Nicholas knew from the look on Purefoy’s face that the older man was again surprised, though he shouldn’t have been. Sir Thomas had been well aware of his reputation as a bachelor and as a rake when they were introduced in London. Despite it all, though, Nicholas’s position and his wealth had obviously made the gamble of inviting him to Woodfield House a chance worth taking.
“Very well, sir.” The man stood up.
In the hallway outside the dining room, Nicholas spied Jane Purefoy speaking quietly to a very attentive and sober-faced stranger he had not seen before. They stood far too close. Their heads were bent together in a confidential gesture. The jagged blade of jealousy that ran Nicholas through at that moment was as unexpected as it was palpable.
“Reverend Mr. Adams,” Sir Thomas called out loudly, drawing the newcomer’s attention. “You’ve arrived earlier than expected.”
“Indeed I have, sir.”
Jane murmured something in parting to the parson and, with a quick look at Nicholas, disappeared toward the stairs leading to the upper floors. It took great effort by him to not go up after her.
The minister turned to the two men. “I hope I’m not intruding on your company, Sir Thomas.”
“Not at all, sir. Not at all. We were just telling Sir Nicholas about you.”
As the introductions were made, Nicholas studied the cleric. The man had lean, regular features. His gray eyes were keen, and his face expressed a seriousness appropriate to his calling. His boots and his clothes, though spattered with mud from his travels, were well made. He had the look of a man who would have proved an able soldier, had that been his calling. The intimate appearance of the little tête-à-tête they’d broken up made Nicholas wonder if the dark-haired young minister might be the object of Jane Purefoy’s affection. The pang of disappointment that he felt at that very distinct possibility was sudden and sharp.
To the surprise of the ladies, the three men joined them in the Blue Parlor and, as Lady Purefoy made the rest of the introductions, Nicholas moved to the younger daughter’s side.
“I can see that we will not have the pleasure of your sister’s company tonight. I saw her retire upstairs.”
“Like you, sir,” Clara replied after an almost imperceptible hesitation, “my sister has had a tiring day. She asked me to make her excuses to you.”
“To me?”
“Of course, Sir Nicholas. She would not wish you to take offense.”
“None taken. She is not unwell, though, I hope.”
“No. I believe Jane is quite well.”
“The bruise on her face appears serious. Has anyone looked after it, do you know?”
“I am certain that Fey has,” Clara offered politely.
Nicholas watched the parson conversing comfortably with Alexandra. “Reverend Adams is a close friend of your family?”
“Indeed he is, sir.”
“Is he married? Does he have a family of his own?”
“No, he doesn’t.” With a strained smile, Clara moved a step away from Nicholas, effectively stopping any further questions he might have.
Nicholas casually studied the young woman. With a pretty smile painted on a pleasant face, she stood quietly, not participating in any discussion, but still playing the part of the proper hostess. He found himself suddenly bored beyond measure.
“If you will forgive me, Miss Clara, I believe I too shall retire,” he said.
She made no objection and expressed no opinion. Nicholas bowed to her politely and made his excuses to the host and hostess, as well.
The parson, though, was quick to make a comment. “Sir Nicholas, I was sorry to hear of the attack on you this morning. I hope, however, that you will not judge Ireland as nothing more than a land of barbarians. The trouble you encountered was, after all, an isolated incident. There is a great deal of good that we have to offer here.”
“I am quite certain that is true, Parson, though I am hardly one to judge. The little incident this morning was no different than anything one might run into while traveling from London into the surrounding countryside. Besides, it was a trifling thing for us. It was Bishop Russell who was subjected to the greatest fright.”
“Tell me, how much truth is there to the rumor I heard in the village this afternoon that you unmasked one of the leaders of these rebellious Whiteboys?”
“No truth, whatsoever.” Nicholas offered, glancing impatiently toward the door. “We scuffled, that’s all.”
“But surely you must have some inkling of the man’s size. His build or his complexion. Something that could aid in the new magistrate’s efforts to arrest the blackguard.”
