?”

  “I’ve fenced with sabers in England and on the Continent.”

  “Right then. But be as silent as possible.”

  Just then, a call reached them from outside. “Kevin, can I come in now? You said I could have the tall
one first.”

  Jocelyn growled almost soundlessly. William glanced at him, then indicated the stairs. They went down into the deserted shop, taking up positions on either side of the door.

  The doorknob rattled. “Bloody hell, Padraig, if you’re on her now, I’ll crack your head in.”

  The door opened, and Mickey, a man close to William’s age, marched in, still whining. “Kevin, you promised her to…”

  Jocelyn sprang upon him before he finished the sentence. The following fight was savage but brief while William waited, ready to intervene if necessary. But the manservant was a better fighter than he’d expected. He easily blocked the other’s first wild lunge and ran the big knife through the thug’s heart. Mickey was dead in an instant.

  Jocelyn stepped back carefully, his hand over his mouth, then ran outside to retch. William’s mouth twitched sympathetically. Killing a man was always hard and this was likely Jocelyn’s first.

  “Lad.” Lady Irene stood at the foot of the stairs. She was pale and trembling, her hands clasped tightly. Still, she’d recovered her self-possession remarkably fast, as she always had in his father’s tales.

  “My lady.” He took off his cap and bowed, as he’d learned in earliest childhood.

  “My thanks, lad. You undoubtedly saved our virtue and our lives.”

  “I am honored to have been of service to you, my lady.” Instinctively, William used the genteel English accent he’d mimicked as a child. “Is the other lady recovering?”

  Lady Irene nodded absently but continued to scrutinize William. “Miss Whittington wished for some privacy while she used the facilities. Are there any remaining villains outside?”

  “Not to my knowledge, my lady.”

  “Then let us free my two grooms while my companions compose themselves.”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  The carriage was accompanied only by its horses and two grooms. William cut the unconscious men’s bonds and Lady Irene checked their pulses. Satisfied by their condition, Lady Irene spoke again just as William turned to walk away.

  “You’re the true surprise, lad. Where did you learn to speak the Queen’s English so well?”

  So she hadn’t recognized him. Not surprising: William had been barely eight when his parents were turned off, in his lordship’s bid to save money after rent rolls collapsed during the Famine’s first year. “My father was undergroom to Lord Charles Mitchell and my mother was nursery maid, God rest their souls.”

  Her eyes softened. “My condolences. Did you recognize me earlier, lad? My first husband was the Earl of Albany and we toured Bantry Bay often. We stayed with Lord Charles more than once.”

  “Yes, my lady. You own Lyonsgate.”

  She nodded, smiling. “I have that honor.”

  Jocelyn came up behind her quietly, having apparently recovered his composure, at least for the present. He produced some coins from his pocket, appropriate behavior for a servant escorting a gentlewoman, and held them out. Gold coins.

  William hesitated, then took the chance. “If you please, my lady.”

  “Don’t you want the money, lad?”

  “If you please, my lady, I’d rather have a post at Lyonsgate.”

  “As boot boy?” she asked, raising one aristocratic eyebrow.

  William gulped at the thought of regular meals, a roof over his head, and clothes on his back. But he held his ground. “I believe I would be more useful as a groom, my lady.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed. Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed as well, but he remained silent. “How old are you, lad?”

  “Seventeen in November, my lady.”

  “And you believe sixteen years of life qualifies you to tend my horses?”

  “Yes, my lady,” William said stubbornly. His jaw set hard. A few years of a groom’s tips should be enough for passage to America. Even if his audacity cost him the money, he’d be no worse off than he’d been this morning.

  She surveyed him for a long minute, a stare that might have quelled even the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Her lover was silent, watching her more than William.

  Finally she looked over her shoulder at Jocelyn, who nodded slightly. Her gaze returned to William, bearing a hint of a smile.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “William Donovan, my lady.”

  “Then you may be my fourth undergroom, William.”

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady. And you, sir.”

  “And here’s my thanks for protecting my wife,” the man added, finally dropping the coins into William’s palm.

  He was her husband? Then why was he dressed as a servant?

  William bowed again. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Mr. Fitzgerald to you, William.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “William.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “How many men have you killed?” Her voice wavered for the first time on the last word.