“I can offer nothing,” he repeated, no longer trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “The ‘blackguard,’ as you call him, could have been anyone. I doubt very much that I would recognize him if I saw him again.”
“But you unhorsed him…”
“The man I unhorsed could have been anyone, for all that I can recall. He could have been you, sir.”
“I hardly think so, Sir Nicholas,” their host replied with a gruff laugh. “What would a respectable Episcopal churchman be doing fighting for a handful of discontented papist peasants?”
“My point exactly.” Nicholas offered dryly. “I know nothing at all of the matter. Now, if you will excuse me…”
“Indeed, my duties are quite taken up in my living at the parsonage in a little town called Ballyclough, not an hour’s ride to the north. In fact, sir, you should see it. It is beautiful country.” Henry Adams turned and directed his next words to Lady Spencer. “I would love to have you all come out and visit us sometime soon. Perhaps even tomorrow.”
“I fear I shall have to decline, Parson. After such a long day of travel…” Lady Spencer shook her head and looked meaningfully at her daughter. “Thank you, but no. Frances and I would never allow ourselves to impose. You would find us dull company, indeed, after our journey. But Nicholas, on the other hand, you will find to be generally ready for whatever challenge is offered to him.”
“Aye, a fine idea,” Lady Purefoy put in cheerfully. “Clara, dear, why don’t you ride over with Sir Nicholas in the morning…if he wishes to go. There are a great many things you can point out to him. I’ll have the cook prepare a basket for you. You can take your time and stop somewhere for a picnic if the weather permits.”
Henry Adams turned to Nicholas. “It would be my great pleasure to have the opportunity of visiting more with you, sir. I promise that you’ll not find the day a total waste. And perhaps, Lady Purefoy, you might be able to convince Jane to accompany them.”
“Yes, indeed, Parson,” Lady Purefoy replied, obviously taken aback by the suggestion. “I shall certainly ask if Jane would care to ride along.”
“I would also be delighted if Miss Purefoy agrees to go along.” Nicholas said, turning to meet the parson’s sharp gaze. “I was disappointed to not have the opportunity of becoming more acquainted with her this night.”
A deep silence flooded the room. But Nicholas didn’t give a damn to the suitability of his claim and continued to size up Henry Adam’s reaction. The man’s expression appeared impartial.
“Then…I shall…insist that Jane go along.” Lady Purefoy’s flushed face reflected her confusion.
Pleased with the results, Nicholas bowed to their hosts and paused by Parson Adams on his way out. “We shall meet again at Ballyclough tomorrow.”
The household was still alive with the activities of the night when he left the room. But his mind was totally preoccupied with the decisions that had to be made.
Nicholas refused to be a deuced deceiver if he could help it. Despite his wild reputation regarding women, he found it totally improper to be pursuing these two sisters at the same time. But was this what he was doing? Had his curiosity about Jane already settled into an attraction strong enough to disregard the younger sister?
As he made his way up the stairs, he tried to settle his feelings toward Clara. She’d appeare
d to be so charming in London. He’d imagined she would make a proper wife, now that the time had finally come to settle down and make a home in the country. But all of that was before he’d seen her here among her own family. She appeared too young—too naïve—too indecisive. The girl lacked will and spirit.
Before he’d reached the top, though, Nicholas admitted the truth to himself. It was meeting Egan—or rather, Jane that was causing him to see so many flaws in Clara.
He heard a door quietly open and close as he neared the top of the stairs. Pausing in the shadows of the landing, he saw the dark figure of a woman glide away from his door. He’d told his valet and his manservant that they were not needed any more tonight, so his room was unoccupied and unattended. He watched as Jane Purefoy disappeared into the last door on the left.
His curiosity aroused, Nicholas stepped out of the shadows and went to his room. Inside, his belongings were as he remembered his valet leaving them. He checked his pistol and sword. They were untouched, as well. His gaze lit on the bedside table where he’d placed the pistol and hat left behind by the fleeing Egan.
Both, of course, were gone.
CHAPTER 6
On a steep hill facing south, a half-dozen stone huts huddled together against the approaching storm. Small dark windows stared like vacant eyes into the night. Beyond the top of the hill, in a small gorge carved out of the rugged terrain, the solitary wreck of a barn that had long ago been a center of farm life crouched in shadow, its large thatched roof partially collapsed and sagging.
A cloaked figure, walking quickly from a grove of scrub pine and birch, looked up as a flash of distant lightning accompanied the first drops of rain. It was almost a relief to feel them, for the September air was far warmer than it should have been.
Of the larger group that had gathered inside the dilapidated barn earlier in the evening, only six men and two women remained. They had heard the whinny of a horse, and they sat in silence until a low whistle from the watcher signaled them of Egan’s approach. A moment later, everyone stared, their eyes showing their concern and alarm at the bruised face of the woman who came into the light.
She paused just inside the door and met the circle of familiar gazes.
“It is nothing to gape at.” She cast aside her cloak and approached the small fire. The silence and the stares continued. “I’m sorry to be late. I’m certain you were saying something, Liam.”
She nodded toward the leader and crouched before the fire, where Ronan made room. She kept the bruised side of her face in the shadows, and tried to ignore the close scrutiny of the man sitting beside her.
The leader cleared his throat. “Everyone has agreed, Egan, that some of the coin from today’s raid should be sent to Seamus’s widow and the children. Finding…”
Ronan reached over and turned Egan’s face around so they all could see the damage. Liam fell silent again.
“I’ll cut his throat for this, Egan,” Ronan threatened menacingly. “I swear to God I will.”
“I know you could shave a sleeping mouse, but don’t be a fool.” Egan snapped. “You can see it is only a bruise,”
Concern was etched on everyone’s face. She brushed off Ronan’s hand and nodded her head toward the older of the two women.
“Jenny has often enough sewn up many a lad so badly mauled that she could barely pull the flesh together. Look at Patrick here.” She touched the man sitting on her left on the arm. “On his best days his face looks hardly less bruised than mine. This is nothing, I tell you.”
“He cut your lip open,” the hot-tempered young man started again. “He has to…”
“Enough!” Egan stood up abruptly, waving an impatient hand in disgust. “I’ve been fighting my own battles since you weren’t even a wee glint in your father’s eyes, boy. I don’t need to be taken care of by any runt like you.”
A low chuckle from Liam broke the ensuing silence. A moment later, everyone else joined in.
Well over six feet tall, with muscles hardened by work quarrying limestone and a temper renowned from Cork to Kerry, Ronan finally joined in as well. They all knew that only Egan could get away with calling him ‘runt.’ Anyone else would have been needing new teeth to eat their next meal.
“You were speaking of sending some coins to Seamus’s widow,” Egan offered, not daring to sit down again. She leaned her back against a dark beam. “I can take it to her myself, as I’m to go with my sister and this Englishman to Ballyclough in the morning. While they are visiting with Parson Adams, I’ll ride over.”
“Warn her about not spreading them about too soon.” Jenny warned. “With three wee ones at her skirts and a husband dead little more than a fortnight, she has no need to be drawing the suspicion of the magistrate or his men just now.”
“I’ll speak with her,” Egan assured them.
The talk turned to the markets in Cork where some of the local farmers were having trouble getting fair value for their crops. As they spoke, Egan considered yet again the English governance of Ireland and the grinding poverty and injustice that these people lived with because of it. Over the years, she had seen the blood and the pain that resistance cost, but she was not willing to give up entirely the small fights and victories. She knew this group of fighters, the Shanavests of Cork, had their counterparts in every county and town in Ireland. But deep within, Egan also knew that their daily attempts would ultimately change nothing. It wasn’t every day they could get their hands on a bishop. The great landlords were Englishmen, and those with real power were untouchable by those fighting at this level.