  “Do you truly want to know, my lady?”

  “No need to say more, William. You have given me the answer.”

  He’d reached Lyonsgate, and a new life, within days. Lady Irene had also given James and his family a cottage on another estate. When William left in 1855 after three years’ service, Lady Irene and Mr. Fitzgerald had given him the money and contacts needed to smooth his way in San Francisco.

  William considered his time there, pondering what could be used in his present situation. What would Lady Irene, the daughter and widow of earls, expect to find for her comfort? Clothes, certainly, and good food. A maid. What else?

  Viola shifted against him. William froze. She muttered something in her sleep, then relaxed again.

  He exhaled slowly and kissed the top of her head. He hadn’t known he was holding his breath.

  What trinkets could aid his dalliance with Viola? He’d brought only a few gewgaws with him, preferring to keep his favorite trifles at home in San Francisco rather than use them to titillate courtesans. Now he wished he’d brought his entire collection with him, just to see Viola’s face when she opened the first chest. Would her eyes widen in shock or close in rapture the first time he teased her with a bit of jade?

  He choked as his cock jerked at the thought.

  William carried Viola to the settee in the corner, mercifully free of the paperwork that cluttered every other surface. Her fingers slid down his arm as he stood up, evoking a frisson that ran all the way to his head and groin. He took a deep breath then moved away. There’d be time enough to savor her touch later.

  He found Abraham sweeping the colonnade outside the office. Morgan was in the side yard, checking the fittings on the ammunition wagon, while all his other men were too distant from the office to have heard much. Unless, of course, he’d shouted louder than he had thought.

  “Yes, sir?” Abraham asked politely as he set aside the broom.

  “There are a few matters needing your immediate attention, Abraham.”

  “Sir.” Abraham came to full attention.

  “Mrs. Ross will be my chère amie for the next three months. She will share my quarters and be under my protection at all times. Your first duty is to guard her as you would me.”

  The former enforcer bowed deeply. “My pleasure, sir.”

  “Mrs. Ross will also require a personal maid. Please ask Sarah to attend her. Ah Lum can cook for the household, as he did before our arrival. If necessary, ask China Mary to send additional help. Everything must flow as smoothly as possible.”

  “Certainly, sir. My wife and I will do our best to be worthy of your trust.”

  “There’ll probably be trouble with Lennox and his thugs. Be careful, especially when Mrs. Ross is outside the compound or depot.”

  The other nodded. “She will be safe, sir. My life on it.”

  “Thank you,” William said sincerely. Heaven forbid Abraham’s phrase was a prophecy. He continued briskly, “Mrs. Ross will need clothes, as well. Ask China Mary for clothes the Chines
e tailors can create quickly, items suitable for a lady of high fashion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll also need some Chinese clothing for her, such as a very pampered concubine would wear.”

  “I will visit China Mary myself and select only the best for your woman, sir.”

  How had Abraham managed to change from implacable enforcer to suave man of the world without moving a muscle? “Good. We’ll stay here at the depot till supper, which gives you some time to prepare.”

  Abraham bowed. “Until this evening, sir.”

  William smiled as he watched his houseman disappear up the street. Then he went to see how Morgan was faring with the ammunition wagon.

  Lennox drove into the depot within the hour, his gaze sweeping across the busy confines. William finished the knot and left the wagon without a backward glance. Securing the colonel’s furniture could wait until he’d dealt with the potential threat to Viola.

  “Donovan,” Lennox snapped, and yanked the gelding to a halt, causing the usually patient beast to toss its head in complaint. He smoothed his jacket back, disclosing a Colt’s fancy handle. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his right hand.

  William’s eyes narrowed. “Lennox.” He faced his visitor openly, hands away from his weapons in a show of peace. One of the sentries turned to watch and the depot’s usual hubbub began to quiet as other men noticed.

  Paul plastered a polite smile on his face as he waited for Donovan to approach. Damn all these arrogant Irishmen anyway. Why didn’t they just crawl back into their hovels and die?

  At least in New York he made money from them, selling them a few square feet in a tenement to rest their filthy bodies. But in this hellhole, he had to pay an Irishman if he wanted anything delivered. And to have his precious silver hauled out, the priceless ore that would give him back his proper position in society and crush that Vanderbilt scum.