On the other hand, here in Ireland there were far too many dead—like Seamus—and too many widows and children left behind to go hungry.
By the time their meeting broke up, the storm was lashing the countryside. Sheets of rain, driven by gusting winds, swept across the sodden fields, while intermittent lightning illuminated the scene. The few who lived in the huts on the hillside trudged off, while others waited for a break in the rain. Ronan fetched Egan’s horse from the grove of trees, and led the animal back to the ruined barn. Despite the fierceness of the storm, the steed appeared undisturbed by any of it.
Jenny put a hand on Egan’s arm as she was donning her cloak. “Everyone was sick with worry at the word of this Englishman seeing your face this morning.”
Egan patted the older woman’s hand reassuringly. “Some folk worry for nothing. The rogue took my hat, but saw nothing.” She thought about the pistol that he had taken—now safely hidden in her bedchamber again—but said nothing of it. “I sat with him tonight at dinner and not a word was said.”
“If he suspects, but hasn’t said a word yet, it could mean a trap is being laid.” Liam’s deep voice sounded behind them. Both women turned. “He may already have spoken to Musgrave. They could have followed ye tonight. Maybe they are thinking of laying a net for all of us.”
“Say the word, and I’m telling ye I’ll cut his throat.”
Ronan’s low growl raised the goose flesh on Egan’s back. The young man’s red hair was soaked by the rain, and the fury of the weather behind him was a perfect reflection of his mood. She saw the exchange of looks between the two men and felt her blood run cold.
“No,” she forced out.
Liam’s eyes narrowed.
“No,” she repeated, taking a step toward Ronan, still holding her horse’s bridle. “We are not killers of the innocent.”
“He’s one of them.”
“But he hasn’t done anything wrong.” She turned sharply to Liam. “The Shanavests believe in honor. We fight for justice.”
“And justice calls for revenge at times,” the older man replied. “If this Englishman is a threat to us, we must do whatever it takes to protect ourselves and those we fight for.”
“But he is not a threat,” she exclaimed a little too passionately and a little too quickly. The three stared at her. “He is here to marry my sister. He is only interested in his future bride and some horses…all of which
he will take back to England when he goes. From the way he spoke this evening, he cares not a rush for what goes on in this country.”
“He saw your face.”
“I say he didn’t!” she barked at Ronan. “He punched me. The hat fell off. I stabbed him in the arm, and before he could look up I was gone. I tell you there is no way he would have made the connection…or even have known that Egan was a woman.”
“He has the hat…”
“I took it back,” she said in response to Liam’s question. “Fey is having the man’s travel clothes washed. He’ll think she took the hat by mistake. I’ll have another put back in his bedchamber.”
“But he saw the bruise on your face tonight. How…”
Jenny raised a hand and silenced Liam’s next question. “We will trust each other.” The woman looked long and hard into the faces of the other two. Her advancing age, the years she’d given to this cause, and the kin she’d lost to it, gave her a voice of authority that neither man cared to challenge. “Egan has been fighting for us longer than ye, Ronan, and nearly as long as ye have, Liam. If she believes that ‘tis safe to leave this Englishman be, then I say we accept her word for it.”
The awkward pause that followed was a test of fortitude for Egan herself. She had been involved with the activities of this group for most of her adult life. As the years passed, however, and as younger, more hot-blooded rebels like Ronan joined in the fight, there wasn’t a day that Egan didn’t feel her place—never mind her authority—being questioned. She was an English-born Protestant raised in the household of her father, a man who was serving until recently as the king’s magistrate. For those who did not know her history, it naturally took time to learn to trust her.
And now that trust was being tested yet again. With good reason.
Liam spoke finally. “If we kill one of them in cold blood, Musgrave will use the excuse to massacre more Cork folk, young and old, and call it the king’s justice.” He turned to Egan as she climbed her horse. “Keep an eye on him, though. We’ll do what must be done if ye sense your Englishman is about to stir the pot.”
The Rebel Page 5